#it is kind of beautiful now though so at least i’m proud of it and i’m underqualified for the job anyway lol

[urdeadbestfriend]

updated my resume after i applied for a job

[grandisknight]

in bloom | xavier

summary: You take Xavier to see the flowers of memories past, though something changes this time around.

tags: suggestive, established relationship, afab!reader (v genitalia mentioned), kissing, flowers, sneezing, sex pollen, aphrodisiac (in a sense), straddling, dry humping, grinding, dry orgasm, (1) jeremiah mention, inspired by 'celestial message'

wc: 2.4k | ao3 | kinktober in deepspace masterlist

a/n: mildly inspired by a portion of celestial message (his birthday card)! my small present to the galaxy’s brightest star, happy xavier day (in advance) <3

The sight you’ve found yourselves in is truly beautiful—natural flora stretches the grounds beyond what the eye could see, in a sea of greens to soft blues and purples that stand proud. Even with the passage of time, the secret garden claimed to be yours and his has blossomed so well.

Part of a birthday surprise for your beloved star, you lovingly roped him into revisiting the grounds once more.

With the warmth of the sun lightly tracing onto your backs, it glitters so effortlessly in the shine of Xavier’s doey gaze. Held gently under you, the bedding of nature supports his reclined posture. It softened his earlier tumble, after a twirl in his embrace and a slight misstep placed you in the very scenery. One hand now laces yours for comfort, the other steadying your waist and gentle to the touch.

The breeze was ever so gentle, tickling your senses and the petals alike. A deep inhale serviced the dewy origins, fresh and yet with a hint of saccharine delicacy to their lingering notes. Refreshingly pleasant, leagues different from the bite of pavement in Linkon City or a battlefield with its loamy terrains and dust.

“The view is as stunning as I remembered,” you say, smiling at an equally pleased Xavier. “I’m glad we were able to make a visit.” 

You brush his bangs aside, letting a spare petal fall beside him and revealing the forehead hidden beneath. Leaning down, you press a soft kiss to the skin, feeling his brow twitch at the touch.

“Mm,” he confirms. By the time you pull away, he’s already risen to meet the distance in a newly upright position. Xavier meets you head on, the tip of his nose nudging yours in thought. “Very pretty.”

You realize his eyes never left yours, and you frown. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The edge of his lips curls for a brief moment, though his voice remains calm. “Like what, exactly?”

“You know, with those eyes.” 

The kind of eyes that were soft around the edges, ones that only spoke of a gentle affection that yearned for love and to be loved. A look so prominently full of adoration and unspoken emotions breaching their surface—a quiet confession of care that intended to memorize this very moment. 

And in those very pools of blue, you find yourself sheepishly blinking at him, unsure of how to face such a fondness without wanting to shy away.

“It’s not like I have any other ones,” Xavier teases, his hand reaching to cup your jaw. He redirects your shifted gaze back to his, as bright as the star twinkling near his chest. “At least let me look at you.”

“You’re looking at me too much,” you try to reason. You could feel the embarrassment warm your cheeks as you mumble, “It’s unlike you to stare for so long.”

Xavier blinks. Then, blinks again. And by another round of fluttering eyes, he only shakes his head and with a gentle chuckle of, “I want to. I like looking at you, anyhow.” 

His thumb swipes across your heated cheek in thought. “I feel as if there aren’t enough moments in time that let me admire you like this.”

“That’s—“ Even more embarrassing, you want to admit. Not that you could deny the flutter of your heartbeat at the sound.

So you just inhale, like the ones before it—but you pause, feeling a knowing itch creep upwards. With a swift turn of your head, you expel the sudden sneeze into your tucked elbow. 

“Bless you.”

“Tha—ah, ah-kshoo—!” How romantic. You inwardly cringe with a sardonic purse of your lips.

Amusement softens his words. “Bless you, again.”

“Sorry,” you manage, huffing away the sudden fit. A sniffle accompanies your apologetic gaze. Odd, your nose still tingles; partially stuffy, yet you have no urge to sneeze once more. Still, precaution leads you to face away from him in case it comes.

All too quickly, you’re keenly aware of just how warm everything is. Sunshine prickling your skin was one thing, but it never bothered you much until now. A dry swallow drags along the inside of your throat—even more strange, you feel an unnerving wave of need and longing for a drink, coupling something… else.

It shows on your face, though you try to conceal it. Xavier barely reappears in your peripheral, concern drawing his brows together. “Are you feeling okay?”

His question barely registers at first. “Peachy,” you lie, nearly dragging the sound from your tongue. With a turn, you open your mouth to continue a quip, but it falls short and hangs open when you take in his appearance.

Unlike his usually serene and relaxed expression, Xavier’s skin burned a flush so bright, you would’ve mistaken it for a terrible, terrible sunburn. His chest rises and falls—normal, yes—but at a heightened pace, a breathless pace. Shallow, almost. You want to laugh at his blushed state, but stop in your tracks when your eyes search his. 

Dark, and not from the lush of his lashes, staring at you with a half-lidded stare. Does he even realize how alluring he looks in this moment?

The laughter in your throat quickly dies down, and a surging need to do something about it fills you instead. It claws at your stomach with hot hands, traveling down to your core. 

Oh, this is dangerous.

Your questions receive their answers when his nose nuzzles yours once more, this time more insistent than the last. “Really?” The singular word held an edge, roughing the normally soft cadence he spoke with. 

There were only a handful of times where Xavier would sound so different—one, in the mornings where he wants nothing but ‘five more minutes’ trapped in your warmth. (And really, an excuse to avoid going to work so soon.) 

Another, on the rare blue moon of sickness that itches his throat and dulls his senses. Where a remedy of soothing teas and attentive touches would comfort him some.

And then, there was the third—when he was about to devour you whole, skin to skin and reshape your body to remember nothing else but him. The times where his hands and mouth would explore you endlessly, only to eventually find his way into your welcoming warmth and drag out long, needy moans of your name. 

In that tone dripping with nothing but indecency and an affection to you—the very same that you just heard.

If it were any other situation, you think you could’ve managed. But when neatly planted on his lap, hipbone practically digging into one another and a gaze so searing that it could contend to the one bubbling within you, you find yourself shaking your head.

“No,” you whisper, intensely aware of the current predicament. “I feel… hot, Xav. I don’t know why, but I—“ 

Want nothing more than to strip you bare and ruin these flowers, along with you in them. To scratch at the unrelenting heat numbing your senses, to succumb to the spike of desire—all these things run through your mind, yet fall short on your tongue.

“I know,” he reassures, though it comes out heavier than expected. 

His hand releases yours, and for a moment, a pang of disappointment washes over you. It’s put at ease when both of his arms curl themselves around your waist in an almost possessive hold, keeping you to him instead. 

Xavier drags his nose across your cheek, then down to the meeting place of your jaw and earlobe.

“You feel it too, don’t you?”

Too, he says. So the flushing skin carried more than what it seems, and a part of you—the primal urge to unsheathe him whole—is elated.

“What,” you breathe out, squirming when his lips press together and grace your skin. “Is this?” You instinctively tilt your head back, granting him more space to cover you in peppered kisses. 

“There shouldn’t be any major Wanderers nearby to ruin the Meta—ah…” 

Your ramblings bleed into a faint moan when those same lips found your pulse point, wet and ardent as he worked a blossoming rose against it. His teeth graze slightly, sealing their mark before sliding to the other side of your neck, more than ready to mirror the mark. And he does, in ardent succession, repeat his sign of affections.

A hand sneaks to toy with the fabric of your dress, slowly lifting the skirt to bunch at your lower back. Encouraging you to lower your body, to rest perfectly against him. It draws you closer, more so than before—you could barely stifle a relieved sigh when his groin finds your cunt, rubbing at you through hardened slacks. You find your hips rocking against it, chasing the feeling for what it was worth; and it was definitely worth the fine groan that draws from his puckered lips, continuing to suck at your skin with a firm press.

Xavier drank you in like a bee to honey, nosing and kissing wherever his mouth would take him. Feverish even, when he returns your salacious grinding with his own and arms tightening around you. You run your fingers through his fine strands of starlight, and he groans into your clavicle at the feeling of nails gently scraping his nape.

What was once a soft, gentle breeze now carries the palpable tension of your bodies cradled amidst the flowers. The scent of arousal pricked your nose—whether it was yours or his, you couldn’t make heads or tails of it—and only grew worse with every deep cycling breath. Labored, all equally and undeniably filled with primal want. 

There was something gratifying about the way his cock strained to meet you through fabric, and how you had a feverish inclination to take him whole. Every grind that slips between your folds and just barely meeting your clit has you desperate for something more. Tingles in all the right places, sending your mind into your pleasurable overdrive.

A particularly pointed rut of his hips has you choking out his name, thighs trembling to meet them back in tenfold. “I—I might just—if you keep doing that,” you waver between wanton moans, coils in your abdomen quickly coming undone.

Xavier withdraws his lips, sheen with ardor and the efforts of marking your skin. His forehead finds your shoulder, pressing further into your warm body and mouthing there instead. “Close, are you? Just from this?”

“I can’t help it,” you whine, and with a wiggle of your hips you confirm that, “You’re no better than me.” 

The very length that hardened and prodded against you was proud, see-sawing you to the heated brink you found yourself falling towards. A frictional transaction at best, and your undoing at worst.

His hands paw at your bottom, gripping the plump flesh and only moving you further along. “You’re right,” he mutters, angling his jaw to barely skim your ear and says, “Does it make me worse if I want you to come like this?”

“You monster,” you breathe out in jest, though no malice was found in the desire that overwhelms your response.

“Just for today,” he insists, canting his hips into you furthermore. A chaste kiss touches your lower lip, quietly asking for permission to seal them with his own. “I’m close, and I know you are too.”

“Yeah,” you concede with a breath against his lip. His eyes flutter to a close in anticipation when the warmth fans over him. “You got me there.”

Your own thundering heart rings loudly in your ears when you press your mouth to his, swallowing your moans and his in the heat of it all. Dizzying, a pandora’s box of temptation that drives you to trace his canines and fight against his own tongue.

You nearly bite down on said tongue when climax finally crashes into you, toes curling and pleasure ebbing in gentle waves as you come undone. Xavier’s hold was steady, and no sooner did a throbbing between your legs mark his own high—at the very least, he was honest. Sounds of muffled groans flowed from his throat to yours, pleased before parting for much needed air.

The moment stayed this way for a couple of heartbeats, with only the sounds of your breaths coming to a collective slow and occasional bristle of flora in the wind. Your sense of heart came to a calm, detangled from the thorns of indecent intent.

The air is crisp to your inhale, and an exhale makes you realize what exactly just happened. “Xavier,” you mumble, patting his shoulders. “Did we just…”

“We did,” he dryly confirms, and can’t help but chuckle at the awareness. His voice softens as he asks, “Do you still feel hot?”

“I’m good now,” you reassure with a nod. Sliding your hands to cup his cheek, you inspect the fairness of his skin and note the feverish blush was long gone. A bummer, when he looked so cute with it in the first place.

“Guess you’re fine now too.” With a light pinch, you find your jest from before and say, “You were blushing so much I nearly mistook you for one of the tomatoes from Twinkle Toys.”

Xavier’s nose scrunches at that, brushing away your teasing with a shake of his head. As swift as light, his arms tuck underneath your bottom and hoist you into the air—much to your surprise, a gasp escaping your throat.

You steady your hands atop his shoulders, squeezing them in turn. “What are you—“

“We shouldn’t stay here too long,” he says calmly. His head inclines to the bed of flowers briefly—though, his azure rings bore into you with unwavering interest, bright and tender. “Who knows what’ll happen if we never leave.”

You hum in agreement, leaning down to press your forehead to his. “Should we ask Jeremiah about these?” He is a florist after all, only one of the few you were familiar with. “I’m sure he knows a thing or two.“

“Nah.” Xavier touches his nose to yours in greeting. His eyes twinkle as he says, “Unless you want him to find out how you were on top of me and—mmph? Mmph, mmm.”

You silence his tell-tale with a kiss, to which he happily accepts all the same. Looks like you’ll have to table the thought for another time. He chases your lips even when you part, and only a finger could barrier his jutted lip.

“Later,” you promise. “We have a schedule ahead of us, you know. And uh,” your eyes trail downwards, noting a particular patch on his slacks. It registers the feeling between your own legs, to which you sigh and say, “We should make a quick stop home, too.”

“Alright.” Xavier nods, getting the message. With another bounce, he keeps you in his raised embrace and begins to walk along a flowery path.

“By the way.” He says off-handedly amidst the trek.

You hum. “Yes?”

“I promise not to tell Jeremiah how hot you looked on top of me.” “Xavier! Don’t you dare!”

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

New dad Astarion who is about to see his newborn child for the first time.

Of course, he expects his child to be the personification of serene beauty and divine grace. Them to have their father’s silken silvern locks, his immaculately chiselled features—the artwork perfected by Tav’s wonderful watercolour eyes…

And then he actually sees the child and—well—everybody assures him that, yes, Astarion, all babies look like that barely a half hour after birth…

He kind of has to take that at face value because he hasn’t seen an awful lot of newborns in his lifetime.

But it would’ve been nice if someone had told him that newborns happen to look like shrivelled potatoes, because he’s really, really trying to not let his bewilderment show. 

Astarion swallows. 

Tav’s beautiful eyes are watching him, waiting for a reaction—an enthusiastic one, no less. 

Maybe Tav will believe that he’s overcome with emotions at seeing his firstborn child? 

“Oh my, darling, I’m…speechless,” is all he can choke out, though, being rather proud that it’s at least not a lie. 

To his luck, Tav only nods dreamily, her full attention back on the odd little bundle in her arms.

“Isn’t she perfect?”

Yes, perfectly hideous. 

Astarion only hums in a way of reply.

That—his daughter, he supposes—is with no doubt one of the ugliest things he’s ever seen, but he has a feeling that his honesty wouldn’t be appreciated after Tav laboured for hours to give birth to this…potato-baby.

“Come, hold her, Astarion,” Tav says, then, bidding him to sit next to her on the bed.

The mattress shifts under Astarion’s weight and he obediently holds his arms out so that Tav can gently place the sleeping child against his chest.

Now that Astarion can take a better look, he can confirm that his daughter’s hair is of an indefinable colour and that her features are neither his nor Tav’s, plain as can be. Surely it won’t stay like that?

He and Tav are so ridiculously beautiful, their child can only be drop-dead gorgeous, right?

Astarion’s stomach drops indeed when, suddenly, something occurs to him. 

Oh dear, what if it’s his fault? He has no recollection of his family whatsoever; it’s very much possible that he and his immaculate looks are the exception in his lineage, and that he’s passed on only those mysterious less-than-perfect genes…Tav, as per usual, can’t be the issue!

Astarion is still catastrophizing when the bundle in his arms begins to stir.

All of a sudden, gold-speckled pale green eyes are looking up at him as if to ask what the fuck this weirdo’s problem might be. 

“Oh,” the weirdo in question exclaims at once. “Darling, look, she has your eyes!”

Tav, hugging him from behind, rests her chin on his shoulder, so she can watch as Astarion’s finger tenderly strokes their baby’s chubby cheek.

Their daughter also has, as it turns out, ten fingers and toes, a cute little nose and a hungry mouth—everything that’s supposed to be there is there, and it seems to be working fine, too—which is a huge relief. 

And aren’t those the tiniest pointy ears Astarion has ever seen? Let alone the unexpectedly strong fingers grasping at his!

Astarion, worries forgotten in a heartbeat, can’t help but smile at the baby in his arms. 

She is perfect, after all. 

Tav, face hidden in the crook of his neck, begins to tremble against his back. 

For a second, Astarion thinks she’s crying but then her laughter fills the chamber. It takes her a good moment to articulate whatever it is she finds so very funny.

“She'll grow out of it, you know?” Tav giggles in between her fits of laughter. 

Astarion stiffens. “Of what?”

“The turnip look. That’s what you’ve been worrying about the whole time, haven't you?”

“I was leaning more towards potatoes—but yes, I might’ve been a little worried about that,” Astarion admits sheepishly, although a grin is already tugging at his lips.  

Regaining her composure, Tav reaches over Astarion’s shoulder, her hand joining his as they get to know their child.

“Give it a couple of days and she will look like your proper little elf—beautiful just like her father.”

A content sigh leaves Astarion’s lips, right before he presses them against Tav’s temple.

“That’s the second best news I’ve heard today, my heart, truly.”

[mintyys-blog]

Hi mintyys, Could u pls do a mitsuri kanroji!reader for main mark grayson . Mitsuri!reader who is incredibly powerful and has a very kind heart but suffers from insecurities due to her unnatural hair , strength and huge appetite. Also what what main mark's reaction to her what past suitor said about her .He rejected (when he looks like that 😕 😮‍💨🙄) Mitsuri!reader as a suitor due to her superhuman strength, pink hair and huge appetite. He coldly insulted Mitsuri!reader by telling her that only a bear, boar or cow would marry her, before leaving while telling her to forget they ever met.

WHAT HE COULDN’T HANDLE | mark grayson x mitsuri! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: insults, self doubt, insecurities.

Y/N was radiant. That was the only word Mark could ever come up with to describe her. Her smile was the kind that felt like it could pull the sun a little closer, make even the coldest day feel warm again. She was bright, affectionate, endlessly kind—and terrifyingly strong.

She wasn’t just a fighter—she was a force. She could pull a satellite from orbit like it was made of paper, stop a speeding train with her bare hands, and still turn around and gently offer you a snack or ask if you were okay. She was that person. Powerful, compassionate, overflowing with love.

But that love never extended to herself.

Y/N tried to hide it well, but Mark saw the little moments: how she tugged self-consciously at her hair in crowded places. How she kept her smile frozen just a little too long when someone glanced at her plate as she piled on a third helping. How her gaze would drop when someone stared too long at her unnatural hair color.

She’d been rejected before.

Worse—humiliated.

“Only a bear, a boar, or a cow would marry you.”

“That hair doesn’t even look real. You think anyone wants a girl like you?”

“Forget we ever met.”

The guy had walked away like he was proud of it. Like hurting her was some accomplishment. And she carried those words like shackles.

So when Mark first heard about it—when she finally told him one quiet night, curled beside him on the couch with misty eyes and a trembling voice—he didn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “He said what?”

His voice wasn’t loud—but it was low, cold. Too calm. The way it got when he was ready to destroy something. His jaw clenched, and his shoulders tensed like he wanted to fly across galaxies and rip this guy’s lungs out with his bare hands.

Y/N blinked, startled by the intensity. “Mark, it’s okay, it was a long—”

“No, it’s not okay.”

He turned to her, his gaze sharp and full of heat, though it softened the moment it landed on her face.

“You are incredible. Do you know how rare it is to find someone who’s not just strong, but still kind? Who sees the world in color even when it’s gray?”

He reached out, brushing her hair back behind her ear with infinite care.

“I don’t care what color your hair is. You could shave it all off and I’d still think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

“Your appetite? Good. You don’t need to shrink yourself for anyone. Least of all some idiot who couldn’t handle the fact you’re better than him in every way.”

He leaned closer, nose brushing hers, his voice lower now—sincere, unwavering. “He didn’t deserve you. And I’m never going to make that mistake. Got it?”

Y/N gave a shaky laugh, the tears finally spilling—but she was smiling now, too. “Got it.”

Mark grinned. “Good. Now come on—let’s get you something to eat. I’m thinking five helpings and dessert. Sound good?” She nodded, heart lighter, chest fuller. Because finally—she didn’t feel like too much. She felt like she was finally enough.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

PLEASE, PLEASE, DON’T TOUCH ME WITH YOUR DIRTY HANDS ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; from the corner of a dim-lit host club, you catch the gaze of a handsome monk.

word count; 12k

contents; suguru geto/m!reader, cult leader!geto x host!reader (<- non-sorcerer), reader is described as considerably smaller than geto, the host club culture in this fic is kind of butchered / twisted to suit my own agenda i’m sorry :’3, friends with benefits, bittersweet hurt/comfort (emphasis on hurt), angst, open ended, very suggestive (constant sexual tension; vague dirty talk; very light nipple play; sex is alluded to and briefly shown both in passing and in present, though the descriptions are vague and no explicit terms are used. basically: sexuality and eroticism are present all throughout the fic, but actual smut is evaded.) reader has implied mental health + self-image issues, geto is in denial and repressed and kind of mean, you both refuse to admit what you really want and suffer more for it. heavy satosugu implications + switching povs. unrequited love (but not really.)

a/n; this is the closest any of u are getting to smut. from ari... this fic is not at all typical of me (both with the suggestive /borderline explicit tone, m!reader and a part of geto’s character i don’t often focus on) but still very much up my own alley of tastes and queer longing; i feel like i was born to write this fic …. in a way. and i’m proud of myself for finishing it!! hopefully it’ll make your heart ache in the most pleasant of ways <3 dedicating it to my lonely soulcrushed gays i hope you look at the sea tomorrow without wishing you could wade right in

spit it out, darling /

quietly exposing a double-layered facade /

so, that’s the kind of person you are.

everything you see before you — belongs to you alone.

golden lights, dim flickers of neon, an elysian field of artificial luminescense. music that thrums under your skin, beats along with your heart, crawls up your windpipe with erratic thump, thumps that have the hair on your nape standing on end. there's alcohol in your system, tobacco clouding your mind, a giddy smile on your face. bright lights, loud music, men's voices clouded in deceit. yes, all of this is yours.

every nerve in your skull dances along to the devil's waltz you're in. excitement, lust, pure adrenaline. sweet, so sweet, you could lap it up from the floor.

"why don't you sing us a song, sweetheart?"

you're tipsier than you should be, when you're still on the clock. you can barely recognize the voice, barely tell if it comes from the handsome bartender or your boss or one of the regulars — it doesn't matter, either. your lips grow into a grin.

"sure, sure."

it's a fever dream, a haze, stumbling up to the stage with blood pumping in your chest. your skin feels hot and cold at once, but it's a good feeling, fuzzy, your head stuffed full of cotton. bliss. your hair is tousled, your tie undone, adam's apple bobbing as you grab onto the mic — as your bleary eyes grow focused on the video screen up above. you feel like a beautiful mess, but your vocal cords remain intact.

the music stops, comes to a halt, changes tune. someone shuffled the playlist and now another song is playing. familiar, a heavy baseline, and —

you start to sing. it comes to you naturally, you scarcely need to look at the lyrics.

golden lights, grinning men, your own voice in your frazzled ears. it comes out with a rasp, quickly peeled away, stripped, silky vowels sifting from the base of your throat. you've yet to lose your touch, a sound so beautiful it stops belonging to you the moment it's left your lips. the world looks mesmerizing, when it's confined to a raunchy indoor sunset; your world. center stage, all eyes on you, greedy, lapping at your exposed skin, the smudges of lipstick on your neck. shining under dusty starlight.

everything feels so possible, from here.

this is — vaguely, partially, at the very least in spirit — why you do this. not for the back-alley rendezvous, rough hands pulling at your flesh, the blooming of hydrangeas on your injured skin. not for the alcohol, or the money. actually, you're lying to yourself, it's all of that combined — but this is where your heart lies.

this is where you spit it out for all to see.

their gazes feel good, on your neck, your chest, your waist and your hands. the attention is fuel. you feel like a spectacle, like someone else entirely, shedding skin, just for a couple minutes. you meet their stares, you're sure you're smiling, gleaming through the fog of it all. the chorus melts on your tongue, as your eyes glide through the lounge. all-seeing.

in the corner of the room, a lone shadow flickers.

(and the beating of your heart halts at a pitfall.)

you sing, despite the interruption. meeting the golden, shimmering gaze, catching his eye. the man is seated at a lone table, no host to entertain him. it's hard to see, from here, with the lights and the haze and the whiskey in your veins, but you can make out his figure — wide, clad in heavy garments — just the barest contours of his face. handsome, though, you can tell, can see it in his gaze and the way he's sitting, comfortable and poised. elegant. a beautiful, beautiful jawline.

lowlidded eyes staring deeply into yours.

the song continues, lyrics rolling off your breath, perfectly timed with your overlapping gazes. for just a moment, something sinks its jaws into you.

darling, vague complaints and fridays

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

you think you catch the hint of a smile, on that shadowed face. the lonesome man raises his glass, brings it to his lips. you hope he’s drinking you in just the same, gulping you down, devouring you.

the moment splits in half. another gaze, another man. you're content, to perform for as long as your lungs will allow — until you hear the first clap of hands after a job well done. when it comes, you can only pant into the mic, savour the strain on your throat. the room is spinning. you think you need to sit down, for a while. everything feels like a blur.

"aghh, my shoulder is killing me…"

slim, pretty hands pass you a glass of water, cool against your heated fingertips. you accept it, swirl it around for a moment, just to hear the satisfying clink of ice cubes colliding. slumped against the headrest of a leather sofa, maroon, blinking sluggishly as if to rouse your mind into a working state.

"shouldn't have tuckered yourself out so early. the night is still young."

"i know, i know," you hiss, digging the heel of your palm into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. it stings, like someone pressed the butt of a cigarette against your naked skin. when you tilt your head back, a thank you on your tongue, the host is already gone, off to entertain a guest. you're pretty sure someone just asked for a champagne bottle to pop. ah, the noise is bound to grate you…

a raspy sigh pushes past your lips, as you empty the glass with one big gulp.

"what a beautiful voice you have."

a different voice. not one of the hosts. when you look up, still keeping the rim of the glass against your lips — you see a sliver of gold.

for a moment, you wonder if it's…

— nope. it's a tooth.

a big, bulky man, clad in a sleazy red suit, lips curled into a similar grin. your eyes glide across his features, tallying the damage; blonde hair, fat biceps, chest hair exposed… a big nose, that's not bad. the gold tooth is certainly a choice. you wonder if he's going for dirty rich, or classy poor. you're half tempted to ask what bank he co-owns with his father.

instead, you smile.

"ah, you flatter me." the glass clinks when you put it down, scooting over to make space, not-so-subtly. you tilt your head, angle your body until you feel the fabric of your undone blouse start to slip down your shoulder. his eyes drink it in, a moth to a flame. "are you here to spend time with me, mister…?”

a part of you wants to laugh, at how successful the pure, youthful flower schtick is to men like him. it's how you make money, though — you lie successfully.

and he takes the bait. "i think i just might be, yes,” he plops down next to you, legs comfortably spread — his elbows finding purchase on the headrest.

"i'll have to make it worth your while, then, won't i?"

a rumbling chuckle. the man fishes a cigar from out of his pocket, hands you the lighter and waits. you need no instruction, leaning forward, flicking your fingers against it until the bottom catches ablaze. he puts it in his mouth, fat and thick, the scent almost overpowering. you've built up a resistance, but you still need a moment to exhale, withholding a cough. maybe that would appeal to him, though…

he keeps it between his lips, exhales through his nose before pulling away to speak. "well, i pay good money for your company. i'd say it's only fair."

a breathy chuckle. "that's true…"

there's a hunger to the way he looks at you. a kind of gaze you've learned to associate with filth, desire. he's still smiling, too wide, that golden tooth gleaming in between the yellowish-whites. smells of gin, underneath the tobacco, and something else. vodka? it's hard to tell. his size advantage is stark, when you're thigh to thigh like this — he looks like he could snap you like a twig. looks like he’d want to. one of his hands slithers around your hip, suddenly, squeezes the flesh and lingers just to feel you shudder. his grin widens when you can't withhold it.

(… ough, you lament. one of the brutes.)

with a muttered sigh, underneath your breath, your lips drag themselves up — it's voluntary, takes effort to push back the urge to run from his grip. a perfect smile, sweet and coy, still leaving much to the imagination. a hint of mystery, intrigue —

a glint in your eye.

no room for mistakes. your shoulder still aches, but it's bearable. you’re just about to part your lips, cozy up to him, say a pair of sultry, well-picked words, when —

”may i have him, for a moment?”

a smooth voice cuts in through the fog.

deep, velvety tones, rubbing against your ear drums. sweet and saccharine, honey dripping down your chin; it sends a shiver down your spine, heat to the back of your neck. he blooms in your mind before you even tilt your head to meet his dark gaze, sharp and low-lidded. you can picture him before you even see him. voices carry weight, they always do, but his is special. you haven't heard anything quite like it.

wine and tequila. oil and water.

two voices speaking, all at once.

a tall man is standing just before you, hands tucked into the long sleeves of his haori, gazing down at your touchy customer. it’s the strange, shadowy figure from before. up close, he looks more like a monk; a gojogesa wrapped around his abdomen.

you were right, of course.

he is handsome. 

with greed, you etch his features into your mind, lap it up. a sharp jaw, nose, well-defined cheekbones… obsidian eyes, with flecks of tinted gold, though you can hardly see them under these dim lights, with their narrow shape. pretty, pretty monolids, crescent moons. his hair is the real kicker, though, silky locks that flow down his back and shoulders, stop around his waist. looks like it’s been pampered, oiled and brushed, how lovely. one of his hands slip out, to dust off his sleeve, and fuuuck, they're —

— a grumble resounds to your left.  

”i have him for the next hour. you can piss off,” spits the wild boar next to you, abandoning your hip to curl possessively around your neck. and uh oh, that doesn’t feel too nice. would he get hissier if you pulled away? ”fuckin’ monk.”

catching tells is a skill that takes honing. observing, attention to detail, a reward for one’s attentiveness. you like to think you’re good, very good —

though you only barely catch the twitch of the monk’s left brow. the way his eyes coil into slits.

a hum buzzes in his throat. 

then he’s leaning forward, one big, beautiful hand coming to rest on your customer's shoulder, like he’s using him as a step stool. bending forward to look you in the eye. two abysses, gazing into you.

swirling gleefully.

his lips curl up into a sly smile. ”i’ll pay you double,” he whispers, for only you to hear. ”what do you say?”

for a moment, your breath stills in the back of your throat. that same halting of your heartbeat as before, enraptured by his gaze, hook line and sinker. because he’s close, you can nearly feel his body heat, almost pick up on his scent, warm and rich.

(and, well —)

”… sounds good.”

he rewards you with a smile. crescent-eyed.

”wonderful.”

(you’ve always been weak to a pretty face.)

the man on your left grows silent. stunned, you think, and — oops, he looks pissed. a booming voice spills out, the smoke from his cigar still fattening the air with toxins, making your eyes water. ”hah? that’s not how this works, you gold digging —”

”leave.”

a flick of his wrist. his robes sway, with the motion, like a curtain being drawn shut. the gesture itself is a command; elegant, there's no need for shouting. the way his voice drops says enough, exudes casual dominance, ripe as golden fruit on heavy branches.

a shiver, a phantom hand counting the vertebrae on your spine.

and, naturally — what you expect is a brawl. a very angry customer, one very injured customer, none of them a blessing upon your paycheck this month. casual dominance is sexy, sure, but not much else — it won't save you from a fist kissing your teeth. and, well, just going by the size of their arms alone —

… the man on your left stands up.

and leaves.

you watch, blinking owlishly as he heads for the exit, steps measured — controlled — as if guided by a puppet string. the thought makes your shoulder itch. the bell rings out, across the lounge, a pleasant chime. he's gone, he actually left. just like that.

one moment of silence, and then a breathy exhale.

"i hope you don't mind," comes a tender voice, softening, woven with silk. "but you seemed a little… uncomfortable."

the stranger takes the now empty seat, but keeps his distance, hands still tucked comfortably inside his sleeves. robes fluttering with the movement, spilling across the leather cushions and draping down to the floor. they look expensive, well made, not cheap cosplay or an elaborate joke — is he actually a monk? at a host club? sounds like the headline for a trashy porno. black hair frames his face, a single silky bang, and you can't even really call it odd because everything about him is already so out of place.

your mind spins with questions. but he's handsome, and he chased away what you're sure was the beginning of a really bad night —

a smile slips onto your lips, cheshire-esque. your eyes crinkled at the edges as you breathe out a chuckle. "no, not at all," you purr. "thank you, kind stranger."

smoothly, you cozy up to him, your thigh ghosting his own, hand about to curl around his bicep — just to feel his build, from under all those layers. he doesn't let you. doesn't say a word, but his brow twitches, a silent tell to back off.

so you do.

(maybe he's one of the look, don't touch types? some kind of power fantasy?)

you don't mind. smile still sweet, your expression doesn't falter. it's fine, this distance is tantalizing in its own right. like he's a painting on the wall, or a holy sculpture — something you'd get in trouble just for smudging with your fingerprint.

the handsome monk remains silent. watches as you fix your blouse, absently, it's in your nature to adjust to the whims of whoever you're servicing. a few buttons are undone, the fabric only covers one of your shoulders. exudes anything but elegance. your fingers curl around the fabric, ready to fish it back up.

that's when he speaks.

"do i not strike you as the promiscuous type?"

it's half a question, half a jest. there's a gleam in his eye when you meet it, something like a silverfish in a pool of dark water. an amused smile on his lips. his voice is light, and you can't help but mirror his expression — something slightly devilish.

"oh, are you?" you grin, tongue swiping against the back of your teeth, tasting the faded cocktails, a spark of syrupy flavours. "i'll leave it as is, then."

your fingers part with the soft linen, reaching instead for the empty glass on the table. putting it to your lips, sipping up what little has melted off the ice cubes, excess. then the clink, and you're turning towards him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

"what would you like to order, handsome?"

a quirk of his brow. "saké," comes his answer, flat.

"classy."

"is it, now?" he doesn't seem impressed. gazing at you with something familiar, but you can't pinpoint it. even though it's right at the tip of your tongue.

no matter, no matter. the sensations of this world have already tainted what remains of your common sense. "and can i get a name, with that order?" you ask, instead, raising yourself up into a standing position; ready to go grab his drink.

"geto," is all he says. smiling, but it's surface level; almost mocking. "just geto."

夏油. summer oil.

you think of autumn, bleeding sunsets. bottles of whiskey poured into a boy's waiting mouth.

(suddenly, you feel like weeping.)

"that'll do, that’ll do.” you give him a wink, before heading for the bar. before you know it, you're pouring the saké into his cup, the scent of fermented rice soothing the sting of tobacco still biting at the back of your throat. old and expensive, your nose picking up a roasted fragrance, fruity undertones.

geto didn't seem intimidated, by the price. you suppose he wasn't joking when he said he'd pay you double.

"how is it?" you ask, maintaining a distance while watching him drink. his eyes are closed, in what you hope is contentment, lips cupping the rim as he sips.

"… good," he hums, appreciatively, swirling the cup in a controlled motion, a gentle vortex. "no, not bad at all. i suppose money really does pay for service…"

another sip. your gaze drinks in his hands, practically dwarfing the cup, thick fingers keeping it safe and steady. would he hold your hips, like that? make sure you stay afloat? or would he drop you to the floor and watch you shatter…?

"are you really a monk, geto-kun?"

"san," he corrects, a cut of his tongue. he's smiling, though. it's hard to tell if he's genuinely bothered by the prefix. "and yes, i am. does that surprise you?"

"a little," you admit, pouring the beverage into your own cup. you watch it fill, swirl around and shimmer, letting out a humoured breath. "i mean, it's not often i get to service a holy man…"

a low noise, almost a snort. eyes of burning cedar flit to your face.

"mm, i see. your usual customers are more of the barbarish kind, are they?" he leans back, keeping eye contact, voice like the weights of a scale, judging. he tuts, quietly, a click of his tongue. "that's not good, you know. men like that don't know how to treat what's fragile."

"fragile?" you laugh, can't help it, teeth gleaming under dim lights.

"yes."

teasing words die on your tongue. something like, maybe i can take more than you think? but no, it's gone, sputtered out somewhere between your gums. because geto says it like he's talking about the weather.

like it's not a challenge; like there’s nothing to prove.

like it's fact.

(you're fragile. you'd break under pressure.)

"… if you say so. anyhow…" you lean forward, a pang of heat flashing against your nape when you catch his lips twitching upwards. "what temple?"

geto breathes out a chuckle, sweet saké on his tongue. "why?" he asks, raising a brow, hand coming to rest against your skin. you remain still, as he drags a thumb against the smudge of lipstick right below your throat. the sudden contact does something to you, makes you pliant, like a kitten being lifted by the scruff. "you don’t strike me as the devout kind. could it be you just want to see me hard at work?"

dark eyes crinkle with mirth — your heartbeat sputters like a firefly crushed under a boot. ah, his voice is like a balm to your ears. honeyed vowels, spinning a sticky web in your mind, just the slightest hint of a rasp underneath. it sneaks into his speech, makes him sound like a sexy dad, and you're screwed, you realize — totally and completely.

"maybe," you say, playing coy. "can't i?"

"i'm not sure how my congregation would feel," he hums, gazing down into his cup again. tapping his fingers against his knee, rhythmic, from forefinger to pinkie. "a little thing like you, hanging off my arm during a sermon…"

another hum, as if he's tasting the thought on his tongue, but you get the feeling he's mostly trying to tease you. a perfectly still smile on his lips.

"i suppose you'd make for good eye candy."

"oh, i’d be honoured to."

this time, his smile feels somewhat genuine, the golden glow of the bar lighting his eyes on fire, makes you think of his name and all its flavours. honey, whiskey, bramble berries eaten under summer shades. he grins, just barely, and your shoulder aches again. pangs of pain, sparks of pleasure. makes you want to lean right in.

makes you crave more.

you drink with him, or more like you watch his measured sips, because for once you don't want your mind completely sullied, want to remain at least slightly lucid, enough to hold a conversation without embarrassing yourself. it pays off. geto is intelligent, well-spoken, an intellectual. absolutely morbid. he stays for an hour, take it or leave it, but it feels like dusk has already bled into dawn by the time he’s gone, everything blurring together until he's all you can see. his pretty lips, the cupid's bow above it. silver tongue peeking out with every syrupy word.

when he stands up, you’re expecting him to ask you to accompany him. tempted to ask yourself. but he tells you of business he must attend to, with graceful poise, as if cutting a firm line between himself and this establishment. him and you. you know that tone, it's like a boyfriend telling you to not be clingy while he's working. a sense of overstepping.

another smile, and then he's leaving. you get the feeling that it falls as soon as his back is turned. call it a gut feeling, but liars know each other like the back of their own hand — and so-called perfect men are always wearing one mask or another.

it doesn't matter, either way. your heart still clenches pitifully, when the bell of the store sings its tune. you watch his back until it's no longer visible.

and then you exhale a sigh. left alone, with a half-full bottle of saké and a strange sensation in your bloodstream, something that pulls and tugs restlessly at the nerves of your brain. muddied, but somehow clear, the room not so blurry anymore.

you feel cold.

(the pain in your shoulder is gone, too.)

fingertips trail along plasticized polystyrene.

cup ramen, stacks of surimi sticks, and a can of beer. you eye the products in your arms, silently counting up the price. it's dark out, the lights of passing cars and the city illuminating the world beyond your local konbini; occasionally, the store's bell will ring, but otherwise it's silent. you're spent. you need this, an unhealthy midnight treat, you deserve it after all the drinks you poured last night.

this world, the real world, is different from the host club. less flashy.

depressing, really.

your feet carry you to the freezer, to eye a bundle of honeydew popsicles. you could eat one on the way back, but by then it'll have melted — you could eat it before slurping up the ramen, but that would make you feel even more like a mess. hair a mess, face a mess, bags under your eyes and a hoodie draped around you, sweatpants and sandals. you can't be bothered to perform on a day off. couldn't be bothered to put on makeup, give the cashier anything more than a vague nod on the way in.

there's no one here to see you like this. no one to see you at all. you're allowed a moment's respite.

"my, my."

…

a voice rings in your ears. you stiffen, standing by the freezer, staring at popsicles and tubs of ice cream; a shiver trailing down your spine. a familiar, familiar voice — honeyed, the slightest hint of a rasp.

and when you look up, you see them. eyes of rusted gold.

sharpened into crescents.

"what a pleasant surprise." he tilts his head, bangs gliding along his skin. "out shopping this late?"

fuck, it's him, it's actually him. of all the people —

"sure am," you exhale, smiling wearily. peering up at him through droopy eyes; fatigue clinging to your voicebank. "are you stalking me, geto-san?"

a chuckle bubbles past his lips. he's still wearing the same robes, eyes gleaming, lips curling up and exposing pure white teeth. "ah, you caught me."

you can't even tell if he's joking. but you breathe out a matching chuckle, as he steps to the side, walks towards another aisle, passing you by. your eyes follow his broad back, trailing after him — ice cream can wait for another day — until you're taking up the empty space at his side. his hand slips from out his sleeve and reaches for a wakaba brand pack of cigarettes, cream-coloured, his fingers flexing as they curl around it. a blink, your lashes fluttering, ravens taking flight from a lamppost outside.

"… you’re a smoker?"

an absent hum. "oh, yes. occasionally."

when geto walks up to the counter, you follow. still carrying your hastily chosen snacks, digging up your wallet from the pocket of your sweatpants, ripping it open with your teeth. you give him a glance while the cashier scans your items, one after the other. "isn't that, like… against buddhist values, or whatever?"

"i'm not buddhist."

beep, beep. you swipe your card, still staring at him out of the corner of your eye.

"… huh."

he clicks his tongue. "i dabble in… a religion of my own making," he adds, smiling. "one could say."

the cashier bows. you return it, gathering your products, turning on your heel to scope out the tables by the windows. not one seat occupied, that's good. you walk towards them, a hum on your tongue.

”sooo… you're a cultist?"

just a joke, to lighten the mood. geto only chuckles, doesn't answer — when you turn your head he's looking at you like you just said something funny.

it shouldn't put you ill at ease.

(you’re fascinated.)

the view from where you plop down to stretch your weary legs is soothing, familiar, twinkling stars dimmed by light pollution and cars whooshing by, blinking street lamps, a river running farther ahead; from the old train station to a faraway clearing of woods. the night sky is vast and wide, the moon hidden behind a cluster of blue clouds. a word sits on the back of your tongue and stays there, heavy like lead, you swallow it while tearing the plastic off your ramen — geto takes a seat besides you, rests his elbows on the table and watches you, chin poised against the heel of his palm. robes hanging off the small chair, meeting the floor. a puddle of ink.

a minute passes. you pour hot water into the cup, crack open the can of beer, exhale when your fingertips meet cool condensation. then you take a swig, throat bobbing gently. geto watches. waits.

"did your business go as expected?" you ask, finally, peeling back the lid of your meal as steam wafts into the air. smells of shrimp and tom yum, the noodles swimming in foam. just about done.

"it did, yes," geto responds, closing his eyes. "did i leave you wanting?"

the bell jingles. a glance in the direction of the entrance tells you it's a group of schoolgirls, out past their bedtime. anxiety swirls in your gut, gnaws at your fragile ribs, little fish nipping at strings of seaweed. they shouldn't be here this late, but what can you do? nothing but stifle it, chew at a surimi stick while breaking apart your chopsticks — the moon peeks out, briefly, paints the city blue.

and, well.

he did, but that doesn't mean he has to say it.

"you wish," you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

”hm… should i be flattered?"

you bring a mouthful of noodles to your lips, slurp them up with fervour. a series of beeps resound behind you, idle schoolgirl chatter having died down into hushed whispers. you can't see them, your back turned, but you could wager a guess as to what, or who, they're whispering about. it makes you chuckle through the bite, which makes geto stare at you.

a quirk of his brow, his upturned lips. he tilts his head, lazily, a wilting bud.

"it's just —" you swallow, failing to stifle a humoured breath. leaning forward, to sip at the beer can, just to feel the burn at the back of your throat. imagining yourself and him, from an outside perspective — a shady, hooded guy eating cheap ramen with a monk. "this probably looks like an intervention."

geto hums. doesn't laugh along.

"it could be."

a spark of body heat, hints of bergamot and incense. he's leaned closer, close enough that everything else feels like a shadow, you're encapsulated in his gaze, hidden by the curtains of his robes and silky hair. it sticks a pin inside your heartbeat. falls to the floor with a clatter. he's close, and he smells good, and you're sleepy.

and his voice ghosts the nape of your neck.

"do you need a cleansing, my dear?"

a deep, rumbling purr against your ear. there's the rasp, the baseline, the moment where your mind shatters on the konbini floor. it echoes, thrums under your skin, makes heat gather in your abdomen. for once, he's being serious, you know what people sound like when they want you to be theirs for the night. when you meet his eyes, it's even more clear.

deep pools of desire.

geto stands up. dusts off his robes with steady hands, gives you crescent eyes and a sly smile before turning on his heel. broth clings to your lips, the taste of beer, you've barely touched the surimi. your limbs feel tied up in knots, strung along by a puppeteer.

and you follow. 

he could be a murderer, for all you know. a serial killer. maybe he'll take you to some shady love hotel, wrap his hands around your neck, say something about sin before twisting with all his might — you think of all the threats you've heard over the years.

but he’s handsome. beautiful, like this, when you’re a little tired, a little too sloppy to act well. a mess, you must look pitiful, but he wants you. he wants you, he's fascinating, looks like an angel when the light hits just right. if it brings his hands upon you, would sinning be so bad? it's too late, you've already stood up, there's no need for a wager when the loss is just as sweet. you follow; follow him outside, to where the stars barely twinkle and crisp air cups your cheeks, follow him until your heartbeat is racing so fast you can scarcely hear his voice.

messy sheets, steady hands, golden eyes.

that’s the first time you sleep with him.

geto is… an odd guy.

a month has passed since your first meeting. a handful of nights spent under covers, or dim lights, at a host club he's become something of a regular at — though it never takes him long to bring you to a different, emptier bar. he waltzes in with his fancy robes, pays no mind to any of the other hosts — you know they're jealous, too bad for them — and calls you over. doesn't even need to speak, the moment your eyes meet his you're already walking his way. he pays well, buys expensive bottles of saké, brings you with him when he's gotten bored of sneering at the other guests. it’s always just a matter of time.

everything about him spells disaster — spells out something like poisonous berries, or rotten cadavers on an open fire when you’re on the verge of starving.

something a little too good to be true.

he's good in bed, for example. very good. if the monk shtick wasn't already so ridiculously out of place, you're sure it would have shocked you even more — how he knows exactly what to do, where to touch, how to explore the crevices of your body like a lock skillfully broken into, solved, elegant twitches of metal before the door knob loosens. geto is weird, probably a cult leader, but god, is he good at sex.

it's been a while since you felt so truly satiated. every part of your body tended to, filled, ruined and stitched back together again; your mind successfully turned off, painted blank, only blissful clouds and cotton left in your skull by the time he's done. when he steps into the dim-lit lounge, you know you'll be sleeping well into the morning. you know you'll get to see the way his biceps flex and twitch, the tattoos on his back and shoulder, paintings of ink, red flowers and white dragons — that you'll get to feel his weight and see into his brown eyes and paw at his chest, plush and fat, gape at the thick set of scars carving an x inbetween them. the body is a temple. you've never truly understood that, not until now.

not until him.

and it's silly. stupid, naive; it's never good to get a crush on someone who's made what he wants from you abundantly clear. your little arrangement is set in stone — no will he won’t he, no second guessing.

but no one has ever treated your messed up body with that kind of reverence.

so, forgive you for having a bit of a crush on the weird, perverted monk guy. forgive you for being deliriously predictable and easy. for being a little enamored by the way he keeps his distance, how your wants fit together so perfectly — bodies pressed together, minds lodged apart. no strings attached, only sweat and sex and chemicals making a mess of your muddled brain. he wants nothing more, you want nothing less. he pays no mind to the pills on your nightstand, you don't ask about the scar.

it's a silent give and take. he's handsome, takes only a little more than he's given every time. you've found you don't really mind. he's not insatiable, just greedy.

and, well. you've always been eager to excel.

(always the type to get caught up in a backdraft.)

"goddd, that fucking shift…"

a wince twists your throat, spills out when you crane your neck and stretch your limbs above your head — waiting for a crack that never comes. try as you may to get the knots out of your joints, the ache remains — your nerves frazzled, wrists bruised from one too many rough grips, fatigue sticking to your bones. geto sits on a couch in the corner, watches as you slump onto the bed, limbs like dead weights.

"… i need a raise."

a breathy chuckle. "do you, now?" he asks, a glint in his eyes like the cityscape outside. this view isn't bad, your hotel room a few stories high, overlooking the empty streets. ”and here i thought my tips would be more than enough to keep you afloat…"

"well, afloat…" you murmur, shutting your eyes for a moment — voice carried by a sleepy rasp. "i'm afloat. but don't i deserve more than that?"

"do you?"

you can practically hear his smile. he loves that, answering a question with another question. you think it's insufferable, and somehow still enough to have heat twisting in your gut. "i do," you groan. "believe me, i do."

geto hums, absentminded. you can hear the turning of paper-thin pages, a newspaper left for guests to flip through. with a sigh, you raise yourself up on your elbows. "and god, that dick… i swear he tried to throw me under the bus today.”

flip, flip. "who?"

"you've seen him… you know, the tacky guy?" weary limbs move across silken sheets, help you into a sitting position, so you can gaze at him properly. black hair, firm facial lines, big, beautiful hands. that's your geto. "cheap dye, piercings? looks like he's got a rich daddy?"

"what kind?"

his wry response pulls a chuckle out your lips. "both, probably." you mutter. "ungrateful little shit…"

finally, geto lifts his gaze. pools of amber, sloshing summer oil, burns on your hands and neck. he meets your eyes with a calm glint in his own, setting the newspaper back on the table in front of him.

"i don't know who you mean," he smiles, and you think he must be lying, trying to avoid work talk — either that, or he really does only pay attention to you. the thought is sweet, intoxicating, too good to be true. ”but i take it he's giving you a hard time?"

a scoff.

"understatement of the century…"

slowly, he uncrosses his legs; lets his sandals meet the carpented floor, and stands up to his full height, before walking over to your place of rest. you watch him, lazily, eyes never parting from the swooshing of his heavy robes, the way that he moves, like he's following a path carved just for him. you've met men who take up space, who do it like it's easy, like it’s their birth right — this is different. his steps are not heavy, loud, nor flashy. he moves quietly, like a serpent, a mesmerizing slithering across the floor. geto stops in front of you, and tilts his head; slips a smile onto his lips. crescented, a half-moon.

”would you like me to take care of him for you?”

(it lights up his expression.)

”… take care?” you echo, blinking sluggishly. ”what, you gonna kill him?”

”would you like me to?”

…

a hum. you stare off into space, for a moment; feeling his gaze weigh you down and split you apart, he doesn't need his hands for that. it's a tantalizing proposition — you can't tell if he's joking, but you know he likes it best that way. you also know your job would be a whole lot easier without a little brat messing up your monthly quota. ”kind of.” it slips from out your lips, a deadpan reply.

and a chuckle rumbles in his throat.

"he really is bothering you." his smile splits itself further, white teeth showing for a second before he laps over them with his tongue. "i suppose i'd be doing you a favour."

you snort, raising a practiced brow, meeting his gaze head on. "what, did you think i was exaggerating? lying? i'd never."

”of course you wouldn’t.” he exhales, a husk to his breath — amusement buzzing behind closed lips. "there'd be no need. you're easy to read, after all."

(ouch.)

the comment has you wanting to laugh, call him a dick, roll your eyes in a show of discontentment. what a callous thing to say to such a dedicated actor.

then again, you haven't been doing a very good job of it, recently.

to geto, you must be nothing more than a fruit wanting to be peeled. he undoes your layers with ease, and it's humiliating — irritating — has warmth blooming under your bones. grime doesn't dissuade his appetite, after all. there's no real need for acting. not when he looks at you just the same regardless. not when you're fairly sure he wouldn't so much as stir, even if you killed someone in front of him; he'd listen to your reasons, your motives, not saying a thing. he'd look into your eyes without flinching.

geto probably knows how empty you are. you don't think he minds; think he might even prefer it. you think you could tell him anything, but you won't.

(you have some pride, after all.)

”i think you’re the only one who can see through me at all," you admit, words coming out softer than you meant them to. a slip of the tongue.

for a moment, you regret your words. avoiding his gaze, though you feel it searing into your skin, the tip of a cigarette burning tender flesh. the hotel room is quiet, the cityscape glitters and gleams, sways softly in a dark night, a shattered mirror world. geto hums.

”keep it that way.”

his voice drops, an edge to it — a jolt down your heartbeat. there it is, the edge of a kitchen knife making itself known. the words make your throat run dry, a few seconds where you can only feel the air leave your lungs, enter, leave again. but you plaster a smile onto your lips and meet his eyes. perhaps a little too cheery to be convincing. ”… yes, sir."

you're being studied. your flesh is being cut into. soon, he'll dig into it with hands and limbs, more than just his eyes — soon, your ribs will split apart to make room for him. and his gaze carries all of this, it's like he's telling you himself. eye to eye communication. his cornea tells you there's nothing you could hide from its all-seeing gaze. you're inclined to believe that; doesn't make any it less terrifying. exhilarating.

geto seems pleased.

when he leans in, you aren’t ready. a stutter building in your throat. close, close, now you can smell the green tea off his breath, dried leaves and boiling water, like the pools in his eyes, rising steam, his breath ghosting your lips. he's going to kiss you.

how rare.

”easy to read," he repeats, voice a quiet whisper, gravelly against your ear. "and easy to trick."

a gasp. a sharp jolt, a spark of pain burning down your spine, your chest — your mind works overtime to catch up to the sudden sensation, lost in his voice and his gaze and his warmth — he just pinched your fucking nipple. the burn blows your eyes open, parts your lips, his thumb and forefinger applying pressure through your thin shirt. it hurts, not letting up.

and geto smiles. light and easy.

”… and sensitive.”

it's a dull remark, like he's still reading from the newspaper, listing off this weekend's weather patterns. heat blooms in your gut. you feel like something small, molded just to fit his hands, waiting to be exposed and split into halves. it's humiliating, to be seen, you're not sure if you want to flee or stay right here — if just the weight of his palms make up for the sting accompanying them.

”… just for you,” you hear yourself speak. a hitch of your breath, yet you force the words out, mustering a smile — sleazy, flimsy, as long as it looks convincing it’s fine. you won't make it easy for him. not today.

but geto smiles. the corners of his eyes crinkle like ginkgo leaves, melted gold, like he knows something you don't. a slow, delighted exhale. "idle flattery won’t save you, this time.” he tuts, and twists, waiting for a jolt. ”not when it’s so obvious.”

a strangled wince claws at your lips, but you swallow it down — inhale, exhale, try to steady your breathing, try not to shiver or pull away from his cruel grip — geto watches your silent endeavors, your attempts at staying afloat. you expect him to laugh.

instead, he cups your chin. tilts it up, up, up, until you're looking into his abyssal eyes, baring your bobbing adam's apple, your vulnerable throat.

he looks admonishing.

"tsk, tsk. whatever shall i do with you?" he clicks his tongue, a chastising purr to his voice. "so careless with your body, but dishonest about what it wants. are you ashamed just to live, darling?”

an involuntary gulp. the question makes your heart constrict, a guilty twist. sends a pang of pain into your veins, a downward tug at your lips, has you falling silent.

a moment where you cannot fully hide the pain in your expression.

(shah mat.)

geto tilts his head, then, silky bangs across soft skin, a flicker of satisfaction in eyes like golden fruit. ripe for plucking. he graces you with a smile, the branches of his lips curling up, up, blooming like a grotesque flower — like he knows exactly what you're thinking. like he knows you, in and out, like he's already seen every ghost in your skull, tasted them on his tongue and taken them down his throat.

there's no scaring him off.

at last, he lets you go — takes a moment to get seated on the edge of the bed, and pats his lap. a heavy hand, a silent cue. you lick at the back of your teeth, savouring the burn his fingers leave behind.

"come here," he croons, as if taking pity on you. ”let me give you some relief.”

he doesn't have to ask you twice.

so you end up beneath him — you always do — his weight bearing down on you, big hands dwarfing your hips, heated pants and the creaks of a worn out mattress echoing in the empty hotel room. a cacophony of filthy noise, skin on skin, bone on bone, you've done it all too many times before. he's so close you wonder if you've morphed together. so close you don't know where he ends and you begin.

geto inhales, heavy, a dark look in his eyes.

"maybe i should just buy you off," he rasps, breath hot against you, sweat dripping down his brow, "keep you at my temple… always within reach."

any ability to speak has left you, at this point, any coherent method of speech. you can't say anything — not, hey, that’s a pretty fucking strange thing to say, or — you would have me entertain a bunch of monks? seriously? not even yes, yes, please, i don’t want anyone else to ever see me like this again. i don’t want to be ruined by anyone but you.

only a breathy whimper makes it past your lips. it makes him chuckle, into the hollow room.

(and he’s gone again, the morning after.)

geto would not consider himself a fickle man.

every action has a consequence. every choice must be weighed, considered, carefully plucked apart.

there is value in the act alone. weight is synonymous with heart, and geto, despite himself, cannot help but cling to his; worn out as it may be, soiled with fingerprints. there is weight behind his every action, care. choice means being human. choice means weight, which means heart, which is all he needs.

all this to say — geto suguru does not bet on losing dogs.

how he ended up in the corner of a dim-lit, shady host club is honestly beyond him. a grotesque sort of happenstance. the air smells of champagne and cologne, handsome hosts and guests chattering at every table in sight. all of them vermin.

what would his family say, if they knew what he was doing? ask if he's come down with a fever, no doubt. he can practically hear their voices — geto-sama, with a bunch of monkeys? willingly? no way. he could barely take the train to osaka last week! they'd be right, that's what grates him — that he's sitting there, and people-watching, still entirely uninterested in choosing his host for the evening. uninterested in drinking. cheery voices, sultry whispers, the popping of bottles and buzz of a karaoke machine. everything is loud, everything sparkling with the mere illusion of glamour.

disgusting. but he stays, only crinkles his nose and soothes his senses with the scent of his own robes, mellow incense. tries not to picture the walls red.

that's when he sees you.

a stumbling, giggling figure, clad in flimsy clothing, reaching for the mic. you're pretty, he can tell even at this distance. but stained, with lipstick and alcohol, a rotten smile on your face — rotten in the sense that it's so obviously hollow. it's only when you part your lips and sing that he is pulled out of his stupor, that his eyes narrow in an attempt to focus on anything else. your voice rings out, like the chime of a bell, clear and bright — the song doesn't match your vocals, doesn't do it justice. you stand on stage, a spectacle, and he cannot bring himself to look away.

(that's how it starts. the beginning of his fixation.)

geto finds himself thinking that he likes the way you look like this. sparkling, glowing, golden rays surrounding you — it creates a crescendo of light, from where he’s sitting, something like a halo, makes you look almost holy. makes him want to laugh, because that couldn't be further from the truth. you're a bug. a bug that gets paid to be of service.

pitiful, he thinks. you're pitiful. you're swaying like a drunk angel.

but your voice carries a longing he finds impossible not to indulge. to gaze at, silently, until your eyes happen to fall across his own, splatter on his brow — a flicker of light, in the middle of a too-small stage. he captures them. keeps them there.

and he swears your smile grows brighter.

(jaws snap against his ribcage. a spider weaves a web of silk.)

darling, vague complaints and fridays. he tastes the lyrics off your tongue, white noise. has already sicked the curse on you, almost on autopilot, call it morbid curiosity. it curls around your shoulder, and yet you do not falter. do not flinch. can you not feel the sting?

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

a smile splits his lips bloody.

everyone else has their eyes on you, follows your swaying, your shimmering skin. he wants to kill them, itches to. leering leeches. but that would surely make you stop singing, so he allows his fingers to twitch without purpose, makes no move to call on another wretched little puppet. listens to you until the song is over, until he can see the pain in your expression. does it hurt, little one? do you finally feel it?

he wonders. but he doesn't ask, even when he has you seated beside him, tipsy, shirt nearly slipping off your shoulder — he pictures your skin smudged, soiled, bite marks and bruises. it does nothing but add to his growing revulsion. his first night with you is over in the blink of an eye; a failure, on his part.

before he leaves the bar, he swipes his thumb across the back of your neck. watches the curse unclench its jaw, unlatch its decaying gums, a sickly purple against your ruined skin. leaves behind sticky saliva, droplets dribbling down your collarbone. filthy. he can scarcely remember why he came, why he stayed. to satisfy his curiosity, his mind supplies, only part-lie. to fill the gap. to see what it's like — men with men, dim-lit glamour, icecubes swirling in glasses half-empty — a useless endeavor. it's cheap, he feels nothing. no real desire. not the burning kind he used to fantasize about, tangled limbs and spit.

… not until you say that.

"you wish," he watches you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

he wonders why that's what makes his patience snap. bug on bug, the thought of something rotten catching you between its teeth. the knowledge that you don't mind — that you want it. filthy, pitiful, he feels sorry for your bones and your skin, at the mercy of your heart, swaying to and fro without a thought. feels sickly at the thought that it exists, that it beats.

that the same bundle of flesh slumbers beneath your ribs as his. heavy, weighty; a bleeding lump of flesh.

so he takes you to bed. out of practice, it’s been a while, but if you notice you're a better actor than he gave you credit for. he feels your heart beat against his own — yes, it's there, right there, squirming around. disgust. exhiliration. a way to pass the time.

that's what you are. what this is. he tells himself, in a soothing voice, that it means nothing; that it's not a betrayal, not if he's just using you.

not if you're just a source of warmth on nights his hands feel cold and need something to tend to.

he’s gentle, the first time you sleep together. not as much the other times, but you need it, don’t you? he can tell. you get this look in your eye. like you enjoy being along for the ride, having all thoughts pushed out of your body. it would not do, for him to leave you unsatisfied — sorcerer or not. would not do for his pride, the satisfaction he feels when you bloom in front of him, shatter and curl into yourself like a rhododendron in the precipice of summer.

what you are is a distraction.

(but you're beautiful, when he unmasks you.)

no, geto certainly is not a fickle man. he weighs his options with care; he calculates; he does not bet on losing dogs. your whines are sweet, though, your mind a lid he wants to uncap. it feels good, to be above you. to see you in your entirety, knowing the other men you sleep with don't get the opportunity, don't care to in the first place. wouldn’t want to.

you haven't been loved properly. he can tell.

"please don't go…"

words aren't necessary. your limbs, wrapped around his waist, say enough. the dew at your lashline says enough. you aren't lucid; it's the most primal part of you, clawing its way out. that says enough.

he soothes you before leaving. makes sure you're sound asleep.

you're his, he thinks, watching your poor body seek solace in silky sheets. feels it seek out his touch when he runs a hand over your hip. you're beautiful, and you're his. those other men don't know how to treat you, but he does. he knows what you need. little things like you should be treated like glass, spoiled —

then broken into splinters.

they don't understand. how could they? horny, mindless apes. he should kill them. slaughter them, for having laid a hand on what he owns. what he bought. he should wrangle their corpses for every set of handprints they've left on your delicate wrists.

he should. he will. their time will come.

one last glance, before he leaves for the compound. when you're bathed in moonlight, sick thoughts cloud his mind; when he wraps his gojogesa around heavy robes, and watches you slumber in the king-sized hotel bed. a dangerous indulgence.

it's something in the way you move. maybe he's always sensed it, maybe that's why he wanted you, the thought often eats him alive after you've slept together. something in the way you move, yes — your disposition, the way you carry yourself — like nothing could hurt you, even though it already has, the world has left its mark on you, he can see it in your eyes. try as you may to conceal it. rot knows rot.

even now, he sees it. something in the way you glow under dim lights. when all that surrounds you is gold, blinding white — he can almost delude himself into thinking that your hair is the same. strands of white, like a summer sky — pink lips and a clear voice —

it reminds him of someone.

honestly, suguru… i think you're the only one who understands me at all.

(he crushes the thought before it can shatter him.)

what you are is a distraction. he repeats it, chews it between his teeth until it tastes like nothing at all. a way to spend the time. wish-fulfillment, maybe, at best — there is no room for anything more. no room to think thoughts like if only you weren't what you are, if only you were like him — no room for second guessing or digging himself deeper into the ground.

he's already slipped deeper than he would have liked.

a shake of his head, and the thought is vapour. he scrubs the image of your sleeping body from his mind; reminds himself, dully, of what you are.

he thinks he can go on, like this. just like this.

there is no danger in the web he's weaved you.

”i wanted to be a singer.”

a gentle breeze, clouds covering the sky. you say it so casually, he’d think you were mentioning the weather if it wasn’t for the sadness in your voice.

you fail to keep it out.

bathed in salty air, clouds of smoke, facing the sea with a forlorn gaze — your elbows rest on the railing overlooking it. a cup of bitter coffee stands on the cafe table behind you, abandoned, left to cool. espresso steam blends with roasted nicotine. tobacco stings your eyes, he’s sure; would you blame your glassy eyes on that, were he to point it out? 

(oh, how he wonders.)

”is that so.”

geto lights his own cigarette. one, two flicks of his thumb before orange sparks at his fingertips — he delights in the jolt of his nervous system, the way it burns. delights in the rush of dopamine that follows, when he inhales, feels it flood his lungs and sting his windpipe on the way out. a heavy exhale, his trail of smoke mingling with your own, in the crisp and solemn morning air. he can't tell which is which.

the world is quiet, here. like you’re the only ones awake. hidden under a bleak sky, murky blue, nearly gray. he likes it better when it bursts with colour, but this is just fine. you look pretty when your eyes lack light.

geto flicks the butt of his cigarette, ash crumbling on his thumb. his voice comes out with a rasp, laced with thick smoke, but it doesn’t waver, deep and silky even still. the air smells a little like disease, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. finds he likes the contrast. polluting an air that smells too much of summer. ”well, you certainly have the vocals for it.”

you let out something like a scoff. it lingers, in your throat, drags against the walls of flesh. 

amused. 

when you turn your head to meet his gaze, eyes just slightly red, smile dipped in sardonicism — he thinks you’ve never looked more lovely. not even beneath him, satin sheets spread out like an altar of worship. 

or an altar of sacrifice. 

sweet as the bite of a ripened peach. 

”do i?” you ask, irony tinged on your tongue. wearing a flimsy smile, that seems to fade the longer he looks at it. he watches your cupid’s bow sway, the drag of an arrow. ”you’ve worn them out, you know.”

a breathy exhale. he hides it with his cigarette, takes another drag just to feel the burn at the back of his throat. he smiles, though, can’t help it. 

”… you’ll live.” and he exhales, air rushing to flood his lungs, greedy. the salt burns more than the tobacco. ”you still have time. it’s not too late to try again.”

a sudden, eerie silence.

”… i don’t know about that.”

he thinks he could love you, just like this.

"i think i might be out of time."

there's a sad, sad look in your eyes. it makes you look older than you are, more weary, like a pillar of salt left to face the sea. hair swaying in the air, gently, tousled locks and pursed lips, a painting just for him. you look tired. you look exhausted, broken down.

something about it makes him soften.

"do you feel hopeless?" he chuckles, a breathy noise, it scatters into the open air and then disappears. "you haven't seen the world. in that sense, you might as well be a child."

smoke slithers from the butt of his cigarette. everything is silent. no scoff, no click of tongues or scraping of nails against ceramic cups. nothing fake, about this moment. time is all you have, he wants to add. there's no escaping it. but he hesitates, for a moment too long, taken by the suffering in your gaze — geto wonders what you're thinking about, with such a blank expression. wonders what kind of pain you must be feeling. you look like you could shatter where you stand, just a sheet of broken glass, or a fish out of water — a lost soul, flecked with seafoam and cigarette smoke — a pretty little thing, watching the sea like you’d like to wade right in. like there is nowhere you belong, nowhere on this earth.

nowhere to seek solace.

he could love you, when you look this fragile. could allow himself a moment to taste it on his tongue, dip his toes into the first syllable. just to feel the chill.

(even just for a little while.)

you don’t bite back. neither of you speak. only the dull scraping of ocean waves fills the empty air.

”i love you.”

you are the first to step over that boundary.

it’s whispered into his neck. broken, quiet, more of a shallow breath than a sentence. so small, so quiet he thinks he must have heard you wrong. words get lost on both of you, when blood is pumping in your ears, through your veins, when skin meets skin. you’re too tired to speak properly, speak at all. he’s being hard on you tonight — couldn’t think clearly, only saw one of your other regulars try to cop a feel, and, well —

that doesn’t matter, now.

”i love you…”

— there it is, again. 

the breathiest, most silent little whimper he’s ever heard. 

(geto inhales. curses himself.

a lump forms in his throat.)

you aren’t coherent, you don’t know what you’re saying. he knows that. of course, he knows that. you’re just trying to stay afloat in whatever way you can. just babbling nonsense into his ears like it'll make him go a little easier on you, like you just want his affection —

he thinks he might throw up. 

moonlight flits in through the window blinds, illuminates his back, lotus flowers blooming where ink meets skin on his left shoulder. the dragon curls around his back, coils up in anger, disgust. curses crawling in his stomach, hot with irritation.

this was supposed to be a distraction. he was never planning to keep you, you're no human — certainly no partner. the tremors of his heart mean nothing, it's all chemical, all a masquerade. you are nothing.

once the fun has run its course, he'll kill you.

that's what he's been telling himself. he'll slaughter you, etch the sight of red blood against satin sheets into his memory, taste the excess dripping down your waist — he’ll drink it in and throw it up.

but you love him.

(you love him.)

geto wants to hate you. 

what he hates most of all is that those words disarm him. peel his skin away, leave only the flesh. he can’t help it, though he tries — a futile endeavor —

”you’re okay.”

a tender, tender, whisper, spilling from his parted lips. when did they part? when did making room for you become as natural as breathing?

”you’ll be okay.”

a weak whimper, nestled against his throat. arms go slack around him, your body peeling itself of guarded skin, allowing him to do as he pleases. so good, so pliant.

(his poor, poor boy.)

geto tastes iron, bursting hot and heavy on his tongue. sinks his teeth into his lower lip, as far as they can go, until the sting itself fades away. keeps going until you pass out, softly, silently, tenderly. kisses your neck, shushes your cries. keeps a big palm on the back of your neck the entire time. rocks you to sleep, as if it's muscle memory.

tender, he reminds himself. when someone tells you they love you, you treat them tenderly, suguru. 

(a burning, rotten memory. his mother’s voice.

he feels like dying.)

once all is said and done, he watches you slumber under blue light. dim, it casts a shadow over your features, but he can still see it clear as day; the creases on your face, the lines of your jaw and cheekbones and the way your chest rises and falls.

for once, he doesn't leave.

instead, geto tucks himself behind you, drags forgotten covers over his frame, pulls you against his warm chest, a mother to her newborn — your sniffle-like breaths safe in the boundary between his throat and sternum. he holds you, and closes his eyes. your heartbeats soften, gradually, in tune with his own, clammy skin sticking together. he wants to clean you. wants to give you a bath, scrub the stains away.

you look so very fragile.

he swallows the bile, and keeps his eyes shut. he can allow himself a moment of pretending.

(but this farce will have to end, soon.)

some days, geto doesn’t miss him at all.

some days, hues of cherry pink and bright-sky blue remind him of nothing more than fruit and summer. on even better days, fruit and summer don’t remind him of boys biting into ripe peaches, or napping in the sun, or tickling his ribs while on the back of his bike until they both tumble to the ground.

some days, geto doesn’t linger in the past. 

(most days, it’s all he does.)

you’re lying in bed, on your side, curled up with your knees against your chest. naked and unguarded, a newborn fawn. he thinks of how your legs shake after a particularly rough session. almost cracks a smile, but he's too tired, mind too tangled up in knots; he didn't sleep a wink last night. can only watch you from across the room, in silent contemplation, map your features into his mind. he feels fondness for you, like this, only like this. (especially like this.) when you’re entirely bare. a freshly plowed field, a peeled fruit, ready to be carved into halves, willing to be split. breathing very softly into sheets left dirtied.

the world has yet to wake, outside the window.

in moments like this, he indulges in the thought. not enough to suffocate, just sting. he pretends that your hair is white, like marble flooring, like specks of dust collecting light. pretends you're in another country, another life, with no weight on your shoulders. the thought tastes sweet — tastes like bramberries and sunlight and whiskey, tastes like a breakfast well-served. a life where meaning frames the world.

but that sunlight makes its way through your shut blinds, one way or another. no matter how tightly he closes them. and, in turn, your lashes flutter apart.

geto closes his eyes, and pretends he cannot see their colour. pretends that they’re blue, blue, blue, a blue so staggering it makes the sky look white.

a blue that dyes the whole world monochrome. 

(if it was him — would he be like this? sleeping soundly, satiated, nuzzled into his chest instead of a pillow? would he be as good as you? as willing to be ruined?

would he want to ruin anyone but you?)

”… geto…?”

you sound surprised. voice a broken tune, raspy and high, like splintered glass. he's bewildered that he finds it charming. that it makes him feel anything at all. you raise your hand to rub at your eyes, groaning softly, twitching like you're having trouble just to move your limbs. geto stands by the door, rests his back against the wall, and watches you. isn't sure how long he's stood there and contemplated leaving.

"… you're still here?"

hope. he can practically taste it, off your breath.

a low click of his tongue. he takes a step forward, towards your bedside, sunshine gliding across his skin, his robes. he's fully clad, no sight of scarring or tattoos, the barest of marks you left when you nipped his neck in your sleep. he won't let you see it.

and he towers above you like a scarecrow on a hayfield.

doesn't say a word. only reaches out to grasp your jaw, palm flat against your chin, trails his hand down your neck. two fingers, dragged between your fragile ribs. neither rough nor gentle. you're pliant, there's no fight in you, a lamb making itself soft for the blade of a dagger. you let him explore you, while a frown threatens to break through his pursed lips — thick brows furrowed together. you don't jolt, or yelp. you trust your body with him. silly, stupid, naive.

can't you see what he's made you into?

"... maybe i should cut your heart out," he breathes, surprised by how sincere he sounds, the shadows that covet his voice. "save us both the trouble. hm?"

that makes you scrunch your nose. eyelids too droopy, too weighty to keep themselves up, they just flutter shut again. oh, whatever shall he do with you?

"… my heart…?" a soft sigh, a noise in the back of your throat, like a cat awoken from its nap. you're mumbling, he has trouble hearing you, isn't sure if you're fully lucid or if you think this is a dream. a yawn spills past your lips. "y'can have it…"

… bare. unguarded. heart ripe for plucking.

any man could steal it. rob it from its branches. you don't seem to understand your own appeal, your true appeal; it's aggravating. your ribs are so easy to peel apart. when someone speaks softly to the confines of your heart, they just fall open, all on their own.

so very guarded, yet trusting even still. so, so eager to let the right one in.

”… you remind me of a friend.”

the words have already left his lips. it's too late, now.

sundrops splatter against your nose, the corners of your bottom lip. he could picture them crimson, camellia and spider lily, grows sick at the thought, a macabre twist of his guts, like he just swallowed something terrible. sunshine frames your expression, the way it shifts in the light, shadows passing by and painting your teeth when you speak. pink gums, pink tongue, swollen from abuse. a flicker of knowing, of remembering, when your pupils dilate; coil into slits.

"… friend?" you echo, a breathless mutter. "or boyfriend?"

geto twitches, from the tips of his fingers. still resting just where your ribcage ends.

they leave your skin, his thumb brushing gently against your navel before parting, a tender feather-like flick. you're sensitive, there; he knows your body like the back of his own hand, sees the shudder that slithers through you before he feels it.

sometimes, he wonders if you know him just as well.

silence. only quiet, quiet breaths. any answer geto could give stays clogged at the base of his throat, full peaches blocking his windpipe, keeping the words from bubbling up and erupting. fuzzy fruitskin against red flesh. he wants to taste the nectar. wants a lot of things he can never have, not in this life.

hey, suguru. peel it for me.

… huh? what's with the attitude?

"it’s complicated, huh."

geto swallows.

"… i suppose it is," he breathes, eyes straying from your own. deep cedar, bright honey, enclosed in globes of amber, finding solace in your sullied bedsheets. will you clean them? would you keep them as is, if you knew you'd never see him again?

what was he hoping for, all this time?

an exhale. you're smiling, you're sleepy, he wonders if your body is still blissed out enough to save you from the heartache. "am i the rebound?" you ask, a hint of humour, stretching your limbs out like a sleepy feline.

a sigh.

"… essentially."

the soft rustling of sheets. your skin is dyed golden, by the silent sun, illuminated against pure white. an altar, marble flooring, specks of dust and sodium light. you let out a little noise, something like a hum. as if struck over the head. a moment passes, and you still, eyelids falling shut. a chuckle breaks your silent death.

"it hurts that you’re so straightforward." sincerity always brings nothing but pain, he wants to tell you. if you'd never opened your heart to me, you wouldn't be feeling this way. if i had never held it in my palms, perhaps i wouldn't be feeling so empty. this is the price humans pay for loving so callously. "you're a pretty cruel guy. has anyone told you that?"

geto smiles. he closes his eyes, and steps away from you; voice a quiet breath of air.

"just once."

there is nothing to be done about a heart of stone.

geto turns on his heel, and does not look behind him.

he will leave. leave, and leave no trace, leave your home untouched, only purple marks smudged across your nape to prove his greed, to prove he ever sunk his claws into your tender flesh. imprints of teeth on your chest. fingerprints on your hips. marks will remain, and fade with time. soon enough, you'll forget about them. he will make his way past the second street, and think of neither you nor satoru.

he will not think of blue eyes, or summer. he will not think of your eyes, bleary with forgotten dreams, lost potential, speckled with what he knows to be love — a word so heavy he wishes he could spit on it. a word he wishes he did not revere.

he will not think of you, even as he crosses the main street with the fountain you like, glittering under a sun just about to break the world into halves. even as he watches a man play the violin by the train station, listens to the thin strings bend and bow just like your vocal chords under the dim lights of a trashy bar he’d never have gone to if it weren’t for you. he will not think of the way you glow.

he will think of nothing, and no one.

"… see you, geto."

(he thinks he’ll be okay.)

[georgiapeach30513]

Two Good Reasons, Part 1

Summary: Andy was supposed to be in the past. There's where he should have stayed.

Pairings: Andy Barber

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, mentions of teenage sex, unprotected sex, PIV sex, daddy kink, degradation, body issues, oral sex (M receiving), breeding kink, creampie, cheating? 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 4.3K

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

The woman in front of you babbles on a few more seconds before you look at your computer confused. You are in over your head, and don’t know where to begin. Maybe lying on your resume was a terrible idea, and you were better suited for the coffee shop. They didn’t let you choose what hours you wanted to work, and you needed that. At least at this office you are given that luxury.

You were underqualified, and a kept woman of sorts. “Ma’am,” you glance up at her quickly. She has kind eyes, and an upturned nose. She was just a bit younger than you, and you want to trust her, but there’s that prickling feeling inside of you that makes you not trust younger women. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

You shake your head no, ashamedly. “I’m a fast learner though.”

“So was I,” she takes a moment to look around the office. You are the only two around, so you’re not sure why she’s so concerned. “Listen, take your time. It’s not that hard, but unfortunately there is a layout to things. You’re here, and I kinda like you. Mr. Drysdale isn’t a terrible human, and you’re at the front desk. So all in all you’ll be fine.”

You thank her, and nod your head. How the hell did you wind up here? Not just in your situation but this stupid place. You knew nobody, and now you’re left wondering if that was the point. That you wouldn’t be able to reach out to someone for help. You had no inner circle. No one to just vent to. It’s how he liked it. And what did that cost you? You look down at your left hand, and get angry all over again. You were past feeling sorry for yourself. Past begging and pleading for a different outcome. He hit you where it hurt.

Now you’re doing what is right for everyone. You’re becoming independent. Nothing is going to stop you. You’re not going to rely on a man. Or allow one to make you feel less about yourself. You’re going to make them proud. You’re going to…

Shit.

Your head ducks down quickly as a tall man walks through the door. He gives a quick glance your way, but you miss the crooked smile. You wouldn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t acknowledge his existence.

He bustles past you, directly to Mr. Drysdale’s office, and you finally stand up. Moving to jump in front of him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barber, you’ll have to schedule an appointment with him.”

“So you do remember me?” How could you ever forget one of the most perfect human beings you’d ever met. You’re everything. Every first you ever had was with him. Every plan that you could ever make was with Andy. Everything was Andy’s. And that’s when he was younger.

His hair was lighter then, and he didn’t have that full delicious beard. He definitely didn’t seem this tall, or broad. Or scrumptiously thick. He was just a boy then, but now he is everything you knew he would be. He walks like he has so much power. Still commanding a room, and even the breath that you breathe, he steals from you.

You exhale slowly, nodding your head. What do you even say to this man? Quick look at his hand. He doesn’t have a ring, and now you feel invasive. But he’s got his hand on display. “I don’t remember you this quiet,” he smiles again.

He’s just as beautiful as you remember. Years ago the two of you had named all your children. You’re sure you have it tucked away somewhere. You even had your wedding planned. You had everything until he moved off. Distance became more than just the miles away that you were between you. It became the lack of communication. Then no communication. And as much as it pained you, you knew that he was gone, and he was forever going to be the one that got away.

Living a few decades had done his body good. He was — immaculate. Much taller than you remember. But apart from his physical appearance he still has that ability to make your stomach feel like mush. Like everything in this world ceases to exist because Andy Barber is around. You’re not a child anymore, but he still feels like he can stop time. Because when the two of you are together it’s the way that it was meant to be.

”Doe? You okay, sweetheart?” he asks again. You are sure you look like the biggest dork, standing in front of him to block the way to Mr. Drysdale’s office.

“You remember?” That little nickname was your undoing. How Andy managed to come up with it, he never told you. But it’s so soft and shy, something you weren’t then.

“There’s nothing I don’t remember with you,” why did that sound so sensual? It has to all be in your brain because you’re lonely. And he’s Andy. “You look good,” okay, now he’s lying. You look like a hot mess. Your makeup is mostly smeared on. Your clothes are things you found at a thrift store. Your eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep. And your weight fluctuates too often for you to keep up with. Depression can do that to a person.

“I look — nothing — you just — better.”

“You never could take a compliment,” he gives a wink, and takes one more step towards Mr. Drysdale’s office. “Is something wrong?”

“You need an appointment to meet with him.”

Andy looks down at you with a smile. You swear he’s taller than he used to be. You can almost feel the way his fingers would dig into your skin as you — stop it. You’re at work. And he’s Andy. “Ransom, get your ass out here.”

You hear a chair roll back, and are irritated that Andy is going to make it look like you aren’t doing your job. Mr. Drysdale opens the door, standing in the doorway with both hands on his hips and shrugs. “You’re about five minutes late.”

“Your secretary has been keeping me. For good reason though. Maybe you should let her know who the District Attorney is,” your jaw goes slack as you look at him. He did it. He really fucking did it. Next stop, judge. “Doe, care to join me for some coffee afterwards, and you and I can catch up?”

“I can’t,” it’s not a complete lie. You can’t just go and get coffee randomly. Things have to be planned out. You have people you have to call.

“She can’t,” Mr. Drysdale agrees, opening the door wider. “Stop trying to steal my office managers. He’s not hiring. He’ll lie to you, constantly. I pay better, and have better hours.”

“I’m the DA though, and you’re just the…”

“Shut up, and get in here. We’re not talking about it. But seriously, don’t listen to him. He’s a dangerous flirt,” Andy is definitely dangerous. And that terrifies you. He shakes his head with a smile, but you know the truth. Andy is poison to you. The best tasting poison. You’d find yourself falling without even trying. Because he was once your everything. And then you both grew up.

He darkens the doorway again, and you look back down at your computer. This is getting a bit ridiculous. You are trying to hold strong, and he is doing anything but that. He is a parasite sucking the life out of you until you fold to his desires. You’re not doing it. Losing Andy in the past was hell. Losing him now will be much more difficult. You’re an independent woman, goddammit.

“Doe?”

“You don’t have a meeting with Mr. Drysdale today. And tonight we’re closing early so people can enjoy the office party,” a party that was designed to celebrate another year of Andy being the DA. It was all very self gratifying for him. “Mr. Barber.”

“I don’t want you calling me that,” you glance up at him before returning back to your computer to just stare. You can’t even pretend to be working because you’re not. You’re just avoiding him and those looks, “Did I do something wrong?”

“Maybe calling me my childhood nickname? Nobody does that anymore, Mr. Barber,” he rolls his eyes before leaning over your desk. He’s too close. You can count the freckles that splay out over his nose, and smell his intoxicating cologne. The one you wish you knew what it was so you could be the girl that sprays a shirt and you can get a fill of him without having him. “Andy, what do you want?”

“For you to stop fighting my invitations to coffee. Or the office party. Or to dinner. Unless you have a perfectly good reason to tell me no,” he glances down at your left hand, and you feel sick. Would things be different a year ago? Would you still entertain Andy this long? The ego boost is working nice for your fragile self esteem.

But the way he looks at your left hand hungrily has you ready to actually vomit. This isn’t where you saw your life. Working in the Assistant District Attorney’s office while the DA barges in and compliments you, and asks you out on a daily basis. No. You were supposed to be keeping a house. And making sure your husband had dinner when he came home. And now you’re in fucking Newton and alone. Sort of.

Your tanline from your finger has since faded, and so should your conflicting feelings. Life wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. You know you sound like a child, but your dreams have been shattered so many times, and now here’s the first one waltzing back into your life asking for damn coffee. Or dinner. Or the office party. Next week will be something new.

“What if I just want to get drunk?” You had the means to go to the party. The means to do whatever you want. You didn’t have anyone relying on you tonight.

“Then I heavily suggest you let me make sure you get home safely and that nobody takes advantage of you.”

Do not allow this man to make that sound sweet. It’s not. It’s just basic human kindness. Stun him. Make him wonder and worry. Make him — want. Not just want, make him beg for the taste of you, “What if I want someone to take advantage of me?”

His eye brow cocks up, and his mouth turns up into a crooked smile. Andy’s knuckles bleach with how tight his fist is at the not so subtle suggestion. Good. You affected him as much as he’s been making you weak. “Any suggestions?”

There it is. The possessive Andy. The one that wants to let everyone know that you are his, and you are off limits. You want him to tell everyone that you belong to him. You want him to claim you in ways that the two of you feared when you were younger. You want him to own you. And you want him to leave you alone. One night. Just to prove to yourself you still got it, and then you want to live your life.

“Sweetheart, I won’t let anyone take advantage of you. You’re too precious for that.”

“And what if I want you to?” He growls. Actually growls. A rumble rolls up his chest, and he grits his teeth. His jaw pulses with desire. “Just one night.”

“There’s never been just one night between us,” you scoff. He’s making things difficult.

“You’ll just have to make it that way,” he wouldn’t want your baggage anyways. The two of you are adults now. You can’t be running around acting like teenagers and fucking everywhere you land. You have responsibilities and a job. A life. And…

“If you think you can say no to me after one night,” he challenges. Prick.

“It’s what it will have to be.”

He slams the two of your bodies against the door, and you shudder. Arching your back to bring your body closer to his, and his meaty hands slap over your ass. Sliding down the spheres before lifting you up, and you hungrily wrap your legs around his waist. Bringing him to your core, ripping your dress, but sighing at feeling his bulge next to you. Thankfully it was only ten dollars at GoodWill. Focus!

He grinds his hips into your aching body, and your vision blurs at the sensation. Head pointing up to the heavens while you offer up your sacrifice to Andy. Gasping for air, and his mouth traces down your neck. Tasting and nibbling your heated glaze, and your fingers make work of his button up shirt.

“You’re eager,” he rolls himself into your center, and you gasp at how hard he is. These slacks leave nothing to the imagination. You can see the perfect outline of him, and you need him naked now.

“Shut up, and fuck me,” removing your back off the door, he carries you down the hallway. Clawing at the back of your dress, and it’s fine, it’s already ripped. Tearing at the material with the need to only get you naked, so he can have you.

Andy drops your back onto the bed, untangling his arms so he can remove the rest of your dress. “Don’t worry, I’ve got some sweats for you,” you wish he would stop talking.

“Fuck me!”

Standing up, and off your body, you hate the loss of him, but enjoy him pulling and tugging on your underwear. Disposing of your bra, and he holds your legs open wide. Tilting his head to get a good look at your spread and weeping cunt. “Mmm, you look good enough to eat. Doe, you’re prettier than I remember.”

Why is he lying? Stop staring. It’s making you feel uncomfortable. You don’t have the body of a teenager anymore. Time is cruel, and the longer he stares, the more you want to just walk out of here. “Fuck,” his eyes roll in the back of his head when he enters a finger into your warmth. “Just as tight.”

Lying again. He probably says this about all his fuck buddies. You sit up in the bed and start jerking off every bit of clothing on his back. Making way to his pants, and you slowly undo his zipper. Peeling away his boxers, and you moan when his fat, thick, veiny cock bounces up in your face. “It’s yours. Go on, and take it,” Andy watches you with so much enthusiasm as you lick his precum off his slit.

Mewling at the musky taste that can only be described as Andy Barber. Your body liquifies and arousal pools in your core. You kiss down his shaft, keeping your eyes on him. There’s a lot of things that time can change. Your ability to suck a cock like a pro is one of them. Getting to the base of his length, your tongue twirls around the velvety steel, and you trace kisses over his sack. Keeping your eyes on him as you suck one into your mouth, and he lurches.

“You’re a goddess,” he groans, and you move over to the other. Massaging the testicle with your tongue before letting it fall out. Laying your tongue flat, you trace that delectable vein up his glorious dick before you reach his spongy head, and you swallow him. You try to swallow him whole, but come short. He somehow became bigger.

Wrapping both hands around his base, you bob on him. Gagging and slurping up the wetness before his hands grab both sides of your head, and you let your hands drop to your side, “Are you wanting me to fuck your mouth?”

Hollowing out your cheeks, you place your hands to grip onto his toned thighs. “You’re such a slut for me,” he says before his hips piston into you. Hitting the back of your throat like a man on a mission, and you let him take it. His pleasurable sounds are better than you remember. Maybe he’s just more comfortable. He’s older. More experienced. Not as timidly as the young man he was.

He halts his ministrations before pulling himself out of your throat, and you long to taste his cock again. His hands go under your armpits before he throws you up the bed. His wide body keeps your legs spread, and gripping his base, he runs it up and down your slit. Gathering up your juices. “Andy!”

“Shh, I’m enjoying seeing you spread open and begging for me to fuck you. Use your manners,” no. You can leave at any time. But you don’t want to. You want him to use you like his own personal sex doll. “Don’t be such a fucking brat. Say, please.”

“Please.”

“Is that all?” Oh, who is being the brat now? “Go on. Say it. My cock does want to sink into your warmth, and have you quaking and spread so wide. Keep you full and…”

“Please, fuck me, daddy,” the whine of your voice has him snapping his hips. Plunging into your needy cunt in one move, and you reel. Fingers gripping onto the bed sheets, and seeing stars with the depths that Andy reached. “You’re huge!” You gasp for air.

“So you’re saying when we were younger?”

“Not this — oh god — big!”

“I always loved it when you would go dumb on feeling me inside of you,” this cock is dangerous. It’s what all fantasies are made out of. Long, but not too long. But so fucking thick. Stretching you so wide that your toes curl. Back lifting off the bed because you can’t get enough of him. When was the last time you felt this satisfied by a human? The answer to that is depressing.

His movements are deliberate. They’re smooth like your body was made for him. He wouldn’t have to do anything, but just let you warm him. Keep him close to you forever. One night. Maybe a second night. No. Don’t fall for him. Don’t dream about his cock. He doesn’t need your mess of a life.

He pumps into you so slow, and you’re wrecked. This is better than you remember it. But you won’t allow your head to imagine that now is yours and Andy’s time. You won’t allow yourself to get worked up. You were teenage lovers that drifted apart, and you’re doing this one more time. That is all. Not more than that.

“Doe,” god, his voice. It tingles through your body, and you look up at him. He says your real name, smiling down at you. His voice dropped a few octaves with age, “Stay with me, baby. I know it feels good.”

“Don’t pre…”

“Aye! That happened one time. And it was our first time,” you can’t help but smile. You both were each other’s first, and it was less than stellar. It was raw, and unexpected. But you did it together. “You like this, huh?”

“That obvious?” He stabs into you with a quick hard thrust, and your mouth droops open. Fuck. He’s good. He’s too good. He’s too right. Does this ever have to end? Can he just stay seated inside of you forever? That’s not really the way you want to live life, but it’s a nice quick and fleeting thought.

It’s almost too slow and intimate. Like the way he’s fucking is more worshiping you and promising you another time tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. And you’re fighting that with all the resistance you can muster. You need him to fuck you and fuck you so hard and deep that it has a lasting effects and you won’t need him again. Even though you know that’s a lie.

“Andy, I…” his expression is pained, like he knows what you’re asking. “Please, don’t make this difficult.”

“I don’t want to. I want to make you mine,” the sentiment is too good to be true, and you hit on his shoulders. Letting him fall to his back before you saddle on up. Grabbing the base of his cock, you sink down over him, and fuck him. Use him for your pleasure. Bucking on top of him like you were made to do this. Your hands press hard into his toned chest. He got so much better with age, and then you are just you. Just plain. Just a woman that nobody would want in the daylight.

Getting yourself off is easy since he’s being a vocal man. You’ll let your legs be rubbed raw if it means you get to take him fully and to the hilt. It’s gotta last. It just has to. If life were different and it was easier, you could make this happen. You should tell him. Let him know the truth that changed your world. “I’m not able get pregnant,” keep it simple and easy. He doesn’t need to know the details.

You don’t know how he did it, but he has you off his body. Pushing your front onto the bed, and keeping you on your knees when he crawls behind you. Hands tightly on your hips as he slides all the way home. The only sound in the room is wet skin slapping on each other and needy hungry moans. Reaching under your stomach he lifts your back to his front as he pounds into you.

“Then let me fuck you like I’m going to breed you,” you whimper out his name, and an arm wraps around your neck. Holding you tight against him and adding pressure to the soft column. Cutting off a bit of your airflow, and making you dizzy. “Let me fuck my seed so deep in your belly, and make you mine.”

The words are so sweet and still so vulgar. “Yes! For real this time,” a few too many accidents in the past led to pregnancy scares. You don’t want an accident. You want him in your belly. You need him there. “Fuck me harder!”

He fucks you so hard that you know your going to bruise. The way he grips onto your soft curves tells you how badly he wants to keep you with him. “Look at me. Doe! Look at me!”

With furrowed brows you turn your head to stare into his eyes. “We’re about to come, and you’re going to keep your eyes on me, okay?” You nod your head as your orgasm builds in your belly. Bubbling and frothing just below the surface like a hot deadly volcano. Rumbling below the surface as he ruts into you like his life depends on it.

“Don’t take your eyes off me. Swear it!”

“I swear it,” one more slap into you, and your volcano erupts. Walls clamping around his cock. Placing him in a vice grip as thick ribbons of cum spurt inside of you. So much cream that you feel bloated, and so satiated. “Thank you,” you whisper as your eyes start to get heavy.

“Only a short nap. We’re going again. And again.”

“But I said…”

“You said, just for tonight. Not just one time,” you didn’t care to argue. You revel in the feeling of him in your belly as he starts to pull out. “Can I look?”

“What?” How does something so filthy seem sweet now. He wants to see himself inside of you.

“I’ve always wanted to look at you leaking without fear,” giggling you nod your head, and roll to your back. Spreading your legs open wide, while Andy settles in between your thighs on his belly, watching so closely and with bated breath as pearls of his seed drip out of you. “Perfect,” he hums, and starts fingering it back inside of you. “If I make it stick, you’re mine.”

“You won’t,” he hears the pain in your voice as you respond, and crawls up your body. Placing the softest most tender kiss up your imperfect body. Showing you love you can no longer give yourself. He ends on your lips, and kisses you so passionately that it takes your breath away. He won’t. And you can’t ever be his.

Andy looks at his text message from Ransom, making sure this was your house. Suburbs. This didn’t strike him as your home. But Ransom assured him it was. He walks up the steps to your home, and stumbles back.

“Andy? Why are you here?” Scott Huffman asks. A little girl clings to his leg, and she looks up at him smiling. “Aubrey, please, baby, get off daddy’s leg,” Andy looks at the little girl oddly. She has your eyes. “Go check on Suede.”

“Bubba!” She screams, getting off her dad’s leg. And he steps back. This is wrong. This can’t be right.

“What are you doing here?” Scott asks again. He grimaces when a loud bang reverberates inside the house, and he looks at his watch annoyed. “God, she’s late. I should have known she would be. Andy?”

“Umm,” he holds onto your clutch that you left at his house. Looking at Scott confused. He says your name, and Scott looks at him accusatory. “She left her — here.”

“How do you know my wife?”

“I’ve got to go,” Andy says, shoving the clutch into Scott’s arm as he walks away. No wonder you said that he couldn’t have you. You pranced around Ransom’s office without a ring. You trapped him. No. That’s not really the word for it. You said you couldn’t get pregnant, probably because you had your tubes tied after two kids.

What the fuck? How could you lie to him like that? He knows things didn’t end the way they should have. But cheating on your husband is another thing. Scott wasn’t really in his department, but he is aware of the lawyer. Ruthless. Come to think of it, he didn’t wear a ring either. He didn’t want to be in whatever sick bullshit you and your husband were playing.

He wants you. Wanted. Wants. He doesn’t know. And it doesn’t matter what he wants. Because you’re going to come home and be the perfect wife to your husband and at least two kids. And he’s going home alone.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @kmm-fluv @rogersbarber @theinheriteddutchess @buckybarnesisdaddy

[glow-worms-are-believers]

Tim Drake: Ugly Duckling (dp x dc)

So this is the last day of pride month, and so also the last day of me trying to write as many LGBTQ+ canon dc characters. It’s been fun (and I got to read a whole bunch of comics which was actually much more fun than the first time I’d tried to read those!!)

Now even though this is the end of June, feel free to send an ask if you want me to write a blurb with any character. I make no promises, but I will very much try! (It might take a while especially if I’m in a Tumblr hibernation phase.)

Anyways, for the last day of pride month I wanted to do Tim Drake coz he’s dc’s “it girl” with the gays. I’ve been working on this Dead Tired fic for ages, based on the post about Tim getting turned into a swan and meeting Danny, who as a prince has to give him a kiss to change him back (I can’t find the prompt but it was hilarious so this was my take on it).

Here’s the beginning of the fic:

Red Robin was on patrol duty, while Batman and Robin were following a lead on possible joker safehouses. All in all, It was a pretty quiet night with only two muggings, both low-energy as both perpetrator ran away as soon as a bat-shaped shadow moved. 

So Red Robin had spent most of the night chatting with Babs. He was grappling around town, as they started on the new date app they’d both found out Jason was using.

“I told him he can’t put only photos of his motorcycle but- wait I’m getting a call,” Oracle interrupted herself. Tim waited before the earpiece came to life again.

“Sorry to cut this short Red Robin, got a full-attention request from Canary. If you need anything, beep me, and Keep your coms open.”

“Bye, Oracle,” he said, and like that, Red Robin was alone once again.

 He stopped on Grand Avenue Station and just let himself take in Gotham. The city was beautiful at night, and Tim was itching for a camera. He seen hundreds of pictures of the city’s skyline but they always managed to be unique. The night sky may always be covered by dark clouds above, but Gotham had its own stars in the lights shinning on top of the skyscrapers. So lost in his thoughts, Tim was, he almost missed the soft noise that sounded behind him. The voice that sounded behind him was harder to miss.

“Wither away so late, Little Red Bird?”

Red Robin turned to see a tall woman standing half in the shadows

“Sorry, can I help you?” Answered the vigilante despite the bad feeling creeping up to him.

“I’d like to know where I can find your guardian,” the woman said, still in the shadows.

“You mean Batman?” He chanced.

The woman nodded and Tim resisted the urge to sigh.If this was another one of Bruce’s ill-advised fling, Tim was going to hack every electronic device the man had to play sex-eds on loops for at least a week.

“He’s busy at the moment.” Then feeling like he shouldn’t assume what the woman wanted Bruce for, he continued. “But if you need any help, I’ll do my best.”

The woman stepped forward, and Tim could see her better. Her face was bare, but her distinctive outfit seemed to indicate she was some kind of vigilante-slash-criminal. The outfit did, in fact, ring a bell in the back of his mind, but it was dim. Tim didn’t tense up, but he did angle his body in a way to accommodate for a better escape through grappling. She continued walking until she was within arm’s reach of Tim, towering over him. She extended a hand to lightly caress his cheek, and Tim went still at the touch.

“Such a kind Little Bird you are,” she said gently. “You know, you remind me of my daughter.” She sighed. “Oh, what pretty children you both are.”

“Thank you,” said Tim as he sidestepped out of the way. “I’m sure she’s a lovely person.”

“Oh she was,” the woman said and through his growing wariness, Tim spared a thought for the girl. “She had dark hair and the fairest skin, just like you. The most beautiful girl in the land some would even say.”

That niggling feeling came back as a feeling of familiarity poked at him once again. “You must’ve been very proud.”

The woman let out an airy laugh before saying playfully/contemplating. “mustn’t I?”

A shiver ran down his back. Alright, there was something wrong with this woman, and Tim wasn’t waiting around to find out what. Not without any information or backup.

“Well, if there’s nothing I can do for you, I really have to get going,” Tim said as he took out his grapple gun. In a second, the gun was ripped from his hand , and he was slammed to the side of the staircase leading up to the roof. He let out a gasp at the impact and his features tensed in pain. The woman hadn’t even touched him.

“Not so fast, Little Bird. We don’t want you going back to the Batman just yet.  I’m not ready to make him my Knight yet.”

“Your knight?” Tim managed to get out. He tried to move his arms, but some unseen force was pinning him in place. Shit, that meant he couldn’t reach the comm to send out a distress signal. Hopefully Babs would check in soon.

The woman smiled as she approached him once again. “What better for a Queen, than a Dark Knight?”

And just like that it clicked. “You’re the Queen of Fables.” 

“Well look at this, you’ve got the brains and the beauty,” she teased, her voice as smooth as honey.

“What do you want with Batman?” Tim asked though he could guess from previous encounters she had had with the Justice League that the villainess wanted to turn Bruce into a fairytale character of some sort. She’d done the trick on Clark, and twice on Diana, so it was probably Batman’s turn now. So, yes, Tim could guess, But the longer he kept her talking the more time he had to figure out a way out of this.

“I told you, he’ll be a Knight of the Queen,” She extended a hand and tilted Tim’s face up. “Do you know what that would make you Little Bird?” 

Most villains assumed the batclan worked like a crime family. So the family of a knight? “Nobility,” Tim guessed, unsure where this was going.

“Exactly.” She smiled, and then she moved. Tim braced for the hit.

Instead of a punch though, he only felt a tingling sensation. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, only for them to grow bigger as he took in his uniform. Or the lack thereof.

He was in something-century clothing, in some sort of frilly shirt and pants, all in white. This was worse than a punch. Then, as the thought hit him, Tim’s hands flew to his face only to come in contact with the silky fabric of a masquerade mask. He sighed in relief, and as he calmed down, he realized he was now free of the force pinning him down.

“The color is for my daughter,” the Queen said. Then, she let her head fall to the side before tracing a line across his forehead and Tim could feel something like a circlet setting down on it. “There you go. Now, it’s perfect. You could practically be siblings.” 

“No thanks.,” Tim answered.

The Queen tsked him. “That’s no way to behave Little Bird, has nobody taught you to say thank you when you receive a gift.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Tim disagreed mildly as he took stock of his weapons. Everything was gone, including the earpiece, which meant Babs had to have been alerted and someone was en route.

The Queen frowned. “I was going to be merciful, for you guardian’s sake, but I no longer feel generous.” She raised her hand and Tim tried to roll away, but the magic beam swerved and hit him in a blinding flash of light.

When he managed to open his eyes once again, the world seemed quite a bit bigger than it had been moments before. 

“What did you do to me?” He said. Or tried to say.

Instead a strange squawk echoed and Tim took a step back in surprise. However, he lost his balance and started to fall and as he tried to catch himself with his hand, two large white wings unfolded. He dropped down, which wasn’t as far as he would’ve estimated and laid stiff. He moved his left arm, and a white wing followed suit. 

Oh, no. Oh no no no.

A grating laugh interrupted his freak out. “There you are my pretty Little Bird, all better. White really is your colour, don’t you th-“

With a loud hiss, Tim propelled himself towards the woman. Making use of his newfound beak, he pecked and bit everything he could, as he flapped his wings.

“Blasted creature- Get off! Stop it, you despicable, puny-“ 

Finally she managed to grab Tim and throw him away from her. He landed with a squawk, but managed to get himself back to his feet quickly. “You little/awful brat,” she snarled. “You’ll pay for this!”

But as the Queen threw out her hand, something rippled in the air between them and the magic beam seem to explode midway into a green vortex. Tim’s clumsy attempt at waddling away had him head straight towards it, and it was in vain that he tried to redirect the course. She and Tim made eye contact as the swan-boy tipped right into the swirling green vortex, both of their eyes wide-open in surprise.

Danny was exhausted. He was currently on week one of the full month of Royal Duties he’d promised Clockwork. Being Prince of the Infinite Realm was not all that it was cracked up to be, and that was saying a lot since he had already been expecting it to be awful. 

When Clockwork had made the request, Danny had proceeded to freak out about his new status, and then tried to abdicate. It was only the master of time reminding him of all the terrible possible candidate for the throne per rites of combat (such as Vlad) that stopped him from washing his hands of this mess. And now Danny was forced to spend one whole month of his summer vacation in the Ghost Zone to fulfill his duty as a Prince. 

He thought it would be some paperwork, maybe a battle or two, nothing too bad, but nooo. Because, of course nothing was easy, Danny had to show up at Events, and be Diplomatic. It was meeting, after meeting, after weird parties that were a mix between Medieval Banquets and Debutante balls. 

And worse of all were the marriage proposals. Danny could sorta understand, marrying into royalty was a definite plus for a lot of more powerful ghosts but when they called him a half-breed behind his back, only to smile in his face with a marriage contract in one hand and flowers in the other, that was where he drew the line. 

Plus there was also the fact that he was, like sixteen.

Suffice to say, Danny was exhausted and hiding out in Pariah Dark’s old castle as a last resort. It wasn’t his favorite place all in all, but the gardens were absolutely beautiful, which was where he was walking. He was currently headed to the hedge maze, since it was the best way to get rid of any tails he may or may not have. 

The maze was nasty if it didn’t like you, and it didn’t like anybody but Danny, and even then, it still tried to take a bite every once in a while. Despite the snaking vines and roots trying to capture anything that moved, the flowers that wailed softly when disturbed or the sharp thorns of the hedge plants themselves, it was still a beautiful place. Uniquely, the closer you got to the centre, the more colorful (and dangerous) everything got, which was why he liked it best. 

He reached the centre much quicker than the first time he tried, thanks to the maze actually helping him, and something pale caught his eye right in the middle of the open area, right next to the bench Danny loved to use. As he got closer, he realized it was a swan laying on the floor, seemingly unconscious.

“Oh no,” Danny said as he approached. “What happened to you?”

As if awakened by the sound of his voice, the swan started to shift, its wings twitching and it rose its head groggily. As soon as it clocked in Danny, it let out a surprised squawk, followed by a long hiss as it struggled to move away.

“Hey, hey, none of that, Duckie, you’re ok.” Danny raised his hands placatingly. “I don’t want to harm you, ok? I just want to make sure you’re ok.”

The hiss subsided by a bit, but that may have only be due to the swan managing to get further away.

“Sh, sh, it’s ok,” Danny repeated as he slowly inched forward. The swan stopped hissing but still observed him warily. “I don’t want to hurt you Duckie, but I do think we’d better get you out of this maze.”

Danny took another step, and this time the swan stayed still. “How about bringing you back to my rooms just for now.” The swan hissed louder at the statement. “Don’t worry Duckie, I’m not keeping you prisoner it’s just this maze has been known to eat people. And you’re too pretty to be eaten,” Danny flashed a smile at the swan which had it stare back with a gaze saying really?

“So what do you say, wanna crash at my place?” Danny asked. The swan didn’t move forward but he didn’t move away either.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t trust a guy who talks to birds either,” Danny allowed. “And the place where I’m staying is a little gloomy, so I don’t blame you, but I can’t leave you here. The maze is honestly really dangerous, especially for a nice bird is like you. “

The swan seemed to hesitate before it hesitantly made its way to Danny. Ghost animals were usually smart but the swan seemed to understand English, which made communicating that much easier. Danny smiled and opened his arms. “I can carry you.” The swan just looked at him, with what Danny would’ve thought was a deadpan stare. “It would go much faster.”

If the swan was human it probably would’ve sighed, but instead, its wings just fell a little before it waddled towards Danny and looked up as if to say ‘get on with it’.

Danny smiled and gathered the animal in his arms. “Buckle up,” he said before flying off towards the maze exit, which was accompanied by a low hiss. Making sure there was nobody there to ambush him, Danny made it back to the castle in record time.

“Here we are Duckie.” Danny set the swan back down and it plopped down on the ground and just steadied themselves for a while.

Tim was a swan. He had wings and no fingers, and his feet were webbed.

He was handling it though. By which Tim meant he was shelving the impending panic attack for later when he wasn’t stuck in a swan body. 

Ok, so he’d been turned by the Queen of Fables, so there had to be an answer in a fairytale,a way to make him normal again. He knew the ugly duckling story. That had a swan in it, right? He didnt know any other swan stories, except maybe as a dish during the wedding banquet of whichever princess. He vaguely remembered a Barbie movie that had passed on the TV when he was younger but the only thing that came to mind were a scary-looking Troll thing, and ballet.  So with lack of better alternatives he was going to go with the ugly duckling. The ugly duckling’s happy ending was reuniting with family, so maybe all he needed was to make his way back to Gotham.

“Are you ok?” 

And that was another thing. The guy. The one Tim had at first wanted to get away from. He seemed nice and all, but he also had neon green eyes, and fangs. Unfortunately, while they suited the boy very well, they also marked him as an unknown. 

On the other hand, if the glowing portal wasn’t enough of an indication, the green tinge of everything around was clear indicator that Tim wasn’t in Kansas anymore. The guy seemed to want to help him, and having an ally wherever he was could only help.

Tim nodded as best as he could with his long weird neck, and he had to take a few steps to regain balance.

“That’s good,” the boy smiled with his white pointy canine. “How did you end up in the middle of that maze?”

Tim just looks back tiredly. He didn’t know how to even try and explain when he couldn’t say a word and had no opposable thumbs.

“Yeah, sorry.” The boy winced. “Maybe stick to yes or no questions.”

There was a sharp knock at the door that had the boy turning away.

“Prince Phantom!” A voice rung through the door.

Prince? 

The newly-dubbed Prince Phantom got up to open the door, “yes, what can I do for you?”

“Your meeting with Queen Dora is approaching. Do you still prefer to forgo an escort guards?” a purple lady was saying.

“I’ll be fine without, Maj but thank you very much,” Phantom answered with a polite smile.

“I’ll pass it along, my Prince.” She bowed and closed the doors behind her.

Phantom walked back to lay on the bed with a sigh. “I really hate that they call me that.” He turned towards Tim to continue. “I bet swans don’t have royalty. You guys had the right idea.”

[stringcheezeislife]

Filthy Fixation

Mr Reed x Fem!Reader [18+]

Summary: You've been stalking Mr. Reed, your charming neighbor for a few months now… your little crush spiraling quickly into obsession. One particular snowy evening, you decide to fulfill your filthy desires; whether he wanted to or not.

TW: smut, age gap, dubcon/noncon elements, rape, unhinged reader, hostage, drugging, bdsm-ish, torture, bound, gagged, blindfolded, sensory deprivation, manipulation, power play, oral fixation, aphyxiation, getting stepped on, role reversal, hate fuck.

Words: 10.9k

One-shot.

Also available in ao3

[erm. it's a bit dark so be warned. enjoy!]

-**-

Knock, knock.

You knocked on the door of your neighbour, Mr. Reed. The entrance stood tall and imposing, the door arching peculiarly. The pathway littered with snow and leaves, worn in a way that’s comfy, yet strangely gloomy. You glance at the closed curtains, wondering when he would appear. You clutch the heavy basket in your arms. 

Your gaze wanders, caught by the strange beauty of his home’s architecture. It stood apart from the others in the neighborhood– grand yet slightly unsettling. Gated bars surround the property, its ornate pattern catching the eyes of anyone passing by. Though, it was the dense trees inside the yard that truly concealed the place, wrapping it in a veil of mystery and keeping the world at a distance– away from prying eyes. At first glance, it may have seemed like any other well-kept home, inviting even, but you knew better. If others knew what you knew... 

Finally, you see a silhouette shuffling behind the glass window of the door. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself. A few moments later, the door swung open and the bewildered head of Mr. Reed poked out. His grey hair disheveled, as if not expecting company. His eyebrows scrunched cutely as his eyes adjusted slightly from the blinding porch lights, before adjusting and focusing on you. 

“Ah, it’s you.” He smiled, finally opening the door fully, exposing the interior of his home. “I should’ve known, nobody else knocks when there’s a fully functional doorbell right over here .” He points toward the doorbell, eyes twinkling.

“Well, you know me, Mr. Reed. I’m not just anyone . I’m sure there are plenty others who do so as well.” You tease, adjusting the basket around your arms. His eyes follow your movement, and finally notices the large wicker basket. 

“What’s this?” He asked.

“Some baked pastries, a few croissants, some tarts– I didn’t know if you liked sweets so I made others too. The bread is fresh out of the oven, so I’m hoping it’ll still be warm on my way here.” You touch the top covered with a checkered cloth, feeling the warmth emanating from it. “Yep, still is. Take it, it’s for you."

He gapes, clearly baffled. “For… me?”

“Yeah, you. Who else is here? Your wife?” You look pointedly at the ring on his finger. He notices, and lets out a laugh. You both knew why he wore it, and it wasn’t for marital reasons.

“Well, thank you dear. You’re very kind.” His smile never falters, though at times it looked farce, exaggerated. You held it up for him to take and he did, cradling it in his arms like a baby.

“May I ask, though. Did you really bake these yourself?” You nod. “That’s amazing, absolutely wonderful– oh wow, these look scrumptious.” 

You beam, proud and basking in the compliments. You thank him.

“What’s the occasion?” He asked again, quizzically looking at you. “It’s the middle of January– I don’t think there’s a celebration that would merit this sort of gift.”

“I had some extras left from the batches I made for my niece’s birthday.” You shrugged. “Thought it’d be nice to share– spread a little kindness, you know?”

“Well, well– nothing like being the lucky beneficiary of a niece’s birthday leftovers.” He grins, “Should I be flattered or concerned about where I rank on the gift-giving hierarchy?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic– you’re at least in the top five. Besides, I figured you’d appreciate a treat without the hassle of a party hat.” You gesture toward the basket with a grin. “Just don’t expect me to start singing ‘Happy Birthday’ – I have my limits.”

Mr. Reed huffs a quiet laugh, lifting the basket slightly as if weighing its worth. His amusement deepens as he takes in just how full it is.

“This…” You perk up. “might be a bit much, don’t you think?” He glances down the large basket, filled to the brim with various pastries and bread. “I might not even finish these till next christmas, dear.” He chuckles. Then, with a glance at the sky– where snow was starting to fall heavier– he shifts his stance, as if making up his mind.

“Listen, why don’t you come inside?” He says, already stepping aside. “The snow’s getting heavier, and you could help me with finishing these.” He joked, pointedly looking at the pastries. “Consider it quality control. ”

You chuckle, though not moving an inch from the porch. His blue eyes flicker to you, and he then places a hand over his heart, gesturing dramatically.

“What, you don’t mind sticking around with this old man for the evening, do you?” He looks at you with wide eyes; expectantly, almost like a puppy waiting for attention. “ Surely a sweet lady like you wouldn’t want all this food to go to waste.” 

You fake contemplation, looking into the distance with a hand perched on your hip. You pause for a few beats, dragging out the moment, before beaming out a toothy grin. “Eh, sure why not.” 

“Excellent! Come on then, come in.” Gesturing into his home, you step foot into his warm living room. 

The interior was as inviting, the warm lights contrasting the cold winter outside. You’ve been here a few times, though never past the living room. Never past the pleasantries, past being acquaintances. 

Recently, you’ve both bonded on your mutual interest of academia. Something you’ve picked on the previous visits. It quickly spiraled into something deeper, an actual interest, and you’ve learned about him more than the past few years you’ve been neighbours. 

It was almost unfair– he’d always been charming but speaking to him left you utterly enthralled. He knew just what words to say; plucking your strings– as if playing you like a fiddle. 

It wasn’t your intellect kink’s doing for sure– well, maybe that’s only half of the reason why. And surely not your daddy issues, isn’t it? Whatever the reason, Mr. Reed just has the quiet magnetism that draws you in, and without you noticing– you’re already in his trap. Hooked. Obsessed . 

Your infatuation with Mr Reed is not entirely his fault, though. That’s just how you’ve always been. If something, or in this case, someone– catches your eye, it lingers, gnaws at you until you’ve had your fill. And tonight, seeing him in his casual wear, eyes bleary as if he’d just been napping and hair tousled that frames his handsome face– you’re not sure if you can hold it in anymore.

Placing down the wicker basket on the coffee table, he offers to take your coat. You smile and nod, taking it off to reveal the almost translucent white tank top underneath. 

He raises an eyebrow as he watches, eyes flickering up and down your body– something you wouldn’t have catched if your eyes weren’t on him already. “Well, looks like someone’s committed to the idea that warmth is overrated. Who needs it when you've got… boldness?" 

You smirk, shrugging slightly. “Well, if I’m going to freeze, I might as well do it in style, don’t you think?” You lean back slightly, meeting his gaze. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I can handle the cold. I’ve been known to warm up even the iciest of situations– especially when the right company’s around."

He pauses, seeming surprised by your advances. “Well, I didn’t expect that kind of confidence.” He says, his tone still playful, a sly smile gracing his lips. “You’ve got a way of keeping me on my toes– maybe I’ll have to reconsider my earlier assumptions." 

You wink, and he shakes his head playfully as he heads inside to hang your coat. You flop down on the armchair facing the window, watching the trees outside swaying violently with the wind. You can’t help but notice that the weather was getting worse by the second.

That’s good. That means nothing would bother us. If there are others coming anyway… 

It was no secret that Mr. Reed was a recluse– the kind of man who lived on his own not by necessity, but by choice. He seemed happy, content to be by his lonesome. Occasionally, missionaries or a neighbour or two would pay him a visit. You’ve kept track of it through your windows. Most leave. Some didn’t. You’re sure of that. The camera you’ve kept facing his home to capture video tapes of him to add to your collage made sure of it. 

And he’s not that old, though he might be twice or thrice your age. Who knows? Who cares? Certainly not you.

You touch the top of your pockets that contain the chloroform-soaked handkerchief in a baggy. Leaning back into the armchair, you stretch out, toes curling in excitement. But you have to wait for the perfect moment to strike– a vulnerable moment. He’s quite strong for an older man– you’ve seen him carry a large trash bag almost his exact height effortlessly, so you need to be extra careful.

Mr Reed steps into the living room, the clicking of tea cups and silverware together resounding with each step. “Here we go, some fresh tea.” He places the tray on the coffee table as you clap excitedly. Taking a seat right next to you, he shares a smile watching your childishness. “You’re quite easily excitable aren’t you?”

You shoot him a look. “Nothing wrong with that. Life’s meant to be exciting. The little things, especially.” You pour the steaming hot tea into both your cups. “It’s not meant to be a meaningless string of jobs and responsibilities. We’re mammals! We’re meant to eat, hunt, and rest.” He looks at you, listening intently as you slide a cup towards him. 

“But no! We’re too occupied with our own problems that we can’t even enjoy life. What are we, ants? We’re so busy with our daily lives that we can’t even take a break from responsibilities– and all that hooey. If we’re meant to be working day and night, why not grow six legs and create a hive mind, why don’t we?” You huff, growing more irritated.

Mr Reed nods, an acknowledgement and a slight nudge for you to continue. You take a deep breath, calming your racing heart. You pause to think, and before you could continue, he cuts you off.

“If you think about it, aren’t we creatures created to chase our desires?” He inquires, “There’s one thing that we possess that separates us from other mammals– or any other living creature; intelligence. ”

“Right,” You nod excitedly. “Intelligence! Not only does it make us a better hunter– it creates a deep, insatiable hunger . A hunger for love, for attention, fame��” You pause. “ Greed. It makes us greedy.” You grip the cup in your hand tightly, “But that’s not wrong, is it? Greed is what drives us. Greed is the damn reason we’re much like ants in the first place.” You chuckle at the irony, looking deep into his downturned baby blue eyes. 

“We take what we need. We seize what we want. That’s just human nature.” You take a sip, keeping your gaze locked with his. “Don’t you agree, Mr Reed?”

He stares back at you, a flicker of something unrecognizable flashing through– hands on his chin, fingers on his lips. It then curves into a smile– a slight chill behind it. 

“That’s true.” he straightens, bringing the cup to his lips. “But you’ve forgotten something, dear. Mammals don’t just eat, sleep, and hunt.” 

You tilt your head. “What did I miss?”

He looks at you, a slight mirth in his eyes. “They also, well, excuse my french, fuck .”

“Oh, silly me. Of course! The most important aspect in the circle of life.” You roll your eyes, looking at him pointedly, a smirk tugging on the corner of your lips. “I wouldn’t expect you of all people to say that.”

He crinkles his eyebrows in confusion, clearly offended. “And what is that implying, hm?”

“Well, for starters, I’ve never seen you with anyone. Even that ring of yours,” The silver ring on his ring finger glints under the dim light. “it’s meant to ward off suitors, is it not? Though I don’t expect it to work out much. Considering your…” You trail off, eyes wandering to marvel at his handsome features. “charming personality.”

“Well, for the record I am perfectly capable of... fucking.” He clears his throat, looking away from you; ears tinged red. “I’ve had lots of experience with women in my younger years, believe it or not.” 

“So you still fuck?” 

“...Emphasis on younger years, darling. Now , I choose not to– academia has that kind of effect, whether you want to or not.” He chuckles, scratching his chin. “Research was the only thing on my mind back then. Theology , like I said before. Now, not so much.”  He mused, eyes wandering towards the back of his home. His tone grew darker, an uncanny smile gracing his lips. “I have… another endeavour in mind currently.”

You nod, pastries and tea completely forgotten. Before you could ask more, you’re startled by the ceiling lights flickering out with a loud click. Both of you plunge into darkness, only a small lamp illuminating the shadows. 

“My apologies, I forgot to tell you the lights are set on a timer.” He patted his knees and stood, heading off to turn the dial clockwise. The lights crackled back on. 

He strolls back to the coffee table nonchalantly, as if it were a normal occurrence. He sits back down next to you, picking up a pastry– an egg tart, munching on it delightfully. 

“I’m not one for sweets, but I’m a sucker for these.” He moans, cradling the pastry delicately on the palm of his hand. “You simply have to share your recipe, darling. I’m quite the baker myself; how did you make it so creamy?”

You look at him weirdly, annoyed that the topic of conversation changed quickly. Also, if you had known his love for egg tarts, you would’ve laced it before you came. It would’ve made everything so much easier. 

You hum discontentedly, reaching over to take a croissant for yourself. “Why don’t you tell me more about your research, Mr Reed?” He looks at you with surprise, munching on his second tart. “Surely, thirty years of research, all that effort, what did you find?”

He chews slowly, taking his time; contemplating. “I can answer that, but do you mind me asking a question first?” His tone casual, but it had a hint of something darker.

“Sure.” You nod, taking a bite of your croissant.

“Do you believe in god?” He questions, wiping away crumbs from the edge of his lips. “Of course, it’s a rhetorical question. But humour me–”

“No.” You cut him off, smiling sweetly. “There is no god for me.”

“Right,” He pauses, studying you, before clearing his throat. “Well. That’s understandable, really. Why bother believing in something that you can’t see, smell, or touch.” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “So I’m guessing you’re a… correct me if I’m wrong– an atheist?”

“Not quite. I’m agnostic.”

“Damn.” He slaps his thigh in mock disappointment, a smirk curved on the corner of his lips. “Almost got it.” 

You tilt your head, enquiring for him to continue. 

“Yes! Well imagine this.” He leans forward, fingers thrumming excitedly against his knee. “A world teeming with belief systems, each with its own version of an ultimate truth. You’ve got your natural religions– those born from the earth, shaped by human instinct, folklore, and ritual. Then, there’s the big three– Judaism, Christianity, and Islam– the Abrahamic giants, sprawling across centuries, each claiming divine authority. Then the Dharmic paths– Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism– more focused on cycles, karma, liberation. And, of course, the existentialists, the nihilists, the deists, the pantheists… so many flavors of faith, each offering something, yet none with irrefutable proof.”

He pauses dramatically, eyes locked on you. Then, his voice drops lower, his smile turning contemplative.

“But you only believe in yourself? Admirable.” He nods, as if seeing something familiar in you. “I was once like you– skeptical, questioning, clawing for reason in the void. If God exists, why suffering? If He sees all, knows all, then why apathy? Is He merely watching– our feasts, our sorrows, our little indulgences? Omniscience as divine voyeurism.” A dry chuckle escapes him. “It never sat right with me.”

He exhales, gaze drifting into some distant memory. “So, I turned to books; scriptures, philosophies, esoteric texts. If I couldn’t find God, I’d find the idea of Him.” 

He takes a sip, with you nodding slightly, bored out of your mind. “Thirty years of study, devouring the words of prophets and scholars alike, searching for meaning.” 

He looks back at you, his smile sharpening. “Perhaps you know these things already. Perhaps you’re one of them – the ones who pretend not to seek, but secretly, deep down, are hoping for answers.”

You blink.

He smirks, tapping his temple. “See, people like you? They think they’re immune. Too rational, too clever. But the truth is, when you strip everything away– when the walls close in, when the silence stretches too long– everyone, eventually, starts whispering prayers.”

He leans back, watching you, waiting for your reaction.

“That’s… very interesting, Mr. Reed.” You nod lazily, leaning back into your chair. “But I gotta stop you there.”

He pauses. “What seems to be the problem?” His eyebrows knitted.

“Can you show me where the bathroom is? It seems that I drank a bit too much tea.” You pout, squirming on your seat. 

“Oh.” He deflated slightly, perhaps disappointed. “Of course, dear.” Nodding, he led the way deeper into his home. He led you past the dark hallway, and gestured to the wooden door with a quaint sign hanging from a nail in cursive; ‘Bathroom'. 

You went in and did your business, the stark contrast inside unsettling you. The ivory tiles gleam under the light, pristine, sterile– too pristine. It feels more like a surgical room than a place for something as mundane as washing your hands.

You shake the thought away, stepping towards the sink. Cold water splashes on your face as you watch your reflection. A smile formed on your lips, one you don’t remember forming. Have you been smiling like that this whole time…?

You feel your blood pumping, adrenaline spiking through your body. 

Patience. Just a little more.

You put your hand in your pocket, playing with the baggy in your hands. The crinkle is deafening to you, but you keep your face neutral as you turn the door knob. You flinch, noticing a dark figure looming next to the door.

He startled you. You find him leaning beside the bathroom door with his arms crossed, watching.

The dim lighting casts sharp shadows along his face, but that ever-present, polite smile remains. You smile back awkwardly, hoping he didn't hear the crinkling of the baggy.  

“Monthly business, I assume?” He muses, his voice smooth, easy.

You nod awkwardly. A lie. 

“I hope you dispose of it properly. There is a specific bin in there, in case of… guests.” A pause, deliberate. “Like you.”

Your jaw clenches. Something about his tone irks you; it makes your fingers twitch, itching to punch the smirk off his face. Instead, you watch as he turns, heading toward the living room as if the conversation was mere small talk.

“Does that mean you get lots of guests, then?” You call out, leaning back against the bathroom door. “Women, especially?”

His steps falter. Just slightly.

He glances back at you. For a second you catch it– a flash of surprise, then something unreadable. You don't know what your expression looks like right now, but you're sure of the feeling burning in your heart. Jealousy. 

His back still facing you, he looks forward; a solemn silence lingering. His posture shifts, tension creeping in where it hadn’t been before.

“...Yes.” He finally spoke out. “Like I said. Guests.” A pause. “It would be rude not to accommodate to your needs, no?”

Your lips curl.

“Kinda strange, don’t you think? Considering you barely have anyone visiting you.” You retort, crossing your arms. “I would know that– I'm your neighbor after all. And isn't it weird, a lone bachelor, yet having a waste bin specifically for… women’s menstrual troubles?”

His back is still turned, but you don’t need to see his face to know you’ve struck a nerve.

“No wife, no daughters, no family. Zip, zilch, nada.” Your eyes lock on his troubled figure, watching for the smallest reactions. “It’s nice of you, though. Thoughtful. But it does bring up some questions, don't you think?” You push off the doorframe, tilting your head. “Just… something to think about.” 

Your tone is light, but the weight of your words linger. You see it in the way his shoulders stiffen. The way his fingers flex slightly before stilling. His silence only tempts you to push further.

A beat. Then another.

“You could be the most considerate bachelor in the whole world,” You say, stepping closer, taunting, voice mocking. “or a weird, creepy pervert .” 

His breath is steady, but his muscles are not. You wonder how much you could push before he snaps.

You reach out, trailing your fingers on the fabric of his shirt before jabbing them sharply into his lower back. He flinches.

“Mr. Reed, the neighborhood pervert.” You mock, sing-song. “Has a nice ring, don’t you think?”

His fingers twitch– subtle, but telling.

“I wonder what the others would say.” Your voice lilts, dripping with mockery. “Oh, what a scandal! A pervert in our midst! What could he be up to? Stealing underwear? Lurking in the shadows?” You feel your adrenaline pumping, patience wearing thin. “Does he lure women into his home? I bet he does. I bet, he keeps them tucked away in his basement– indulging in his sick, twisted urges– ”

A sharp exhale.

Your pulse spikes. The tension between you tightens– like a wire stretched taut, waiting to snap. His posture stiffens– just slightly. But it was enough.

Fuck waiting. Take the bait.

Another sigh– measured, composed. But when he finally turns to glance at you, his mask slips. His smile is gone.

“Honestly,” He murmured, voice quieter now. “you're being ridiculous. All that… just from a sanitary bin? You jump–” 

You don't let him finish.

Before he could turn to face you, you strike. The laced handkerchief slams on his face, pressing hard as he gasps– forcing him to breathe in the chloroform. 

He claws at you, trashing, twisting, jerking– wringing his body from side to side to break free from your grasp, but you held on tight. Arms and legs locked tight around his torso, riding his violent resistance as he bucks like a wild animal. His strength was terrifying, but you don’t let go. You just had to ride it out until the fume went up his head.

It didn't take long. His grip weakened, his strength faltering, movement sluggish, until at last– he finally lay limp. 

You crash on the floor with him with a thump, sending a sharp pain through your head as it hits the wooden floor. His body weight nearly crushes you, but you don't let go– not yet. 

For a moment, you just lay there, panting. Months of training– it finally paid off. He struggled hard– slamming you onto walls, bruising your back and shoulder– you can feel the forming bruises pulsing. But it didn’t matter.

Finally, he’s yours. 

Still in your arms, you press a lingering kiss on top of his head, fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer, pressing him flush against you. He doesn't resist. Can’t resist. 

For a moment, you just breathe him in. The faint scent of his cologne, the heat of his skin seeping into yours– his warm body heavy against your chest. You can’t stop grinning, it almost hurts.

You savour the moment, only the raging winds outside accompanying the silence. The wind howls, rattling the windows. But inside, it’s quiet. Just you and him.

Finally.

–**–

Darkness ebbed away in suffocating waves, giving way to a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes. Consciousness crept back in fragments, a sharp pulse in his skull, the distant howl of wind, the faintest sensation of warmth against his skin. His fingers twitched. Wrong. Everything felt wrong.

His breath hitched as he tried to move, his limbs were sluggish, heavy– uncooperative. A haze clung to his thoughts, thick and unnatural, but panic gnawed through the fog with sharp, gnashing teeth. Where—?

A scent, too close. A presence, too near. Then– a voice. Low, and dripping with satisfaction.

“You’re awake?”

His stomach turned cold.

He tried to move, but couldn't. His arms were bound. Thick rope dug into his skin with every flex of his muscles. His legs, too, were just as useless. 

A blindfold covered his eyelids, suffocating his eyes with darkness. Worst of all– something was in his mouth. A gag, holding down his tongue, choking down any words before it could form.

Shaking the fog in his head, his mind races– assessing the situation. Memory fragments piecing back together one by one. 

You. The struggle. Your arms around his before falling unconscious.

It’s all coming back to him now. 

He steadies his breath, keeping his composure. He dared not show any weakness– not giving you the satisfaction of protesting outright. After all, that’s what you wanted isn’t it? To see him falter, to see him sweat?

He doesn’t answer, keeping his silence.

“Hm. Silent treatment? You’re not being a good host here, Mr. Reed.” You muse, a playful tone in your voice. You crept around him, drinking in the sight of his bound and gagged figure.

“Hope you slept well,” A finger– your finger– trails on his jaw, featherlight, testing. “You were out for quite a while. I was starting to think I might’ve overdone it.”

He tensed. Your touch trails lower, down to the column of his throat, where his pulse thrummed frantically beneath the skin. His composure remained still, but his body betrayed him.

You huff a quiet laugh. “Oh, don’t be scared,” Your fingers tilt his chin up to face you, though the blindfold covers his sight. “I’d never hurt you. Not unless I have to.”

You sigh, almost wistfully. 

“I really like you, Mr. Reed.” You perch on the table of his office, with him facing you. He was sat on his office chair; plush, soft. You were kind enough to plop him there, instead of the hard steel chair you found in his creepy basement. “Even if you’re kind of messed up.”

He’s been unconscious long enough for you to explore his home– a labyrinth, with doors locked from the inside. You had always found it strange, how Mr. Reed had always been the one to unlock the door for you. 

It was never your hand in the doorknob.

The miniature model of his house in the office gives you an idea on what’s going on in his house of horrors– the pseudo-church. The dark, damp basement. The room with cages– you could only guess what– or whom– he kept in it.

The pseudo-church, though? That had been something else. It was… extravagant. Lavish.

A shrine to his own ego, you realize.

Religious texts lined the shelves, vinyl records stacked meticulously, and idols perched like spectators to his grand performance. A man so obsessed with his own image– of course, he had a place like this. A perfect set for a perfect facade.

You wonder who it is he’s shown it to.

You ran your fingers through his hair, grazing his scalp, caressing it softly, slow, deliberate. He shudders. A soft sound slipped past his lips, barely audible behind the gag.

Why wasn’t it you?

Trailing your fingers down to his ears, to the back of his neck– a sensitive spot– he couldn’t help but let out a gasp. Goosebumps rise under your touch, following every trail. With your arms looped around his neck– you pull.

The chair wheeled forward, colliding his body with yours.

Why didn’t he choose you?

You held him there, his face buried against your chest. Soft strokes ran through his hair, delicate, almost loving. He melts slightly in your arms, letting down his guard.

Then, you whisper, your voice barely a breath into his ear. “You don’t know how much it hurt me,” Your arms tighten. “Seeing those women coming into your home.”

You grabbed the back of his head, pushing him further– deeper into you. He struggled, body jerking against yours, muffled protests swallowed by the gag. His breath hitched, sharp and desperate as he fought against the suffocating warmth of your embrace. But you only held him closer. 

“I wonder…” You murmur, the flames of jealousy burning. “Do they struggle like this?” Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly, just to see him gasp for air. “Do they fight back? Or do they just… give in?” You pushed him back in, pressing him closer, feeling his body tenses against yours. 

Seeing him like this; his breath uneven– shallow gasps, muffled by the gag, warm against your skin– it was intoxicating. His body trembled, muscles coiled in protest. He struggles against the restraints– not violently, not yet– but enough that you can feel his frustration bleed through.

For a moment, you enjoy it. 

The great Mr. Reed– always so composed, so charming, with that unreadable, infuriating smile– now bound, gagged, and blindfolded. Just for your eyes. No witty remarks. No charming deflections. Just his ragged breathing, and the small, involuntary twitches of his fingers.

You exhale softly, running your nails behind the back of his neck, delighting the way he shudders beneath your touch. His pulse thrums faster underneath your fingers. You tug his hair back, tilting his head back, granting him a fleeting gasp of air.

“I don't really give a damn about the religious mumbo jumbo you're trying to sell me, Mr. Reed,” You mumble, your lips pressed against the damp line of his hair. “Nor do I care about your so-called research, honestly.” 

You tug on the knot of his blindfold, slowly, deliberately. His eyes flutter open, revealing his droopy, resilient blue eyes. He looks at you blearily, finally taking in his surroundings. 

You press a lingering kiss on the top of his eyelid. He flinches.

“I may not know faith, but I know what I want.” You whisper, drinking in his glares. “I'm a slave to my desires, you see,” Your lips curl. “and… it's telling me to want you.”

He doesn’t react. Not in the way you wanted him to. 

His eyes just bore into you, steady, unwavering. He’s putting up an act. Controlling his breaths to be slow– measured, deliberate. He’s trying to keep his composure, trying to maintain the illusion of control. Of power.

But you notice. 

The tension coiling in his shoulders. The way his fingers twitch against the restraints, curling into a fist. His shallow, uncertain inhales– like he’s still waiting for his next move.

You smile. 

“You don’t like this, do you?” You murmur, leaning closer to him, your breath barely grazing his ear. “Not so fun when you’re the one being toyed with.”

You push his body forward, wheeling the chair back. You’ve been soft, teasing this whole time. You’ve been gentle. But now? Now, it’s your turn to take control.

You fingers brush against the desk, finding the letter opener tucked neatly in one of his office drawers. His gaze flickers– brief, sharp– from the blade, to you, then back again. Panic? No, something else.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.” You whisper soothingly– teasing. “We’re just going to have some fun, okay?”

You start from the bottom, pressing the tip to the fabric of his shirt. One by one, the buttons give way under the touch of the blade. Slowly, you move your way up– each undone button revealing a bit more.

The final button pops open, exposing the smooth planes of his chest. His chest rose and fell, nipples perking and taut due to the cold breeze. 

“Such pink nipples you have there.” You muse, tracing the metal blade around it. “Boop.” 

You playfully tap it, itching for a reaction. His eye twitches and his breath hitches– only for a second. Then, nothing. The same cold, impassive stare. 

Sitting there, bound and exposed wasn’t enough to crack him. The blindfold had taken away his control, left him unmoored. But now? Now with his eyesight returned, he had steadied himself, retaining some semblance of control.

You hum. A challenge is always welcome. 

“I like it when you look at me like that, Mr. Reed.” You purr, pointing the blade up to his neck, putting enough pressure to remind him how fragile flesh can be. You watch his throat bob as he swallows. His muscles tense, but he doesn’t flinch.  

You grin. “It’s making me want to break you harder.” 

Your free hands move, rummaging his desk.

“And look what I found!” You open another drawer from his desk, taking out an egg-shaped vibrator. “I didn’t know you were nasty like that, Mister.” 

His eyes widened at the sight, and involuntarily croaked out a choke through his gag. You grin wider. 

“I wonder what you use it for.” You muse. “Self-pleasure, maybe?” 

He rolls his eyes, a sharp, dismissive glare cutting through the dim light.

Maybe not, then.

You hum, jumping down from the desk to plop yourself on one of his thighs instead. He grunts at the added weight, body sinking deeper into the chair, his restraints digging into his skin. You can see the subtle signs of discomfort.

Good.

You’re glad you took those knot-tying lessons. Snug, secure, but just loose enough to keep circulation flowing. Just tight enough to hurt.

“Let's put this bad boy for a test drive, eh?” 

You press the button, turning it alive. It hums in steady, rhythmic pulses in your palms. You turn it up to a higher setting, dangling it right on his face, swinging it side to side, like a pendulum. His eyes follow it briefly, before focusing solely on you again– maintaining his stance. 

You gaze back into his eyes, watching him with amusement. He may have his composure for now, but not for long. You wonder how long it would take for him to break.

Pressing the toy on the fabric of his jeans, his body twitches– only a little. It was muscle reflex, you could almost hear him say. It doesn't matter. 

Trailing it up higher, to his knees, his thighs– the vibration filling the silence alongside his muffled breaths. He doesn’t react– his unwavering eyes still locked on yours– but you could see his chest rise and fall, each breath growing heavier.

Finally, after teasingly lingering on his inner thighs, the toy finally arrived at its destination. 

He couldn’t help but shudder– the vibration against his crotch was stimulating something deep within him– something he didn’t want resurfacing. You trail the toy up and down his crotch, from the tip of his rising cock down to his balls. 

Circling it in a slow and rhythmic motion, you watch as his shudders turn violent, his breath stuttering– ragged. His body betrays him; reacting, responding. 

Clicking the settings higher, you press it harder against him, the vibrator pulsing rhythmically. His jeans grew painfully tight, and you can't help but rub your palms against his bulge, making him cry out through gritted teeth.

His face is flushed deep red, while saliva drools down from the corner of his gagged mouth. He's struggling– for control, for composure– but every touch, every pulse of the toy betrays him. And that, more than anything, sends a thrill down your spine.

“You're so cute, Mr. Reed.” You cooed, rubbing his cock harder through his jeans, making his muffle out a defiant groan– cracks forming on his cold, unwavering mask.

“I bet it'll feel better if we didn't have anything in between, right?” You mused, pressing the blade just a tad deeper against his throat. Not enough to break skin– just deep enough to show who’s in control. He doesn’t respond, not giving you the satisfaction of an answer.

But you don't need to hear them to know how he feels; you can see the way his body betrays him. 

His body tensing– the way his hips buckled slightly when the toy hummed against the tip. You could see the look in his eyes– half-lidded, slightly clouded– as he watched you with something unreadable. Lust? Defiance? Submission? It didn’t matter, that was all you needed.

You smile, dragging the blade down his chest and slipping your fingers in his belt. “Let's find out then, shall we?”

You took his belt off, throwing it behind you without a care. His eyes follow your every move, quiet, waiting. Popping open the button of his jeans, you then slowly– agonizingly– slid the zipper down. Sliding your hand down his boxers, you reach inside.

It stood erect without any resistance. It throbbed, following the beat of his pulse– and twitched when you touched the tip. Warmth emanating from his cock, as it throbbed under your fingers. 

His eyes flicker back and forth between your hand– teasingly playing with the pre-cum leaking from his cock, and to you. His brow furrows in frustration as you teased him a little more, rubbing the tip of his cock with your palms in slow, languid motions.

Finally, you lock in. His breath caught as you gripped it firmly, slowly running it up and down his cock. You stroke it from the tip, down to the base of his shaft– slowly, sensually, using your spit and his precum as lube. 

He closes his eyes shut– breathing growing more laboured as you stroke faster, running it up and down his shaft as he groans softly against his gag.

You watch him, amused, catching every little detail as pleasure takes course of his body. The way his lips trembled, gasping out with every shudder– teeth grinding to stop himself from moaning. His muscles flexes and tenses as he pushes himself deeper into the chair, avoiding your sly eyes.

Placing the letter opener down, you pick up the vibrator you've left forgotten. Knees deep in pleasure, Mr. Reed doesn't notice as your free hand trails down to his balls, before a click turns the toy alive. 

He jerks– the unexpected pulses shocking his sensitive genitalia. He gasps, glaring at you through hooded eyes, definitely cursing you internally. You grin, before working your hands faster; clicking the control higher and higher, the toy humming faster against your palm.

The faster you stroked his girth, the more you could see his facade cracking. Seeing him struggle to maintain composure, resisting something not under his control, it just made you want to push him harder. 

He was close– you could feel it. 

You watch as his body tenses– hands clenched into a fist and eyes delirious as he nears his climax. Finally, before he could cum, you stop. 

Taking the toy away, you also let go of his throbbing– ready to burst–  cock.

Plugging the tip of his cock with a thumb, he protested– shuddering violently– crying out for a release that would never come.

It took a moment for his body to acclimate to a ruined orgasm. 

He twitched and groaned, eyes damp with tears, before slumping back into his seat– delirious; before he shook it off– glaring sharply, his gaze piercing into you.

A smile of satisfaction creeps on your face, drinking in his sweaty, messy state. “Were you about to cum?” You cooed, teasing him as you pushed his hair back neatly with your pre-cum slicked fingers. He continued glaring at you without saying a word, breathing out heavily through his gag.

“Don’t be so cold, Mr. Reed,” You chastised, “We’re just getting started!”

“Now,” You wrap your legs around him; straddling him, pushing him deeper into the chair. He groans, eyebrows scrunched in agony from the pressure. His old bones can't handle all these strenuous exercises.

Pressing your body flush on his, you cup his face in your hands, cradling it softly, looking deep into his piercing blue eyes. “come here.”

You kiss him, a small, lingering peck on his chapped lips. You kiss him again. And another. Peppering his face with small kisses, marking it with bright lipstick. 

He tenses with each kiss, bewildered by your actions. You were unpredictable. Soft and tender in one moment, but violent and pushy at the next. Just how could he know you were such a psycho?

You trail your kisses lower, down to his neck, his chest, peppering your mark along the way, his bellybutton, the dips of his hips– then finally down to his happy trail; reaching your destination. 

Getting down on your knees, you gaze up to your neighbor, his sexy messy state igniting the throbbing feeling down your nethers.

Shadow cast upon Mr Reed's face as he looked down on you below, but you felt as though you could almost see him smile. Pressing his warm hard cock on your cheeks, lips grazing the shaft, nose rubbing his cock– his musky scent dominating your senses, you wonder, just how much more you could do to please him. 

You're obsessed with him, yes, your need to dominate him was as strong; but the look on his eyes… made you wonder if he could dominate you just as well. The thought made your cheeks flush– imagining all the filthy stuff he could do to you.

Flicking a tongue out, his cock twitches as you slowly trail up to the tip, following the thick veins of his cock. The salty taste of his cock enveloping your senses.

How could he have you under his spell like this? If he’d known how much just a glance could melt you down in puddles, he’d dangle it over your head. But the thought just made your heart burn. Was it your ego? Pride? Whatever it was, you knew you and Mr. Reed were much more similar than you’d like to admit.

Determined to wipe off the smile on his face, you double down– reaching to pick up the belt you’ve left on the floor behind you. A lesson was in order, even if it meant whipping it out of him. Reaching out behind you, still kneeling on the floor, you realize that it was too out of reach– at least a few meters away. You swear, cursing your strength in the heat of the moment. 

You turn your back to him, crouching on the floor with stretched out arms, reaching out to grab the belt. You ponder about the things you’d do to him. Which would be best? Whipping? Choking him with the belt? While you ride him? Oh, choices, choices. 

Your nails graze the leather belt, as you fantasize about the filthy shit you’d do– just a little more– and as your finger finally loops around it– yay!– your head hits the floor with a thud. 

Blinding hot pain throbbed as a shoe pressed your skull harder into the floor, twisting it with clear resentment.

It was heavy; relentless as it dug deeper on the back of your head. He had his other leg on your thighs– pinning you down– stepping on you with his full body weight. It was too much to bear, the pain shooting up to your brain– making it hard for you to even think. You hear him click his tongue far above you, voice dripping with disdain.

“Not so powerful now, hm?” 

You wheeze out a response, the air knocked out of your lungs. Shadows cast on the floor as he shuffles around above you, shifting his weight on yours– sending a jolt of pain throughout your body. You twist, trying to shove him off, but he shifts again– knees pressed between your shoulder blades, locking you down in place. He binds your hands behind you, strained together underneath his weight.

Your mind stumbles, trying to catch up. He was restrained, bound. You made sure of it. So how–?

“You got careless.” He hums, grabbing a fistful of your hair– tugging it back– making your neck arch painfully. You wheezed out a gasp, as he looked down on you. 

“You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?” He continues, almost conversationally. Leaning over, he picks up the belt you almost had, gripping it in his hand. “Toying with me. Playing your little games.” A quiet chuckle, barely audible. “And yet, here you are. Beneath me.”

You open your mouth to answer, but he just pulled your hair back further, choking any words you had.

“Cat got your tongue?” He chuckles, a low rumble inside his chest.

Leaning down, his breath tickling your neck, his voice low, almost a whisper, “I didn’t expect a neighbour of mine to be such a dirty, perverted girl.” A pause, as he forced your head back further, forcing you to lock his gaze with yours, as much as you could see out of your line of sight. It wasn’t simmering with anger– nor with anything you could decipher. It was cold, watching. You feel your heart pound against your ribcage, pulsing inside your throat. 

“To think I almost considered you a friend.” He sighs, before loosening his grip on your hair.

Your skull hit the floor again. At this point, you’re starting to worry about a concussion. Then, cold leather slithers around your neck, as his other hand wrapped around your throat, keeping it afloat. It gripped your jaw, as the belt tightened around your neck– strangling you. With air cut off from its circulation, you can barely keep a coherent thought. 

“Not fun, is it?” He muses. “Being the one at a disadvantage.”

You open your mouth, maybe to bite out a retort– maybe to beg, to make a joke perhaps– but he pulls the belt tight, choking down any words that may form. Nevertheless, you strain out with the last few breaths you had, wheezing it out.

You laugh. A dainty, wheezy one, but a laugh nonetheless. 

Mr. Reed pauses, loosening the hold he had on you, perplexed. Mustering with the air you had, you laughed harder, a large grin on your face– turning your head to face him. Cheeks flush red with teeth bared, you keep your gaze locked on his.

You’re enjoying this, he realized. 

Tightening the belt on your throat, you choke, but the grin doesn’t fade. He coiled slightly, tightening his grip on yours.

“Disgusting.” He mutters under his breath. “You’re really a degenerate aren’t you?” 

If you didn’t know better, you swore you catched a hint of arousal in his voice. Grabbing you by the shoulders, he flips you over, his grip still tight on your jaw. Hands still bound behind, he straddles you, his weight pushing out any air left you had in you.

He forces your head up, making you look up at him. A halo of light flares behind him, obscuring his face in shadows– like an angel. With the oxygen dwindling, your vision swims, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if asphyxiation births revelations. Because, God help you, if he spoke now, you’d follow.

He watches you silently, keeping his grip locked tight– analyzing.

“Look at you,” He murmurs, tilting your head from side to side, as if examining something that’s beneath him. “Pathetic.”

You shudder, the way he looks at you– his voice? It sends shivers down your spine. He notices, with a furrow of his eyebrows.

“You really are sick.” He mutters, his voice low and cold– but it had a hint of something you knew you hadn’t been imagining. Lust.

“You say that like you don’t like it.” You whisper out, a smile still tugged on your lips.

His lips part, a flash of something unreadable passing through– only for a moment, then it’s gone.

Just as quickly, he reasserts control.

He pulls on the belt, yanking your head sideways– digging into your jaws tighter. You cry out what you could muster, painting a small smile of satisfaction on his face, only a little.

“I don’t.” He says, almost convincingly. Almost.

“Liar.” 

His expression darkens. Releasing his grip on your jaw, his hands trail higher, up to your still grinning lips. 

That same twisted, knowing smile. 

It makes his jaw clench. It's infuriating. He jams his thumb inside your warm mouth, gripping the inside of your cheeks with his thick fingers. It stretches out, exposing the pearls of your teeth. 

He wants you to plead, to beg – anything really. For mercy. As all the other girls had been. 

But you.

Instead of submitting– anything – you run your tongue over his thumb. Tasting, sucking it– slowly, sensually, while keeping your gaze locked on his. 

His fingers twitched, debating. He should be disgusted, repulsed– by how much you’re enjoying this. 

But instead?

He finds himself leaning in. 

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” His voice low, heavy, dripping with condescension. “You went through all that effort. Just to push me over the edge.”

You grin, still suckling on his thumb. “What gave that away?” You mused, breathy, despite the weight keeping you down. 

He pinches your tongue between his fingers– smothering any words you had.

Playing with your tongue between his fingers, you moan– enjoying every little flicks and pinch as he pushes deeper, making you gag. His fingers were paced– deliberate, hitting you in just the right places. 

His breath grows heavier looking down at you like this– a drooling mess from just a few fingers.

“Disgusting.” He mutters, but his actions says otherwise; finger fucking your face with voracity. You choke and gag, both from the belt around your neck and his fingers down your throat, but the sheer dominance, the power rolling off of him as he empowers you– it turns you the hell on.

“Look at you,” He mutters, lips curling as he smears drool across your face, wiping his fingers while trailing up to hair– pushing it back neatly– giving you a clear view. “Just a filthy Whore of Babylon, aren't you?” 

His voice is thick with something dark, something raw. The way he looks at you– like he's disgusted, like he's starving– a raw, primal desire rolling out of him in waves you could almost feel it burning on your skin. It sends a shiver down your spine.

“You defile everything you touch,” He breaths, fingers trailing down to the column of your neck, slipping it under your make-shift collar. Your pulse thrums under his touch, exposing just how needy you were. “Worse than a sinner– you're a disease.”

The tension crackles between you, feverish and unbearable. You were delirious in ecstacy, and him, eyes brimming with lust; chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. 

“And yet you keep touching me.” You parted your lips to taunt, egging him on further. He tenses, jaw clenching. His grip on your throat tightens minisculely.

You laugh, soft, teasing. “Maybe I’m contagious, Mr. Reed.” You lean in, close enough for your breath to ghost against his lips. “Maybe you like being defiled.”

He pushes you back down, tightening his grip. “You talk too much.”

You gurgle, his thumb pressing down on your esophagus. “What's wrong?” You wheeze out, feeling quite lightheaded. “Afraid of the truth?”

He stiffens, lips parting as a sharp inhale fills the space between you. His eyes were dark, warring between control and the undeniable pull dragging him closer.

“You think you had me figured out?” His voice low, dangerous.

You tilt your head as much as you could, grinning cheekily like you've already won. “Haven't I?”

His jaw clenches. He hates it. Hates your confidence, hates the way you speak as if you've unravelled him, thread by thread. Hates that he hasn't moved, hasn't let go, hasn't killed you. 

Then, before you could gloat any more, he moves.

Faster than you expected, he wrenches your wrists above your head, holding it in place while roughly taking off your collar– using it to bound your hands instead. 

He stood, grabbing you by the shirt and shoving you down on his desk. Before you could protest, his body presses flush against yours, suffocating, overwhelming– forcing himself between your legs. His lips brush against your ear, dark, dripping with something possessive, something he doesn't even want to name.

“Let’s see how much you really know.”

Then his lips crash onto yours in a feverish haze. It was hard, passionate, not even giving you a chance of gasping for air. As if silencing every word you've thrown at him.

His hands wander, slipping underneath your bra to play with your breasts– and wandering down lower to your hips, your thigh, every touch blazing with goosebumps. 

Taking off your trousers, still devouring your lips, he slips his fingers underneath your panties, teasingly pushing it to one side. A chuckle bubbles up as he feels how dripping wet you were.

“Dirty girl.” He mumbles against your lips, rubbing your wet clit. Your moans drown underneath his hot tongue, as he ravages you in ways that you can't even comprehend. 

As you drown in ecstasy, bound, held down and touched, Mr Reed slips in two fingers inside you– making you gasp. The sudden intrusion tore you away from his lips, as his eyes looked down on you, watching your every reaction.

Immediately, he pushes deeper into you, pumping in and out, relentless– not giving you a chance to adjust. You cry out, tears in your eyes as pain flames out with each thrust.

“This was your choice. You wanted this.” He breathlessly mutters against your lips, a predatory look in his eyes as he savours your suffering. “Remember?” A smirk tugged on his lips.

With his other free hand, he picks up the toy you've left forgotten. Turning it on, it thrums alive and pulsates. Clicking to its highest setting, he presses it on your sensitive clit– making you cry out. You struggle, bucking your hips as he kept on finger fucking you– pain and pleasure mixing– turning you into a puddle as your brain turns to mush.

Each thrust of his fingers gradually felt less painful. It pushes in deeper and hits your g-spot– and for a moment, you were mindless– just a pain slut delirious in pleasure. It made you writhe and tremble, something deep inside your guts building up. 

Mr Reed pins your wrist down, watching as you melt and drool on the desk– every twitch and whimper making his cock harder. 

“Just a pervert aren't you?” He hums, pressing the toy harder on your clit, circling it in slow, languid motions. “Tell me, do you think you deserve to cum?”

You don't answer. You were too lost in pleasure– a mindless mess. He raises a hand and slaps you, gripping your cheeks in one hand– forcing you to look at him. You meet his deep downturned eyes, clarity coming back to you.

“I don't like repeating myself, dear.”

Wide eyed, you nod– confused but excited. Anything he wanted, anything he needed? You know you just can't refuse. 

“Then beg for it.” He mused, eyes knowing.

Mouth gaping open, you try to think of what he wanted to hear. You try, but it's difficult with the vibrator on your clit– it feels like you're losing brain cells by the second.

“...Pl– please?”

“Please… what? Hm?” 

He's toying with you. Playing with you like a hunter with its prey. You don't hate it. 

“Please… can I–” He jabs another finger inside your cunt. “C-can I cum?”

“Again.” He says, enjoying every moment as he pumps you faster. You feel something warm building up inside you, begging for a release.

You gasp. “Can I cum?” 

“What’s the magic word, darling?” He hums, pausing. He slips his fingers out, the onslaught gone– your insides feeling hollow.

“Please!” You plead, desperate. “Please, can I cum? I–” Bucking your hips on his palms, desperate to reach your climax. “I need to cum, please–” 

He hums contentedly, fingers rubbing your clit in circular motions. “Only good girls get to cum,” He says, taking away your toy. “Are you a good girl?”

You nod vigorously, willing to give anything away just to feel the sweet release of ecstacy. 

“Use your words.” He raises a hand to slap your thighs, the stinging pain almost enough to make you burst.

“I.. I’m a good girl.” You pant. “I’ll be a really good girl. I promise!”

“Aww,” he cooed, and you almost felt hope. “but good girls don’t hold their neighbor hostage, do they?” Your heart drops. 

“Good girls don’t… befriend a neighbour with deeper intentions, no? Drug them, tie them up– use them as playthings?” His breath ghosts over your lips, head tilting to the side in mock contemplation. You whimper.

“That doesn’t sound very ‘good girl’ of you, does it?” His voice is sweet, but the venom beneath it makes your stomach twist. “Good girls don’t lie, either.”

You shake your head quickly. “I-I’m not lying! I promise! I’ll do anything–”

“Anything?” He echoes, a smirk tugging on his lips. “Now that’s a dangerous thing to promise.”

He leans closer, and your breath hitches. Wandering his hands to your thighs, his breath grazes warmly against your ears. “From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re still just a filthy little deceiver. A snake in the garden.”

“So tell me,” He tightens his grip on your thighs, strong enough to leave bruise marks. “How can a lying, scheming little thing like you repent?”

You tremble under his gaze, but your lips part, breathy and eager. “However you want.”

His eyes darken, a smile gracing his lips. “Excellent.” His hands snake up to your hair, pulling it back to meet his eyes. “From now on, you’re mine . Understood?” 

You nod hastily, far too deep in to care. Mr Reed’s expression shifts, his lips curling ever so slightly, the barest twitch of amusement tugging at the corners. It was the kind of satisfaction that seeps slowly, rich with victory.

He pressed a lingering kiss on your forehead, a reward for obedience. “Good girl.”

You melt. His warm embrace making you feel all gooey inside. Trailing his head lower, his hands spreading your legs wide– he trails his lips down to your nethers, kissing your throbbing needy clit. 

He hums, the warm vibrations on your clit better than any toy you’ve had. Using his tongue, it swirls and laps up your cunt– sucking and eating like a madman, drinking in your sweet nectar. You whimper and mewl, desperately writhing around, pulling against your restraints as you feel your orgasm building up again.

Seeming to notice your neediness, he pumps a finger inside you, hitting your insides in the right spots– fucking it deeper into you. His thick fingers were filling you up so deep– it felt like not even your own touch could satisfy you as much as he would. 

He was ruining anything else for you– nothing else could lift you up to heavenly bliss.

Increasing his pace, his groans and hums against your clitoris made it throb harder, as your orgasm almost reaches its peak.

You scream as it crashes over you like a tidal wave, sweeping away every coherent thought, leaving only raw sensation in its wake. Your body tenses, every nerve alight with an almost unbearable pleasure that coils tighter, tighter– until it snaps. A rush of heat floods through you, shuddering tremors racking your limbs as the world narrows to this singular, overwhelming moment.

Mr Reed kept on eating you– riding out your orgasm together as you buck and twitch, holding your hips down as the waves ebbs and flow.  And then, the slow descent– your heartbeat thrums in your ears, skin oversensitive, the aftershocks leaving you boneless and dazed, drifting in the hazy remnants of pleasure.

Laying there, dazed, you hear the shuffling of clothes thrown on the floor. 

Looking up through your eyelashes, you see Mr Reed towering over you, his wicked blue eyes looking at you like a wolf eyeing its prey. 

“Stand up.” He barks, pulling you forward by your restraints. Your knees buckle as he forces you to stand, almost falling if it hadn't been for his arms catching you in time. 

“Careful, dear.” He mused, arms wrapped around you, his tone almost tender. “Can't have you breaking so soon, now do we?” 

You shiver, as he spins you around facing the desk. Your palms rest on the wooden desk– legs splayed wide as he pushes himself between them.

“Now,” He whispers behind you, his warm breath on your ears sending a shiver down your spine. “Bend down, whore.” 

With his hard cock pressing up against you, he pushed your head down, pulling your arms behind you. Grinding his girth between your thighs, pressing up against your sensitive clit, you whimper, the stimulation almost too much to bear. 

Caressing your hair– pushing it back,  he shushes you, whispering affirmations. “You're going to be a good girl for me aren't you?” Kissing the back of your shoulders, he mumbles, teeth nipping on your skin. 

“Because I can’t hold back much longer.” He growls, before plunging into you.

Both of you groaned as he entered– finally entwined in flesh. He paused, only for a second– adjusting to your tight insides. Groans escape his lips as you clenched and bucked around him, holding on to your hips for balance.

Slowly, he moved. Your cheeks dig into the wood of the desk with every thrust, and he picks up the pace– the desk creaking and groaning matching his rhythm. 

You gasp– the pain and pleasure of being manhandled fucking you up deeply. He grips the belt restraining you behind your back– pulling you in deeper– harder– controlling your reins. The cool facade he's worn cracked further, revealing the hungry beast he'd kept hidden. 

“Look what you made me do.” He grunts between thrusts, gripping your neck from behind– choking you. 

"I told myself I wouldn’t." His lips curl, eyes raking over you like you’re nothing more than a mess of impulse and desperation. "Told myself I wouldn’t waste my time on something so beneath me– on a pathetic little whore who doesn't know her place."

Slipping his hand to your throat, he pulls you up– pressing you flush against him, his hot breath on your cheeks. “And yet, here we are.” A chuckle escapes him, quiet, mocking. “Look at you. So eager. So desperate. You want me to ruin you, don’t you?”

You felt every flex of his muscles– his warm, soft yet rigid body– as he thrust up into you. You gurgle out a response, enjoying every moment as pleasure courses in your veins. He grips your cheeks harder, waiting for a response. Realizing you’re too far gone to respond, he sighs.

“Filthy, scheming thing.” He mutters, almost as if he's disappointed, yet there was a hint of admiration. Grazing his lips on your ears, he whispers, warm and breathless with a smirk tugged on his lips. “You really are disgusting.”

His pace was faster now, and you could feel his cock throbbing deep inside you– threatening to burst. Even in your delirious state, you heard something that almost made your heart stop. He uttered your name– his voice low and sensual– almost yearning. That was the last straw before you came again– a wave of earth-shattering orgasm melting you down. You clench and shudder, making him grunt– head resting on your shoulders– as his orgasm came too. 

Both of you stood there, breathless and panting. Still wrapping you in his arms, he calmed his racing heart. Pushing himself off of you, you collapse on the desk– still shuddering from your orgasm, your belly warm and stuffed with cum. You feel Mr Reed’s warmth behind you, holding on to your hips for balance. He took a breath, pushing his sweaty hair back neatly.

Looking at him through half-lidded eyelashes, you smile. His eyes lock on to you, a devious grin forming on his lips. Leaning down, he kisses your neck, snuggling his nose in the crook behind your ears whilst taking off your restraints. “My good, filthy girl.” He hums, scooping you in his arms. 

He picks you up in a bridal carry, shushing any protests. Pushing his way past doors, you finally arrive in a bedroom. It was comfy, with a queen-sized bed in the middle of the room. Laying you down gently, he tucks you in, smothering any whines with a kiss. 

“Tell me,” he mumbles against your lips. “Do you feel better now? Getting exactly what you wanted?”

The question lingers in the space between you, heavy with meaning. You don’t answer, but he doesn’t need you to. He sees it in your eyes, in the way your body melts against the sheets, in the way you don’t pull away.

He chuckles, low and quiet. “That’s what I thought.”

Sliding beside you underneath the covers, he drapes an arm over your waist, pulling you flush against him. His breath is warm against your temple, his voice softer now, but no less possessive.

“Sleep, little lamb.” His fingers trace slow, lazy circles on your hip. “You’ll need your strength. After all… I’m not done with you yet.”

And with that, he presses a final, lingering kiss to your forehead– one last claim, one last reminder– before letting the darkness take you both.

-**-

[billybob598]

Were You Gay-Panicking? (Kyra Cooney-Cross x Reader)

IM BACKKKKK!!! Here's my bi-monthly fic :) I'm actually kinda proud of this one, felt like some good writing. Anyhoo enjoy bitches! As always, any feedback good or bad is welcomed! PEACE

Summary: (first time doing one of these) A few months ago, Kyra had no idea who you were. Now? Now, she was gay panicking everytime she was in the same room as you.

Word Count: 4.6K (WTF?!?!?!?!?!)

Kyra didn’t exactly know how to feel about you. Sure, you were Aussie. Sure, you were an amazing fullback who could run forever and never seem winded. Sure, you were quite possibly the sweetest person ever. Sure, you were stunningly beautiful. Kyra paused, her eyes locked onto you as you laughed that adorable laugh at something Katie had said. Okay, the thing about you being beautiful kind of slipped out. It’s not like it’s not true though. You did have this just natural beauty to you, you barely wore makeup, but you still shone in Kyra’s eyes.

 It was crazy that the two of you had never met before. You were roughly the same age, both Australian and now both Gunners. Unlike Kyra, you’re career up until this point had been riddled with injuries and unfortunate coincidences. Despite being an integral part of the Arsenal squad and having a breakout year last season, you were still not chosen for the World Cup, or any national team camps for that matter. Kyra had heard plenty about you from Steph and Caitlin, she had also seen you a bit on a few of the other Arsenal players' socials. You did have an Instagram account, but you rarely posted. Any true Arsenal fan knew who you were, but casual fans and Matildas’ fans probably hadn’t heard of you. You preferred to work in the background, you weren’t a big extrovert and your personality was more closed off so, consequently you weren’t insanely popular with the fans. So, when Kyra officially met you she had no idea how you weren’t the most liked player.

4 months ago

After finishing some of the required videos and finally signing her contract for The Arsenal, Kyra found herself wandering around the grounds. She had a few minutes until she was supposed to be at a press conference introducing all of the new signings, so she figured she could start exploring London Colney a bit more. As she passes through the locker room she hears some noise coming from the pitch. The distinctive sound of a boot colliding with a ball lures the Australian outside. The scent of fresh-cut grass and marking paint rushes into Kyra’s nose, bringing a soft smile to her face. Another ball gets kicked on the other side of the field. Turning her head, the midfielder is met with the sight of the prettiest woman she’s ever laid eyes on. She watched in awe at how your muscles flexed each time you struck the ball, her breath catching in her throat when you turn around. Your beautifully Y/E/C eyes glimmering, the sun hitting them just right. 

“Oh, sorry. I thought the field was open.” You mutter quietly, your face heating up slightly. 

“Uhm, it’s alright. I’m not here to play or anything. I mean-uh, well actually I am here to play, but not right now. At least I don’t think rig-” Kyra stumbles through her sentences until your giggle cuts her off. She blushes at the sound.

“No, I get what you mean,” you both stand there awkwardly, shifting your weight from foot to foot nervously, “Well, I should probably get going.”

“Wait! Uhh, I mean you sound Australian, you are right?” Kyra asks, desperate to keep the conversation going.

“Yeah, yeah I am. I’m from Geraldton, you?” Your voice is quiet, but Kyra is already in love with it. 

“Herston, have you ever been?” 

“Yeah, I mean I’ve been to Brisbane, it’s nice.” The conversation comes to a awkward lull, Kyra can see how nervous you are. 

“I’m Kyra by the way.”  She extends her hand out to you. Glancing at it, you smile softly and take it.

“I know, Caitlin and Steph never shut up about you. I’m Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N.” 

“You’re the Y/N Y/L/N? Holy shit, Caitlin and Steph never shut up about you.” A small blush forms on your cheeks. Kyra swoons at how flustered you look. She takes another second to admire everything about you. Just as she went to speak again a voice from behind her called out, telling her the press conference was about to start. “I’m really sorry, I’ve got to go. It was nice meeting you, I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Yeah.” With one last smile, Kyra begins to back up and then turns and jogs to the man waiting for her. Tentatively, you touch your cheeks where the blush was still, very prominently, there. 

2 months ago

You watch from afar as Kyra, Caitlin, and Steph swing around from the bars singing along to Strawberry Kisses. A smile appears on your face when Kyra lets out a loud, silly laugh. 

A voice startles you out of your love-possesed trance, “You know, you’re really not subtle, like, at all.” 

“Shut up, Beth.” The England national smirks and for the next fifteen minutes proceeds to tease you about your developing crush on the new signing. 

“Okay, Beth, I think she gets it.” Your saviour, Viv, intervenes after her girlfriend makes a kissy face aimed towards you and Kyra. Beth groans and mumbles something about Viv not being any fun. Viv lets you go back to watching Kyra workout/goof around for a few moments before throwing her two cents in,

“You like her? Like, like like her?”

You sigh, “I don’t know yet. Would it be terrible if I did?” 

Viv shakes her head with a small chuckle, “Would it be terrible if you found someone you really liked and someone who is genuinely a good person? No, it’s not that bad.” You roll your eyes. 

“It feels pretty terrible. But, I guess it’s not too bad, especially since she’s never gonna like me back.” The older woman gives you a look, one that screams “you’ve got to be joking right now”. You and Viv had a certain connection to each other. Both of you were introverts on a team full of extroverts, so it was nice to have someone who didn’t mind just sitting in peace and quiet without any of the pressure of having to be “on”. 

“If Kyra liking you back is so crazy, then why is she staring at you right now with literal heart eyes?” Your head whips forward to find Kyra already looking at you. A blush was already creeping up your neck and you hadn’t even held eye contact for more than two seconds. 

Kyra is watching you carefully when your head turns to look at her. Her heart flutters when your cheeks tint red. A sense of pride swells in her chest at being able to make you blush.

“You two make me sick,” Caitlin says from behind Kyra. Steph is quick to shush the younger Aussie,

“They’re just in love, Cait. You can’t stop young love,” she says an annoying smirk tugging at her lips. Kyra rolls her eyes at her national teammates antics. 

“We are not in love. She definitely doesn’t like me, mate.”

“Sure,” Caitlin drawls out, seemingly unconvinced. 

“She doesn’t. I’m like 1000% sure.”

“Then why does she blush everytime you look at her, smile at her, or laugh?” Steph says, amused.

“Wh-What? No, she doesn’t. I think I’d notice.” The two older Aussies share a look, then they grab Kyra’s head and force it to look at you. Your eyes widen when you and Kyra make eye contact, heat already rushing up to your cheeks. She gives you a warm smile which does nothing to help your burning cheeks. Deciding that you’ve had enough biking for today, you step off the bike extremely ungracefully, bumping into everything and everyone. Kyra giggles from across the gym, her Australian friends rolling their eyes. 

“See? You two are so in love,” Steph tries to convince the younger girl. A frown replaces the small smile on Kyra’s face when you leave the gym,

“Whatever. You guys suck.”

2 weeks ago

“Y/N? Did you hear me?” Tony Gustavsson’s calm voice brings you back to reality. 

“Oh, uh, yes sir. I mean, yes coach. Thank you so, so much, I won’t let you down, I promise.” Your voice is shaky and weak. Someone’s warm hand covers yours, lifting your head up, your met with Kyra grinning from ear-to-ear. Returning her smile, you say your goodbyes to Tony and place the phone down carefully on the kitchen counter.

 You were, once again, at Kyra’s apartment. The two of you had grown closer over the past few months, unknowingly both of you had swallowed down your feelings for each other, convinced the other didn’t feel the same. It was driving the rest of the team crazy, and it was about to get worse. Finally, you had gotten your first call-up to the national team.

You and Kyra had been cozied up on her couch, watching a Christmas movie (because it’s never too early to start is it?) when your phone had began to ring. Of course, Kyra had already received her call a few days ago. It was hardly surprising, after the World Cup and with her recent performances for Arsenal she was an obvious choice for the last two friendlies of 2023. You, on the other hand, had long given up your dream of playing for the national team. Being a little bit older than Kyra and a lot more injury prone, your caps for the Matildas stood at a resounding, zero. You had never even been to a camp. So, last year when Tony never so much as gave you a call, you put your Matildas dreams behind you and focused on your club football.

“Who is it?” Kyra mumbles sleepily, she had been on the verge of falling asleep, it was impossible not to. You were perfectly situated between her legs, your head resting comfortably on her chest. The movie did little to distract her from the scent of your perfume infiltrating the hoodie she was wearing. 

“I don’t know, Ky. It looks like an Australian number.” 

“Wait, I know whose number that is.” She says, now fully awake.

“Who?”

She takes a deep breath, trying to hide her smile, “It’s Tony’s. Like Tony Gustavsson. The head coach of-”

“Yes, I know who Tony Gustavsson is! You don’t think he’s calling to invite me to camp is he?” You exclaim, your nerve levels rising as the phone continues to ring.

“Only one way to find out.” 

Standing up, phone in hand, you take a breath before accepting the call. Kyra sits up on the couch, her hands loosening her grip on your waist. 

“Hello?” Slowly making your way to the kitchen, Kyra only catches your side of the conversation. She takes a seat at the counter watching nervously as you pace back and forth in front of her. You pause. It looks like you’re trying to process everything. “Oh, uh, yes sir. I mean, yes coach. Thank you so, so much, I won’t let you down, I promise.” A full-on grin breaks out onto Kyra’s face, she reaches across the counter and takes a hold of your hand. After hanging up, there is silence in the small apartment for a few seconds. 

“So?” Kyra prompts softly.

“I’m going to play for fucking Australia!” You shout excitedly. You both squeal happily, Kyra rushes over and brings you into a tight hug. 

“Now we’re national teammates as well!” Kyra says into your neck, her heart pounding as you laugh your beautiful laugh.

Over the next few days Kyra helps you pack for camp, telling you all of the basic information you’d need to survive while also filling you in on all of the important bits about the team itself. Who’s friends with who, what not to say to this person, why this person acts like this. She was surprisingly helpful. So, when you, Kyra, Caitlin, and Steph boarded the flight to Australia you actually felt pretty prepared. Kyra sat beside you on the flight, chatting your ear off, you didn’t really mind though. It was how your friendship went. Kyra would talk about anything and everything, while you listened carefully, never ignoring her. She found it endearing how you remembered everything she said, sometimes she didn’t even remember herself. 

An few hours into the flight, Steph leans across the aisle asking Kyra if she knew who is supposed to bring them to the hotel when they land. Kyra remembers saying something to you about it so she turns and taps your shoulder. Taking out one of your earbuds, you look at them, raising an eyebrow. 

“Uh, do you know who’s supposed to be picking us up? I think I said something about it to you,” Kyra asks quietly, so as not to interrupt the other passengers.

“William.” You answer plainly. Kyra nods while Steph watches in shock.

“How in the hell did you know that? You don’t even know who that is.”

“Kyra told me last night, she also told me that she couldn’t wait to ride the ferry to Vancouver Island when we get to Canada.” Kyra blushes. 

“I can’t believe you remember that,” she says, slightly embarrassed. 

“It’s kind of hard not to when it’s all you would take about for ten minutes.” 

Steph has to cover her laugh at Kyra’s mortified face.

“Is that seriously all I talked about last night?” 

“You tend to do that. It’s actually kinda cute.” That last bit slips out before you can stop it. Now, you’re the one blushing. You decide it’s better to look out the window than to keep looking at them. Steph wanted to strangle the both of you. God, you were so oblivious. How could neither of you see that you were head over heels for each other? Whatever, you’d figure it out. Hopefully sooner than later because she had five pounds on you guys getting together before the new year. 

After landing and grabbing your luggage, just as you said, William was there with a car to bring you all to the hotel the team was staying at. Walking into the lobby, cameras point at you four. Kyra and Caitlin grin and wave goofily at them, probably saying something stupid as well. 

Steph smiles and waves happily, “Good to be home, huh?” 

You walk behind them, looking up and waving at the cameras shyly, “Alright?” 

“Hey, Y/N! Wanna do a quick interview with the other first timers?” One of the social media guys asks from behind the phone camera. Kyra stops. You look at her, uncertainty looming in your eyes. 

She nods encouragingly, “Go on. I’ll take your stuff and get your room.” 

“Thanks, Ky. I’ll see you later.” You smile and follow the man heading in the other direction. 

“So that’s the girl you like!” Charli shouts from across the lobby. 

Kyra flinches at the volume of her best friends voice, “Jesus Christ, Charli. Could you be any louder?” 

“Wanna bet?” Kyra shakes her head, not wanting to see how far Charli can take things today. “She’s really pretty, I can see why you like her.” The blonde says in a much more indoor appropriate voice. Kyra just rolls her eyes in response.

After a few good days of training and getting to know everyone, the team was in Canada. Walking onto the ferry with your hoodie drawn tight to you and your toque covering the top of your head, Kyra was bouncing off the walls with excitement and energy. 

“Kyra, for the love of God, please calm down.” Mini says, trying her best to calm the young midfielder down. Her words have no effect, Kyra continues doing laps around everyone. You were walking Sarah Hunter, another player about to earn their first cap, when Kyra gets in front of you and turns backward to talk to you. 

“Hi Y/N! Aren’t you excited about the ferry?” She asks. Her hyperness, you notice, was starting to annoy some of your teammates, specifically Caitlin, who looked on the verge of pushing her Arsenal teammate into the Pacific Ocean. 

“I am, Ky,” you lower your voice so only those close to you can hear, “But how about we tone it down, okay? We have lots of time to be excited, but maybe just chill for a few minutes so they can tell us where to go and what not, how’s that sound?” 

Kyra listens to you, she falls into step with you and speaks a lot softer and calmer. 

Mini stares on in disbelief, “Oh, Kyra is down bad. I mean, she didn’t even listen to me, but as soon as Y/N says something she’s on her best behaviour.” 

Steph shakes her head, “You should see them at Arsenal, it’s unbearable.” 

You and Sarah were in deep conversation about something Kyra couldn’t care less about. She wanted to go explore the ship, but she promised you she’d be on her best behaviour. Kyra is getting antsy and you can tell, she keeps turning her head every time there’s a new sound. You just needed to get wherever the guide wanted you guys to be and then she can do whatever she wants. Just as the team passes the gift shop, Kyra almost bolts. You catch her though, your hand intertwining with hers and securing her at your side. Kyra is taken aback by your actions and blushes profusely. 

In a break in your conversation with Sarah, you lean over and mumble into Kyra’s ear, “I know, Ky. Just hold still for a little longer, okay?” Kyra nods and presses a small kiss to the top of your head. You almost die of a heart attack right there and then. Blushing, you squeeze her hand and get back into your conversation with Sarah. 

“Holy shit, Kyra needs to man the fuck up and ask her out already,” Charli groans a few meters from behind you. Mini scolds her for her language, but silently agrees with her. 

“Fuck me,” You mutter under your breath as Canada scores, again. Surprisingly, Tony had given you and a bunch of other players their first caps. Unsurprisingly, Canada had been dominating the entire match. You were exhausted from having to run up and down the pitch for all ninety minutes. It seemed like you were the only player who wanted to attack, or defend, or do anything at all. You definitely weren’t blaming the other Matildas on the field with you, for most of them it was their first time in their nations jersey as well. You guys were also facing a team determined to get revenge and send off their hero in the right way, so that was not helping at all. What also wasn’t helping was that there was maybe five minutes left in the match, so both teams kind of switched off. No one really cared about this blowout anymore. 

Kyra was chewing on her nails as she watched another through ball to you get overhit and land straight at a Canadian defenders’ feet. She watched as you began your recovery run, eyes tracking the ball carefully. When Quinn tried to thread a ball to Prince you timed your slide tackle perfectly and intercepted the ball. The bench stood up clapping and shouting encouragement to you. Keeping the ball close to your feet, you stood back up and began dribbling into space. The defense were dropping off, determined to keep a clean sheet. Your eyes scanned the field hoping to find anyone making a run. Unfortunately, your teammates seemed gassed. So, you started to pick up your speed with the ball. Skillfully, you dribbled around Fleming and Grosso, picking your head up once again to find Tameka making a run on the weak side of the pitch. You hit the ball, aiming to lead her into the miles of green grass in front of her. She controls the ball in stride and continues driving down the wide right channel. Continuing your run, you jog up to the top of the box hoping to put any rebounds back into the box. Tameka sends a cross into the box, it heads towards the penalty spot, multiple players jump up for it. Ultimately, Gilles gets most of it and clears it out to the top of the box. Right where you are. Kyra stands up. You watch as the ball arcs in the air and starts to drop towards you. It’s as if everything is moving in slow motion. You plant your left foot into the grass, the ball drops and drops and drops. Pulling your right foot back, you wait for it to just drop a little bit more. Now. Straightening your leg, you watch your foot connect with the ball. The ball surges forward while your boot recoils from the impact. Your eyes track the ball as it soars through the air, it slips past the outstretched foot of Buchanan, Amy Sayer jumps out of the way. The goalkeeper tries her best, but it’s useless, the net ripples as the ball buries itself into the top left corner. Screaming is all you hear, you’re frozen in your spot. Suddenly, Mary is in your arms and the rest of the team is hugging you and screaming at you. 

“What a fucking legend!”

“Banger! Absoloute banger!”

“Mate, you’re actually insane.”

“First goal for the Matildas, bitches!”

Tears are welling up in your eyes as you set Mary down. Holy shit. You’ve always dreamed of scoring for the Matildas, all of a sudden that dream was a reality. Mary tugs on your hand and pulls you over to where the subs are screaming and jumping up and down. You laugh. Caitlin and Steph are the first ones to you, yelling at you that you’re a baller or something like that. After they let you go, Kyra is waiting for you. She’s got that blinding smile that you’ve always loved. She pulls you into a hug.

“I’m so, so proud of you, Y/N/N.” Her hands run gently through your hair, you sink into the hug, letting out a sigh.

“Thanks Kyra, for everything. Um, I should go though the ref looks mad.” She nods and relinquishes her hold on you. Jogging back into place, you breath deeply. Finally. You had finally done it. You were a fucking Matilda.

Present Day

The team had gathered for their annual Secret Santa party. This year, it was held at Viv and Beth’s house. All the players were crammed inside the living room, a lot of food had been consumed along with a lot of laughs being laughed. There had been a Christmas movie marathon (2 movies) where you and Kyra had found a nice spot on the couch for the two of you. There had also been a small potluck, everyone brining a small dish to share with the team. Now, it was time for the gift exchange. A few weeks ago, there had been a very formal name-drawing process. There were blindfolds and everything, you were actually kind of impressed at how serious the team took it. You had drawn Frida’s name which you didn’t really mind. You got along with her well, and you were both pretty chill so it was easy to hang out with her. Her girlfriend had helped you track down some Norwegian sweets that you know she loved, you also threw in an adorable polar bear stuffy you found at a cute gift shop in downtown, London. 

Everyone was going in a circle, unwrapping their presents and guessing who their Secret Santa was. So far, there had been some really sweet gifts and some really funny ones. Such as Katie giving Leah a toy keyboard, one that was really meant for two year olds. Katie defended herself saying, “It was appropriate for Leah’s skill level.”

Soon enough, it was your turn. You searched the small tree sitting in the living room for a gift with your name on it. Finding it, you carefully picked it up and sat back in your spot between Kyra’s legs. All eyes were on you as you gently unwrapped the gift, not wanting to be rude and just tear apart the wrapping paper. A gasp escapes your lips, hand flying to your mouth in shock. Everyone asks you what it is. You take it out of its case and hold it up for the team to see. Gasps similar to yours fill the room. A diamond necklace with your first name initial as a pendant hung from your fingers. It must have cost at least £100. You look around the room desperately, looking to thank the giftgiver endlessly. Multiple people shake their heads. Finally, you look behind you, Kyra didn’t meet even try to meet your eyes. Her cheeks were burning red, her hand rubbing her neck nervously. 

“Uh, do you like it?” You could hear the nerves in her voice. You were still a little shocked from the gift, so you stand up abruptly and grab her hand leading her towards the bathroom. 

Slamming the door shut, you whip around to look at your fellow Aussie, “What the hell? Are you insane?” Kyra flinches slightly at your tone.

“Do you not like it? Because I can return it and get you something else,” her voice was unsure. 

“Wha-? Of course I like it! I love it, I love you! But, Kyra this had to have cost a shiton, I can’t accept this as a gift.” You say forcefully, still not realizing what you had said. Kyra had heard it though.

“Wait, did you just say you love me?”

You freeze. Well, you had said that. Not on purpose, though. But, it’s not like it’s not true. Kyra tentatively reaches out and takes your hand in hers, 

“Y/N?”

WIthout even thinking you crash your lips into hers. She gasps, but eventually melts into the kiss, your lips working against each others perfectly. Her hands found their way to your hips, gripping them tightly. Your hands wrapped behind her neck at first before moving into her hair. As you tug on her hair she lets out a soft moan, giving you access to her mouth. Slipping your tongue inside of her mouth, she gently pushes you against the bathroom wall. A soft gasp at the cold tile lets Kyra detach her lips from yours and begin working her way down your neck. She presses wet kiss after wet kiss onto your exposed skin. Finally finding your weak spot, you moan her name quietly. Her perfume, her mouth on your neck, everything about her was overwhelming your senses. 

“Ky…Ky we have to stop, someone could hear us,” you moan out softly as she places more kisses on your collarbone.

“Mmm, maybe. Or we could just keep going?” She smirks playfully at you. Fuck, her smirk did things to you that you weren’t exactly proud of. Rolling your eyes, you pushed her off of you.

“They’re probably waiting for us to continue the Secret Santa. We shouldn’t keep them.”

Kyra groans and drops her head onto your chest. You laugh, and run your fingers through her hair soothingly. 

“Umm, I really like you, you know?” Her voice is muffled against you, but you heard her loud and clear.

“Oh really? I had no idea,” you say sarcastically. She slaps your chest in response. 

“Shut up, asshole.” Another laugh rumbles through your chest. 

“Sorry, sorry. I really like you too, Kyra.” She smiles lazily and leans in for another kiss. 

“Y’know, everytime I saw you I was, like, gay-panicking,” she confesses with a embarrassed smile.

“Awww, were you gay-panicking? That’s adorable.”

“Asshole.”

[zexapher]

Vacuan Nights, Like Vacuan Days

They’re just so great together! I’d love for Jaune and Weiss to get a little downtime in Vacuo to live out a moment like this. They really deserve it, and I’d love to see Jaune’s guitar make a reappearance.

The comic here was inspired by u/Silverstar1243’s excellent piece of art, A Serenade Under the Moonlight. Send some love to them on their twitter, commission some art if you’re willing and able, they’ve made some great stuff.

You folks may have noticed I threw in a couple of references for those in the know; the Golden Oreos behind Yang (double stuffed, I might add) for the trio’s ship, Weiss liking it rough for Mallobaude’s great fic, and of course I made a whole theme around the Arabian Nights Disney song. A song, along with its Aladdin compatriots, which I spent the better part of a day finding covers for just to listen to on repeat while I worked.

This one’s now officially my longest comic project, with 14 panels, two over the past record since I added the White Knight kiss at the end. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. Not sure I’d say it was more difficult than my Vanity of Vanities post, but for this one I actually knew how to use my editing software going into it (at least somewhat).

Put a lot of work into this one, been working on it on and off since February. Took a few breaks for vacation, to make my memorial post for Rooster Teeth, and another five meme edits or so, but I came back around to it. First half was pretty easy, relatively minor edits inserting characters into scenes and so on. The second half with Jaune and Weiss was tougher though, with color correcting, merging poses, redrawing features, drawing Jaune’s entire head to fix some lighting issues, etc. Really like how the edit to make Jaune strum his guitar turned out.

The time it took to make the whole comic got me down a little, until I did a bit of math. Including my side projects since starting this, all the scripting and editing and all, I’ve been pumping out a panel every two days. That seems pretty good to me, that kind of accomplishment makes me a little proud of myself.

Really need to get around to watching the second part of the Justice League Crossover movies. It’s got a few Vacuo scenes that might make things a little more authentic instead of me just using Saphron’s house and pretending it’s a suite in Vacuo. I do love taking yet more character stills from Jaune and friends experiencing deep trauma and turning it into something positive, been making that a bit of a personal habit. And I’ve got to say, the background for Jaune and Weiss’ scene is really beautiful, pulled it from when Sun and Neptune hear Ruby’s message about Salem. That’s just a really good shot all on its own, I even saved a copy for my computer’s wallpaper after editing out the two.

Posting a big RWBY White Knight edit, watching not one but two RWBY Beyond episodes, and all on the trail of the news that RWBY’s found partners that they’re negotiating with and that the creative team is expected to stay on. And I'm sipping bubble tea. Life is good.

Anyway, pardon the long write up. I’m invested in this one, and am quite pleased with how the comic turned out. I hope you all get a kick out of it as well!

[songofpolaris]

❥ masterlist / navigation ❥

-> pairing; james potter x reader

-> wc; 1.5k

-> warnings; death, descriptions of grief

-> a/n; I wrote this with Timeless by Taylor Swift playing in the background. It's not some immaculate piece of literature, but I'm kind of attached to it now even if I'm not as proud of it as some other works of mine. It's warm and painful at the same time, so try it and I hope you enjoy. Lots of love

Timeless | James Potter

As you’re looking through the freshly developed pictures in the dark room, tears fill your eyes. You’re staring at James Potter, your James, just woken up, wearing crooked glasses and a very fresh bed head. His hand is grabbing towards the camera while a beaming smile peeks behind it. It was the first time you saw him with bad hair. And the guy didn’t even actually look bad, his embarrassment just motivated you to tease him because of it. In reality, he still looked amazing. He would never have believed you if you told him though. The man could not be confident if his hair wasn’t ready to be pictured and put onto a prestigious magazine cover. You grabbed your camera as fast as you could and captured the moment.

You eye the vintage camera lying next to the door on an old wooden table. The camera itself is dusty from being hidden away in the corner of your dresser all these years. You put it there because you couldn’t bear the pain of being remembered. The camera that captured some of the most wonderful memories you hold, which are now some of the most painful ones.

The next picture is of the two of you sitting on the edge of the porch from your first official house. You’re wearing old dungarees and have paint streaks on your cheek and all over your clothes. James is staring at you while clearly wetting his finger to try to get some paint off of your face. Sirius is standing behind you, making an ugly face while staring at the happy couple. You have a big smile on you and dangle a small key in front of you. You remember Lily yelling “Say “We just moved in!” for the picture!” from behind the camera and Remus commenting that there would be no way the picture would turn out good if you all actually said that. James naturally wasn’t paying attention and you laughed because of the nasty sounds Sirius was making, pretending the lovey dovey Potter scene was sickening.

These pictures all are some form of key moments in your relationship. In your loving relationship with James, as well as the beautiful friendships within this group of people. You and Lily were always the ones with a camera in their bags, ready to capture whatever you felt was worth capturing. At the time, the guys made a point of it to avoid the camera, just because there were already a million pictures of them and they did not see the need for any more. Any moment either you or Lily moved to grab your camera, at least one of them would sigh and mumble something like “This is some kind of weird obsession” or “Are you planning on selling pictures of me since I’m that stunning?” The last remark being made by James who could actually imagine this being a real scenario. They would go to the greatest lengths to avoid the subtle lenses of your camera. Once it even led to Sirius falling off of his broom during a friendly game of quidditch because he tried to dive away from you and your camera.

Now, they would understand why you both tried to capture as many wonderful moments as you could. Because you and Lily were more aware than anyone that you would not all make it out alive. Sadly enough you were proven right.

As you flip through a stack of newly developed pictures, from the finally freed camera, you see one that you do not remember being made. It is you and Lily sitting next to James and Sirius. Remus must have made this picture. You are all sitting on the same side of the table, squished together onto a corner couch for the photo, and you are pointing at your hand, which is aimed toward the camera. Lily has a tear on her cheek and is smiling brightly, while Sirius is faking a shocked look. His mouth exaggeratingly wide open with his hands in front of it and big surprised eyes. On your hand a small shimmer comes off of a candy wrapper, wrapped around your ring finger. James kisses you on the cheek. It’s the night of your proposal. With all the joy of the night, you must have forgotten that Remus actually forced you all to make this picture. Remus, of all people, who hated photographing and being photographed.

“This is a moment that actually needs capturing” He had proudly said.

No one could have told you all that this would be one of the last times that you would be together while only laughing and having the times of your lives. After this, Voldemort would start winning. He would make you, Lily and Remus afraid of walking around in Diagon Alley, thinking that anyone passing by could want you to be gone. Could judge you for being born the way you were. And you see the difference gradually in the pictures.

One of the last ones in the stack is a photo of only you and James. Lily had made the picture, you clearly remember this.

You and James are looking each other in the eyes, your hands are holding his soft cheeks. One of his hands is gripping onto your wrist, the other the back of your neck. You can see the swollen red eyes and tear stains on your clothes. Your white dress has soft droplets on it and James’ hair's a mess. He didn’t even care what it looked like in the picture. You had just gotten back from the courthouse where they hadn’t allowed you two to be married. James told you on the ride back that you will find a way, which is what Lily captured. She captured the promise that James immediately fulfilled, while you were both scared out of your minds and sobbing over the time you found yourself living in.

So, when the five of you came back to the house, the first and only house you ever bought, James read you his vows and you read yours to him. They were beautiful, honest, and true. Nothing was ever more truthful than the words you shared with each other in that moment.

And that’s when the last picture was taken. Euphemia and Fleamont had come over for the ceremony and said that this was a moment you would want to remember your whole lives.

“Even if it feels like a beautiful tragedy now, someday it will simply be beautiful to you, my love. And for that moment, you want to be able to look back at it and remember the love and life you had and started together.” Euphemia had said, and nothing she said was ever incorrect.

You and James insisted on having the picture be of all five of you. So with the two of you in the middle, Sirius and Remus next to James and you next to Lily, Fleamont made the last picture of all of you together in a room. You called it ‘the family picture'.

Soon after, the war officially started. You all fought for the Order until the bitter end, which sadly meant the end of your family. James found his place with the stars first, it was a quick and painless death, alone on a mission. Remus and Sirius walked into the end hand in hand, ready to commit to another life together. Lily and you thankfully found your way back to each other after the chaos and destruction left behind by the war, having fundamentally changed in this traumatic time only made your friendship stronger. But you both never were able to look forward. You hid cameras in wardrobes but stalled out the already printed pictures on the mantle, halls and rooms. You lived looking at all the memories pretending they were someone else’s. A life you could not remember living. A life where you would end up with just the two of you. You both talked about them like they were here, never in the past tense. You could not cope with the loss of a family that was as dear to you and Lily as this chosen one.

Now that she died and you were the last one left, you were ready. You developed the last pictures, pictures of you all in your beginning to late twenties, mourning the people you once were. Loving their smiles, their gestures, their beings. You mourned the love of your life with all the love you had left. And not just James. You visited all of their graves weekly, laying down flowers and other things they loved. On Remus’ grave, there’s a stack of books now. Lily now has the old camera and flowers, Sirius a packet of cigarettes and records he listened so frequently to that they didn’t work anymore. And James got you. You sat there every other day, talking to him and telling about whatever happened or was on your mind. Until you joined the rest of your family.

All that’s left now of this life you lived is a cardboard box filled with pictures of the life you’ve made.

[muffinpink02]

can we get a small preview of taking your crown 2? 🙏

Of course! 18

“Where's this special room then?” Mapi smirked as she drank from her glass.

You laughed, giving her a wink. “Down the hallway.” 

“Hmm. What room?” Alexia furrowed her eyebrows in confusion as she looked between you and Mapi.

“She has a special room.” Mapi swirled the ice in her glass. 

“Oh.” Alexia’s eyes widened in surprise, suddenly looking a little timid. She gulped before she took another sip of her vodka.

“Do you wanna see it?” 

“Yes!” Mapi shouted excitedly.

You looked at Alexia who still looked a little shy, but the curiosity in her eyes was evident. 

“Sí.” She whispered before taking another sip.

You led them down the corridor to the last door. You turned the handle and turned on the lights. 

Both girls' mouths gaped open as they took in the room in front of them.

“Wow.” Mapi smirked, taking a slow step inside.

The room glowed in a deep shade of purple and red. The decor was a bit different to your room at your place of work, this room had a lot more on show. 

In the middle stood a replica of the king sized bed in the room you first met Alexia in. To the left was a purple leathered rack, with an arrangement of paddle boards attached to the wall. To the side of that wall sat a black leathered table that resembled a massage table, but this particular one had handcuffs attached at the top and bottom. 

To the right of the room stood a floor length mirror that covered the entire wall, red strips of light framed the outside of it, giving it an almost red light district feel. Another wall had an abundant array of different toys, restraints, leashes, collars, and whips. Some for pleasure, some for pain, but even the painful ones were someone's pleasure.

Closets to the door and your most impressive bit of equipment, there stood the St Andrews cross. Even though it looked like a torture device (I mean, it kind of was) it was surprisingly really comfy. Imported from Germany, stitched with real Italian leather, and formed with Canadian wood, it was your most prized possession, a beautiful piece of equipment or some would even say art.

The room was impressive to say the least.

“You have good taste.” Mapi said absently mindedly as she stroked the thick wooden post of the bed.

“Thank you. I’m proud of it.” You said honestly before taking a sip of your drink. 

You looked over at the blonde who still hadn't said anything, but she didn't need to, her face said it all.

Alexia felt a chill run up her spine as her eyes drank in the room. The familiar smell of vanilla instantly brought her back to the first night she had with you and so far the only night. The memories of you and herself flooded her mind, it was as if she could feel the paddle on her skin, the hot wax, your thick strap, your talented tongue.

For the first time she regretted allowing Mapi to join her on the trip. 

Her fingers nervously twitched around her glass, as she imagined her and yourself using the room for its exact purpose. 

You watched Alexia’s thoughtful eyes. You could see the cogs turning in her head. A shy smile crept on her lips as she caught you looking at her. She looked like she had been caught red handed, even though her dirty thoughts were in her head and sadly not being played out right now.  

She nodded and awkwardly cleared her throat. “It's beautiful. I-I like it.” She took a gulp of her drink, you didn't miss the way her cheeks turned a shade of pink.

You felt your own skin heat up, picturing the blonde in all the different positions you could have her in. It was as if you both could see the other's exact thoughts. You didn't realise you were staring until Mapi cleared her throat.

“Aye, come on! I’m only here for two nights. Can you not control yourselves until I leave?” The brunette looked between you and Alexia.

“Did you bring headphones, Mapi?” Alexia asked, but still looking at you.

“Sí?” 

“Good, you'll need them tonight.” 

You couldn't stop the embarrassing noise you made as you choked on your drink.

—------------------

[see-arcane]

A message to all the assorted unscrupulous undead: Beware the Ides of March.

To everyone else: Grab your kukri blades, your bowie knives, your stakes, your bone saws, and whatever else you have on hand to appropriately accessorize with your new copy of The Vampyres.

The book is out! Loose! Running rampant and bloodstained through the terrains of eBook and paperback alike!

My beautiful little baby, toddling into the literary world to deliver havoc unto the dastardly bastards of the revenant realm. I’m so proud. (And so happy to feel the stress headache finally start to crack.)

Now that The Vampyres is out in the open, a brief FAQ under the cut:

Where can I get the eBook?

Check out the Universal Book Link (UBL) here:

It’ll show you all the places you can grab a virtual vampyre by the throat.

Where can I get the paperback?

For folks in ‘murrica, I’d say hit up Bookshop.org to go and grab it from your physical store of choice:

You can also just search The Vampyres C.R. Kane and see the waterfall of options. Not sure of the exact timeline, but it should be more widely available in the coming weeks. At least hereabouts:

Pictured: Places to potentially purchase a paperback.

Can I get it at my library?

If you ask for it, yes! You’ll need the ISBNs when filling out your library’s request form, so:

eBook ISBN: 9798218374594

Paperback ISBN: 9798218374587

What’s the status on that paperback cover business?

Current status is still ???

At least in the sense that I’m not sure what version of the book cover you might get at the moment. Original matte? Temporary glossy? Updated matte that’s here to stay? No idea at the moment. My self-publishing page shows the update’s confirmed, but the online stores are still using the first version as the preview image and I’m not sure when that gets swapped out. At least the books are all print-on-demand, so whatever you order, just know it’s not coming from some thrown-away backup heap. It’s fresh from the book oven press.

Anything else I need to know?

First, reviews are extremely welcome! I am running on negative budget when it comes to waving my little flag to announce that I Made a Scary Vampire Book, so I’m really relying on word-of-mouth if I want it to actually get its head above water. Leaving stars and comments wherever you can, be it in the online stores, the Goodreadses or Smashwordses or whatever else, would be a big help.

(Really though, I can and will dissolve into a puddle of relieved ego if I see so much as one (1) Nice Comment on Tumblr, my cesspool of choice.*)

*This is not hyperbole. I can count on one hand how many PROMOTION © ™ posts I’ve made on Twitter and have fingers left over. This novella is tailored to my fellow fiendish bookworms on here.

Second, to those coming by this stuff for the first time and don’t know what all this hoopla is about, a preview of my novella, The Vampyres, is available on my website. Give it a gander if you want to see under-appreciated classic supernatural bogeymen dropped into their own horror story.

Thirdly, lastly, vitally: thank you.

The Vampyres is a beautiful accident that came together out of an itch to rattle something out just for myself; a break from a bloated piece that had turned into a chore which burned me out and threw away the fun of scribbling. A lightweight read that saved me from being crushed by a cinderblock.

By the same token, the people on here have shouldered me up and out of the creative pit of thinking ‘This is all for nothing.’ For all that I talk of how much I’m powered by spite and the desire to Read a Specific Thing only to realize I Have to Write That Thing First, I’d be a liar if I said the kindness and excitement of the folks who’ve been reading my nonsense for (holy hell) TWO YEARS in the wake of the first big Dracula Daily surge didn’t have a major role in getting this thing done.

I did make The Vampyres for me. But it’s for you guys too. For everyone who saw one of my rambles or little fictions and spoke up to say, I love this! I was thinking this! I wanted this! Finally, finally!

When you crack open the cover for the first time, on a screen or in your hands, I want you to know I’m thinking Thank You at you. I hope you enjoy all the horrors inside.

Postscript:

If you want more info on other stuff I'm tinkering with, check out my website here:

[elllisaaa]

eli i’m having dirty bookworm thoughts again… they can at least break me from my reading slump not only make me more addicted to sunghoon 🤨 DOES SUNGHOON EVEN READ why am i coming up with these kind of ideas 😭

i’m thinking 💭 you’re writing a romance novel with a few sex scenes sprinkled in there and when sunghoon finds out about them after you give him to read your first draft he gets jealous?? you’ve spend so much time thinking about these things what if you were horny and you touched yourself after writing them out? and you didn’t tell him a thing?? he decides to do every single intimate scene from your book to you tonight but TIMES better 🙃

sunghoon is really going to be your bias sweetie i think, you're constantly losing your mind over him (but don't ever stop, i love it). it's so funny to me how we're always associating him with books lmaoo but i'm here for it and i love to write it everytime. 

SUNGHOON has always been very supportive of you and every project you started. so when you announced that you had been writing some novels and wanted to get serious with that, he couldn't have been more proud of you. 

he was so attentive to your every need whenever you started another writing session. he brings you tea or coffee when you're thirsty and cooks for you when he knows you've spent the whole day working on your novels and didn't eat. but sunghoon was always there to take care of you and help you out of your writing blocks by giving you idea, or reading your texts to help you improve. 

so when you told him that you wanted to start writing a romance novel, he was all in helping you even if he teased you a little bit by reminding you not to describe him too much as the perfect boyfriend. but apart from that, he doesn't try to interfere in the creative process too much, not asking about the plot if you don't mention it to him. but sunghoon is always there to help you whenever you need it.

it's not until you give him the first draft of your novel to read that he notices the few sex scenes that you also wrote. and listen, sunghoon is not easily getting jealous, he trusts you with his life, so how did words on paper were getting angry ? because he was. he could only imagine you thinking about all the dirty scenarios you wrote, all alone while he could have been there and make them come true. he couldn't help but wonder if you touched yourself while writing all this. 

sunghoon didn't even reach the end of the novel before picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom. you don't even understand what's happening until your boyfriend starts to undress himself. 

"you're such a naughty girl princess, writing all these things when you could've just told me that you wanted to get your ass spanked."

your cheeks were burning as you tried to defend yourself. yes, the sex scenes of your novel were self-indulgent, including all the fantasies you couldn't voice to sunghoon. but you didn't think that he would pick up on that. though he clearly did as he caged you in with his arms, lips inches away from yours.

"gonna make all these things you wrote real hm ?"

and he would so do that : manhandling you in all the positions you described, slapping your ass, fucking you rough until you cried and letting you sit on his face. eveyrthing you wrote, he did it ten times better, resulting in you orgasming too much time to count and your body dripping with sunghoon's cum.

"now you will tell me everything you want baby, right ?"

when you nodded mindlessly, too fucked out to focus on anything else than his beautiful face and his cocky smirk.

"good girl. you know i'm the only on to make you feel like that"

[ticklish-hanji]

Sensitive cat

————————————————————————

————————————————————————

Lee: Minho

Ler: mainly Chan, Changbin and a little bit of Jisung

Note: this is a tickle fic. If you’re not comfortable or interested in this type of content, I’d recommend you scrolled 🎀

———————————🩷————————————

Stray kids were in Bangchan’s dorm. They were playing a game where they would ask a certain member a question and the questioned one had to answer in complete honesty.

The questions were really innocent and nothing that would bring any of them in a difficult position.

For example, Bangchan was asked what he thinks his love language is. Minho was asked whether he loved the members or not. Changbin if he feels comfortable around the members etc.

Until the third round came.

The questions were from the oldest to the youngest. Minho was second on the rank. We must admit, he wasn’t nervous at all. He even felt comfortable. Laying down on the bed, in a sweater and sweatpants. You could say he was about to fall asleep. Until he heard the question that came off Seungmin’s mouth.

The puppy, as the group’s menace he is, asked Minho something that instantly made him open his eyes wide, ears and cheeks going a beautiful red in a matter of seconds.

He asked him: “Minho hyung, are you ticklish?”

Now, of course he knew the answer, he just wanted to mess with him a little. Every single member knew that Minho isn’t ‘just’ ticklish. He was ticklish to death.

Minho froze. He knew that the members knew, but he didn’t want to admit it either. So, instead of saying a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’, he tried to get away with a single sentence

“I don’t know”

The members looked at each other smiling. “What do you mean ‘I don’t know?’? Are you Implying that if a member attempts to tickle you, you won’t react before even being touched? Come on Min, we know what you are.”, said Felix.

Minho, who usually didn’t care about honourifics at all, tried to change the topic. “It’s ‘Minho hyung’ for you, Felix.”

“Yeah yeah, the question remains, Minho. It won’t change depending on the topic. We know you don’t care about that kind of thing and we also know that you’re ticklish. Just say yes.”, Bangchan said, smiling while sitting next to Lee Know.

It was not the cat’s lucky day. He was in a position he had to admit something he didn’t want to, even though his bandmates already knew about. He felt that if he said ‘yes’ he’d make a fool out of himself. Which wasn’t true, but that’s what it felt like for him. And, apart from that, he was sitting next to the member that tickled him most.

“Never!”, the dancer said, making it clear that he wouldn’t admit something like that. “I have a question though,” he continued “if y’all already know the answer to the question, why asking me that in the first place?”, he expressed, genuinely confused and frustrated. His ears were so red that looked like they were about to explode.

“Why else, hyung? To make you seem vulnerable for once. We know your weakness and we are taking advantage of it.”, said Seungmin, proud of himself.

“I’m not ticklish anymore, you know.”, Lee Know replied, hoping that he’d at least not get poked. But no.. he wasn’t so lucky. He wasn’t really persuading either. His red parts admitted everything without words. It’s true then that actions speak louder than words. He was saying a simple ‘no’, but his body screamed the opposite.

“What are you saying? I accidentally touched your sides yesterday and you nearly screamed.”, said Jisung.

“I was startled.”

“You knew I was about to touch you. Whether that’d be on your sides, your head, or whatever. When I know that someone is gonna touch me somewhere I don’t get startled, unless I’m ticklish.”, the quokka stated.

It was cute seeing them have that kind of argument.

Minho stayed silent, his arms crossed, looking down. Until he felt a poke in his side which made him jump and let out a small and quiet ‘augh’. It was Bangchan, who was smiling like an idiot after he received the reaction he was expecting and hoping for.

“Is that what you meant by saying ‘I’m not ticklish anymore’?”, the oldest said, his smile not leaving his face.

“Don’t do that!” Minho said, covering his side with his hand, rubbing it a little. It was a habit he had. Whenever part of him was tickled, he’d rub it for a few seconds. Just to get rid of the ghost tickles.

“Why’s that, Lee Minho? Are you perhaps a little ticklish?”

“What’s your issue, old man?”

“Now that’s not how you should talk to your elders. Bin, hands”, and with that sentence, Lee Know panicked so much her thought he was the closest to death he’d ever been.

Changbin, as the strongest member, pinned Minho down sitting on his wrists. Now every sweet spot of the cat was exposed and all he could do was just let everything happen. Even if that meant that he’d probably die before everything ended. Bangchan, of course, knew how ticklish Minho was and how much he could stand it (which wasn’t too much), he would stop when he’d felt like he was crossing his limits.

“This is because you’re a liar,”, he said and poked Minho’s left side. Do I even need to write down his reaction? Use your imagination. “This is for being disrespectful,” he continued, and now poked his right side. Minho was already laughing hard. Not hysterically, just hard. He hated himself for that. He felt embarrassed. He was in front of everyone, in such a vulnerable position, unable to do anything about it.

“And this is just because I want.” Bangchan said, and with that he attacked Minho’s sides. In whichever way you’d like. Minho’s eyes were already tearing up. Chan knew that his sides were too sensitive to every single thing.

The rest of the members just stood there smiling at how adorable their hyung was. Jisung, knowing he could do whatever he wanted to Lino without getting in trouble, started softly tickling his soles. Now, Chan was sitting on Minho’s hips, so the dancer could at least move his knees. But what was there to do? He was so weak from the tickles that even if he pulled his feet away, Jisung would pull them back.

Minho was now under his members’ mercy.

“HEHEHEY NOHOHO!”, he screamed multiple times. It was like he was in mute. No one payed attention to what he said, like he’d never said anything

“What’s that Min? Are you ticklish by any chance?” Chan teased “Changbin, looks like you have long nails, how about you lightly tickle the ‘I’m not ticklish anymore’ guy’s armpits? And oh, Jisung, keep tickling his feet. Looks like we found another spot.”

“Say less” Changbin said, who was patiently waiting for this moment. He starts drawing circles in the poor boy’s armpits.

“STOP STOP STOHOHOP! SEHEHEO CHAHANGBIHIHIN! PLEAHAHASE DOHOHONT- IHIM SOHORRY!” screamed the dancer.

Jisung grew genuinely concerned and stopped. He knew Minho was having way more than what he could handle. “Hyungs, I think we need to stop.”

Changbin stopped, but Chan didn’t. He just stopped the light tickles, still on his sides.

“ChahahAHAN HYUHUNG pleHEase! IHIHIM TIHIHICKLIHISH! I AHAM! JUHUHST PLEAHASE MAKE IHIHIT STOHOHOP!”, he screamed and Chan stopped.

He got off him and Minho immediately hugged himself and curled into a ball. Still giggling as the ghost tickles were still there.

“You alright, Min? Did we go too far?”, asked the leader.

“Noho I’m not and yes yohou dihid”

“Okay! I got my answer. You such a sensitive cat, aren’t you?”, said the puppy, clearly amused by what had just happened.

The game didn’t stop, however, Minho made up a new rule. No tickling questions were allowed from that point. Unless it was Chan who was questioned

Minho took advantage of it and not much longer the fourth round came.

“Chan hyung,” Lee Know said, “are you ticklish?”

The leader looked at him in pure terror

————————————————————————

Let me know if you want a sequel!

[hoejosatoru]

I Choose You

Pairing: Fem! reader x Gabimaru (reader’s skin color/ hair color/texture not specified) (also I'm unclear on Gabi’s age but obviously he’s 18+ here)

Summary: When reader and Gabi’s marriage is arranged, neither are sure what to expect. Overtime, however, they find that their connection goes beyond just duty.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: both characters are lil shy and awkward at times (but its sweet), arranged marriage, bathing together, fingering, mutual virginity loss, cream pie, not proof read

a/n: I lost the sex scene not once, but TWICE, so I hope you enjoy because I suffered for it. Also I think this is literally the first Gabimaru smut so that’s cool

Your wedding day was something you pictured your entire life. You spent a lot of time thinking about the dress you would wear, the food you’d eat, the people you would celebrate with. Most of your daydreams, though, were spent wondering who your husband would be.

You thought about the ways you’d meet him. Maybe while out on a walk, or when you went to the market in the village. You imagined him being sweet and charming you. Taking you on dates and winning your heart. You pictured him as gentle, but strong, and, of course, handsome.

None of those things happened. There was no romance, just an order from your father. And now you sat next to your husband, a man who’s reputation proceeded him. Gabimaru the Hollow. He was not unhandsome, you noted, but that did not do enough to mitigate your fear of him. He was your father’s most fearsome shinobi, capable of things you couldn’t even imagine.

He was unassuming, despite his reputation. You expected him to be... well meaner. Or louder. Or something. He was oddly quiet, not speaking to you beyond what was necessary for the vows. He barely ate, too, though neither had you. But that was because of your nerves. 

You knew what came after a marriage ceremony. No matter who you had married, you’d be nervous for that. But the fact that you didn’t know this man beyond his reputation made it even scarier. You weren’t ready for it, but if he wanted to have sex with you, you had no choice but to comply. It was what was expected of a good wife and you’d raise to be, above all, a good wife.

You tried watching Gabimaru out of the corner of your eye. He seemed disinterest, bored even. You wished you could read his mind, or that you at least felt brave enough to start conversation. You wondered how he felt about this. Anxiety fluttered through you. What if he was displeased? Your hand almost instinctively went up to the scar down your face, but you resisted. Perhaps he did not think you were beautiful. Though you had no strong feelings for the man, it still poked at your insecurity.

Suddenly, your father was announcing the end of the festivities. Your stomach churned with anxiety as you and Gabimaru were led to your place on the compound. The house was modest, but comfortable. There was even a private bathing area attached to it, which you were excited about. You, however, weren’t in the frame of mind to be all that excited over your living situation.

“Congratulation on your marriage. I hope you will both make our clan proud,” your father said, with very little warmth in his voice. He was never a kind man and you couldn’t imagine having to endure relentless training with him. 

Then the door shut and you were alone with Gabimaru. Your heart was beating so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t hear him speak. “Do you know where the bedroom is?”

“Oh y-yes,” you replied, glad to have a task. You began walking and he followed behind you. “Since the wedding was announced, I have been preparing the house for us.” It was strange to have an ‘us.’ “I hope you will find it satisfactory.”

“It’s nice,” he noted. 

“Thank you. Oh, here we are.” You stepped into the bedroom, which felt significantly smaller now that both of you were in it. “There’s sleepwear in the dresser.” 

“Thank you,” he replied, pulling out what he needed. You took our your own and slipped behind the changing screen. Maybe it was silly to protect your modesty around your husband, especially when he was most likely about to take it all off, but it made you feel better.

Gabimaru was already on the bed when you stepped out. Your knees were weak, but you pushed yourself forward. You lied down next to him, hoping he couldn't hear your heart pounding. You were still as stone, waiting for him to move, to touch you, to have his way with you. 

But then he surprised you. He softly said goodnight and turned his back to you to sleep. You felt a wave of surprise and relief that he did not intend to have sex with you. Though it did a lot to help your nerves, it did little to improve your insecurities. This time, you allowed your fingers to run over the scar on your face, wondering if you were not enough.

***

Over the next few weeks you got to know Gabimaru, who was nothing like you expected. You were waiting to see anger or cruelty or something to be scared of, but you never saw it. Indeed, he seems the opposite. He was quiet and unassuming, albeit a little strange. He had some odd habits, such as searching every corner of the house twice before bed, and was aloof at times, but never was mean.

It was strange, though, to see how other in the compound treated him. They were certainly afraid of him. Many avoided him altogether, or seemed uneasy when having to speak with him. Even your father’s most skilled and dangerous shinobi seemed on edge around him. If they acted that way, you knew the stories about him had to be true and yet, you had not been able to feel any fear towards him since the night of your wedding passed.

It was still a mystery how he felt about you. The first few nights after your wedding you kept expecting him to reach over and touch you or tell you he wanted you. However, at this point you have fully dropped that expectation. It was still a little odd to sleep next to a relative stranger, but you did feel oddly safe with him around.

Though you appreciated him never forcing himself on you, your fears of him not finding you attractive grew worse and worse. Why else would a man not sleep with his wife? You didn’t blame him, you knew the scar marred your beauty, but it still hurt. You tried not to dwell on it, as it was something you couldn’t change. Instead, you resolved to be the perfect wife in other ways. You were determined to connect with him.

“Gabi - uh do you mind if I eat with you tonight?” you were so nervous to ask that you didn’t even notice the nickname you’d given him. It caught Gabimaru’s attention, though, throwing him off. 

“Oh, um, sure,” he replied, sitting down at the table. You felt a small rush of triumph. Gabi was often out late, eating long after you when he got home. Sometimes he didn’t eat at all. When he was home, he always went off to eat alone. It was one of his odd habits. 

Gabi began to devour his food. And you mean devour. Shoveling it into his mouth so quickly you couldn’t imagine he even tasted it. You couldn’t help but laugh. He paused at the sound, looking up expecting to find you mocking him, but there was not a trace of malice in your laughter or your face. 

“You don’t need to rush!” you said kindly.

Gabi knew the way he ate wasn’t normal. He was taught to eat this way in his training. Eating was a necessary evil, not something you took pleasure in. He was trained to eat his food for sustenance, nothing more. Gabi wasn’t sure what to say, so he just said, “Sorry.”

You smiled fondly at him. It stirred something deep inside him that he couldn't quite place. “No need to apologize. I just want you to enjoy it. After a long day you deserve it.”

You deserve it. Gabi had never been told that before, at least not for something good. No, only punishments were deserved. “I guess I was just taught this way.”

“I can teach you a new way... If you’d like,” you added as to not sound too assertive. 

Gabimaru, in that moment, realized he would like to learn. “Yes... please”

You modeled for him, picking a few noodles up with your chopsticks and slurping them up slowly. He mimicked you, though still went a little too fast, causing the noodles to go a little haywire. They whipped around to hit his cheek and chin. You couldn’t help but giggle.

“That will happen if you go to fast,” you explained. “Try again, just a little slower.” Under you gentle instruction, he was able to slurp the noodles up with out a mess. You then instructed him to take a little sip of the broth and allow it to swirl around on his tongue before swallowing. Gabi’s eyes widened as he truly tasted his food for the first time in years. He couldn’t believe how good it was.

“This is so good,” he said. You beamed at the compliment, which only made him enjoy it more. You both sat together and ate slowly, an activity Gabi never thought could be so... nice.

“Do you have a favorite food? I want to make more things you’ll like.” He didn’t, what with how eating typically went for him. He told you as much. “That’s alright, we’ll just have to find your favorite together. I’ll try a bunch of different recipes and you can tell me which you like best. Would you like that?”

Gabimaru was not often shocked, but you really threw him for a loop. He did not expect much from a marriage. Honestly, he hadn't even really wanted it, but knew he couldn’t refuse the request from your father. Knowing him, he’d assumed you would be the same. Your kindness and gentleness with him was disarming. 

“Yes, thank you y/n,” he replied. He was unnerved. Not in a bad way, like when he faced a strong opponent. He just didn’t know what to make of you. Gabi asked if there was anything he could do. He always felt best when he was given commands. It was comfortable for him to not have to make decisions for himself, rather just do as he was told. 

“Oh, um,” you were surprised he offered to help. You were not used to that from the men you knew. “Some help cleaning the dishes would be great.”

Gabimaru nodded and joined you at the counter. You fell into an easy rhythm of you rinsing and him drying. There was silence between the two of you, but it was comfortable. Pleasant, almost. You almost wished there were more dishes to do just to prolong this time. 

Finally, however, you finished. You didn’t want to push too far, so you just thanked Gabi for his help. Gabimaru nodded and started to exit the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, turning back to you. 

He said what he had been thinking since he first heard you say it. “I… like when you call me Gabi. You can call me that from now on. And thank you again for the food.”

Your heart soared with pride. You were so pleased that your plan was a success. “Of course. I look forward to more meals with you, Gabi.” With that Gabi disappeared into the hallway, leaving you both with the faintest hint of a stirring that you couldn’t quite place. 

***

The evening you shared dinner with Gabi seemed to be the icebreaker you both needed. You noticed that he started coming home earlier and made effort to eat with you. You loved watching him find joy in food and learning all the things he liked. You were slowly spending more time with each other and little by little getting to know each other more. 

Gabi was still very guarded. He seemed nervous in ways or, rather, like a fish out of water. You quickly realized he didn’t know what it meant to live a “normal” life. It was why he ate too quickly, couldn’t do laundry, and struggled to make conversation. You knew it was all because of your father’s cruel training. It made you resent him more. 

The only good thing it provided was more opportunities to connect with Gabi. Each time you taught him something new, you felt yourselves grow closer. It had only been a few weeks since that dinner and you felt yourself growing fond of him. 

Well, more than fond truly. You were nervous around him, but not for the reasons you originally were. Your stomach filled with butterflies. As much as you learned about him, you wished for more. The time spent with him wasn’t enough. 

You wished for a touch, even. Not that you were necessarily ready for sex, but a brush of hands, an embrace, anything to give an indication of how he felt. You felt he was connecting to you, but the lack of intimacy nagged at you. Could he just not be interested?

Little did you know that Gabi was very much interested. He savored the time you spent together, arguably even more than you did. He knew he wasn’t the best at companionship, but just listening to you talk brought up feelings in him he quite honestly didn’t know he had. He always feared he was disappointing you, but was soothed by the smiles you gave and the gentleness you showed him. 

Gabi wanted to touch you, but he didn’t really know how. He was scared of hurting you or making you afraid. You were everything he wasn’t: sweet, kind, a caretaker. He knew you must be aware of his reputation, of who he was, and felt you must think he’s monster like everyone else does, even if you didn’t show it. 

For those reasons, he felt he didn’t even deserve to touch you. There were, however, a few times in the night that your bodies had  drifted together. Gabi was a very light sleeper and woke up the instant your body touched his. You were so warm, your scent so sweet, that he couldn’t pull himself away. It felt wrong, to steal these moments from you, but he couldn’t help himself. He always slipped away before you could wake and realize. It was better that way, he told himself. 

What he felt for you was already dangerous. It went against everything he was trained to become: an unfeeling killing machine. If his judgement were to become clouded with feelings for you, it could put not only him but you in danger. He simply could not have that. Still, it was much easier said than done. 

“Gabi there is something we need to work on,” you said, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“What is that?”

“Bathing.”

“Bathing? What about it?”

“I don’t think you do it… right,” you said politely. 

Gabi didn’t know there was a right and wrong way to bathe. He said as much to you. 

“Well you don’t seem to indulge in it much. And when you do you’re barely in the bath for a few minutes. I don’t see how you can even enjoy it.”

“I was taught that baths are to be completed as quickly as possible. Any lingering could dull the senses,” he replied. He left out the part that those senses were necessary for his job of killing people. He didn’t want to fill your head with that vision of him. You looked at him with such empathy that it made his chest ache strangely. 

“I know you were raised in a … strict environment. I imagine on a mission lingering in the bath is not advisable,” you replied, “but at home with me you are safe. I can promise you that. You deserve to relax. To feel clean.” 

To feel clean. Gabi doesn’t think he’s felt truly clean in a very long time. He sometimes wondered if he was tainted the moment he was born. He wasn’t sure a bath would change that, but he could not resist the sweet smile on your face. 

Gabi followed you to the bathing area, the part of the house he admittedly spent the least amount of time in. “Let me put some essential oils in the water before you get in. It’s good for you skin and smells nice. Would you like rose or lavender?”

You might as well be speaking another language. “Um. Which do you like?”

“Lavender.”

“I’ll take that one then.”

You smiled, which made Gabi’s chest feel lighter. You opened up a small bottle, putting a few drops of liquid in the water. Steam rolled up from the water as your swirled it around with your hand, filling the room with a pleasant scent. “There, that should be good. I’m going to get a few things, you can get in if you’d like.” 

Gabi started to undress, which made your cheeks tint. You turned to gather some bars of soap and towels, but couldn’t help but peak over at him. You almost gasped seeing how his body was littered with scars. You of all people knew what it was like to carry scars; your heart ached for him and the pain he must have endured. You felt like you should look away as he stripped his lower half, but you could make your eyes move. You did not have much to compare to, but he looked large even when soft. Your cheeks had to be flaming red.

“Is everything okay?” Gabi asked as he stepped into the bath, his body disappearing below the water. Gabi wasn’t really uncomfortable with nudity, nor did he ever think his body could have an effect on you. He wasn’t sure what was making you blush, but did think you looked particularly pretty when your cheeks were pink.

“Y-yes, sorry I was just...” you mumbled, fumbling to pivot the conversation, “Wondering if the water is warm enough?” You told yourself to get it together, that there was no need to be bumbling like an idiot over nudity.

“Yes it’s good.” 

You pulled yourself together and brought the soaps over to Gabi. You sat behind him, feeling grateful that the water and candlelight made it difficult to see much. You could see that Gabi still looked tense, though. “You need to relax.”

“I... I don't really know how to do that,” Gabi admitted.

You couldn’t help but giggle, which Gabi delighted in, despite feeling vulnerable. He always felt that way when you were teaching hims something new. “Try closing your eyes.” That went against all of Gabi’s instincts, but he did not want to disappoint you, so he complied. “Now try taking deep, slow breaths.” That Gabi could do fairly easily. You watched his chest rise and fall slowly over his shoulder. “Good Gabi, just like that.” Your praise made his cheeks burn. “May... may I touch you?”

Gabi’s pulse raced. He hoped his voice didn’t shake when he said, “Yes.”

“I’m going to start with your hair.” You collected some water in your hands, gently pouring it over the top of his head. You repeated the actions until his hair was nice and wet. You tried to focus on the task at hand so you did not get too nervous about the fact you were finally touching him. “This soap is specifically for hair. It smells like sandalwood. I think you’ll like it.”

You lathered the soap in your hands, before putting them in Gabi’s snowy hair. You gently rubbed little circles over his head to get it nice and soapy. You then allowed your nails to run over his scalp, getting a deeper clean.

“Wow,” an almost inaudible sigh left Gabi’s mouth. He couldn’t believe how good it felt just to have your hands on his head. Gabi didn’t really know what it meant to relax, but he felt a soothing sort of warmth starting to spread through his body and wondered if that was it.

You smiled at his reaction. “Feels nice, right?” Gabi nodded, letting himself get lost in your touch. You scrubbed at his hair until the bubbles rinsed away all the dirt. You hesitated a little before moving down to his shoulders, feeling little butterflies in your stomach. You ran the bar of soap over his shoulder and upper back, before massaging it in with your hands. 

Gabi’s body tensed at first under your touch. He was not used to anyone touching him, at least not in a gentle way. However, the more your hands work over his body, the more he relaxed. You savored the feeling of his body beneath your hands. You could easily feel the strength of his muscles, thick and firm under his skin. The texture of his scars was a little rougher than the rest of his skin, but you didn’t mind at all. You were extra soft around them.

You were nervous to ask the next question, but you pushed through. “I- I will have to get in with you to do the rest of your body. But if you don’t want me to, that’s okay.”

Gabi almost said no, solely because the thought of you being naked in the bathing pool with him did something to his senses that more than dulled them. But he even with all his training, he could not resist it. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”

Your hands were shaking a little as you stood up and undressed. You left your clothes in a messy pile behind you as you walked to the other side of the bathing pool to climb in. You were so nervous about Gabi seeing you naked that you almost let out a laugh when you saw that he still had his eyes dutifully closed. He really wanted to look, but didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. He kept his eyes screwed shut even as he heard you stepping into the water.

“You can open your eyes now, if you’d like.”

He did, finding you up to your chest in the water. He could see the very top of your breast at the top of the water, but nothing more. You looked so beautiful with your cheeks flushed and shoulders bare that it made him shift nervously. You approached him slowly settling a few inches in front of him. He watched as you continued your work down his body, lathering and massaging the soap down his arms, his chest, his legs. You didn’t touch him between his legs and he was glad for it. He did not trust his bodily control that much.

Though having you so close to him and touching him made him nervous, he could not deny it felt amazing. He never lingered this long in the bath. Between the warmth of the water and the way you scrubbed him clean, he his body felt lighter than it had in a very long time. He was in awe of how you found the easiest ways to change his life.

“All done,” you said finally, “How do you feel?”

Gabi gave you the sweetest smile you’d seen in all the time you've know him. “Clean. Thank you.” You smiled equally as brightly in response. A thought dawned over Gabi that he knew was a bad idea, but he wanted to show you he could learn to be gentle. To be a normal person. “Can I... return the favor? It seems only right. And it would help me practice.” 

The thought of Gabi’s hands on your body elicited a stirring in your lower belly. There was not a single part of you, though, that did not want it. “I would like that, thank you.” 

You turned your back to him, sitting between his legs. Gabi took the soap from side of the pool, which so slick it slipped through his fingers and dropped into the pool. You both laughed lightly, breaking some of the nervous tension.

Gabi mimicked exactly what you did, starting with your hair. His fingers got a little tangled at first, but with some patient instruction he got the hang of it. He had a surprisingly careful touch that soothed you. You waited so long to know what his touch felt like and you were not disappointed. You had to fight the urge to lean into it more, to press your body against his.

Your breath caught in your throat as his hands slid around to your stomach. He did not touch your breasts, nor the space between your legs, but each time he got close you both blushed deeply. Not that you knew given that your back was still to him.

“Was that okay?” Gabi asked when he finished.

“That was perfect,” you replied, turning around to face him. You were so close to each other now, faces just inches a part. You felt drawn to him, like a moth to flame. Your voice was just a whisper when you asked, “May I try something?”

“Anything,” he breathed.

You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. It was the first kiss either of you ever shared and you both felt it ignite something deeper in you. You pulled away, breathless. Gabi was in stunned silence.

“Was that okay?” You asked nervously.

“Yes of course I- I just…” he trailed off, not sure how to explain it. Not sure how to not expose all his vulnerabilities to you. “I just never thought you would want to do that with… someone like me.”

Your brows furrowed. “Someone like you? What do you mean.”

“I- I’m not a good person,” Gabi admitted, “I don’t deserve you.”

“You’re my husband.”

“But you didn’t choose me.”

“But I am choosing you,” you insisted, “I have chosen you ever say since our wedding. I will continue to choose you for as long as I shall live. I- I don’t care about what you think you are or what people say. I have seen you for who you really are. You are a good man, Gabi.”

You are a good man, Gabi. Your voice echoed in his head. He couldn’t believe that you could think so highly of him. Feel so strongly about him. It loosened something in his chest, filling him with such an aching want he couldn’t speak.

You mistook his silence for disinterest. “I hope I have not overstepped. If you do not feel the same I understand.” You went to turn away, but Gabi grabbed you.

“No, don’t go,” he urged. “I’m sorry, you know I am not good with words. I just never thought you would feel that way about me.”

“You do yourself a disservice, Gabi,” you replied, “truthfully, I thought you wouldn’t feel that way about me.” Your eyes dropped to the water, feel self conscious. “I thought I may not be beautiful enough for you.”

Gabi was astonished that you could think that. He gently cupped your cheek, making your eyes meet. The way he looked at you made your chest squeeze. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” His thumb brushed over your scar. “I hate that you’ve been hurt like this, but I promise it does nothing to mar your beauty.”

You leaned into his touch, feeling all the insecurity and anxiety you’d felt the last few weeks melt away. “Gabi we haven’t made our marriage… official you know,” you blushed as you spoke. Gabis brows wrinkled in confusion, then shot up when he understood.

“Do you want to?”

You nodded. “Yes, I want to be with you like that. I know we didn’t chose each other initially, but we can choose this.”

“I would love to,” Gabi replied, his head spinning at the mere thought. “I’ve just never done that. With anyone.” Now you were surprised; you could believe he was a virgin like you. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Nothing could be a disappointment with you,” you assured him. You took his hands in yours and squeezed them. “We will get to learn. Together.”

Gabi loved the sound of that. You both wasted no time climbing out of the tub. You didn’t bother covering yourself with clothing or a towel, allowing Gabi see your entire body. You felt a little shy under his gaze but not uncomfortable. He was mesmerized by the droplets of water dripping down your curves.

“So beautiful,” was all he could manage, but you felt the weight of the feelings behind his words. You took his hand in yours, loving its warm roughness. You found yourself in your room quickly. You both laughed with nervous excitement as you climbed on to the bed and settled next to each other. “May I kiss you?”

He was pulling you in the second you nodded. The kiss was deeper than the first. It was a little messy on account of both of yours lack of experience, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You let your hands trail his body, liking that your got to feel him without the barrier of water. You loved everything you felt, scars and all.

You sensed Gabi was still hesitant to touch you. You took his hands in yours, placing them on your sides. “Go on, Gabi. Touch me,” you urged softly, “I want you to.”

He could not deny you anything. He allowed his hands to explore your body. He couldn’t believe how soft you were. Feeling braver, he brought a hand to your breast and squeezed gently. The little gasp you made made blood rush between his legs.

He felt instinct take over and brought his lips to the sensitive flesh. He kissed it, ran, his tongue over your nipple, then sucked lightly. Your body arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair. He loves that, how your body reacted to him, as if urging for more, which he was more than happy to give.

As he kissed at your breasts you could feel him growing harder against your thigh. You squirmed with need, thighs pressing together for friction. Gabi could not resist touching you between them any longer.

Though he had no previous partners, he had a general idea of how things worked and how sex was supposed to go. Lord knows he heard men talk enough about it. So he knew women were supposed to get wet, yet he was still shocked by the slickness between your legs. In the best way possible.

“So wet,” he murmured, running his fingers through it. You were practically shaking with anticipation as his fingers ghosted over your clit. He noted how your body twitched and made a mental note to go back to that. He slid a finger inside you savoring the gasped you made. You were so wet and warm and tight around his finger, he couldn’t imagine how you’d feel around his cock.

Gabi never cared that much about getting off; it had always just been a matter of necessity for him. He never really did it out of desire or want, but he wanted you so bad it hurt. He pumped his fingers inside you, watching your face carefully for response. When he found a spot inside you that made you gasp particularly loud, he zeroed in on that. As your breath grew ragged, he remembered the other spot he wanted to try. He slid his fingers out of you and brought them to your clit, rubbing it.

“Feels so good,” you gasped.

“You like that?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied breathlessly, “Don’t stop.” Gabi continued touching you just you asked. Each little circle he rubbed made the coil of pleasure in your lower stomach feel tighter. Gabi’s fingers felt so much better than your own. He leaned in taking your nipple in his mouth, sucking. The sensation caused the coil to snap, spreading pleasure across every inch of your body. Gabi watched as you came, your face went slack with bliss, your body arched. He wanted to watch you do that over and over.

“You’re good at that,” you said with a shy giggle when you came down from your high. 

“Thank you,” Gabi beamed at the compliment. 

Your eyes traveled down his body, seeing how hard he was with need. Gabi felt a little shy under your gaze, but let you look. You looked up at him. “You’re so handsome,” you said, “And I want all of you.”

Your hands traveled down his body, taking his cock in your hands. You pumped the length a little and Gabi’s hips stuttered. It was such a slight touch, but it drove him wild. You pulled him closer to you, rubbing him against your slick cunt. His head nudged against your hole and you looked to him for more.

“And you’re sure? I don’t want to hurt you.” Gabi heard the first time could be uncomfortable for girls; the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you.

“I trust you,” you replied definitively. That almost meant more to him than everything else you have said to him. 

When he finally pressed into you, you both gasped. It was such a full, foreign feeling, but not unpleasant. Gabi tried to steady himself as he felt your gummy walls squeeze around him. “Are you in any pain?” he asked though gritted teeth. 

You felt very full and a little pressure, but nothing painful. “I’m okay Gabi, keep going.” He did has you bid him, rolling his hips slowly so you could both adjust. Each moment that passed made the pressure melt to pleasure. His cock tip brushed the sweet spot inside you. Each sweet sound that left your mouth urged him to continue. He gripped the bed sheets tightly, trying to not to spill too soon. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you. Your bodies completely pressed together as you kissed him. You both loved the connectedness, how you didn’t really know where one started and the other ended. You both didn’t knew sex was supposed to feel good, but you didn’t know it would feel this good.

You hips bucked up to meet Gabi’s, pressing him deeper inside you. Your second orgasm snuck up on you, seizing your body with warm bliss. Gabi got lost in the feeling of squeezing him, moaning his name in his ear. His hips twitched as he came, filling you with his warm release. 

You were both breathlessly and smiling as you came down from you high. You felt so deeply connected to Gabi in that moment that you couldn’t believe there was a time you didn’t know him.

You pushed his hair out of his eyes, smiling up at his face. “I love you, Gabi. And I choose you. Always.”

“Thank you for showing me what love could be,” Gabi replied, kissing your lips. He held you close, glad that finally he would not have to slip away from you. He could hold you, choose you. Forever.