#lemon live entertainment

[willtransform]

on the dubai penthouse i know it's about the absence of metaphor etc etc but im a designer at heart and wow i hate that place. brutalist minimalism as an interior design style is so atrociously ugly. those arches.... the dramatic effect is fun for a picture but to live in... lowkey you live in a brand experience like i could turn that place into a restoration hardware showroom so quick

however controversially i do think i could make graphic lemon print wallpaper work obviously you can't do minimalism and you'd need to change all the furniture and most of the art. but being a designer is about fulfilling the client's wishes. it might look like a momentum pop-up showroom but pulling off 'not hotel lobby' is very doable i think

the structure of the place has so much potential though. interior level changes conversation pits like architecturally it's fantastic!! you just need to do something you need to use it. it could be a place someone lives. but it's not which is the point but oh my god. i would go insane so quick

i love when tv is good and has good set design

[xo2dee]

NOW LOADING. .

JJK MASTERLIST

LAMBENT

PAIRING: Sukuna x (Fem)Reader WARNINGS: true form!sukuna, pregnant!reader, heian era customs, pregnancy, mentions of cannibalism, sukuna being an asshole (what do you expect) WORD COUNT: 3,767 SUMMARY: Carrying the King's of Curses child, you knew wouldn't be easy, but you were more than happy to have a baby of your own. Even if said baby was growing rapidly while being the source of your bad back and changing appetite.

A/N: sukuna fluff is hard to come by in my opinion and so sorry if he's ooc but i wanted him like this. also, this is for lemon and ava, two of my favorite sukuna babes 🤍

Wrist flicking out, you fanned yourself, eyes heavy with the sleep you had been fighting as you pursed your lips and eyed the blooming trees of the garden. Spring was rounding itself off, the scorching weather approaching you knew in weeks as you could only prepare yourself to be practically bedridden due to your ‘condition’. You’d only arrived a year and a half prior, and you quickly realized you had not seen much of the palace still after taking a husband, be it due to the duties of a noble person who were bound to spend most their days inside and entertaining themselves another way.

You held back a snort, fanning yourself harder as you stopped and eyed a nearby bush full of bright fruit and as red as your husband’s eyes.

…Husband.

In your youth, you supposed the daydreams of living in nobility were only achievable through luck. Or perhaps told through a fortune told from the Omikuji you required as a teen, taking the fortunes of ‘blessing’ and ‘marriage’ with a grain of salt until you had grown into an adult and ran off to be elsewhere from the clutches on an arranged marriage. Into serving nobility, to becoming nobility wasn’t necessarily on your list, your marriage by all means was an unlawful one. Forged from blood and flesh when you remembered instead of sipping sake in front of the Gods, your husband-to-be curled his fingers around your wrist and bit into your palm to instead partake in you.

You had been enamored by him since you first met him, eyes memorizing every inch of his unusual face before taking his thumb into your mouth when he smeared his own blood across your lips. It had sealed your fate that moment, your love and lust for him bursting forth like a raging inferno then and during the commutation of your marriage. Something that had finally taken into effect and was weighing down on you heavily.

One you supposed was the reason for the wariness when it came to serving you.

Cutting your eyes to the side and slightly behind you, you held the sigh in, your attendant keeping her eyes on the ground (perhaps watching your feet when you walked) as to shield her pensive expression from you, however you were not the unobservant type and focused on the knot between her eyebrows. Mai, your first and most loyal attendant, was never one to shy away from pestering over you, speaking her mind and filling in for advice whenever you needed it, so to see her quiet and on edge grated your nerves more than you liked to admit. She had been your first friend when you arrived, and you absolutely despised when she reverted back into the meek and submissive attendant she played whenever your husband was around, and it was enough to make you frown and worry if you had done something wrong.

You sighed loudly, snapping your fan shut and turning to the woman slowly, “You look like you have something you want to say.”

Mai’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, long and curled as her doe-like eyes rose to meet yours. She seemed to mull over your statement, before bowing her head in submission and speaking quietly, “Permission to speak?”

A smile graced your lips, softening your expression and nodding to her in return, “You always have permission with me, Mai.”

And just like that, Mai’s entire attitude flipped at your nonchalance. Straightening herself up, she dropped the service act and eyed you with suspicion and wary, mixed in with tired disappointment at having to cater to your more… reckless wants. “It’s just that Lord Sukuna has told us to monitor you and keep you in the palace when he’s away. And you’ve disobeyed that… again.”

Ah, there it was. With a scowl threatening to mar your face, you turned your back to her and began to pick through the strawberries in the bush you had been eyeing before, “I’m in the gardens. That’s still the palace… Is it not?”

“Yes, but –”

“This one looks ripe…” you cut her off, not necessarily wanting to hear her prattle on about how your husband made it horrifyingly clearly that you were to say inside at all times when he wasn’t at the palace. You’d heard it all before so many times it had been practically engraved into your skull with ink, and you were fed up with sitting on your knees inside away from the outside world and learning calligraphy constantly. Lips downturned you plopped a good-looking strawberry into your mouth, humming at the juice and tangy sweetness that exploded upon your taste buds, before your stomach gave an abrupt twist and a foot kicked out against your ribs. You winced and rubbed at your belly while the fruit suddenly tasted foul, and you swallowed with a grimace, “I hate how hungry I get nowadays, especially when I seem to crave more than just human food.”

Mai had been watching you like a hawk, leaning forward to intercept you whenever you reached for another fruit, “Oh, let me get it for you –”

“Please, Mai, I can pick my own strawberries. You worry too much.” Batting her hand away, you plucked it, hiding it in your sleeve and turning to her with an exhausted smile as she took your fan from you.

“Yes, My Lady. But please consider my words, we can keep you entertained in the palace.” You watched the lines on her face carefully, creased at her eyes and wrinkles forming at her forehead, and you could only wonder if your pregnancy had been the cause of her newly formed stress (partly, you knew you could’ve blamed it on your husband, his aggressive and aloof behavior all in one keeping most of the servants on the tips of their toes, but you quickly squashed it whenever you remembered she tended to you entirely).

Of course, you knew she was only doing her job, however her job was also giving you a severe case of claustrophobia being cooped up inside all the time. It wasn’t like you were planning to ever leave the palace’s premises either, just small strolls in the garden or spending time by the pond to cool off. Honestly, you had reason to believe she and your husband were just worrywarts (yet for the latter, you would keep that strictly to yourself).

You nodded your head in the direction you wanted to go, signaling Mai to walk beside you as you sighed and lowered your voice, “The midwife told me exercise will help…” you caressed your palm over your protruding stomach, “The baby is already huge and only seems to keep growing. A little sun helps me too, Mai… I can’t stay cooped up forever.”

Mai took a few moments to respond, her shoulders relaxing and her voice regaining familiarity, “I’m only worried since the last time you fainted out here.”

Lips thinning outwards, you remembered it all too well. Not necessarily fainting, though you blamed it on the many layers you wore around the palace and how warm it was getting outside, but you remembered the aftermath and how your husband had all but slaughtered a few lowly servants in retaliation as to letting you out (and because of his temper). You had thought the gore would’ve had you running, but you’d grown so used to him murdering someone whenever they slightly pissed him off you could only sigh at the thoughts. Of course, you knew Mai’s worry also came out of fear, however you weren’t about to let him do anything to her. “I know, but I feel fine… Just swollen feet and my back aching every time I move.”

And the baby kicking at your body whenever something displeased him.

Mai sighed your name exasperatingly, dropping the formalities, “Please, given your condition I think it’s best if you return to the palace.”

Irritation began to seep in your muscles, your baby moving in response to your emotions as your feet marched faster to walk. If you wanted to walk around the garden, you were allowed to, you would deal with your husband later if he found out. “What my husband doesn’t know won’t hurt him… Just another stroll and we can go back in, I’m getting tired anyways.”

“My Lady – oh!”

Mai abruptly skidded to a halt, body bending quickly into a low enough bow for the towering sight of your husband appearing before you both. You spared her a quick glance, flickering back to your husband, Lord Sukuna, when you realized he wasn’t the least bit concerned over her. He kept all four eyes on you, a challenging glare in them and you nearly wanted to laugh at the sight of two of his arms crossed and the other two planted on his hips. He looked every part of a disappointed husband – a father in the making, and you could already feel the talking your ear was going to get. Ah well, you could always feign falling asleep on him, that seemed to always make him softer.

Bending slightly into your own bow, he spoke, addressing Mai with a singular command, “Leave,” and you only returned back to your own height whenever you peeked that she was gone. You held back the groan at the pull your spine gave, wincing slightly at the shine of the sun before his large form eclipsed it as he finally moved close to you with no one in sight. The familiarity of his warmth and scent eased some of your irritability, wondering why he was back to early and ecstatic that he came to look for you once he couldn’t find you.

You smiled up at him, rolling the strawberry around your fingers before gesturing with your head to the path you had been walking, “Walk with me?”

Sukuna was ever-so unwavering in his staring, watching you practically dawdle in your place with the world’s most unamused expression, “Weren’t you told to stay inside?”

You repressed a shudder at his rough voice as your skin prickled, another sigh leaving while your shoulders slumped; caught. “I might remember you telling me that.” He seemed to not be in the mood for your sweettalking.

A loud exhale made your smile turn sheepish. “You piss me off.”

You knew that was coming, pulling out your hand from the sleeve to produce the strawberry from before, letting his eyes follow the way you rolled it into your palm, “But you’re here now… Nothing could really happen now since I have you.”

Sukuna’s eyebrow furrowed, eyes narrowing inward before he scowled at you enough to let his upper lip slightly curve over his teeth, “Changing the subject won’t help you. Are you gonna walk back, or do I have to carry your ass and –"

In a bold move you silenced him, pressing the strawberry to his lips with two fingers and slightly pushing it forward in hopes he would eat it. His eyes couldn’t narrow or glare any further, shooting from you to the fruit, and holding them there for a few moments and you wanted to giggle because it nearly looked like he pouting. Your husband never really ate human food, perhaps to humor you before he would spit it out and complain about the horrid taste it gave him, however there were a few times his interest would peak and want a bite of whatever you had in your hand – especially when said food seemed to satisfy you so much. You supposed it was his curiosity to understand you better, having a human in such close quarters and as a wife was perhaps as jarring as it was to have him as your husband.

Toying with him, you said, “It gave me bad taste earlier… Want to try it?”

Sukuna’s lips twitched behind the fruit, a clear sign he’d indulge you that time and when you went to move your hand away from him, one of his hand snatched your wrist with a small squeeze. An unspoken word for you to leave your fingers on the fruit and indulge him. And you did so with coquettish blink, pressing the strawberry harder against his lips until they gave way and his teeth were biting into it with the juice from inside sliding down your fingers as he slowly and sensually ate the strawberry from your fingertips. It didn’t help that he kept his eyes on your own the whole time, your cheeks burning as you never were able to get used to your husband’s forward assertion on sensuality.

Your breath caught and eyes widened when his tongue slid over the length of your fingers before slipping in his mouth and sucking on them until they were free of any residue stickiness. You couldn’t help the rapid beat of your heart, lips parting as his thumb tapped in rhythm to your pulse point before he let go of your fingers with a loud ‘plop!’ and a satisfied hum rumbling out of him as you could only gaze dumbfounded at the saliva coating your fingers. After a few moments you cleared your throat and swallowed, eyeing him warily as you knew his stomach probably wouldn’t last long and he’d be hacking it up with loud complaining.

And on cue, you watched fascinated as the mouth on his stomach frowned.

Oh, here it comes. It never lasted long in his system.

You sighed as he spat it out, licking his lips and scowling at the ground, “You’re right, tastes like shit.”

“Would you like me to say something to the servants?” you asked, mentally cheering with a soft smile on your face when he fell into step with you to walk along the gardens. It was never hard to get what you wanted out of him.

“It’s not poor gardening skills, it’s you.” You opened your mouth, ready to backtalk at the insult, yet he silenced you with a hand raised before one of his fingers traced along your cheek, “Weren’t you waddling in and practically whining for some of my food?”

How could you forget, a week ago you’d been lured out of your bed chamber by the most mouthwatering smell and your baby kicking incessantly once your stomach growled. You had stumbled upon Sukuna and Uruame, the latter making Sukuna’s dinner and the dinner something you never were to partake in since his appetite did not quell your hunger. However, when you found yourself salivating with your stomach rumbling and your baby kicking, it was a jarring experience to come to realize you were indulging in cannibalism and liked it. Liked it so much your child never rolled in a fit that night and Sukuna had been extra attentive to you afterwards with his praising.

An answer was on your tongue, though you chose to neglect saying anything when your taste buds twitched at the thought of that dinner and instead enjoyed your walk in peace. Your husband only snorted, a slight laugh leaving him at your pout before he returned his limbs to himself and rolled his gaze forwards on the path you’d been on. Times with him were normally relaxing as he was actually rather lazy when he had nothing to do, his affections ranging from just enjoying your presence in silence to twirling your hair around his finger whenever you were close enough. You never minded, glad to spend time with him though it was equally as nice whenever he seemed get even clingier once finding out you were pregnant.

Even his soft, lingering touches moments ago set your heart ablaze, and you wondered if he felt the same whenever you ran your fingers through his hair whenever he felt like resting his head in your lap.

Minutes into your relaxing walk you felt it, an agonizing cramp pulsing in your back and the soles of your feet screaming in protest at being mobile for too long. Of course, you get some time to do something with him and your body halts that and screams at you to stop. You didn’t want to say anything, not wanting to bother him nor ruin the peaceful moment you were so grateful to have. Although the pain in your body had other plans, cramping upwards and throbbing whenever you tried to take another step so much you immediately had to double over with one hand resting on your stomach.

You stopped, the other hand moving to hold your aching back, and you were vaguely surprised he stopped at the same time. A wince and awkward bouts of silence later, you groaned and straightened back up, “I’m sorry, I think it gets worse every day.”

Sukuna remained silent and still, before a rumbling from his chest prickled the hair on the nape of your neck. “Hm, almost like you should’ve listened to me.” He was back in that disappointed husband stance, and you knew if you were to look into his face you’d see the smug grin at your misfortune. Gritting your teeth you didn’t give him the satisfaction, watching glumly as he sighed rather loudly and moved away from your side to continue walking in the direction of this palace.

You reaped what you sowed you supposed, having to walk back alone after being told not to be out of the palace when he wasn’t there. And your body complaints for moving about too much agreed, a quiet moan of frustration leaving you as you closed your eyes and counted to ten to calm your nerves, reopening them when the pain muted itself into a dull ache for the time. However, you completely clammed up at the sight of your husband bent down in front of you, the black of his haori draped over his shoulders shielding your view of his sculpted back and his face turned forward giving you no indication of what he was doing.

Yet, he did seem like he said something, though you were too befuddled to even understand what he had said.  

“What –”

“Are you deaf?” he interrupted, turning his head slightly and motioning with his head from you to climb onto him, “I said get on, before I change my mind.”

He wanted you… to ride… on his back? Never once did he ever engage in something like that with you (besides carrying you in his arms, but that had been the night of your wedding and he’d practically tossed you on your beds afterwards), though you weren’t about to pass by the chance for him to carry you. Though you weren’t too sure how to climb on his back and hold on so heavily pregnant, Sukuna didn’t have four arms for nothing you supposed.

Not wanting him to change his mind and keep him waiting, you clambered onto him to best you could dressed in several layers with your legs kicking free to slip underneath the lower set of his arms. You held back a squeal when your baby kicked at all the movements, arms flying forward to nearly constrict Sukuna’s airway off as he in return grunted and stood to his full height while beginning to move forward in a slow pace. You were grateful he was taking it slow, still trying to get comfortable and trying not to think about how bad it would hurt to fall off his back from his enormous height…

“Stop fucking squirming…” he grunted again, readjusting you with his arms as your body reclined higher up on his back and he continued walking, “Acting like I’ve never touched you before.”

“It’s not that. He – “ you cut yourself off, you hadn’t necessarily told him that you believed your baby was a boy, and you didn’t want to hear any of his teasing, “the baby kicks and squirms whenever I move too much.” Or whenever he hears your voice, you groused, further proving your point when he kicked at you again whenever Sukuna spoke once more. You wondered if he could feel the kick on his back.

“Damn.” A pause of silence and Sukuna was jostling you on his back, “How much does that prick weigh? Or is that all you?”

Your hand itched to slap the back of his neck, though you held yourself together and only offered him a scoff while making yourself comfortable, “He takes after his father.”

“And he wiggles like a worm, just like his mother.”

You had half a mind to say something about him referring to your child as a boy, your cheeks hot when you rested your chin atop his shoulder and eyes growing lidded with sleep while he inadvertently rocked you with his steps. You bit the inside of your cheek in a girlish thought that your husband was walking slower on purpose, rolling your ankles to stop you from kicking your feet at the idea he wanted to spend more time with you alone. Then again, he was doing all of it for you when he could’ve just left you alone, or not come out to find you at all.

Maybe some days he missed you as much as you missed him.

In a bold declaration, you pushed yourself forward until your nose was skimming Sukuna’s cheek, a chaste kissed you placed there seconds later whenever he didn’t say or do anything to push you away, “Thank you, my Lord.”

Sukuna hummed low in his throat, a deep rumbling that vibrated against your arms and soothed your aching ribs, “Don’t get used to it. I just didn’t want to wait around for your slow ass to waddle back in.” Though he sounded rather harsh, you knew he was just doing roundabout affection in his own way.

Your head lolled against his, the leaves on the trees above swaying you into a warm midday nap the longer you watched them through your eyelashes, “Take me to bed?”

You didn’t necessarily hear his response, though you weren’t dreaming it when his fingers tightened the hold he had on your thighs, the warmth he emitted doing wonders for the pains in your body as he secured you further into his back to ensure you didn’t fall off. You couldn’t help the smile, your cheek smushed into his shoulder as you took one final look at the sunlight path before you both and closed your eyes as exhaustion took its hold over.

With a last conscious thought, you reminded yourself to thank Mai later for allowing you a nice stroll in the garden – especially when you were doing it with your family.

[snoopyhq]

˚ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ i want your drama, the touch of your hand

type: viktor x reader

summary: making up with viktor after a particulatly nasty fight

warning(s): suggestive/borderline nsfw content after the red line divider !!!

word count: 1320

a/n: literally had this thought occur to me while i was boxing at my job yesterday and bad romance came on shuffle on my phone, MAN... the original version but also think the moulin rouge "backstage romance" version MWAH

Hour two, still no talking. The atmosphere within the apartment was heavy with unspoken resentment and hurt. Both of you had woken up in particularly bad moods, and it seemed that being in each others' presence simply amplified that.

Every little thing he did 'wrong' was ticking you off, and everything you said that was slightly unpredicted or off in tone would set him off, and it finally boiled over during dinner.

"I don't like lemon zest. I thought you knew that," he commented. He twirled a strand of the linguini through the fork, pushing the food around on the plate. In that moment, he looked like a petulant, petty brat, and it took all your strength not to reach across the table and slap it out of his hand.

"Maybe speak up next time. Or better yet, you could cook for a change then, since you seem to always have a smart remark about it!"

Viktor set down his fork. The lines between his brows furrowed.

"Don't speak to me that way please," he said, meeting your gaze. "I understand you may be frustrated, but I was just stating my preference. Something I thought you would know, since we do live and spend much of our time together, do we not?"

Anything else he may have said after the first statement didn't matter. You were already in an angry mood, and very much did not appreciate being told how to act.

"Don't police my fucking tone, Viktor. I'll speak however I want to dammit!"

He said nothing, picked up his fork again, and ate the rest of his meal in silence. The wall was slowly rising between the two of you once more. Viktor didn't wait for you to finish your food. He took his dishes, stood up, and walked off, the sound of his cane tapping against the tiles echoing too loudly in the space. You did your own dishes that night, and he did his.

Now there was a warmth lacking, even as the mattress dipped and sighed with every toss and turn. You were doing your best to keep your back to the other. It hurt, but your prides were nearly as sharp as your minds.

One of you had to break. You didn't want it to be you.

The loud banging noise from your upstairs neighbor finally did something.

"Goddammit, that idiot dropped something again," you complained.

"Someone please ban him from buying anymore hideous garden statues. That balcony is straight out of a post-apocalyptic nightmare," Viktor agreed.

You snorted, and quickly tried to cover it by clearing your throat.

"Am I only useful when I'm entertaining you?" he asked softly.

"Shut up. You know that's not true," you finally turned to face him.

"Then..."

"Viktor, I swear."

"That denial implies you care for me. Please, show and not just tell me," he requested sweetly.

"Oh yeah? Show you how, exactly?"

"I'm cold. I miss your warmth. You are cruel when you take away my routinely expectations."

"Fine. Come here," you finally reached out, and clasped his hand in yours.

This wasn't going to completely fix all the underlying emotional distress you were both dealing with, and it certainly wasn't going to fully rid what had transpired. But it was a start, made all the more worth it when he closed the gap, arms already wrapping around you tightly.

"I hate it when we fight," he whispered.

"Me too. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken out my frustrations on you."

"I'm sorry too. I should not have nitpicked so much, and I should have realized policing your tone wasn't going to make things go well."

NSFW AHEAD !!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED !!! MINORS DNI PLS !!!

Viktor gasped, the sound breathy as it fell from his beautiful lips, now slightly swollen from how much you'd kissed and nipped at them. Your hands were in his hair, and you delighted in his reactions with every sharp tug. His amber eyes were dark. They gazed up into yours, practically begging for more more more.

You were happy to indulge.

"Tilt your head back a bit more for me," you rasped in his ear, pushing him back against the pillows. He complied easily.

"Please...," he groaned.

You pressed another kiss to his pulse point. It was one of his more sensitive area, and wasn’t helped when you followed it up with more kisses on his beauty marks.

He sighed.

“You always kiss me like you’re discovering oxygen for the first time again.”

"Because you always take my breath away." You murmured in response. You knew he was going to tell you off for such a stupidly predictable statement, and he did. You shrugged and kept kissing him again and again, silencing any more protests he had with your choice of words.

He nipped at your lower lip, enjoying the small little hiss you let out. He loved that. It never grew old.

His lips left yours, reluctantly, but moved on to your flushed cheeks and down your jaw. Viktor’s hands began gently trailing down your body, tracing and touching and feeling, committing you to memory. Everything about you was perfect, and he was in awe of it all.

As if to translate his thoughts through touch, he squeezed your thighs. He especially had a thing for them, always had. It was like they were made for him to hold.

“You’re so touchy already, Viktor? Insatiable,” you teased.

"But you love it when I can’t keep my hands to myself. You can't lie to me about that,” he cooed in a soft, lilting tone. His fingers traced along your thighs again, digging into the soft flesh.

“Yeah, yeah. enjoy that smug look while you still can,” you grumbled, not denying his words.

You suddenly lunged at him, kissing a trail down his body, giggling to yourself at his surprised yelp.

"Hey!" he laughed breathlessly, his stomach doing somersaults as you kissed along his body. His eyes fluttered closed as he felt your lips press to his skin. He loved when you did this, especially when you would leave soft little marks on his hips.

And speaking of that. You were currently working away at his hips now, trying to hold back the urge to just sink your teeth into him.

He couldn't stop the soft sighs and moans that escaped him. Gods, the touch of your lips on his delicate skin was sending shivers throughout his body.

"You don't have to be ah… gentle all the time." he murmured breathlessly, his fingers now the ones tangled in your hair.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Just bite me already, coward," he demanded.

He liked when you were a bit more rough with him. In fact, he preferred it. You not treating him like he was fragile. It made him feel better than being treated like a priceless doll, hidden away behind locked glass.

“Fuck, finally.” With his permission explicitly given, you finally sink your teeth down into him.

He let out a sharp moan, his hips rolling up a bit automatically.

"Keep going, please." he whispered. “Keep proving to me you’ll keep me warm for the rest of our days.”

You looked up at him, so wonderfully vulnerable and so violently true. His emotions were etched onto every angle of his face. Viktor was never once to mince words when it came to acts of passion, and you were fully reminded of exactly why you adored him so.

“I will. You’re forgiven,” you smiled. “Consider this worship my apology to you, and your acceptance, yours to me.”

You slowly pushed his legs apart, practically aching with the reverence and love and affection you felt for him. You could feel his breath hitch as yours ghosted over his inner thighs.

If this was how you two were to make up after a fight, maybe you should engage in conflict more often, you mused to yourself. It was going to be a slow, feverish night.

[vyzz-undercover]

[Squad Damocles/f!serf]

(11,000 words) (OOPSIEEEE MAXED IT AGAIN)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•intercourse [M/M/M/F]

•oral sex (m & f receiving)

•discussions on the codex

•discussions on reproduction

•essentially a bukkake

•vaginal fingering

•dubcon (via power imbalance)

•definitely size kink

•mild fear elements

———————————————————————————————————

i live despite god, cato chapter 6 will be coming soonish ANYWAYS PSPSPSPSPSP heeeeere kitties kitties!!!! @moodymisty, @mothiir, @sinistermojo, @kit-williams, @primarisly-marooned, @thevoidscreams, @the-raven-lady, @lemon-russ, @blasphemme, @grimdark-raccoon, @pluvio-tea, @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond, @ma1dmer, @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @scriberye, @sinistermojo, @undeaddream, @historitor-bookshelf, @vivacious-hyena, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan. If you want on or off lmk!! I HAVE BAD MEMORY ILY!! ALSO SPECIAL FUCK YOU TO MY DEAR @triassicnautilus WHO IS TO BLAME FOR THIS FIC!!

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It is by no means an offhanded consideration.

Your familial line and ancestors have served the highest echelons of the great Angels for hundreds of years, and yet—of all of your far more worthy, servile kin—you're the first in generations to be sequestered to a new voidship.

It's terrifying.

You're not even sure if you're being demoted in status, because you drift between duties like they hadn't really planned to have you just yet.

When the head serf of the Barge finally has you delegated to a Primaris—it is to Lieutenant Demetrian Titus, of Second Company.

It has been less than a week, now. To say nothing of the fact he hadn't even acknowledge you in his dormitory, at first.

He has made no comment of your presence besides a huff. It's to be expected, as is his right. Your duty is to serve with or without order. But it's certainly not entirely unpleasant being freed of demands —pointedly, he appears to be largely self sufficient. Your new Lord sets his rest attire aside for you, folds sheets to be washed; and, once, brought his cot down from the wall when he saw you struggling at the task.

It takes three days of this for you to notice stern green eyes lingering.

Like most of the Adeptus Astartes who are more often called to active service, there's scant bric-a-brac to be organised in his lodgings.

Perhaps due to the fact that none of the souvenirs of his long service are small in any way.

Much rather, everything your Lord owns is each a hulking testament to his might in war. Like the intricate pauldron hung on the side wall that is the size of your ribcage, and the length of fine red fabric fitted within that which is almost the height of you.

Nonetheless, your Lord begins to try snag your gaze; despite the fact you most often keep your head bowed.

It begins first as you rise to your tippy-toes to dust off the chainsword upon a small outcrop.

It's a tap on his chest armour, that you turn to catch the sound of. Then, when you return with a small crate to stand upon to better reach the shelf, it's a rapt of gauntlet'd fingers on his hip-plating; and a curious focus in his eyes as you spin around to heed the noise.

Lots of little things to coax you to glance at him.

His strange plans pay off, more often than not. It's very difficult to ignore the out of place song of ceramite and steel being drummed against.

This all entertains your Lord, apparently. He doesn't go so far as to laugh or anything, Throne forbid; but he does huff a little from his nose while keeping a neutral, unchanged face. And to that ends, it's difficult to believe a great being as he would stoop to such.

But the Astartes aren't as stalwart every waking hour as the average individual would believe.

Your Lord included, it seems.

On the fourth day, he starts speaking to you.

Nothing more than, 'Good, serf.' when you neatly fold his sheets under the thin mattress and press the wrinkles flat. His voice is a steady lilt, stoic and rugged, and all you can do is nod doltishly.

Then it worsens. It worsens into fully fledged questions, that you shudder and hesitate to answer. At first, it's a stray comment of asking why you have hair still, and that too is a surprise—the serf's on this Battle Barge appear to be clean-shaven on their heads, and yet nothing has been asked of you to undertake such yet.

Then the situation nosedives.

"Where were you stationed, prior to this?" He asks as he's unclad, seated on his cot in a loincloth as you mop.

You haven't dared look at anything more than the skin below his knees as you labour. Even his calves dwarf you, they may as well be one of your thighs.

"I–" you begin, stammering. "I was previously assigned upon the Primarch's Flagship, my Lord."

"Truly? To whom?"

"My mother is indentured to the Chapter Master, as were her parents," you say softly, and clutch the handle tightly.

His brows furrow before asking, "And you were bade sent here? By Lord Calgar, of all people?"

You cock your head, and you aren't sure why his tone is accusative; nor can you parse out the confusion in it. The fact remains your family served on the flagship, the point of who matters not more than simple competence pedigree.

"Nevermind," he sighs, and tips his head down.

You realise you're actively looking at him a bit too late.

He is very handsome, ruggedly so. It is a fact you've viciously tried to repress acknowledging since your assignment to his service—he is as all of his kind is—tall, mighty statue given flesh, built for warring on a million worlds and excelling at such a leviathan task; yet there's a softness to your Lord in the warm, yellow-red candlelight not afforded to him under the harsh hallways lumens.

His chin is darkened with light stubble, and his usually sternly knitted brows are steadily becoming calm and flat. The harsh lines on his face aren't at all as unnerving when they're countered by the thoughtful expression he now wears.

"I believe you may be a sort of gift from him," he supplies dryly.

"A gift, m-my Lord?" You stutter, unseated by the hulking, unclad form of the Primaris Lieutenant so close.

"Titus," he corrects softly, leaning in; and the room is a little less frigid with him practically breathing on you.

"My Lord T-Titus," you adjust, and he snorts good-humouredly.

"Close, but not quite," he tuts, "You may call me Titus."

You lower your head nervously, keeping your gaze down; ultimately receiving an eyeful of his large chest and navel. The scars littering his flesh are a hodgepodge of livid cicatrix, old tissue, and the healed over pitted marks of bullet holes. He has a light dusting of hair across the span of his pectorals, patchy with the aforementioned damage.

Then it deepens to a darker, coarser shade down his dense abdomen, arrowing lower, and lower and—

"Calgar's privy to much," he chuffs, then reaches a large hand up and you're greeted to the sound of a palm scrubbing against stubble. "My predilections, too... worryingly."

You hesitate, completely bemused by the admission—you have no clue what your Lord is talking about. Point of fact, there's a need to reply hanging in your heart; but you stifle it down.

He seems to recognise this, and sighs.

There's a fey, strangled sort of anchor in his voice as he says, "Is it a stretch to say you've been with an Astartes before?"

You cock your head again, "I have served my whole life, my Lord Titus, I assure you that I am—"

He snorts, "Not that kind of service."

"I–I don't understand," you stutter.

"Have you bedded another?"

You hesitate, and feel very real fear seize your mind as you speak, "I-I—If you mean intercourse, such has not been sanctioned for me, m-my Lord."

He stares at you with a deep contemplation, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest at the lie of omission.

"You can answer truthfully," he says.

Swallowing around the dryness in your throat once more you mumble, "Once, m-my Lord."

"We are evenly matched in that contest, then."

Eyeing the Lieutenant in place of further responding offers you little respite from the heat and panic boiling in your veins.

"If it's to your liking," he starts, "I could indulge you?"

You blink, "My Lord?"

"I'm not going to see you punished should you decline me," he says with that same terribly earnest tone, "I'd only ask you not to speak of this proposition occurring with any others."

There is something in the way the he speaks, the way his voice slips lower, into rougher and barer territories that vaguely resemble what you imagine your Lord might've-been propositioning you as a mortal man that is utterly staggering. It isn't even about what he is saying—it's more about how he is saying it.

The naked urgency is strange, and you're terrified and entranced all in one.

He pats what little space on the side of the cot his bulk doesn't consume and you take a half step before freezing on instinct.

He repeats the gesture and you drag your feet, cautiously approaching before perching yourself beside him and being swallowed by his seated form in the candle-light's shade.

His hand raises, and you shrink slightly.

Your Lord seems to recognise the worry and lowers it a little, only to leave it hovering over your tunic'd leg.

You imagine the great Angel sees you as some shivering wet animal at his mercy, somewhat. You eye his huge hand nervously but ultimately sigh out your nerves and relax a little.

If this was a test of some sort, surely the guillotine would have fallen by now—not that the thought eases you in any way.

His hand tentatively settles on your thigh, and you're shocked at the sheer heaviness of the thing. It's a pressure all it's own, and so heated that you're hyperaware of the warmth suffusing through your garb onto your skin.

It drags up, ever so slowly, and you inhale shakily—stunned by the strength in just one hand most definitely being more than you have in your entire body.

You feel like you should be squirming with the thrill of the gesture, moving against that huge limb; but are too frozen by the gravity of the situation to act.

"I will need an actual answer, however," he remarks belatedly, smoothing his calloused palm back down your thigh.

A cold, wild animal horror sinks in beside something wretchedly simmering as you dither, finally replying with, "I-I would, should you wish it, my Lord."

"Titus," He raises a dark, scarred eyebrow lazily, correcting you once again with a light sigh, "Calgar has schooled you on your manners a bit too well, it seems."

You frown, at shameful odds with maintaining discipline despite your Lord's repeated protest, and avert your eyes again. Trying to play off the shiver his voice so close inspires in your spine.

A choked grunt escapes him not long after and you meet his gaze haphazardly.

Only to be met by an uncanny sight, and heavy, clogged-engine laughter.

Your Lord's lips have skinned back over his teeth at you in a large grin. Charming as the gesture should be, it is certainly not something a fellow baseline would call a particularly friendly expression—maybe due to the fact it felt strange seeing so much emotion at once from him. It looks more akin to a beast in human skin baring it's fangs, and just as animalistic. The back of your brain screams there's a threat of being mauled.

It is a somewhat fey thing to witness, despite the fact it appears to be a genuine display of mirth. And when it falls away to a closed smile, it's much better to behold—the age lines on his face crinkle just right to make him just that little bit more attractive.

"We'll get there," he chuckles. "But first, you will need to be stretched."

That sounds painfully ominous.

You scowl a little in confusion and parrot the word, "...stretched?" back at him in an almost unconsciously quiet voice.

He hears it, and his brow raises a tad.

"You can't fit me ordinarily."

The breath you take in is almost choked with hind-brain panic, mind crafting a series of impossible sizes—crushing and rending, turning your insides to paste. Worse than the time you'd seen a servitor veer into the pulleys of the lift platforms.

"Move further up on the cot," he huffs,

You oblige, and slide back a little; ruining your earlier efforts of fussing with his sheets.

He lifts himself off the cot, kneeling, and breathes in solemnly; his face pinched a tad.

"Settle," comes the Lieutenant's affirmation, "I'll make sure you're unharmed... now, if you allow me see what I'm to be working with?"

You nod shakily, and the massive hand previously upon your thigh splays you out. His other joins it on the converse and mimics the gesture, spreading you.

He shuffles closer to the cot's edge on his knees and chuffs, "Lean back, and put your legs up on me."

Stuffily, you obey, resting your calves on his broad back as you sidle astride his head.

"Very good," your Lord hums; and Holy Terra, you can hardly believe that you're feeling his warm breath dance across your skin. You have a feeling of what he's planning to do, it's unfathomable—nor can you bear to watch one of the great Angels do this.

One of his huge hands cups your hip as he hikes up your tunic's hem to keep you still, nudging it up, and up, until you realise he's trying to coax you into disrobing—to which you oblige with a flustered timidity.

Emperor have mercy, you can't fathom the looming act, and it's consequence—so with scant preamble, you quickly cover your face with both palms.

What a wretched day to've forsaken briefs in favour of a longer garb. Now, you're stuck stark naked on the Angel's bed, and you can feel he's—he's kneading your waist, then squeezing your hip—you're so beyond forsaken it's laughable. You're doomed. But your insides are twitching at the contact, and the feeling of his worn palm taking a moment to grope your thigh has your nerves aflame with anticipation. What a great shame to have brought an Astartes so low, to have him disgrace himself in—oh, no.

A wide band of slick muscle drags upward, and the sensation is nigh ecstasy. The heat of his mouth is divine, and—and rolling against your clit.

Your Lord rumbles contentedly when your legs jump and you almost choke trying to hold back a ragged, stunned moan.

His huge tongue worms into you, big nose jammed against your clit; his mouth several times larger than your own forced to practically eat at your cunt—going at you with an almost desperate eagerness before raking up again and humming against your tender little nub.

"Are you aware you're in season?" He says, still smothering himself to your sex, and it is so offhanded it's jarring; like a finger stuck in a door hinge.

A flabbergasted whine is all you can offer in answer.

He steals another greedy lick of your entrance, "I already knew by how you smelt—but I can taste it too," he notes smoothly, and laps at you again.

Your Lord pulls away and you grow enough backbone to glance between your fingers. He has a blank look on his stern face, pupils blown out, rolling his tongue around his mouth before he apparently frees himself from whatever haze overtook him.

His chin and chops are wetted with clear, slimy lubricant—your slick—and he takes a deep breath.

It's a little mind boggling seeing his other hand rise up from beyond your view. Why is it already glistening slightly? Had he been...? Surely not, surely...

"Your turn with this, I suppose," comes the straightforward, depraved confirmation of your suspicions.

The hold already on your side turns into a vice; and then there's massive digits tracing your entrance.

"It's alright," he rasps, "It's only two."

—then you're crammed full of a Primaris' ring and middle finger.

The sheer size of just that alone is insane, but most of all, it's brilliant. And yet, somehow everything gets even better.

Your Lord's mouth claims its' place back on your clit and sucks.

A garbled whine, and the bliss has you shaking like a leaf.

His fingers stretch your walls as he scissors them out, only to curl in sharp, precise motions; as if your cunt is some weapon he's searching for the trigger mechanism inside of.

Wound too tight, it all comes to an embarrassingly quick end with you letting out a ragged sob, bucking sharply in surprise. Absolutely stunned into orgasm as your core muscles cinch up, keening.

Unfortunately, set on his goal, your Lord does not let up immediately—holding fast and unmoving—and is only disengaged when, cotton-mouthed to words by overstimulation, you blindly flail, stamping your heels into the massive span of his upper back.

He looks a little confused as he releases you, as if he'd been in some sort of trance again.

Blinking a few times and righting himself, he clears his throat, "We should... learn to coordinate that better," he admits, his voice a little rougher, "Tap three times to stop. Two to slow. Once to continue."

There's a short lapse of speaking after that as you ogle his face lingering between your thighs; until you abruptly realise he's waiting for your answer.

"Y-Yes, my Lord."

A big, dark brow raises, "I believe you're simply misbehaving, now."

Your stomach leadens as panic sinks its' claws into you and with a blubbering whine you stammer, "N-No, no... please, my Lord—I mean, my Lord Titus, I-I am not, I swear—"

"It's only a joke," he huffs, and his dark brows arch down a hint in a somewhat sympathetic manner. "Do... do I really frighten you that much?"

You swallow harshly and stutter, "I-I-I—I am a serf, my duty is humility."

It's not the right answer, that much is obvious. It's strange to say that some sort of childish disappointment passes over his features.

"You'll settle in time," he says softly, more like a prayer than anything.

His hands manoeuvre you onto your belly, so your ass is poised high at the edge of the cot for easy access.

Your Lord is tall enough to mount you on his knees like this, and it's clear that's his intent when a thick cock slides experimentally between your thighs.

You try to look behind you to see just how big a thing is to be rammed into you—but he clicks his tongue like you're some unruly little creature, and that's all the discipline you need to be dissuaded.

"You'll only spook yourself," he sighs lowly.

A fat, rounded tip prods at your entrance, wet and hot.

"I'll be gentle as I can," he continues.

You strain to fit even that, and then the burning starts.

Your Lord groans, his hips hitching forward in little motions as you shake, fighting to keep yourself presented on steady knees for him as he presses deeper.

The pain is incandescent, and you cry out—

"Breath," your Lor—Titus urges, sounding strained himself, "Breath."

You squirm, and there's a burning at your rim as he pushes a little deeper; it's a painful reminder of your own lacking size compared to him.

"Almost there," he all but growls, then you hear him raggedly ask, "How... how are you faring?" but you're nowhere near up to the task of responding.

Still, attempting to be dutiful, you try—and all that comes out is a seizing gasp.

You are far too preoccupied with twitching on the scalding slab of Primaris currently giving your insides a stern word to manage a sentence.

In your panic, you manage to smack some part of him twice, even if you have no idea what you're hitting—dragging your hand across wall-sturdy muscle.

Titus stills.

You freeze in fear, waiting for a reprimanding that never comes.

He takes a deep breath in and grits out, "It's alright, it's a difficult fit," to which you whine dumbly, and Titus continues, "I am... larger, than I once was," he says softly, pausing to groan when a shudder sends you squeezing on him, "You're still taking me very well."

He is large, that is true; but he's also warm. So terribly warm, he's almost fever-hot inside of you.

The pain abates in the interim as the pleasure of you steadily acclimatising replaces it, and slowly, you ever so carefully tap him once to continue.

Titus shimmies and you squeal at the burr of electric sensation that makes your mind melt for a half-second, only for your ass to coincidentally scud backwards into his hips with a sticky plap.

You're struck daft when a sudden shrill of lightning sparks up your spine as you feel him bottom out at last, hitting your cervix, blinding you for a heartbeat.

You whine loudly at the sensation.

"All in," he rasps, breathing harshly as he rocks his hips to keep you pliant. "You've done it, hush... it's all inside, little one."

Your cunt's tingling around every inch of him, clenching down—trying desperately to decide wether to buck back against him or scramble off and run for your life. You doubt you could manage the latter. Despite his strange insistence on altruism, there's no way you'd have the nerve to deny the great Angel, lest the Emperor Himself punishes you for it. But you're surely not about to complain about the situation when you're enjoying it so thoroughly.

It's dazzling having him so deep, it feels more akin to being impaled than simply filled.

His balls sit snug against your vulva, heavy against your clit; and you moan—rolling your hips back against his in a moment of delirious bliss.

Titus groans appreciatively, and you strain to tip your head into the big hand petting you while your chin is tucked into the crease of his elbow.

"You're tough for such a small thing," he begins with an airy huff of satisfaction, "I was stunned the last time I managed to fit in a baseline..." he hums, then apparently something seizes his humours and he grumbles, "...let alone now after crossing the Rubicon."

His voice rumbles in his chest where it's pressed to your back, like the purring, hardworking systems of some mighty machine spirit. But the strain behind his cadence plays havoc with your mind, and the sinking realisation you've got him hilted inside your truly takes root.

Your thighs shake, and the room feels stuffier—he feels impossibly closer, and your body is boiling despite the cold press of armour interface ports against your skin as he thrusts back and forth; to say nothing of the fingers fussing your hair out of your face—he's–he's so agonisingly tender.

"Are you finishing on me?" You hear him say, but you honestly cannot even tell if you're cumming because everything is a buzzing lurch of cramping electricity. "Good, that's... very good. Throne, you're—"

You're barely cognisant of him straining forward to a stop; but your body judders with satisfaction, and the rest of his words melt together in your ears into an insensible baritone as you struggle through dazzling ecstasy. It steals the air out of you, nigh agonising bliss sharp and rising from your belly—scrambling at the huge forearms now keeping you in place while he continues fucking into you, weakly crying.

When you return to having a functioning body, you're hyperventilating; and leaving a smear of drool across the interior of Titus' elbow.

Slowly becoming audibly cognisant beyond just the ringing in your head to the wet slapping sound of him chasing his own end in your cunt.

"You'll... you'll have to forgive me for being a little quick, on the first... round," he rumbles against your ear, panting as he nails you right through your afterglow. "It's been... so long, since..."

Titus doesn't even manage to finish his sentence. Instead, he snarls out a low, subharmonic sound and his hips slam forward into you. He's bending you up underneath him; forcing you to let him stuff himself to the base. You feel his balls sandwich against you, and you hear the sopping wet squish of him bottoming out.

His cock throbs inside you, and you're left warbling a dazed whine rife with pleasure addled pain at the sudden roughness.

Hot spend fills you and you keen, acutely aware of it spilling over and dripping out between.

The sensation of having it so deep and yet still too much to contain is playing havoc with your hindbrain, and in that fucked-out state you exhaustedly rock your hips.

A soft grunt is your reward for the effort.

"Careful, careful..." He grits out, panting as his hand draws a smooth, comforting line down the side of your leg before he manages, "You'll get more, just... give me a moment. I promise you, there's plenty where—"

You hear the sound of steel parting, and the white lights of the corridor near blind you.

"Brother," Titus says sharply.

You sober nigh instantly as your stomach proverbially drops to the floor, and your head snaps to the doorway shutting behind the form of a tall, darker Primaris.

"Brother," he receives in answer, "What are you doing?"

"Entertaining... a guest," Titus clears his throat against your ear and tips his head back a little, leaving you clearly shaking in mortification.

He still graciously keeps his body covering yours, and you try to hide under the mass of it.

"I was not aware this sort of entertainment was sanctioned," the other Primaris says, taking a deep inhale and making a strange face—hold on, you–you know this Astartes. You had served in his arming staff temporarily for a day while your judicator had been shuffling positions to keep you busy on the Barge prior to your Lord's arrival and your assignment. You remember the first letter. It was a C—perhaps Cato? No, it began with a digraph—like the end of the word stomach. Chrysion? No, no—it's Chairon—his name is Chairon.

"I ask only that you don't involve the Chaplain," Lord Titus groans, seemingly exasperated. "Just petition the Chapter Master and be done with—"

"No," Chairon interjects flatly as he exhales.

Titus' breath catches, "...no?"

"I want to understand why," he receives in answer, snorting a bit before taking another gulp of air and making the same strange face.

A long, tense silence—and you ought to be terrified and flee, but you can't do much more than squirm weakly on the fat cock stock stiff against your cervix. He still hasn't gone soft, why hasn't he gone soft? Is–Is this what he meant by first round? The frightening stamina of an Astartes in battle is one thing, but it extends even to this? How many rounds have you signed yourself up for?

Chairon harrumphs, "I've never heard of this sort of thing happening, so I want to understand."

Titus huffs hard through his nose like a sort of equine and regards his battle-brother with a knowing tone, "You want a turn then, I assume?"

"If you're willing to allow it," Chairon answers, then looks to you. "And if she's up to the task of two."

You hear Titus hum lowly, and then he gently—ever so gently—cups your chin and tips your head up to see his face.

"Are you?" He rasps, "We'll be mindful not to harm you, should you... accept, such a task."

It's painfully difficult to even think about denying Titus when his big, pupil-blown green eyes meet your own. Your insides ache where he's still buried, but nonetheless some brainless, whorish urgency sends you swallowing harshly and nodding, "Y-Yes, my Lord."

"Go on," Titus chuffs, clicking his tongue at Chairon as a gesture to sit.

Chairon lowers himself down on the thin mattress with one leg off the side of the cot and the other tented up on it, thighs spread.

"I ought to pull out, now."

"No," Chairon huffs, "Not yet, I have an idea."

"Very well," is Titus' answer.

You blanch, and the urge to curl up and simply die nearly overcomes you. You're still—you're still full of your Lord, in every sense of the word, what more can you fit?

Chairon slides himself a little closer until you're practically nosing at his loincloth.

A big hand tilts your chin up and stuffs a thumb between your surprise-parted maw, depressing your tongue.

"You have very pretty lips," Chairon hums as his metal hand pulls his garments away for you.

With a little pressure, you're being guided close to his mostly flaccid cock like a fish by the hook. Then his thumb leaves your mouth and you glare at the length presented to you.

You look up at Chairon's face next, and he raises a brow. So, in turn, you press a soft kiss to the side of his shaft; watching intently when he inhales sharply at the act, pursing his lips for a second.

Then he smiles.

He has a smile that makes you want to melt despite the fact he's an Astartes. It's warm, and suits his fuller cheeks—it's more personable in appearance than you would ever admit aloud out of shame.

You fluster and glance down, taking the head of him into your mouth. He's still huge, regardless of the fact he's mostly half-soft.

Your reward is a thoughtful hum, and a big hand petting your head.

"Lieutenant, do you wish to continue...?"

Titus apparently needs no further invitation.

You're being driven into anew, whining around the steadily hardening member in your mouth and time, for a moment, loses it's bearing. All your mind can bother to focus on is red hot pleasure and heat on your tongue, your own airy, cock-stifled sounds and two syncopated sets of groans and grunts.

"Her mouth's nice and warm," you hear Chairon moan above you.

There's no stall to Titus' pace of thrust as he pants, "I wouldn't know."

"Care to try?"

You have no idea how long you've simply been content in having them both sink in you, but you suddenly return to awareness when you hear Titus' curt, "Gladly."

Then you're suddenly being manhandled like a doll, the cock in you slips out with a pop—as does the one in your mouth—and the room spins as they lift you and change.

You groan in confusion, and paw for the familiar figure now afore you, glancing up.

Titus' hand combs through your hair softly and he chuffs that strange subvocal sound that makes you entranced for a moment.

"Deep breath," your Lord says, and then to your surprise—Chairon's cock presses into you.

It's actually largely easy to take, after having had Titus in you for so long. Chairon's is not as thick as to send you aching, yes, he's big of course, but it's a perfect, pleasurable size inside—and judging by Titus' length now a few inches from your face, it makes sense why he needed to stretch you.

It's practically a bottle of wine, how on Terra did you manage to—

Your thoughts wither as you're forced to moan heartily; namely due to Chairon bottoming out and settling against your cervix.

He moans back, and a huge, warm hand strokes down your spine, heat thudding in your face at the sheer show that he's enjoying you.

Then you're yelping, and something bitterly chilled is on your flesh, sending goosebumps arcing up your back as you flinch.

"Are you alright?" Chairon starts abruptly, and you groan at the freezing steel now pawing at your side.

Titus scowls as he finds the issue before you can voice it, "I think it's your augmentic."

"Really?" Chairon tuts, and leans down to ask, "Is there something the matter with my hand?"

It's clearly a lighthearted accusation, but you haven't been properly subjected to this sort of teasing by a Primaris until today, and you whine.

"It's—it's c-cold," You stutter, and nose against Titus' thigh for comfort; a little uneasy by the confrontation.

Chairon pouts, "I'll keep it's use to a minimum, then."

You swoon at the meagre kindness, and feel your already scalding face boil over as excitement rises.

Titus simpers down at you and remarks, "Is that to your liking?"

You nod and seek a closer hold on his leg for leverage, squirming a little before settling. Your cheek rests against the high point of Titus' thick leg—every so often able to sneak a lick of him.

Titus tuts, "She's very sweet."

The cock in you jerks when the hulking Primaris inside you laughs.

"She smells it, too," Chairon coos, "Don't you, sweet little thing? You smell like you're practically sugared."

You whine needily at the words, Titus' huge cock plastered against your cheek as you leer forward desperately and lap pre-cum from the tip.

"Because she's currently mid-cycle," Titus says flatly. "Her hormones are trying to convince you to breed with her."

Chairon hums thoughtfully, "Fortunate for her that we are, then—still, I'm glad to know that's what that is."

Titus pets you as you continue licking him, one hand carefully managing your hair as the other holds his length to better allow you getting it in your mouth.

Chairon bottoms out again and your body shakes, a trying whine escaping around the cock on your tongue as you relish the sensation.

"You're doing well," Titus rasps out at you, hips making small circles that let him dip into your mouth in short pumps.

Your reaction is wantonly pathetic, if you're completely honest with yourself.

It's a desperate, nasally whimper and a sudden eagerness to please that sends you letting his cock-head bump your epiglottis. Holding for a second despite the ache of your jaw and swallowing before inching yourself away; sputtering a little and moving the heavy swell of his member to warm your tongue instead, sucking on him.

Titus groans in approval, and his hand pets just that much more; earning a sigh when you try stuffing more of him in your mouth again.

Chairon's thrusts steady as he simply takes his time, pacing himself; it's all the better to give your Lord Titus a nice, wanting hole to fuck at his own pace.

"I completely understand... why you were doing this, now," Chairon hums, his pelvis skewing with a slight jerk.

All pretence of steadiness are banished as he starts grinding downward into you, causing a wave of hypersensitivity to stagger you daft.

You clench down hard with a flinch of surprise. Pleasure swelling out of the blue to a crescendo, tipping you over the edge only moments later. The roll of your orgasm ripping through you has your legs locking stiff for a moment, your internal muscles tensing on the intrusion.

Chairon inhales sharply, holding himself perfectly still as your insides cinch down hard around him erratically.

It's certainly not the only finishing happening though, because the cock in your mouth is suddenly painting the inside of your mouth and gullet as you hastily try swallow it down.

Your hear Titus hiss, and the hand in your hair tightens when his thighs start shuddering through heavy throbs of spend.

It feels for a moment as if it's going to come out of your nose there's so much. What doesn't go down your throat definitely tastes wholly unpleasant, but the resumed affections nullify any complaints you have.

You cough and carry on a little at the rapid succession of events and hide your face in Titus's lap again; half-consciously licking your spend stained chops where hopefully neither of them can see.

"My... apologies," Titus is still panting as he says, "I... I should have warned you."

A soft whine is all you can offer.

"Are you well?" Titus asks, tone a little ragged.

You practically shiver around Chairon's cock, and the sound you let out is long-suffering, but not enough.

His voice turns serious, "I need an answer."

A moan flees your throat, "Less—less than before, m-my Lord," you whimper, breathing hard, "But, I'm okay, I'm—n-ngh... not injured."

The grunt he makes in return is an amicable noise, and Chairon seizes your hips with his flesh hand. Lifting you to line up better with his rutting, trying valiantly to ease the pressure.

Oh, that's so much better on your internal walls—the pressure is bliss, and everything is warm and fuzzy and soft; you shut your eyes, moaning—and then you hear the familiar thunk-thunk-click-vshhh of the door opening.

"Titus, you've returned! I'm so glad to hear of your—" a voice starts, then rightly hesitates.

The silence is deafening.

"Chairon?" the blonde Primaris barks suddenly, "What... what are you... what is the serf...?"

You hear Chairon blubber for a moment before laughing in astonished horror, "I'm not even going to try explaining this."

"Gadriel, this is perhaps not a good time," Titus sighs.

The blonde Pri—Gadriel, looks at what little he can of you past your Lord's form and sneers.

The expression only deepens as he scowls, "What are you both doing?"

Chairon lets out a long, trying breath and you feel him lean back a little, yet still remaining inside you as he says, "At least let the door shut before you set about interrogating us, Sergeant."

Gadriel blinks and takes a step in, and promptly sets about putting himself in the furthest corner from the spectacle as possible.

"It reeks of molasses in here," the Sergeant huffs.

Chairon harrumphs, a little strained, "We have been at her a while..." then the attention turns on you, "...she's enjoying herself."

"And that's what the stink is?"

"That," Titus answers, "And seminal fluids."

"To what ends?" Gadriel grumbles and crosses his arms over his chest. "Procreation?"

"There's no restrictions on it in the Codex, believe me."

The look on the Sergeant's face is somewhere between intrigue and confusion, "I've never even heard of it happening."

"It does," Titus offers.

"Really?" Gadriel says.

"I wouldn't have guessed before either," Chairon scoffs.

"From time to time the odd one of us engages in it," your Lord digresses over them both, "But it's under absolute discretion."

"Interesting," the blonde hums.

"Sit," Titus says this time.

Gadriel pouts, "I think I'll stand by, for a while, Lieutenant."

"Suit yourself," Chairon scoffs.

It's distantly amusing watching the trio of great Angels bicker like baseline teenagers.

You might've even dared to laugh at the sheer absurdity, if not for the fact the instant you're about to start you're promptly being fucked stupid again—a heady plap, plap, plap of balls against your vulva and pelvis against your rear.

You try to hide your face in Titus's warm lap, but you're still visible to them all and it's mortifying. Squirming on the heated drag of a cock in you with nothing to shield the fact you're loving every second of it, you toss your gaze aside and accidentally meet the Sergeant's.

He's—he's definitely standing by, and he's certainly watching.

There's a growing redness on his patrician face that proves he's aware of the lewdness of the situation.

"How does it..." Gadriel starts, only to hesitate; failing to feign only vague interest. "How does it feel?"

"Warm and wet... and tight," Chairon rasps, and strokes a huge hand down your back.

Titus hums in agreement, "Very tight."

"Especially when you..." Chairon bucks forward, bottoming out and stealing a gasp from you as your cunt shivers around the sudden effort.

Gadriel's gaze half-lids with the distraction of the sound.

He shifts his weight between his feet irritably, and you can—on some strange level—tell you've got yourself into a looming predicament.

Three. You're to take three Primaris, sooner or later.

Evidently all the so-called inhuman warriors need to return to baser wants and lusts is an example and free reign.

"Where did you even get her?" Gadriel asks, and takes a step closer, keenly looking at your face as you drool on Titus' lap.

Too many eyes on you at your most vulnerable sends flustering, even if your cheeks blaze at the thought.

"I second that," Charion huffs out a wry, short laugh and pets you again, "Where, Lieutenant?"

You whine in embarrassment, insides clenching—there's an infinite torment to the moniker that sends your heart into your throat with lust so wanton you can hardly bare it.

"Lord Calgar apparently knows my tastes all too well," he says lowly above you.

His hand outstretches and cups the whole side of your head including your cheek in one huge palm.

You can't bring yourself to stifle the urge to moan at that, and lean into your Lord Titus' touch like a lovesick dog. "I'll make sure you're not hurt, hm?" Titus rasps, then, to your dismay, decides he's to extricate himself for the time being and starts to scud off the cot.

"Your turn, Gadriel," Chairon huffs at the Sergeant.

You can't really say how quickly he sets about swapping himself in place of your Lord Titus in front of you, because for some reason you blink and the Sergeant is there.

Quite frankly, you weren't sure how long you'd even blinked for. You might have dozed off for a few seconds as far as you're aware.

The cock in front of you is long, smooth, and pretty; with a thatch of dirty blonde hair. Which seems to match it's owner to a fair sum, and it's also already hard. Which is somewhat surprising, given the fact you'd had to mouth at—

"Get on with it, serf," Gadriel says with a stiff jaw; and sits a little more forward, thighs spreading, presenting himself. Big, sturdy quads that would surely be a perfect temporary cushion to rest against.

His cock's heavy with blood and leaning leftward, and you lap at the side—dragging your lips from the base lined by dark blonde hair to the flushed, leaking tip.

You slowly start pumping him with a small hand in a steady jerking motion as you keep the tip of his cock on your tongue.

"Not so bad, then?" Chairon ruts forward, and the push coaxes you to take the Sergeant into your maw.

"Not so bad," Gadriel groans, and a large hand cards across your scalp to fist rudimentary reins out of your hair.

He lets out a choked noise, hips jerking forward in shallow movements in time with the bobbing of your mouth.

It's too large of a thing to even manage more than a few inches, and when the Primaris currently hilted in your cunt decides he's simply got to start grinding himself against your cervix, you're nigh slack jawed on the cock in your mouth.

Big thighs judder beneath you as you let too much too far in all at once, and Gadriel makes a sound you only have a split second of sensibility to associate as an Astartes whining. Then you're gagging around him, tears in your eyes—before he rears back a little and angles himself against your soft palate, a hot flush thudding on your face when he sighs appreciatively.

You moan, and then you're being filled again; only this time it's from the back as nigh molten hot spend spills into your cunt.

Chairon makes an almost inaudible groan, subvocal and menacing; and then smoothes a war-calloused palm down your back.

A shiver races up your spine, innately aware of the feeling as Chairon lets his balls drain as deep as he can.

You're dazed and sensitive as he slackens against you, chuffing softly, "That... that was good."

"Let me have a turn," Gadriel huffs at him, to which he's obliged.

Without complaint, Chairon tentatively withdraws, moving you on top of the Sergeant as he settles on his back.

You swallow the excess drool pooling in your mouth, focus fixated on the sheen of sweat on his scarred face; raising yourself a little with a splayed hand resting between his large pectorals.

"Up, serf—" he rushes, and sneaks a hand between you both to hold himself straight, trying to quicken you sliding down onto his cock.

You can't entirely reign in the shrill whine that escapes your throat.

He's—he's a lot.

You slump against his chest and groan impotently into his large pectorals.

He's too long, and gravity is damning you.

It feels as if he's slamming into your diaphragm instead of your uterus.

Then you're being treated to a ride.

And Throne of Terra, the Primaris Sergeant is rough.

Rabid, even.

A particularly poorly executed thrust jams into your cervix so hard it makes you yelp, blindly clawing at the Sergeant's forearm twice.

He does not heed it, nor feel it, apparently; and continues rutting, head thrown back, heaving in great gulps of air—using you like a toy.

"Gadriel," you hear Titus interject, "Slow down, she's much smaller than you."

Titus' words sends heady attention rushing south despite yourself, and your insides squeeze around the Sergeant, matching the well-fucked ache that thrums through you.

"Can't, feels... ngh—" He bites out in answer, snorting harshly as the grip on your thighs grows bruising.

It hurts, but your mind is suddenly screaming harder, harder, harder—namely thanks to the fact your clit slams into his huge pelvis on the downstroke.

You slap his deltoid and claw down the skin pointlessly.

He sits himself up in reaction, with you in tow.

Your vision smears to colours and shapes for a moment and then you're limbless, being made to bounce on his lap.

He's heaving into against your small shoulder, using you to satisfy himself like a free hole to fuck to completion—and by Terra, he's dragging you along to the same place.

It all happens absurdly fast.

Your insides feel swollen and electric, then they're suddenly jerking, finishing with a quick, wet splash—and everything's stickier where the cock inside you sits.

For a second you can't breathe, it's torment.

But fuck, if it's not amazing.

There's a heavy moan afore you, laden with rumbling subvocals—then finally an airy, pitched keen—and you're pressed flush to the Sergeant despite the fact he can hardly fit all in.

He bucks, and tucks his head against you; and you feel a big slick tongue drag across your shoulder as his cock knocks into where your cunt ends again—sending you sobbing against the huge, scarred span of his chest.

Boiling, overfilling spend leaks out between, adding to your Lord's and Chairon's earlier expenditures in your cunt.

"T-Throne... that's—good," Gadriel strains momentarily, shivering as he grits his teeth and rides out his fulfilment.

Tears have blurred your vision again as your mind reels to understand that you've just been fucked to apparent incontinence. You've just had your insides over-screwed and bullied into squirting on a Primaris, Emperor help you.

Apparently, despite your horror—none of them seem to care.

A few droplets stray from your cheeks and land on the Sergeant's skin. He makes a strange, confused chuff before he realises what's happening.

"W-Why...?" Gadriel pants, attempting to gather himself before he adds, "Why are you... crying, serf?"

You sob weakly, face buried against the hulking swell of one of his pectorals.

"...are you hurt?"

You shake your head.

He inhales harshly, lifting you off him weightlessly with a wet, slick sound of you both disconnecting.

Gadriel's eyes glue to the cum sloughing out of you. It's mostly his, currently—and there's a foreboding look of rabid hunger on his face that almost makes you want to shut your legs.

Suddenly, another set of huge hands join the Sergeant's, holding you aloft as Gadriel moves to stand.

The metal of the right is frigid, and the pressure mechanisms are a tad too stiff to be considered gentle; but the other is warm and tender.

You glance up, and find Chairon softly looking down at you; his big brown eyes crinkled at the edges in a muted smile as he says, "He's too rough with you, isn't he, sweet thing?"

Chairon's lovely smile makes you dopey with sudden charm. It's an infectious sort of look, full of doting that makes you ogle him dumbly; trying to reciprocate with a tired, cock-drunk flutter of your lashes.

"You need to be more careful with her," Chairon glances at Gadriel and clicks his tongue before turning back down at you. The discipline seems purely theatrical, though—and that fact is wildly apparent when you hear the Sergeant scoff.

Then, Chairon is tilting his chin down to fuss over you; his wide jaw nudging your temple, nuzzling into you. Your heart jumps, and it's–it's painfully gratifying having a great Angel do such a thing. Even if you're being buttered up before finally being asked; "Do you still want more?"

You strain up to nose against the large Primaris' jaw, panting as you mumble in agreement.

"I believe that's a yes," Titus hums somewhere to the right, and your vision swims as it tries to find him.

Lo and behold, he's leaning against the wall of the small habitation, glaring low on your body over the rim of a water cup.

Chairon makes a similar sound and adjusts his handhold on you to your legs; splaying your thighs, presenting you.

"We've made a mess," he huffs amusedly.

Peering down yourself if absolutely lurid. Given how you're folded slightly, you can see the sticky lines of leaking semi-opaque white smeared down your thighs, and feel seed leak from you.

You can only imagine how egregious it looks from your Lord's perspective.

Strangely, Gadriel groans at the sight.

"Can..." he starts abruptly, "Can I have her again?"

Chairon laughs, "You've only just finished, she needs a break."

Gadriel grumbles, but gets distracted when you squirm a little and he says, "I... I could give her a break—" but abruptly hesitates and looks over his shoulder, "—unless you want her now, Lieutenant?"

Titus harrumphs, "I'll have her afterwards."

The Sergeant nods, and looks back at Chairon before asking, "Can you keep her up like this?"

"Only if I get her tongue next," he counters.

Gadriel huffs, "Haven't you already?"

"You're to be in her cunt twice," he claps back rather swiftly, "Why can't I do the same with her maw?"

Gadriel snorts sourly, "I'm not going to be just yet, I..." he hesitates, "I have a plan."

Chairon hums, "What sort of plan?"

"Just be careful with her," You hear Titus grunt from the sideline, and then—then you're being lifted a little higher, spread a little wider—and the blonde Primaris gets to his knees.

Two big thumbs spread your labia and you squeal, dithering at the fact he's fondling you in your current dishevelled state.

"If her mouth on us is pleasurable, then the converse must be the same..." he mumbles.

A loud, dry humoured, sarcastic huff from Titus is quickly followed by, "Impressive deduction, Gadriel, you've discovered cunnilingus."

Gadriel shoots a petulant pout over his shoulder at his Lieutenant, before your wriggling drags his attention back.

"You want to...?" Chairon hums.

Gadriel nods, "I just like the sounds."

"Fair enough," says Chairon.

"Now, where do I..." the blonde starts almost inaudibly, seemingly more to himself than anything.

Titus takes a ling sip of water before clearing his throat, "There should be a nub at her upper flesh, that's the female equivalent to our glans."

The Sergeant nods, then turns his big blue eyes up to yours.

"Can you show me, serf?"

You whine and chew your bottom lip, "L-Lord?"

"You'll show me, won't you?"

Your mind can't even begin to think to decline nor argue with him. Swallowing your useless shame, you tentatively move your hand and spread your own folds to give him a target.

Your skin is slippery with slick and cum and hard to properly get a hold on, but you manage and he grins.

It's not as vaguely friendly as Chairon's, nor as strangely brutish as your Lord Titus'... but it's still a little unsettling. Even if it's eager.

"Good, serf..." is the last thing he says before wet warmth is practically locked on your clit.

An airy whimper leaves you, and your body jackknifes pointlessly at the sudden acute pleasure.

You shudder bonelessly in Charion's arms, and you're only vaguely aware you're tugging two-handed at Gadriel's hair while you squirm.

His tongue curls against it, rolling in nigh tidal attenuation; making your hamstrings pull taut and shudder lax. He's not as precise in his torments as Titus, but the enthusiasm makes up for it.

Both Chairon's organic hand and mechanised one grip under your thighs, while Gadriel's firmly keep your hips still.

Throne of Terra, you can feel your own heartbeat reverberating through you against his tongue.

Your fingers dig into his scalp but it just makes him lap just that little bit faster, only for him to discover that sucking makes you cry out. Your abdominal muscles start to hurt at the strain of your body being tormented while reaching down to tug, as do your hips from being so wide.

Your left's fingers find cold metal instead of hair in a mindless haze and you hiss, and try to find a hold.

Gadriel's suddenly open-mouthed against your cunt, keening with a groan.

His scarred chin is saturated with cum and slick, and he's bright red across the belt of his cheeks and sloping nose; he looks dazed periodically, like a slavering hound going at it's cut of meat.

One hand moves from your hips, and a finger prods at your perineum—then jabs you in the arse entirely on accident.

To your surprise, there's enough of his semen coating you that half of it slides in with lubricated ease; still, you yelp loudly.

It burns almost as much as it stings and the stretch of just his finger is maddening, but it starts to disappear in an instant when he licks your clit again.

Chairon grumbles, "What did you do?"

"I..." Gadriel pants, huffing in bemusement as he licks his lips and pulls away from your cunt. "I only put a finger in?"

Titus groans and claps a palm to his own forehead, "In the wrong hole, Gadriel."

The blonde pouts, looking up to Chairon with open confusion, "Should... should I pull it out?"

Even squirming with a Primaris' ring finger up your ass, it's surreal to be treated to the spectacle of them bickering once again.

"It's not my rear," Chairon laughs a little and looks down at you, straining and thudding hot in the face.

Gadriel blinks and realises himself, then meets your gaze.

"Is this painful for you?"

You manage a quick, "F-Fuh—feels a lil w-weird, m'lord."

"How's this?"

His finger curls inside your guts and by sheer blind luck pokes right into the back of your uterus. There's only a membrane and a thin bit of muscle between the two channels, afterall; and the shiver of surprised bliss that assails you doesn't go unnoticed.

Gadriel's breathing quickens, "Is that better?"

You nod shakily as he repeats the gesture, and then ogles up at you from between your spread legs.

His middle finger suddenly crooks to fit into the hole he intended, and you're overwhelmed at the feeling.

It's a combination you can't even begin to explain, new and odd, but addictive and then you're crying out something—something you're barely even cognisant of saying, a high pitched; "P-Please, please—"

Gadriel all but groans at the words, drawing his fingers out and rearing up to lick your abdomen; trailing his mouth up to one of your breasts and dragging a wide band over one with his tongue before groaning.

Before you can even moan, Gadriel's crowded himself against you and his cock is sloppily pressing back into you.

A sob rackets out of your throat, and your eyes swim in their sockets for an instant. Head thrown back against Chairon's clavicle as you heave in desperate gulps of air.

You're hyper-aware of the two sets of massive hands now holding you in place, and the huge cock sawing in and out of you; kissing your cervix on every thrust. This position is easier on your insides, but not by much. Gadriel is still a fraction too long to manage sheathing himself without your mild discomfort.

Both their eyes are locked upon your face, one pair of brown and one pair of blue—both half-lidded and focused on the surely fucked-out expression you're wearing.

It's pure, utter debauchery; and you paw mindlessly at the Sergeant's pectoral, gasping as he grows more and more frantic.

"She's... she's s-still so tight," he groans.

Chairon laughs lowly, "Never thought you'd be brought so low by something so tiny."

Gadriel's too preoccupied to meaningfully argue beyond curling his lip derisively.

Time blurs into delirious moments of aching and bliss, and Gadriel is much less feral in his pace than the last time—every thrust is easier, as your body begins to learn to take it. Or at least, you're certainly getting there—even if there is probably another agonising orgasm on the dusty blonde's cock.

You're only cognisant of being spoken about when Chairon's smooth voice offers, "Put your thumb on it—"

Gadriel snarls, "I... I know."

You blink, and glance downward, confused—and then you're fighting uselessly against the massive vices holding you open.

A reedy, straining shriek tears from your throat as the Sergeant's finger depresses your clit.

Your struggles make the overwhelming sensation so, so much more intense; and you may as well be getting electrocuted for the abrupt sensation you experience. It's as if you're being doused in ice and steam and promethium in one fell swoop.

They're beasts scenting weakness like blood on the gale in that moment, for all intents and purposes.

Chairon rocks you forward into Gadriel's hips and you're overfull of cock and shaking—dragged insensibly into your finish with another scream.

Every nerve in your body is a live wire as you try to fight the severity of it, mindless to the fact you're clawing at skin that's too invulnerable to even hope to mark.

They force your crest higher and higher, Charon still fucking you into the Sergeant's animalistic rutting, even as you cramp and squeeze helplessly.

Lungs several times larger than your own gust out a rapid series of breaths, and abruptly there's a long moan reaching your ear—and fresh heat in your cunt.

A weak, exhausted moan leaves you as you're carefully relieved of the massive cock inside you and deposited on the cot, on your back—only for Chairon to take his place near your head like he had to begin with.

Except this time you're on your back, and his cock is already at your cheek.

Meanwhile, Titus moves your thighs to bracket his hips as he kneels; sliding himself in place, seating balls-deep.

A whimper tears from you at the heavy sensation of being filled so soon again, and you moan when he slowly pulls out, only to slide back in. The pace is tender but firm, keeping you alert to the stretch but not suffering from it. Your body has had what feels like—and what very well may have been—hours to get used to having an Astarte in it.

You mouth at the side of Chairon's length with a daft sort of hunger; drooling across the blood-fat shaft before tilting your head to let him angle the swollen tip of himself in.

"That's it," he huffs, and pets your cheek.

You can taste your own slick, plus he and Titus' cum, and it's still not an entirely pleasant of a tang on your palate—but the big hand raking soft strokes through your hair riles you to continue.

It's clear he's high-strung after having to help Gadriel with you to no service to himself, and it's all the better to give him that attention.

You're getting tired, but regardless, you offer your tongue to Chairon and try heartily to let him take what he can; and he's more than happy to apparently just use your mouth to keep the head of him nice and warm while he strokes the base of himself.

His breathing starts to stutter as Titus gains pace, and you're actively tipping your head forward into his thrusts to let him stuff more of himself into your mouth.

The thrill of having the two of them panting like beasts is sending you spiralling, bucking your hips up against your Lord's pelvis in time with his thrusts in a sloppy, uncoordinated desperation that he rewards with a moan each time.

You hear Chairon keen, heaving through his nose as his hips jerk forward; groaning heavily as he finally finds his end.

A fat, heated spill of cum on your tongue makes you whine and double down your efforts, swallowing the Primaris' load.

"Hah, there... you go," he grind, teeth gritted and sneering a little.

Chairon pets you again before he runs a thumb across your lips to wipe away the few ropes of his spend that you hadn't managed to wolf down. He promptly sits himself back and continues carefully patting you while Titus manhandles you closer beneath his frame.

You glance down to watch your Lord's cock disappear inside you, pulling free and then sinking back in before repeating the action; eyeing big sturdy hips made for supporting a huge cock.

The Emperor surely is all knowing given his proportioning of His Angels.

But you aren't given a chance to think further on the matter as you're suddenly being folded under Titus.

Squirming, you're deaf to the sounds being driven out of you as you're locked in place by a body infinitely stronger than your own.

You paw at his chest, whimpering nonsense and he groans—and you're all but stunned daft and pliant by what he says in answer.

"That's it, one more... good, very... very good," he pants, fucking just that little bit harder.

You're helpless to your own orgasm, crying openly when it's claws sink into you. It's too much, it's far, far too much and this is as far as you can go—anymore and you feel like you'll dissolve into the cot. And you can't even stop yourself from sobbing your Lord's name as the tide of it nigh smothers you.

"Finally..." He groans loudly and his rhythm deteriorates almost immediately to choppy little bucks—and with a last bit of effort, he keeps you pinned and held down despite your overstimulated squirming and his load is emptied right into your womb like it's always meant to've been there.

Titus keeps you like that for a moment as you barely scrape your sense off the proverbial floor. Legs twitching where hooked over his hips, all the while you cunt's milking him for every drop he's got.

"I think... I think you've had... enough, hm?"

Titus lifts himself away and pops loose of your sore, puffy hole with an audible wet slide and a frothing mix of cum layered on his cock.

A soft groan escapes you as the weight and toll of exhaustion sets in, drowsy and well-fucked almost to the point of limpness.

"Up," you hear Gadriel harrumph.

Despite the fact you feel like you're about to pass out, you try valiantly—and get about a forth of the way there, leaning forward while resting back on your elbows as Gadriel takes a seat beside you, with a mug of water precariously filled a bit too high in his huge hand.

Gadriel thrusts the cup close to your face, sending a few drops over the cusp and onto your chest, trailing down a cum splattered chest.

You and he both ogle the water dumbly for a moment in surprise, flickering your gaze between him and it a few times for good measure.

He pouts and his cheeks redden a little as he mumbles, "Drink, serf."

You lap at the side for a second and manage to gulp down a mouthful, swishing it about for a second before swallowing.

You get three more sips as he steadily tilts the cup into your mouth, before he decides you've had enough kindness for the time being and pulls it away.

Titus hums, "Up you get, little one."

You fuss, and try to rise once again.

"There we go," Chairon tuts as he lifts you by the arm as you struggle to stand, supporting you effortlessly.

The care is flattering, even moreso seeing as they've apparently drawn a line in the sand for your apparent usefulness as a seminal dump.

Titus has long since settled back into a kneel again at the side of the cot, petting your thigh like he's trying to calm a skittish stray animal.

He reaches sidelong for the discarded fabric of his loincloth, before promptly deciding it unfit; and reaches for a stray corner of the half sloughed off bedsheet, tearing a large piece away.

You start at the sudden display, half in belated surprise and half in concern for the state of his bed—it's your duty to make sure it's in good keeping foremost, and—

"Hush," your Lord says with a small chuff, "Don't worry about that, just stay still."

Gadriel lowers the cup towards Titus and he dips the edge of it in the water before carefully dragging it across your cheek.

The three of them are very much ogling you, and it's very hard not to dither and fluster at the attention as you're methodically wiped clean. Especially when the cloth dips between your thighs and drags over your abused, sensitive sex, making you whine.

Titus chuffs, "Sore?"

You nod sheepishly as your insides cramp, and rub your legs together, accidentally making a show of liquid leaking out of you.

"Poor sweet thing, look at you drip..." Chairon interjects.

You dare a soft, impish smile which your Lord mirrors.

But the comment makes Gadriel almost instantly tilt his head to watch your overfilled cunt weep their combined slurry of cum; to which he decides the best thing to say is, "Shouldn't have bent over for us so easily."

In your weary, near fucked-to-delusion state, the urge to frown sourly like a petulant child supersedes any decorum, and you're met by a husky snort of amusement from your Lord.

"Some of that's yours, Sergeant," Titus remarks dryly.

Chairon begins laughing as Gadriel's face colours a pretty, endearing pink.

[lgbtyrus]

Andi Mack Reunion Live Stream Mini Recap:

-Tyrus is still endgame and had the most perfect wedding ever

-Ambi is canon

-Kippen siblings is canon

-Luke did the rap apology that TJ sang to Buffy and still knew 95% of it

-They said there was basically an entire episode that got deleted where Bex went on a date with someone and Andi was NOT okay with it.

-They all said they'd return for a reunion- Asher the first to say yes.

-They watched a Lemon Boy edit together and Asher said it was a "beautiful edit" and Trent said it was made by a genius and he teared up

-Emily said "Amber loves lesbians"

-The cast sang the theme song acapella 🥺❣️

-Asher had originally said "no" to playing Jonah because he wouldn't play frisbee and they auditioned many more guys until they were like "fuck it let's teach him frisbee"

-Emily had auditioned for Andi but since they had locked in on giving Peyton the role of Andi, they wrote in Amber for Emily specifically 😭 It was because her agent called the producers to say, "We know she messed up the audition, but she'd really like to try again." And after this, Terri knew they had to write in Amber for her.

-They also wrote Iris for Molly

-Terri Minski said Luke's hair was a character in itself. They had told Terri that Luke was an Evangelist Christian, so she took Luke and his parents to lunch to talk about it because she was stressed out because TJ was going to be gay. She had told Luke and his parents what was happening and they cried, and she was so nervous, and they told her that they were so honored. Luke said he thought he was going to get fired because he only shot one episode and didn't understand why he was being taken to lunch.

-The guy whose audition video played before Trent's got the part for 20 seconds before Terri saw Trent's audition

-Terri said Lilan wore the weirdest audition outfit ever, and it was her good luck outfit.

-Terri called them "lighting in a bottle" because she's not sure she'll ever get someone as special as this cast together again

-Tyrus was NOT supposed to be canon, but they shot the scenes anyways. They had said, "We gave you one gay character, we're not going to give you TWO." But they fought hard for it, and they found allies that allowed it to happen.

-Disney is still saying that they are looking for the "new Andi Mack" and Terri is adamant that they already have it, and she would love more than anything to bring the cast back together again for a spin off

-Terri had wanted Andi to repeat the cycle LMAO. AKA, teen pregnancy. Disney said, "NO WAY!"

Here is a pic of the stream before Josh and Trent had to leave! Terri left after a few more questions, too.

DJ Fruity Live Performance

-Younger fans would see Emily and scream "Amber alert!" and run

-Luke uses an Andi Mack journal as his personal diary

-Bi Bex Canon. Lilan said something along the lines of: Did you not see the clothes she'd wear? Of course she's bi.

-They played a behind the scenes clip of the Tyrus bench scene. I screen recorded, but THERE IS LAG. I'm sure there is a better video out there, but here is this for now.

-Luke and Josh wrote an episode of Andi Mack where a blackout happens in Shadyside and nobody can use their phone. Everyone is forced to go outside. But they were too scared to pitch it so nothing ever came of it. They also wrote an outline for an Andi Mack movie.

It was an extremely long live stream, and they were entertaining and funny the entire time. They were able to raise $20k for the families affected by the LA fires, and you can still donate here if you'd like it's live for another week as of now, 1/26/25. I missed them and the Andi Mack magic so much. I hope they do this again in the future.

[sasheemo]

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: Sharing dinner with Agatha and Nicholas shouldn't be too hard, right? But Saturday night at Agatha’s has other plans. As the evening unfolds, tensions escalate and desires ignite, promising anything but an ordinary end.

Chapter Tags: Mutual Pining, Power Dynamics, Gay Panic But Make It Domestic, The Tension Is Tensioning, Accidental Eavesdropping, Masturbation

Word Count: 7.4k

A/N: Chapter 3 is here! Spoiler alert: it’s long. Like, the longest chapter I’ve ever written for any multi-chapter fic, it took a lifetime because I wanted to pack in so much. Honestly, I don’t even want to think about how many times I wrote, re-read, and completely tore it apart because I hated it. It’s been through the wringer, y’all.

Am I 100% happy with it? No. Will I ever be? Also no. But if I keep tweaking it, it’ll never see the light of day, so… here it is, flaws and all!

Let’s just say things are heating up, and this chapter sets the stage for the spicy goodness that’s coming in Chapter 4.

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading, enjoy 💜

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

The clock creeps closer to seven as you sit on the floor with Nicholas, your hands idly stacking blocks while your thoughts wander to the kitchen. 

Agatha has been in there for a while now, the faint clinking of dishes and the soft rush of running water weaving through the quiet of the house.

At one point, unable to resist, you’d stood and smoothed your sweater nervously before edging toward the kitchen doorway. 

“Do you need a hand with anything?” you’d asked, your voice hesitant as you lingered just outside.

She’d glanced over her shoulder, a wisp of hair falling loose from behind her ear. Her lips curved into a faint, almost absentminded smile. 

“No need, hon.” she’d said lightly, returning to the cutting board without missing a beat. “After a day like today, this is how I unwind. Just keep Nicholas entertained, and make sure you’ve got an appetite.”

You’d nodded, retreating to the living room with a strange mix of relief and unease, unsure whether to feel dismissed or reassured.

Now, your gaze drifts toward the kitchen doorway again, catching fleeting glimpses of Agatha as she moves gracefully through the space. The subtle flicker of her silhouette, the fluid motion of her hands as she reaches for something on the counter, it’s almost hypnotic. 

You find it harder and harder to look away, your eyes drawn back to the doorway every few moments.

Then, the realization that you’re about to sit at the same table as her hits you like a brick wall, and your brain immediately kicks into overdrive. Where will you sit? What will you say? How will you stop yourself from staring at her like some starstruck idiot? The thought alone makes your chest feel tighter, and you let out a quiet, resigned sigh. 

Dinner hasn’t even started, and you’re already losing it.

Finally, her voice calls out from the kitchen, announcing that dinner’s ready.

Nicholas springs up instantly, his blocks forgotten as he rushes toward the kitchen. You follow more cautiously, your pulse quickening as you step into the room.

The table is set simply but elegantly, with the kind of care that feels distinctly Agatha. At the center, there’s a steaming dish of herb-roasted chicken rests on a platter, surrounded by golden baby potatoes and vibrant roasted vegetables. 

The scent of rosemary, garlic, and lemon fills the air, rich and inviting, but it only makes your stomach flip—not from hunger, but from the realization of where you are and who you’re sharing this moment with.

Agatha stands by the head of the table, placing the final plate in its spot, her expression is calm as she straightens and meets your gaze.

“Sit.” she says lightly, gesturing to the seat across from hers as though this is all perfectly normal.

You glance at Nicholas, who’s already climbing into his chair without hesitation. Taking a steadying breath, you lower yourself into the seat she’s indicated, trying not to think too much about how surreal this feels.

Agatha moves with her usual composure, taking her place at the table. She leans back slightly, one hand curling around the stem of her wineglass, her gaze drifting over the food before landing on you. It lingers just long enough to send a flicker of heat up your spine, your pulse quickening under the weight of her attention.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold.” she says, her voice warm but commanding, the kind of tone that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a quiet decree. 

“This is so good, Mom! Did you make the potatoes crispy on purpose?” Nicholas asks with a grin, already halfway through his first bite.

“Of course.” she replies, arching an eyebrow as her lips curve playfully. “Is there any other way to do them?”

Nicholas shakes his head vigorously, his mouth now too full to reply properly. You suppress a laugh and glance at Agatha, who catches your eye with an amused glint in her own.

“And what do you think?” she asks, her gaze settling on you like a spotlight. “Passable for a last-minute effort?”

You blink, caught off guard by her directness. 

“It’s delicious.” you say, and you mean it, though the compliment feels inadequate. “I think Nicholas might be right about the potatoes. They’re perfect.”

Agatha tilts her head slightly, as if weighing your response, before giving a soft hum of approval. 

“Good.” she says, her voice low and velvety. “I’d hate to disappoint.” 

Her eyes lock on yours, a spark of mischief flickering just beneath the surface, as if she’s gauging your reaction, or outright daring you to respond. 

Then, as if to twist the knife just a little deeper, she adds a slow, languid wink that sends a sharp jolt straight through you. 

You’re left speechless, grasping for a response that never comes. Agatha, of course, doesn’t wait for one. 

She shifts her attention back to Nicholas, asking about his latest castle design, her tone light and engaging as though she hasn’t just left you squirming in your seat. 

As they talk, you force yourself to focus on their conversation, chiming in occasionally, but your mind keeps wandering. Every so often, your gaze drifts back to her, trying—and failing—to reconcile the poised, commanding Agatha you’ve come to know with the one sitting at this table.

There’s a warmth to her, something relaxed and comfortingly domestic. It’s strange, watching her here, casually slicing into a piece of chicken and humoring Nicholas’ endless stream of questions.

And yet, as foreign as this moment feels, there’s something about it that tugs at you, a quiet sense of belonging you hadn’t anticipated.

As dinner ends, you rise from the table, stacking your empty wineglass atop your plate in an effort to make a smooth exit.

“Thanks again for dinner.” you say, keeping your tone light but sincere. “It was wonderful. I should probably let you two enjoy the rest of your evening—”

“Wait!” Nicholas bursts out, his chair scraping against the floor as he jumps to his feet. “You can’t go! We have to watch a movie!”

You gape at him, eyes wide, like he’s just suggested skydiving without a parachute or eating soup with a fork.

“Uh, a movie?” you repeat, glancing between him and Agatha. 

Surely, this is where she steps in to say it’s too late, that it’s time to wind down.

But to your surprise, Agatha simply raises an eyebrow, her expression amused. 

“A movie.” she echoes, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass. “Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“You always say that! Come on, mom. It’s Saturday!” Nicholas complains dramatically, his hands on his hips in a way that’s almost comical.

You open your mouth to help, to offer a dismissal Nicholas might accept—“Maybe next time” or “Your mom probably wants to relax.”—but before you can get a word out, Agatha’s gaze shifts to you.

“You did say your evening was wide open. So, what’s it going to be, hon? Care to join us?” she asks, leaning back slightly in her chair. 

Each syllable feels like a finger pressing to the one thought you’re trying desperately to bury: that not only do you have nowhere else to be, but if you’re honest with yourself, there’s nowhere you’d rather be.

Her lips curve into a knowing smile, the kind that suggests she’s already read your mind and is simply waiting for you to catch up.

“I—well, I don’t…” you start, your voice faltering as your mind scrambles for a coherent response. “I mean, I don’t want to intrude or—”

“Intrude?” she interrupts, her brows lifting in mock surprise. “On my son’s demands and my… oh-so-thrilling evening of cleaning up after dinner?” She leans forward slightly, her smile softening but never losing its edge. “Come now, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you scramble to find the right words, your tongue suddenly feeling two sizes too big. 

“I just thought—you know, maybe you’d rather spend the evening relaxing. Just the two of you. I wouldn’t want to… overstay.” you manage, your voice wavering as your face burns hotter by the second.

“I wouldn’t exactly call the cinematic torture Nicky usually puts me through my ideal way to relax. But if you stay, at least I won’t have to endure it alone.” she muses, the words landing with practiced subtlety, as though she’s tossing the suggestion into the air to see how it falls. 

It’s not quite an invitation, not explicitly—but the subtle curve of her lips and the way her eyes insist on finding yours tell a different story, one she keeps ambiguous enough to leave you guessing.

If you choose the professional route—thank her again, grab your things, and leave—would you ever forgive yourself? Could you really walk away now, knowing you’d just turned down the chance to sit in her orbit a little longer? 

But staying… staying feels like opening a whole other door. The kind of door that leads to a night even more absurd than this one already feels, where the lines between reality and your own impossible daydreams blur so completely, you’re not sure you’d know the difference.

You’re stuck in the tension of that choice, the possibilities pressing down on you, when Nicholas’ voice explodes through the moment, shattering it entirely.

“I’ll go pick a movie!” he announces, his excitement bubbling over as he bolts toward the living room, a blur of motion and enthusiasm. The spell is broken, and you exhale, blinking as reality floods back in.

You glance back at Agatha, half-expecting her to change her mind now that he’s out of earshot. Instead, she leans back in her chair again, her eyes glinting with that usual quiet amusement. 

“There you have it.” she quips lightly, gesturing toward the living room. “Looks like the decision’s been made for you.”

Her words land with a calm finality, and for a moment, you simply stand there, unsure of what to do next. Before your nerves can get the better of you, you decide to grasp at the first thing that feels remotely purposeful.

“I’ll help clear the table.” you offer, your voice quick, almost rushed. “It’s the least I can do.”

You reach for a plate before the words have fully left your mouth, but as you stack the dishes and carry them to the sink, you can feel her gaze trailing you, quiet and intent.

You roll up your sleeves, the simple motion grounding you as you turn on the faucet. The water’s warmth seeps into your skin, and the rhythmic clatter of dishes offers a fragile sort of focus. 

For a moment, you dare to think you’ve managed to steady yourself.

But then, the scrape of her chair against the floor echoes through the room. 

The steady rhythm you thought you’d found falters as you hear her footsteps closing the distance between you. She moves into the space beside you, her presence altering the air itself. 

The faint clink of glasses being placed on the counter pulls your focus for a second, but it’s the feeling of her hand brushing against your waist that makes your body freeze.

With the warmth of her palm burning through the fabric of your sweater, the plate in your hands slips through your grip. You fumble, the sharp sound of porcelain against the sink cutting through the quiet as you catch it just in time.

“Careful, hon.” she murmurs, her voice impossibly close, rich with that maddening calm. But there’s no hint of apology, just the smug confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

All of a sudden, the water streaming over your hands feels unbearably loud, each droplet amplified against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the roaring in your ears. 

Each of your senses narrows, zeroing in on the spot where her hand rests against you. Her touch isn’t pressing, nor forceful, it’s just there, as if she’s delicately testing the boundaries of the moment.

Your cheeks burn, and you’re sure she can see it, but you can’t bring yourself to look at her, not when every nerve in your body feels like it’s caught fire. 

Before the moment stretches into something unbearable, Nicholas’ voice cuts through the stillness. 

“I found the movie!” he calls from the living room, his excitement palpable. “Come on, it’s starting!”

Agatha straightens, her hand leaving your waist, and the absence feels almost as intense as the touch itself. 

“Duty calls.” she says smoothly, her composure unshaken as she heads toward the living room without looking back.

You exhale shakily, gripping the edge of the sink for balance as you force yourself to calm down. With one last glance at the water, you shut it off and follow her, stubbornly pushing aside the ghost of her touch that refuses to fade from your body.

When you step into the living room, Nicholas is already curled up in one corner of the couch, wrapped in a blanket with the remote clutched triumphantly in his hands. His grin is so wide it’s almost glowing, radiating the pure victory of having secured his movie of choice.

It’s a scene of pure innocence, simple and easy, but your focus falters when your gaze shifts to Agatha.

She pauses at the edge of the couch, leaning down to unfasten her heels with graceful precision. The soft thud as they hit the rug feels somehow amplified in the quiet of the room. A low, contented sigh escapes her lips as she straightens, the sound carrying the unmistakable weight of a long day finally set aside.

Then, she sinks onto the central cushion of the couch, elegantly tucking one leg beneath her, folding into the space with casual confidence. One arm lifts to drape over the backrest, her fingers splayed idly.

You hesitate, your heart stuttering as the realization hits.

You weren’t prepared for this. You’d assumed Nicholas would sit between you, a natural, innocent buffer that would keep you at a safe, comfortable distance. But now, the couch looks impossibly small.

Panic rises even more when you realize you’ve been standing halfway between the kitchen and the couch for far too long, awkwardly frozen in place like prey caught in a snare.

For a fleeting moment, you genuinely consider sitting on the floor. But, as always, Agatha’s timing is impeccable. 

Her voice cuts through your inner turmoil like silk, laced with that signature teasing amusement that makes you want to both melt and scream.

“Are you planning to stand there all night?” she asks as her eyes lock onto yours. She tilts her head slightly, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit.”

Forcing your legs to cooperate, you move toward the couch, every step slower than the last. By the time you lower yourself onto the cushion, your body feels coiled, as if every muscle is bracing for impact.

You try to sit casually, like you’re perfectly at ease, teetering on the very edge of the cushion as if that extra inch might save you. 

But the effort is useless. The space between you is practically nonexistent, laughably small, and you’re acutely aware of every inch separating you.

She makes no effort to adjust her position or move her arm, leaving it draped lazily across the backrest, her fingers resting just shy of your shoulder. 

You clasp your hands tightly in your lap, fixing your gaze on the screen with a determination that borders on desperation.

Nicholas, oblivious as ever, starts the movie. The opening scene bursts to life on the screen, colorful and loud, his excitement spilling over as he narrates every detail. 

You nod along absently, keeping your eyes fixed ahead. But the truth is, you couldn’t explain a single thing happening in the movie if your life depended on it.

All of your attention is wrapped around Agatha, around her presence and the quiet weight of it. It’s nothing short of consuming, and every movement she makes feels seismic: the subtle shift of her posture, the barely audible rustle of her clothes as she settles deeper into the cushions, the gradual ease of her shoulders as though she’s letting the weight of the day melt away.

You feel like you’re about to lose your mind trying to understand how she can appear so perfectly composed while you sit there, silently coming apart at the seams.

And then, without warning, her knee brushes against yours.

Instinctively, you shift slightly to the side, leaning further into the backrest, but the movement only makes things worse. 

The arm that had been resting lazily behind you is now definitely touching your shoulder.

Your breath catches, your body locking up before you can stop it, every nerve screaming at the contact. 

Surely, she’ll move away. She has to.

But she doesn’t.

Neither her leg nor her arm budges, as if the contact is completely natural, as if she didn’t even notice. You, on the other hand, feel like you’re drowning in the sensation. 

Her proximity completely floods your senses. It feels as if the world has shrunk to the points were your bodies are touching, the faint pressure on your leg and shoulder anchoring you to the spot. 

And then, as if to seal your fate, you feel her gaze on you.

You don’t dare look at her, but from the corner of your eye you can see her head turned toward you. Her eyes are fixed on your face, and they might as well be burning holes through your head for how intensely she’s staring.

Everything begins to blur, the room fading as your thoughts swallow you whole. Once again, you find yourself grasp at rationality, trying to explain away her behavior and your own feelings, convincing yourself it’s all in your head. 

But the longer you sit there, the harder it is to believe that.

It’s been four months since you started working for her, four months of walking into this house, telling yourself you were foolish for even entertaining the thought that someone like Agatha Harkness could ever see you that way, as anything more than Nicky’s babysitter. 

During all this time, you’ve dismissed every fleeting glance, every teasing word, every ambiguous gesture, chalking it all up to her natural charm. You convinced yourself you were imagining things, creating meaning where there was none, deluding yourself into believing you could ever hold her attention.

But tonight? Tonight feels undeniably different. Especially after what she said last night. 

The tension has been simmering beneath the surface for this whole time, each moment building on the last, and now there’s no mistaking it: Agatha’s behavior is intentional, deliberate in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

These aren’t the actions of someone indulging in a meaningless game. Sure, Agatha has a very teasing nature, you know that. But she isn’t careless, she doesn’t do unprofessionalism. She wouldn’t risk making you uncomfortable—or worse, crossing a line—without a reason, especially when it involves someone so closely tied to Nicholas.

You wonder if you’ve been blind to something that’s been there all along, oblivious to what’s been right in front of you—if you’ve had an actual chance all this time and simply refused to see it.

Because at this point, no other explanation fits.

Your heart races, the possibility exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, a mix of longing and fear swelling in your chest.

When the credits finally roll, Nicholas lets out a loud yawn, stretching his arms above his head before slumping back into the couch. His eyelids droop heavily, but there’s a satisfied smile on his face.

“That was the best movie night ever!” he declares with a sleepy grin, his voice softening as exhaustion starts to win. 

He turns toward you, pushes off the blanket and practically climbs over Agatha to crawl over and wrap his arms around your shoulders in a hug that’s warm and unexpected.

“Thanks for staying.” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your sweater. “It was really fun doing this with you and Mom.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you blink rapidly, taken aback by the tenderness of it all. 

Words fail you, any attempt at a response dissolving into nothing as an involuntary smile tugs at your lips. You feel yourself melt into the embrace, your hands settling lightly against his back as you return the hug gently.

Nicholas pulls back, his grin bright despite his sleepy eyes, and he turns toward Agatha, who’s already rising from the couch.

“Mom, can we do this again soon?” he asks, rubbing his eyes as he pushes himself to his feet.

“We’ll see.” Agatha replies smoothly, resting a hand on his back to steady him. “Now come on. Bedtime.”

Just before they step out of the living room to head upstairs, Agatha glances back over her shoulder. Her head tilts ever so slightly, the soft glow of the room catching the sharps curves of her profile. Her eyes find yours, holding them with an intensity that feels almost disarming, and for a moment, it feels like the air stills around her.

“Wait here, won’t you?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper laced with quiet insistence “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You don’t even think, your head nods instinctively, a reflex before your mind can catch up.

As she turns away, you catch a faint glint in her eyes, something unreadable that looks almost like… anticipation?

The quiet sound of their footsteps fades into the background, leaving the room steeped in silence. It’s just you now, alone in the living room, with nothing but the weight of her words and the echo of your own thoughts.

The thing is, the babysitter would have left already. 

You’d planned to leave the moment she was done working, when Nicholas no longer needed you and when Agatha was free to reclaim her evening. 

But then came dinner, a polite invitation you couldn’t bring yourself to decline. And later, when the plates were cleared and you’d readied yourself to go, the movie became yet another reason to stay.

But now it’s late. Nicholas is heading to bed. There’s no reason for you to be here. And yet… she wants you to. For the third time tonight, you’re faced with a choice, though deep down, you know the decision has already been made. 

You’ll wait. Because she asked you to. Because it’s her.

You lean back against the couch, exhaling shakily. Your mind spins, grasping at the threads of the evening, trying to weave them into something coherent.

Agatha descends the stairs a few minutes later, the faint sound of her steps barely registering over the buzz of your thoughts. She doesn’t spare you a glance, doesn’t say a word, moving with singular purpose as she crosses the living room and disappears into the kitchen. 

The faint clink of glass and the soft pop of a cork being pulled echo faintly, carrying with them a sense of inevitability that sets your heart racing.

Moments later, she reemerges with the bottle of wine from dinner in one hand and two glasses in the other. Her movements are smooth, practiced, as if this is all part of some unspoken ritual. 

She sets the glasses on the coffee table and pours the wine with precision before handing you one and taking the other for herself.

Then, despite the now ample space on the couch, she chooses the same spot as before, her knee brushing against yours once again when she crosses her legs.

“Cheers.” she says lightly, raising her glass in your direction.

“Cheers.” you reply, the word coming out softer than you intended as you lift your glass. 

The first sip settles warmly in your chest, cutting through some of the tension of the evening.

For a while, the two of you talk easily. She asks about Nicholas and your morning job, and you gladly share little stories about his antics and your shifts at the café. 

Agatha listens intently, her occasional hums and soft chuckles weaving seamlessly into the conversation.

You ask her about her work, though she keeps her answers vague, offering only the occasional quip about paperwork, tedious calls and demanding clients. It’s clear she’s deflecting, but her tone is so effortlessly charming that you don’t press further. 

Instead, you find yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the exchange, the wine loosening the edges of your nerves.

By the time the third glass is poured, the atmosphere feels incredibly comfortable, like the two of you have settled into a pocket of time removed from the rest of the world. 

You’re leaning back against the couch now, your own legs crossed on the cushion, and the soft hum of casual conversation filling the space between you.

But then, completely out of nowhere, the words spill out of your mouth with an abruptness that shifts the air immediately.

“Do you always drink this much with your babysitters?” you ask, your tone is light, almost playful, but there’s an edge of nervousness beneath it.

Agatha’s response comes slower than expected, but when it does, it lands like a deliberate blow.

“Only the ones worth breaking the rules for.” her voice is low, sultry, and laced with an edge of amusement that makes the room feel impossibly smaller.

Your throat goes completely dry on the spot, and you try to will your brain to keep up, to find something clever to say. A snarky remark, a witty comeback, an equally teasing reply, anything.

You fumble with your glass, taking a sip longer than necessary, the wine coursing through you like liquid fire. Each drop seems to stoke the embers in your chest, unfurling in waves, merging with the simmering frustration that has been tightening its grip on you all night.

Boldness—fueled by the wine, the smoldering tension, and the enigma that is Agatha—surges to the surface.  Before you can think, the words slip out.

“Why do you do this?” your voice is sharper than you intended, and it cuts through the air between you like a knife.

Agatha raises an eyebrow, her smirk deepening as she leans back against the couch. 

“Do what, exactly?” she asks, feigning innocence, though the glint in her eyes betrays her.

“This.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, frustration bleeding into your tone. “The teasing, the looks, the… the way you—” you break off, exhaling sharply. “It’s like you enjoy watching me lose my mind.”

She chuckles darkly, the sound almost dangerous, and it sends a shiver down your spine. She sets her glass on the coffee table, her movements unhurried, calculated.

“Maybe I do.” she murmurs, her tone dropping into something quieter, more intimate. Her gaze locks onto yours, and she leans forward slightly, slowly closing the distance between you inch by inch.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve in your body on high alert. She’s close enough now that you can feel the faint warmth of her body.

But she doesn’t stop. She leans in further, her face now just a breath away from yours. Her eyes flick down to your lips for a fleeting moment, and your breath catches.

“You’re not the only one losing their mind tonight, you know.” her voice drops to a whisper, low and raw, and you’re pretty sure your pulse flatlines. 

The world around you fades, the only thing grounding you is the way her icy gaze holds you captive. Your heart pounds in your ears, and you think this is it—this is where the line between you finally blurs.

But then your eyes flicker down, catching sight of the glass still clutched in your hand, and reality slams into you like a freight train.

The wine—it’s been warming you, emboldening you, loosening you. And now, with her so close, you can’t shake the fear that it’s not just you under its influence. What if this moment isn’t real? What if it’s the wine, not her, driving the spark in her eyes, the closeness of her breath? The thought twists in your chest, sharp and painful. You don’t want this, her, to be something fleeting, something hazy and tainted by doubt.

You pull back, the movement abrupt and jarring, completely annihilating the moment. 

Agatha freezes, her body leaning back instinctively, confusion flickering in her eyes.

“I can’t.” you say quickly, your voice trembling slightly. “Not like this.”

Her brow furrows, and she tilts her head. 

“Not like what?” she asks, her tone still smooth but tinged with curiosity, fascination even.

“With… with the wine.” you stammer, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t want to— I mean, I don’t know if—” You let out a shaky exhale, setting your glass down beside hers. “I just… I can’t.”

You rise to your feet, your movements hurried and almost clumsy as you try to put some distance between the two of you. 

Agatha doesn’t stop you, but her gaze follows your every move, unreadable and heavy.

“I should go.” you mumble, your frustration bubbling to the surface. Even though you’re not sure if it’s directed at her, at yourself, or at the entire night.

You barely take a couple of steps toward the door when Agatha’s voice calls after you, firm and unyielding.

“You shouldn’t leave.” 

Her voice echoes through the room, and even though her words aren’t a real command, they sure feel like one.

You halt mid-step and slowly turn to face her, your chest tightening at the sight. She’s still seated on the couch, her posture casual but her gaze piercing, pinning you in place.

“It’s late.” she says, her tone measured, as if explaining something obvious. “You’ve had wine. The roads are dark. I’d rather not spend the rest of the night worrying about whether or not you made it home safely.”

Her words are practical, almost dismissive, as though the charged moment between you never happened. But there’s something beneath the surface—a subtle current in her voice that makes it impossible to tell if she’s truly unaffected or simply hiding it well.

“I’m fine.” your reply is automatic, defensive. But even as you say it, the shakiness in your voice betrays you.

“You don’t look fine, hon. You look like someone about to storm out into the night just to prove a point. Agatha says, her tone steady, though her expression softens just slightly. 

There’s still an edge of steel in her eyes, a quiet challenge buried beneath her words.

“I can handle myself.” you bite out, though the words sound hollow, even to you.

She exhales softly, the faintest flicker of something—annoyance? amusement?—crossing her features. 

Then, with a surprising grace for someone that just had three glasses of wine, she rises from the couch and closes the distance between you.

“I don’t doubt that. But tell me this: what exactly are you proving by leaving right now? And to whom?”

Her words hit their mark, and you feel the fight drain out of you. Because she’s right, you’re not leaving because it’s practical. You’re leaving because you’re overwhelmed, unsure, afraid of what staying might mean or lead to.

Agatha’s eyes stay locked on yours as she continues, her voice taking on a tone that’s almost… tender. 

“Stay.” she says simply, the single word carrying so much weight it feels like it might crush you. “It’s late. There’s no reason for you to go rushing out into the night when you don’t have to.”

You glance toward the door, then back at her, weighing your options.

The truth is, you are tired—tired of the emotions, of the push and pull of the evening that’s left you feeling completely unraveled. The idea of staying, of letting the night end on a quieter note, is far too tempting to resist.

“Fine.” you finally answer, your own tone colder than you expected.

“Good.” she says, stepping back to give you space. “The guest room is ready. It’s not much, but it’ll do for tonight.”

She turns and starts toward the stairs. You hesitate for a moment, your mind still spinning with the events of the past hours, before following her.

You sigh, exhaustion settling into your bones as you reach the top of the stairs. Right now, none of it matters—not the tension, not the confusion, not the endless spiraling questions that have chased you all night. All you want is to sleep, to let the haze of the wine fade away in the quiet refuge of a bed. Whether it’s your own or the one in Agatha’s guest room, it doesn’t seem to make a difference anymore.

You barely notice as Agatha pauses by a linen closet, pulling out a neatly folded towel and an oversized t-shirt.

“This should do.” she states, handing them to you. 

Her tone is neutral, almost too casual, as if nothing about the evening had been remotely unusual. Her gaze doesn’t linger as long as usual though, she doesn’t meet your eyes for more than a second before nodding toward the guest room door.

“That’s yours for the night.” she gestures briefly, indicating the room between the bathroom and Nicholas’ door at the far end of the hall. “Bathroom’s just here.” she continues, pointing to the door next to hers on the opposite end.

“Thanks.” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper as you grip the towel and shirt tightly.

Agatha hums faintly, stepping back toward her room. For a second, you think she might say more, but instead, she simply glances over her shoulder.

“Goodnight.”, her tone is warm, yet the word feels strangely clipped. 

Before you can respond, she slips into her room and disappears in the ensuite bathroom.

You stand there for a few seconds, awkwardly rooted in place. Your own “Goodnight” comes out almost as an afterthought, mumbled into the silence as you step into the guest room and close the door behind you.

The room is elegant and cozy, a neatly made bed dominating the space and a single lamp casting a warm glow over the soft cream walls. 

You drop the towel onto the edge of the bed and hold up the shirt, its fabric soft and worn in a way that feels oddly intimate.

You undress and slip it over your head, only to be immediately engulfed by Agatha’s perfume. It clings to the fabric, potent and intoxicating, and for a moment, you allow the scent to wash over you and flood your senses.

Heat coils low in your stomach, and you shake your head quickly, brushing off whatever effect wearing something of hers seems to be having on you. 

With a steadying breath, you fold the towel over your arm and step back out into the hall, heading towards the bathroom.

The splash of cold water against your face is grounding, but even as you dry off and prepare to head back to your room, you can’t shake the way her scent fills you nostrils with every minuscule movement.

Stepping into the hallway, you’re greeted by darkness, broken only by a faint sliver of light seeping from beneath your door. 

You take a step toward the guest room, but a faint sound slices through the stillness.

It’s almost imperceptible, a noise so soft and muffled that, for a second, you wonder if you imagined it.

You hold your breath as your eyes flick toward the ajar door of Agatha’s room. You think about just brushing it off, receding to the relative safety of the guest room and pretending you heard nothing.

But then you hear it again. 

Your feet move before your brain can catch up, carrying you a step closer, as quietly as possible on the wooden floorboards.

And the closer you get, the clearer the sound becomes.

Another low, broken noise escapes, this time accompanied by a faint rustle of fabric. 

The realization dawns slowly, burning through you like wildfire. Your stomach twists, heat pooling low in your abdomen as the truth of what you’re hearing sinks in.

You consider retreating. You do. But your legs refuse to move. 

Something keeps you rooted in place, drawn forward as though compelled by a force beyond your control.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the cool wood floor as you edge closer to Agatha’s door, muffled moans growing more vivid with every inch of space you gain. You can hear her breathing now, shallow and uneven, each exhale laced with pleasure that seems to echo in your own chest.

Your knees weaken as you reach the doorframe. And then you hear it.

“Yes… oh fuck, yes.”

Her rough voice rips through you like a physical force. The raw intimacy of it, the unguarded need, sends a sharp jolt straight down your spine. Your lips part on a shaky breath, your thighs pressing together instinctively against the unbearable ache building between them.

Every nerve in your body is on fire, wetness pools between your legs, and you feel a flush creeping up your neck, your skin hypersensitive to even the faintest brush of air.

Another broken moan follows, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to make a sound in return.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to will yourself back to reality, to sanity. But all you can picture is her—Agatha, in the darkness of her room, her head tilted back, her lips parted as she whispers filthy, desperate things into the still air.

You can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be the reason for those sounds.

The thought is intoxicating, dangerous, and far too tempting.

But you know you can’t let your mind go there. You know this is the moment to turn around, to leave, to escape before you lose yourself completely.

Pressing your back against the wall beside the doorframe, you focus on steadying your breath, though every nerve in your body feels alive, thrumming with a tension that leaves you trembling. Each sound she makes only tightens the coil in your stomach, the ache quickly approaching unbearable levels.

You take one last, shaky breath as she whispers another low curse that shoots straight through your core. Then, with every ounce of willpower you can muster, you step back, your movements shaky and reluctant. 

Each step toward the guest room feels like a battle, every fiber of your being screaming at you to turn back.

You step into the guest room and close the door behind you, leaning against it trying to steady yourself. Your heart still pounds, each beat reverberating through your chest, your entire body tingling in the wake of what you just experienced.

The room feels quiet, mercifully so, the sounds that had haunted you moments ago are now gone, silenced by the thick walls of Agatha’s home. You take a moment to reassure yourself—there’s no way Nicholas could hear anything, not from his room at the other end of the hallway. Agatha knows her house, knows its secrets. Of course, she’d be careful.

With that thought, you push yourself off the door and move toward the bed. You slip under the covers and reach for the lamp on the nightstand, turning it off. 

Darkness envelopes you, but it does nothing to quiet the sensations coursing through your body. The ache low in your stomach has only intensified since you left her door.

Your fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket, your breathing uneven as you squeeze your thighs together, desperate for even the smallest bit of relief.

But it’s no use. The ache is too insistent, too consuming. The memory of her moans, her breathy curses, fills your mind. You can still hear them, low and filthy, the rawness of her need reverberating throughout your whole body.

Your hand moves on its own, slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt. Your fingers trail over your stomach, climbing higher until they reach your breast. The moment your palm cups the soft flesh, a sharp jolt of pleasure shoots through you.

You suck in a breath, biting down hard on your lip to muffle the quiet whimper that escapes your throat. 

Your thumb brushes over your nipple, circling it slowly until it hardens beneath your touch. The sensation sends a wave of heat straight to your core, your hips shifting restlessly beneath the covers.

Your other hand moves lower, brushing over the waistband of your panties. There’s a moment of hesitation, but it’s brief. The heat pooling between your thighs is unbearable now, and you can’t deny yourself any longer. 

Your fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding over the wetness that greets you. You gasp quietly, the slick evidence of your arousal coating your fingertips. 

“Fuck…” you whisper, the word slipping out unbidden, the sound barely audible but laced with desperation.

Your fingers glide over your clit, the swollen bundle of nerves already sensitive, and you bite back another moan. You begin to circle it slowly, the pressure just enough to stoke the fire burning in your stomach.

But you need more. You press your fingers lower, sliding one inside yourself, then another. The stretch is delicious, the rhythm instinctive as your hips buck against your hand. 

You curl your fingers, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure that ripples through you makes your toes curl.

Your hand moves faster now, your palm grinding against your clit with each thrust of your fingers. The wet sounds of your movements would be obscene if they weren’t muffled by the covers, but instead of embarrassment, it only fuels your arousal.

And then, Agatha seizes complete control of your mind. You imagine her fingers instead of yours, the way they’d explore you, claim you. You picture her leaning over you, her voice condescending and commanding as she tells you how good you feel, how she can’t get enough of you.

Your back arches off the bed as your hand moves to your other breast, kneading it roughly. Your nipples are so sensitive now that each pinch, each roll between your fingers, leaves you wetter, the slickness between your thighs growing with each needy, breathless motion, soaking your fingers as you lose yourself completely to the sensation.

You imagine her lips replacing your hand, her tongue flicking over the hardened peak before she bites down, just enough to make you gasp. Your hips jerk involuntarily, the image too vivid, too real.

Her voice fills your mind, rough and low, the way she cursed earlier. But this time, it’s for you.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Let go for me.”

You can almost feel her breath against your skin, her weight pressing you into the mattress, her fingers fucking you with a precision that leaves you shaking.

Your fingers thrust deeper, harder, curling just right as your thumb flicks over your clit. The tension in your stomach coils tighter, impossibly tight, until you’re teetering on the edge.

“Agatha…” you whisper, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

The sound of it, the feel of it on your tongue, pushes you over the edge. 

The tension snaps, pleasure exploding through you wave after wave, so intense it leaves you trembling.

Your thighs clamp around your hand, your hips grinding against your fingers as the aftershocks ripple through you. Your other hand grips the sheets tightly, your knuckles white as you ride out every last pulse of pleasure.

For a long moment, you lie there, your chest heaving, your body a trembling, oversensitive mess. Slowly, your hand slips away, the wetness on your fingers a reminder of just how badly you want her.

You don’t bother cleaning up, your limbs too heavy to move. Sleep tugs at you, irresistible in the aftermath of your release. 

As your eyes drift shut, her name rests on the edges of your consciousness, a soft echo you can’t help but chase.

[pink-amethyst-tarot]

🤍 Why You Should Be Proud Of Yourself 🤍

credit to @crystallilytarot for the idea 💕

P I L E 1 P I L E 2 P I L E 3

Close your eyes, take a deep breath and choose the pile that you think is the one for you ♥

P I L E 1 - You have come so far! Four of Swords, The High Priestess, Two of Pentacles, Eight of Pentacles, Ten of Pentacles, The Fool, The Magician

The first thing I heard before even pulling cards is The Party's Just Begun by the Cheetah Girls and that feels like a sign that you should be having fun, dancing and living your life to the fullest! Your life can be so beautiful if you let it.

You know much more than you think that you do. I feel like you are back and forth between losing faith in yourself and feeling like you are finally breaking through. (I know what that's like, I've been there too much.) You've got to cut yourself some slack. Yeah, it's not perfect now but, you have made so much progress and that is important. You are so much closer to the finish line than you realize. Don't give up now. You've worked too hard and have come too far to give up now.

party cuz you know the future's all yours // dance 'til your feet don't touch the floor // celebrate the day you've waited for // party like you're ready for so much more // do it like you know it's never been done // go a little crazy // have too much fun //today's the day, c'mon everyone // the party's just begun //

Channeled song - The Party's Just Begun by The Cheetah Girls

P I L E 2 - Going With The Flow Two of Pentacles, Nine of Pentacles, Two of Wands (Reversed), Six of Pentacles, Justice, Queen of Pentacles, Eight of Swords

Despite your fear of change, you have overcome, finding your balance in your life and either now or soon, you will be enjoying the fruits of your labor. That could be financial abundance for this pile - it seems pretty likely, considering all the pentacles. You have been a very giving person and now it's time that people start giving to you in whatever way that may fit you.

You should also be proud of yourself for getting yourself to a point where you don't feel sorry for yourself. You've done the work to really see the truth of the situation - where you have been both right and wrong - and you've seen that you aren't as stuck as you once thought.

P I L E 3 - You've opened your heart again! King of Cups, Ten of Swords, Seven of Swords, Seven of Pentacles, Ace of Swords, Eight of Pentacles (Reversed), The Moon, Ten of Cups

You've been through some hard times. I feel like your heart was really bruised and batter but, despite the things you have been through, you have taken your lemons and turned them into make lemonade! I can see some of you turning to writing, journaling, or posting on social media. You have been working on yourselves and you are so happy with the progress you've made. You should be proud of yourself; I know I am! This work you have done on yourself is leading you to a new beginning in your life, a change of pace that you have be dying to have!

Your dreams are coming true and your intuition is spot on! You are about to get everything you wanted and then some so you can relax and know that your life is about to change for the better.

If you are looking for a personal reading, you can look on my shop on Etsy at PinkAmethystTarot, DM me or send me an e-mail at pinkamethysttarot@gmail.com

If you feel called to tip:

C@SH@PP: $oddlycozycottage

P@YP@L: @oddlycozycottage

KO-FI: @oddlycozycottage

Thank you all so much for interacting with me and my readings, it really does mean the world to me!

Page Divider by @cafekitsune

LEGAL DISCLAIMER: FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. THESE READINGS ARE FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. no guarantees are implied. These readings are not a substitute or replacement for any professional help or services. My readings are not a substitute for any form of professional legal, medical/psychiatric, relationship, religious/spiritual or financial/ business advice nor consultations. You should always see a professional legal/trained adviser for help in any matter. I am not responsible for any decisions/ actions you take.

[daenysx]

hello <333 how about 8:37 pm x sirius black?

8.37 PM | SIRIUS BLACK

sirius cooks pasta with the creamiest lemon sauce for you this evening.

the first taste: heavenly.

"i never knew you were such a good cook." you say after taking another forkful of spagetti.

"me neither, gorgeous." he says. "you know what, i might be unstoppable right now. all these looks and brains, now what- being the greatest cook ever?"

he's being smug about it on purpose and you're too interested in eating your dinner so you let him entertain himself. sirius can't help but stare at you eating the food he made, you liked it and your praises warmed him a lot. he also thinks it's an amazing feeling to make sure you're full and happy, your lips are covered in sauce and your eyes close every time you bring your fork to your mouth.

"thank you for discovering your new talent." you say. "i'm so glad we had something other than take out."

normally you like cooking for both of you and sirius always helps in kitchen, but this week has been hectic and most days were spent with pizza and chicken menus. you're happy to eat something homemade.

"i hope you know that this means i'm gonna be cooking for us for the rest of our lives now." sirius says. "i can't stop if i'm this good."

"oh, i agree." you smile. "so, you're ambitious?"

"i'm so ambitious." he says with that low, flirty voice. he comes next to you. "i also find myself completely bewitched with the feeling of keeping my girl full, if you know what i mean."

you don't care how cheeky he can be, to be honest. his hand is wrapped around your waist as he takes the fork from you, he brings it to your mouth after getting some spagetti on it. you part your lips and let him press a kiss on your head after eating the pasta he was holding.

who knew sirius black could be this charming in the kitchen?

dreamer girl sleepover ♡

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

the five stages | f. odair

masterlist

summary: a journey back to a golden period of time of polaroid pictures, white knitted sweaters, and lively sea-green eyes. why? because in the present, those same pair of eyes are ruthlessly unrelenting and you have no other chance of their escape.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, vomiting, implied smut, depression, maggots, hallucinations, relieving fluff, mild horror. I don’t want to spoil the story too much, so I won’t be adding any more warnings, sorry y’all. this could be very triggering so please read at your own discretion. some descriptions are quite graphic!

notes: I’m super proud of this one—it’s sorta based off “little talks” by of monsters and men and “on the nature of daylight” by max richer. this fic probably won’t get many views, so I’ll be incredibly grateful for any—if any at all—type of engagement! <33

word count: 8k

The bedroom was cold; dark; empty. Empty even though I still resided in it.

My alarm had gone off two hours ago, yet I hadn’t moved an inch. When I finally turned my head to the side, I found that the space beside me was vacant. Cold; dark; empty—I reached out my hand anyway.

Thirty minutes passed before I wrestled myself out of bed and started making breakfast downstairs. The otherwise warm and flavourful plate of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast left my mouth feeling dry and my throat lodged.

It used to be one of my favourite meals. At least, when he was around.

Dishes were piled in the sink, dirty and untouched. I sat on the couch, pondering whether today was the day I would finally get to cleaning them. It wasn’t. I couldn’t. We always did that together. I wondered—if I left them in the sink long enough, would he return? Even just for five minutes to help me put them away? One month and seventeen days had passed, and yet I still entertained this thought religiously.

I wasted an hour running circles round the same contemplations before deciding fresh air, as cliché as it was, might do me some good.

Grey clouds concealed the sun’s warm golden light when I stepped outside, but that was fine—I didn’t like anything golden anymore. But he would want me to leave the house at least once a day, so that’s what I would do. I would go down to the beach beside our—my house and feel the sand collect between my toes as I walked to the water’s edge.

But wasn’t that where he was when it happened? Wasn’t he in water? Didn’t those things pile on top of him? Didn’t they sink their fangs into his neck and tear at his flesh until he was blown to…

Bits of egg, yoghurt and stomach bile sat at my feet. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the ground in a sandy, tear-stricken heap. Since my lower body had refused to cooperate any longer, it took me until midday to crawl back up the dune and to my front doorstep.

Fuck. I needed to rest.

“I need you to rest, sweetheart.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” I whined. “I’m not sick.”

Finnick placed a bucket on the ground beside the bed. The room smelled of lemon disinfectant—a joy I often found in being sick… That is, if I were sick, which I was not. I must have drunk spoiled milk or eaten something bad during breakfast. Nevertheless, Finnick was not having it.

“You’re throwing up everything you manage to get down, and you’re shivering like it’s the middle of winter,” he said adamantly, tucking the comforter up to my chest. “It’s summer, and you’re very much not fine.”

I sat up, ready to heatedly debate the subject, but the room began swirling, and my ears were hissing like a staticky television channel without a signal. A quiet whimper buzzed in my throat as I hunched forward. Damn him, I was sick.

The mattress dipped as Finnick sat beside me. His hand was on my back, rubbing it soothingly as he used his other hand to tuck away the curtain of hair concealing my face. I huffed, half in annoyance, half in an attempt to suppress the nausea rising in my throat, and then sunk back against the pillows.

“Not sick, she says,” he jested, smiling down at me. I rolled my eyes, though unable to hide the weak, betraying smile creeping across my lips. “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he said, a gentle command. “I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

The wooden flooring welcomed me with hard, cold arms as I hauled my sandy body through the front door. Images of fangs, bloody flesh, and panicked sea-green eyes flooded my mind.

More breakfast, more bile. No lemon disinfectant.

My knees were folded beneath my body; my body was hunched over my knees. I was sobbing now, so hard that I threw up again (was there even anything left in my stomach at this point?), creating a thick puddle of vomit and tears beneath me. Cries and gasps for air bounced around the house. To call me a mess would be an understatement. I was a disaster. A disaster wrapped up in an unmendable tragedy with a ragged, threadbare ribbon barely holding me together.

And in case I wasn’t aware of this fact, the floorboards were so shiny that they mirrored a reflection of myself. My hair was a being of its own, all wild and unkempt, and my face was another story entirely—a red, blotchy thing I wasn’t too interested in delving into.

But the most unsettling aspect had nothing to do with me, it was that there was someone else in the reflection. Two green balls of light were glowing above my head.

Dishevelled golden hair…

Dimpled cheeks…

My forehead was pressed to the floor as I screamed.

“I don’t want to make you sick as well,” I said, contrarily enjoying the feeling of Finnick’s skin warm against mine, hot blood flowing through his veins.

A day had passed since I first became unwell, and the sickness had continued to wreak havoc inside me.

We were both under the thick covers, our limbs tangled together as he held me atop his chest. (my body didn’t register the scorching summer temperatures. I actually felt as though my core temperature was a few degrees below freezing. Meanwhile, Finnick was characteristically toasty warm. It was perfect for me, but not so much for him, evident in the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. Nevertheless, he made no complaints).

My body rose and fell with each breath he took. I was trying to inhale whenever he exhaled in a weak attempt to prevent the festering sickness in my body from entering his, and though it was a futile gesture, I did it anyway.

“In sickness and health, remember?” he said.

I smiled. “We’re not even married.”

“Yet, you mean,” he countered. “I plan on spending the rest of my life with you, sweetheart. You know that.”

My heart fluttered at the thought of spending an entire lifetime with him—waking up in each other’s embrace each morning, the warm sunlight peeking through the blinds of our bedroom; Finnick calling me “Mrs. Odair” or “My wife” at every opportunity because doing so made us both giggle like two moronic, love-struck teenagers; and being unable to prevent the deep smile lines on both our cheeks as we age, a constant display of our perpetual happiness.

“Sixty more years of having and holding you,” he continued with a gentle musing in his tone. “For better or for worse... For richer or for poorer.” He then stroked the side of my face and brushed away the sweaty strands of hair sticking to my forehead. “In sickness and in health…”

“…Until death do us part,” I finished, my voice slow with fatigue.

Two fingers sat beneath my chin and tilted my head upward. My eyes connected with Finnick’s. They were soft. Heartfelt.

“Not even then. I’ll love you beyond the grave,” he murmured. Then his lips were slowly curving into a pensive smile. “When we’re both ghosts and haunting the next owners of this house.”

I was now smiling, too. “I’d hoped you would say something like that.”

How could he lie like that? There was no we. There were no next owners. There was only me, alive and alone in a comatose house. And mind you, I was sane enough to know that it wasn’t actually his ghost haunting me, though I wish I weren’t because having that knowledge was even worse. It meant he was truly erased from existence.

“Go away,” I whispered to the reflection on the floor.

He didn’t. His vacant green eyes kept staring down at my crumpled figure.

I shot off the floor and spun around, hot tears streaming down my face. “Go away!” His face remained expressionless. He looked like himself, only colder. “You said sixty more years! You said we’d be together!” I mindlessly picked up and flung a small picture frame at him, only for it to pass through his body and shatter on the floor behind him. “Why did you lie to me?!” My voice was frayed with fury, though underlined with grief.

He said nothing, did nothing. All he did was watch.

My legs buckled, and I was on the floor again. I was whispering, half-sobbing, the same question over and over until the words slurred together. “Why’d you lie? Why’d y’lie?” The only time I stopped was when my tongue grew too heavy to move anymore.

To my surprise, he eventually came and sat beside me, remaining cold and silent—as I too had become.

Glass fragments from the picture frame were scattered across the floorboards. The photo within had fallen out and, ironically, drifted towards me. I didn’t bother acknowledging him as I moved onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward—my palms slicing open and blood seeping out—until the photo was in my hands. My shins had granules of glass pricking into them, but I couldn’t feel the pain; all I could do was stare at the memory in my hands.

The picture had been taken in District Thirteen, a day before he signed up for… the mission.

I was drifting in and out of sleep when a sudden bright flash lit up my eyelids.

“Oops.”

Heavy eyes fluttering open, I was met with a small camera pointing down at me, which was being held up by a lengthy muscular arm, which was connected to an even more muscular and broad shoulder, which was connected to—okay, sorry, I think you get it.

“Finnick!” I shrieked, pulling the covers over my naked figure.

He laughed, the vibrations rumbling deep within his chest, beneath my ear. A soft whirring sound accompanied the polaroid sliding out of the camera, its black film hiding the doubtless embarrassing picture beneath. He placed the film on the sheets beside him, letting the photo develop in darkness.

“I was supposed to cover the flash,” he said, still chuckling.

I rubbed my eyes, which were twinkling with little sparkles of light. “I think you blinded me.”

“Lucky you,” he jested. “You’re finally free from my repulsive exterior.”

I started to reach for the picture beside him—“You’re an idiot”—but then he was rolling us over until his arms were pillared on either side of my head and he was hovering above me.

His hair was a mess, a testament to the night before (and very early hours of the morning), and he was sporting a beautiful, lazy grin. “Yeah? Well, you’re engaged to an idiot,” he said, tilting his head in an arrogant manner. “So what does that make you?”

The sea-glass ring hugging my finger gleamed in the lamp’s dull light as I reached out to touch his face, my fingertips brushing along the edges of his pronounced jawline. Tangled strands of hair and a beaming smile were reflecting back at me in his eyes. No one had ever loved anyone as much as I loved Finnick—disregarding the one exception that was staring down at me.

“Blinded by love,” I whispered.

Brief yet poignant emotion trickled through his features, his eyes. Then, like a flick of a switch, he covered it up and lowered his face into my neck, groaning the words, “So corny.”

My fingers were tangled in his hair, holding him close to me. “Liar,” I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I love you, which is why I put up with your corniness,” he murmured into my skin.

Even after all this time, my heart still leapt whenever he said those three words, even when he was being a jerk about it. I kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too.”

We laid like this for a short while longer—Finnick keeping his face buried in the warmth of my neck, his arms curled beneath my body; me playing with the golden waves of his hair that were somehow softer than my own. He was so heavy on top of me that it was starting to become difficult to breathe, but in no universe would I ever tell him to get off. It was a blissful sort of suffocation.

A sort anyone would snap a picture of just to keep as a reminder of how beautiful it feels to be smothered with love. With that being said, the picture that lay awaiting beside me was brought back to mind.

“Oh no,” I moaned, picking it up and taking a short glance at the developed photo. I covered my face with my hands, repeating the words, “Oh no.”

The photo was plucked from my fingers, and Finnick began humming contentedly to himself.

In the photo, my face had been nuzzled into his bare, muscular chest, eyes closed in sleep-drunken serenity, hair thrown over my shoulder and spilling across the pillow. My hand rested on his contoured stomach with just enough of my upper arm and low light to conceal my breasts. Finnick had a delicate hand draped over my waist. He was gazing down at me with a smile that was just… full of pure love.

I had to admit—it was a beautiful picture. Despite my initial disapproval.

“Beautiful,” I heard him echo my thoughts, his eyes still scanning the photo. Then his brows furrowed, and his head slightly inched forward as though he had just noticed something peculiar in the picture. “Oh, and you are too, I guess.”

My head tilted back against the pillow with an abrupt laugh. I shook my head, looking back at him. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, leaning in closer.

His lips were on mine for what must have been the millionth time in the past few hours. The bedside clock announced that breakfast was soon approaching, though it was clear neither of us would make an appearance within the next hour (or two).

“You love me,” he whispered as he slid inside me.

And I did.

I really did.

The muscles in my cheeks were straining due to how hard I was smiling.

It wasn’t my idea to keep a picture of us half-naked in the entryway of our home. He always was a bit unusual like that. Completely unashamed of who he was and how he acted. Sometimes a little too boisterously, but that’s what I loved so much about him—how confident he was in his love for me, so much so that nothing else mattered, no one else’s opinion.

God, I love him so much.

Love…?

Wait.

That’s not right.

Shouldn’t it be “loved”?

And why was I smiling? I didn’t have anything to smile about anymore. He was gone. Our wedding never occurred. Our faces never wrinkled with smile lines. Our clasped hands never weathered with age. He was gone.

The polaroid slipped from between my fingers. My hands were covered in glass and blood, blood that had painted a dark red splotch in the middle of the shiny film. Figures.

After a short while of staring blankly at the scattered debris decorating the floor, I finally found it in myself to start climbing back onto my feet. My straightened legs wobbled and ached beneath me with the little energy I had. That’s what happens when you can barely stomach food anymore: no energy, always sleeping, always swamped by nightmares or bittersweet memories—at this point, they were one and the same.

Not a strand of gold or a fleck of green was in sight when I glanced over my shoulder. For now, at least. He liked making an appearance once or twice a day.

Pieces of glass crunched beneath my bare, stinging feet as I made for the stairwell. A mess for another day, I reasoned. Just like the dishes. Sticky red footprints stamped each wooden step I ascended, growing less prominent as I reached the second floor.

After taking a right down a short hallway, the encompassing walls littered with magnificent seashells and dried ocean flora, I turned the knob to the furthest room and entered. The floor was landscaped with mountains of clothes which drenched the room in a familiar, all-consuming smell. The scent kind of reminded me of receiving a warm hug, albeit from someone you know you should let go of in more ways than one.

His hair, golden and tousled, caught my eye as I passed the wall of string-hung polaroids in our… sorry, my bedroom. His smile was all dimpled and brilliant, and he had his tanned arms wrapped around my middle. Just moments after the picture was taken, he had tackled me into the water and rightfully earned a smack on the back of the head. In turn, he did it again.

But before that, we were both looking into the camera with the most joyful expressions—huge grins, bright eyes. Frozen in time.

I never let myself look too long at that picture anymore. And I never, ever looked into his eyes. Green used to be my favourite colour. I didn’t have a favourite colour anymore. It was safe to say I didn’t have a favourite anything anymore; everything favourable was a reminder of him.

I picked up a white knitted sweater off the ground and tugged it over my head, staining it with splotches of dark red. Knowing him, he would wear it regardless—whatever was mine, was also his, and was equally the same in reverse, even things as grotesque as blood.

Well, he would have worn it, I should have said.

The sweater had been specifically tailored for him. I remembered how the soft sleeves hugged his arms so well that every fluid curve of his biceps was visible, similar to a building wave before it crested. On me, the sleeves swallowed my arms whole, which I liked to think in their own unique way had also been unintentionally tailored for me, like someone out there knew one day I would need some way to drown in him when he was gone.

Finnick’s fingers tugged at the silk ribbons, unwrapping the opulent gift box that sat on our dining table. Capitol devotees would send extravagant parcels weekly, turning up in abundance on our doorstep. Sometimes Finnick didn’t even bother opening them; sometimes we opened them together just to get a good laugh out of whatever ridiculous item was inside.

He never, though, opened the perfume-scented letters marked with lipstick stains.

“Oh,” I said in surprise as he lifted the lid. Inside was a folded piece of fabric, knitted and cream-white and intricate, though still simple. It was soft to the touch; thick enough to retain warmth. I held it up with two hands, admiring the hand-sewed threads of cotton. Whoever’s handiwork this was, it was nothing to laugh at.

Holding it up to Finnick’s torso, I smiled and said, “Try it on.”

“What?” He shook his head and smiled quizzically. “No.”

“Yes. I think it will look good on you.” I pressed it further against him with conviction. “Try it on.”

He tilted his head and exhaled deeply through his nose, giving me a begrudging, squinty-eyed look. From that, I already knew I had won him over, and watched as he snatched the sweater from my grasp and tugged his shirt off with one hand. I averted my eyes, feeling the tips of my ears flush with heat—we’d been together for over a year now; you would think I’d have grown accustomed to seeing him shirtless.

His head slipped through the neckline and he pulled the sweater down his body. I was right. It looked really good on him. Perfect, actually. The measurements were so precise that the fabric sloped off his shoulders like a compact mountain of snow. The thick-knitted collar dipped into a deep, uneven neckline that partly revealed his chest and made his neck look like a strong, contoured pillar. He looked at me expectantly, as though to ask, “Well?”

“It makes your neck and shoulders look really nice,” I blurted out, instantly cringing inside.

His expression contorted into something of amusement and surprise as he took a slow step towards me. “My neck and shoulders, huh?” he said, grinning devilishly. Oh, now I’d done it. Leave it to me to rocket Finnick Odair’s already atmospheric ego. “Anything else?”

I began backing away, but his prowling strides were so long that the space between us only shortened. When my backside hit the edge of the dining table, I knew I was done for.

“You know,” I began, avoiding his unrelenting stare. “I think it was just a momentary lapse of judgement.” He was closing in now, placing his hands on either side of my body to trap me in place. “It—It actually looks terrible on you,” I said, feigning sincerity and adding a little nod to help further my case.

His eyelids drooped as he gazed down at me, lips curving into that seductive smirk he had mastered long ago. “No takebacks,” he purred, voice low and gravelly. Dear God, I could only pray I wasn’t going to melt into a puddle on the floor. He always did this—took every opportunity to flirt and render me a stuttering, bashful mess. It was his favourite game to play. “This is now my new favourite shirt. All thanks to you, sweetheart.”

But, given the right timing and ever-wavering amount of confidence, I liked to play too.

I inhaled deeply, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray me. “Maybe you should take it off then,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “So you don’t ruin it.”

His mischievous expression revealed his next words before he even spoke them. “Maybe I will,” he said, and then he was tugging his sweater over his head, and I was tearing off my own. As his hands slipped beneath my thighs and lifted me onto our dining table, I prayed the wooden legs wouldn’t collapse under the weight of our next actions.

My fingertips ran over the soft, rippling patterns on the knitted sleeves, my arms crossed in a self-soothing manner. After that day, the sweater had become a sort of good luck charm—or so we agreed upon as we lay panting on the tabletop. He started wearing it to a multitude of events and parties in the Capitol (basically any place in which he needed a pick-me-up, a reminder of what he had to come home to, who he had to come home to).

He even wore it the day we got engaged.

So many happy memories were associated with this one white sweater. So many times, those cloud-soft sleeves were wrapped around my body, suffocating me in the scent of him—if nothing else, at least that remained.

The last time he had worn it was the day of the Reaping for the Quarter Quell; the last time our lives were ever semi-normal. I had fought tooth and nail to reach him before he was escorted onto the train, despite being ordered, “No goodbyes,” by one of the Peacekeepers. In modest terms, I had significantly decreased his chances of reproduction.

When I reached Finnick, he had brought me into a kiss so harsh and fervent that my lips were bruised the next day. He then yanked off his sweater, leaving his upper body completely exposed to everyone around us in complete disregard for his trauma-induced fear of doing so, and shoved it into my hands.

I had just stood there frozen in bewilderment, watching as he called out, “I love you, sweetheart!” Two Peacekeepers were forcing him onto the train, but he too fought for the last word. “Don’t forget—I’m always with you!”

That statement had never been truer than it was now. For better or for worse.

My vision unblurred as I returned to reality. Dismal, grey light was peeking through the shutters that formed the balcony doors, the daylight hours seeming to tick away at a snail’s pace. I used to wish for the days to be longer, for time to move slower, so I could savour the moments I had of happiness and sunlight which used to be plentiful.

Why do wishes only come true when you grow to desire nothing but the opposite?

Slothfully, I crawled onto the unmade king-size bed, my limbs crumpling and balling to my chest as the side of my head hit the pillow. The imprint on the mattress beneath my body didn’t match my own. It was much larger and broader. How long would it take for the springs to forget his body weight and recoil back into place as though he never existed at all?

I inhaled the sweater’s scent with every breath I took (and I tried not to wonder how long it would take for his scent to disappear as well) and hugged my arms around my waist. No pain was worse than the fleeting moments I forgot the embrace was my own and not his.

Hours passed, and so did the evening. A beautiful orange sunset hadn’t slipped through the shutter’s cracks because the clouds never dissipated. Night-time brought no consolation either. Not even the stars or moon made an appearance. Everything that once gave me a shred of optimism was hidden behind a veil of gloom.

I knew tomorrow wouldn’t be any different—the weather, my mood, his absence. Because the end of autumn was closing in, and the days were becoming bleaker. Trees would start shedding their leaves; the leaves would start to die.

I hoped I would too.

I was still curled up on my side, my body aching with stiffness, when my face began scrunching into this ugly, twisted mess of despair. My tears were slow yet heavy, synonymous with the day I had incurred.

But then something strange happened.

Someone called my name.

No. That couldn’t be right. I was the only one who occupied a house in the Victor’s Village; the others had either relocated after the war or were… dead.

But there it was again—my name, distant and eerie, yet spoken with a tone people often used to beckon over and aid a frightened, injured animal. My vision blurred, both from tears and concentration on the voice.

“Hey.”

I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my surroundings transformed into a kitchen, just that they had and that I was no longer in my bed but standing upright.

Ahead of me, in the distance, the sun was beating down on the crystalline water, and white frothy waves were cresting on the smooth, golden sand. It was a perfect day; not a cloud was in sight. The only blemish that smeared the blue sky was the reflection staring back at me from the window I gazed out of.

In my hands was a soup bowl and a damp dishrag.

“Sweetheart?” That once distant voice, concerned and beckoning, was standing right beside me.

Blinking, I snapped out of my daze and turned away from the window.

He stood tall beside me, despite being half hunched over the kitchen sink and scrubbing the last of the few dirty dishes stacked neatly on the bench top. His head was turned towards me, his enamoured sea-green eyes peering into my own as though he was searching behind them for what troubled me.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, standing up straight. His touch was warm and gentle as he reached for my hand, leaving soapy bubbles on my palm and fingers. “Where’d you go?”

Three odd things seemed to occur at once: first, I flinched away from his touch, overwhelmed by its paradoxical unfamiliar familiarity; second, I felt an inexpressible relief from seeing him standing before me, seeing his cheeks painted with a soft pink hue as though blood-red roses were hidden just beneath his skin.

The third was an onset of disorientation. I couldn’t tell you why I felt disorientated standing in my own kitchen with the love of my life, just, simply, that I did. There was an answer—it was close by, right under my nose, yet unreachable. We did this every day, didn’t we? We would eat meals together and then wash up together. So, why did I feel so unsettled?

I shook my head, dispelling the confusion that muddled my brain. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened.” I laughed uneasily, without a hint of mirth.

He laughed too, not to poke fun or because he found my obvious turmoil amusing, but rather to comfort me, so I would feel less alone in my unease. “It’s alright,” he said gently.

Neither of us addressed what had happened; we simply resumed our routine of washing and drying in domestic silence. And as seconds turned to minutes, and as the sky remained sunny, I found myself smiling. All that mattered was that he was standing beside me and that the sun was beaming in the sky. So, I kept smiling.

After I finished drying the last dish, we began placing the plates, bowls, and an abundance of cutlery in their assigned drawers and cupboards, weaving past each other and giggling anytime we got in one another’s path. I was carrying a stack of white plates, eyeing the high cupboard they needed to go in, but before I could even attempt straining onto my toes, the plates were out of my hands and taken into another much larger pair.

The smell of sea salt and expensive cologne wafted from behind me as he towered over my shorter frame and placed the plates in the cupboard.

“I could have done that,” I said, smiling as I turned around to face him.

He had a playful glint in his eye. “Yeah, right. What are you, like, four feet tall?” he joked.

It was an extreme exaggeration since I was no way near that height, but I suppose everyone was miniature in comparison to him, being over six feet tall and all. I feigned open-mouthed offence, to which he gave the side of my head a quick, playful kiss of apology.

He then leaned against the counter with crossed arms. “Plus, when was the last time you actually put these dishes away? I’m surprised you even remember where they go.” He was grinning at me in a teasing manner, but every ounce of humour had drained from my body.

My eyes drifted to the floor.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it—when was the last time I put the dishes away?

I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember what had happened this morning or the day before. Hell, I couldn’t even remember what we were doing before the dishes.

To be standing in a room, in a place you call home, and have a sense that nothing is in its right place, even though that is where everything has always been, is a disconcerting feeling beyond belief. To be perplexed by your own state of being—your existence—is even worse. I could almost describe it as a nauseating bout of vertigo.

My hands found the counter’s edge behind me, and I exhaled a shaky breath.

He stepped in front of me, one large and gentle hand reaching up to cup my jaw. “Are you okay?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with shallow worry lines as he inspected my face. I hated that. I hated that I worried him so much. Sure, partners were supposed to lean on each other for support in a relationship (as he too did with me when needed), but I always felt so guilty doing so. Hadn’t he already suffered enough… pain in his lifetime? Who was I to cause him any more?

A sunbeam suffused the room, oozing across his face. The illumination lightened his eyes into a refreshing mint green, though, in contradiction, unearthed a pain that had been previously been concealed. Pain from what, I wasn’t sure. From concern regarding my unusual behaviour? Maybe a thought that was troubling him? Or perhaps he too was enduring a spell of confusion and had an inexplicable feeling that he was out of place.

Whatever his pain regarded, seeing it had rattled the deepest structures in which held my mind together.

It was then that I suddenly realised I hadn’t answered his question, so I gave him a wan “I’m-not-too-sure-myself” smile and then began slinking back to the sink window.

He followed behind me. I could feel him staring into the back of my head, could feel his brows draw together and his lips pull into a tight line, patiently waiting for a further explanation, though I wasn’t sure I could offer him one.

I hadn’t noticed before, but on the windowsill was a small picture frame containing a polaroid picture of us in bed—I was lying on his chest, half-naked and asleep, and he was looking down at me, smiling fondly yet with a sort of mischievous knowability. Running down the middle of the protective glass was a small, jagged crack.

I plucked the frame from the windowsill, inspecting the picture in my two hands. It seemed to uncover a place in my mind—once clouded by disorientation—I’d forgotten. Whether this place was real or imaginary was beyond me, but the fear I felt upon its recollection was incandescently genuine.

“Do you think,” I spoke tentatively, “people can have nightmares while they’re wide awake?” My thumb ran over the crack.

I might have heard him inhale a quiet, sharp breath, but it also could have just been the waves breaking on the distant shore. “Like a flashback?” he asked, an unidentifiable unease in his tone.

“No, not exactly.” I searched my brain for the right words, the right way to tell him how I was feeling, but it was difficult when I could only conjure vague fragments. And it was all I could do to tell it to him elliptically, as I knew saying the words in any other manner would shatter my heart.

“I had this vision,” I began, my words apprehensively staccato, “where I was somewhere else.” My eyes flickered over the picture. “Somewhere… bad. Everything was grey and heavy, and I was alone. Sometimes you were there, but you—you weren’t really you anymore.” I paused and looked up to find him staring at me in the reflection of the window. He looked pained; it was then suddenly hard to recollect a time when he didn’t. My throat started to constrict. “You were gone and…” my voice quietened to a broken wisp of wind, “you were haunting me.”

The room was silent.

He said nothing in response

The transparency of his reflection in the glass was so familiar—so haunting—and it was like another forgotten matter had been dredged from the depths of my mind. Stinging tears brimmed my waterline, and, due to my inability to bear the sight of his translucent appearance, I forced myself to turn around.

I glanced up at him, smiling weakly as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as if my need to apologise was nonsensical (even I was unsure of what I was apologising for), and he then pulled me into a tight embrace. His chin rested atop my head; my face was buried in his chest, and his arms held me like I was some dilapidated structure that relied on his support to remain upright. Part of me knew this sentiment was correct.

I expected his next words to be ones of consolation or reassurance, maybe an “I’m right here, sweetheart” or an “I’ll never leave you”. Instead, I felt his head turn and heard him say, “Think it’s going to storm?”

With a sniffle, I turned my head towards the window. The arms wrapped around my body tightened as if he somehow knew I would need the extra support. Because when I saw the wall of dark, opaque clouds rolling through the sky towards us, an unshakeable dread zapped through my heart.

My hands clung to the fabric of his cream-white sweater, which then brought to my attention that an inexplicable tingling sensation was spreading down the fingers of my right hand, numbing them.

Lightning flashed on the horizon, and the once serene waves began cresting violently on the shoreline. The dread grew.

Before my attention could drift too far, my name was called again.

I looked up to find those green eyes gazing down at me, swelling with tears. He was crying. Why was he crying? And why was his hair wet? His usually golden strands had darkened to a deep brown and were drenched with cold water that dripped onto my cheeks, and his hair was swept haphazardly across his forehead, a reflection of someone who had just endured an intense storm or had just been fighting for his life against a swarm of—of—

No.

My own eyes began to burn.

“It’s killing me to see you this way,” he spoke, every second word breaking and wavering in volume.

The world seemed to tilt on an axis. Return did the disorientation, ravaging my mind more violently now. “What do you”—My chest was rising and falling with heavy breaths—“What? What do you mean?” My lower lip was quivering, and my eyebrows were scrunched together in confusion. His words replayed in my head: It’s killing me to see you this way.

It’s killing me.

His hair was dripping—no longer with water, but with a thick, red substance that both dripped down and clotted on his skin. He didn’t look pained anymore; he looked like he was in pain.

It’s killing me.

But that can’t be right, can it?

It’s killing me.

Why?

It’s killing me.

Becausemy Finnickwas already dead.

I staggered backwards and out of his, no, this imposter’s arms. He stared at me as blood streamed down his forehead, pouring over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. I was going to be sick. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a newly invented punishment from Snow. But that wasn’t right either: Snow was dead too.

“F…Fi…” I tried saying his name, my top teeth prodding the inside of my bottom lip, but I couldn’t make a sound.

He took a step towards me, and I almost stumbled onto the floor. “Remember what I told you?” he asked, though it sounded more like an urge.

I frantically shook my head. No, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember anything.

Something dark and mountainous appeared in my peripheral vision, and an odious smell singed my nostrils. My head snapped to the left. Stacks upon stacks of plates and bowls mounded the kitchen sink, each crawling with maggots that were falling to the floor in white, wriggling heaps.

Nausea boiled in my stomach; horror brimmed my eyes.

I quickly turned away, my eyes meeting green again. His face was no longer stained with blood, and his hair was dry, shiny, and golden with life. I was as speechless as my face was drained of blood.

He took one more step toward me, but this time I didn’t back away, either frozen with fear or desperation for one last experience of closeness with him. My heart thrummed as he reached out to cup my face. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him, I repeated madly in my head. Oh, but it felt so much like him when his warm hand met my skin.

“I told you I’m always with you, sweetheart,” he murmured. And I knew engaging with him, in whatever form he took, affirmed my mental unwellness, but I couldn’t stop from leaning into his touch anyway. “Remember that.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. “I love—”

A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder boomed throughout the house.

I was back in my bed.

My eyelids were heavy with sleep as they fluttered open. I felt detached, destabilised, and unsure of my existence in the world for I wasn’t sure which of the twoI was currently in. Real or fake?

A few minutes went by before I managed to get a grip on reality, which, in fact, was the real one. The Somewhere Bad. I pinched the corners of my eyes, not only finding them damp with fresh tears but also realising that my right hand—previously tucked beneath my head—was numb.

None of it had been real…

The entire time, my body was trying to alert me, to save me from the inescapable heartache I would feel upon waking. He hadn’t held me in his arms. He hadn’t cupped my cheek nor helped me wash the dishes. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere (not even in his own marked grave because there was nothing left of him to be buried).

Even despite seeing the familiar tall outline standing in the doorway, his features illuminated with each flash of lightning, I knew it wasn’t really him.

Rain was pummelling the roof, almost loud enough to subdue the perpetual rumbling of thunder (apart from the one sky-splitting thunderclap that had woken me). In another time, I would’ve been scared—of the raging storm, of my phantom lover who was watching from the shadows of our bedroom. But not now.

In recent months, I had found that no emotion, not even fear, surpassed the soul-crushing realisation that you have irretrievably lost the one thing you lived for.

On a defeated whim, and for the first time since his death, I let the singular, weighted word breeze past my lips.

“Finnick.”

It was a trembling plea, a desperate beckon.

And he indulged.

His footsteps were silent as he walked towards the bed. I couldn’t see his legs from my position, prompting me to wonder if he even had legs at all. Or did he only have legs when I could see them? That would then insinuate that if I couldn’t see him at all, he didn’t exist.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? In my case, the answer was simple: no, it didn’t.

It wasn’t really Finnick. It wasn’t even his ghost. It was my mind.

He reached the bed’s edge, and I scooted over to my side of the mattress, allowing him enough space to lie down on his. His weight neither dipped nor shook the bed as he laid down and turned on his side to face me. His eyes were sad, and I’m sure mine were too. We stared at each other for a long, long time, long enough for my fatigued body to start playing tricks on me.

If I focused hard enough, I thought I could hear the sound of his breathing (the wind was picking up outside), feel the warmth of his skin spreading onto the sheets (the remnants of my own body heat were left behind each time I moved), and smell the musky scent of cologne and sea-salted hair (the sleeves of his sweater were tucked beneath my nose).

Maybe for a moment—just one sickly, self-indulgent moment—I could pretend it was really him.

I inhaled deeply through my nose. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would haunt the next owner of this house,” I whispered as light-heartedly as I could, my voice obscured by the heavy rain pouring onto the roof.

He smiled, and it was one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful things I had ever seen. I think I might have given him one in return, though I couldn’t be too sure because the concept of smiling had become so foreign. The last time I was truly happy was… the last night we spent together. In each other’s arms, safe and warm and together.

And then he was gone. Just like that.

Cressida, whom I had only spoken to once in Thirteen when the war ended, was the one to tell me how it happened. Katniss was too personal, too close to him; Peeta’s instability rendered conversation futile. So, I had asked Cressida to tell me every detail—every expression on his face, every word he screamed. I don’t know why. Maybe it was so I could cling onto those last few minutes where he was still alive and breathing, despite dying and bleeding; or so I could replay the moment over and over in my head, as if somehow, someway, I could change his fate.

“He talked about you all the time,” she had told me. “Actually, I don’t think he ever spoke of anything but you. No one minded, though. While we were out there, no one ever really smiled, but every time your name was mentioned, Finnick would get this great big grin on his face, and it was impossible not to look at him and start smiling as well.

So, we all started asking questions about you: ‘What colour is her hair? Her eyes? Where did you meet? What are her hobbies?’—just to see him smile… A week passed, and it was like we all knew you inside out. It was all we could do to hang on to some shred of happiness, even if it meant talking about a girl who, to all of us, was a stranger.”

I was inconsolable after that.

She kept talking, but my sobs had drowned out most of her words, so much that I had asked her to retell me everything later in the day, despite inducing the same outcome. So, she told it to me again, just as she did the day after that and the day after that and so on until I returned home to District Four.

“He also spoke about how you never felt comfortable living in the Victors Village. He had this idea that the two of you would move somewhere far away, outside the borders of District Four­, though he emphasised remaining by the sea was very important—something about how you looked while swimming during sunset and the water was all sparkly around you.”

At this point, she had been holding my hand, knowing full well how debilitating it was for me to hear. Then she had spoken with a quiet incredulity and a facial expression to match, as though she’d never encountered a love like ours before. “He wanted to build a house for you…”

He wanted to build a house for you.

And now he never would. Our love was too ephemeral for that to happen; destined to remain history; to be a memory.

Finnick's eyes stared into mine, the green hue now a dark grey from the overshadowing dimness of the room.

“I would’ve gone anywhere with you,” I whispered to him, placing my hand on the sheets between us. “I would’ve travelled thousands of miles away from this place. Would’ve lived in solitary, just the two of us, for the rest of our lives.” A warm tear tickled the bridge of my nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in shared anguish. “God, Finn, I miss you,” my voice broke. “I miss you so much.”

I contemplated crying, sobbing, screaming, or begging for him to come back, but I was just too tired. All my energy had been spent on grievance throughout the following day, and my eyes were growing heavier by the second as my body was sinking further into a state of relaxation.

Between slow blinks, I watched Finnick’s large hand move to rest atop my own, and at that point, I knew sleep would soon catch me because I swear I could feel his warm touch.

Images flashed through my mind—incomprehensible and melting together, yet somehow still graspable.

Sky blue water rippling with calm waves, the surface glittering in the setting sun. A white stonewall cottage fronted by soft, white sand and tall palm trees. Two plates of fruit-filled yoghurt and scrambled eggs on toast. Three pairs of footprints in the sand, one larger, one smaller, and another between them so delicately tiny I could fit them into the palm of my hand.

Sea-green eyes above me. Golden hair tangled between my fingers. Finnick standing in the wooden doorway of our white stonewall cottage wearing a cream-white sweater and rolled-up slacks. Finnick grinning deeply and then throwing his head back with laughter. Finnick standing in front of our bed, taking my hand in his and guiding me towards him. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

Finnick holding our child.

I was between worlds now, both indistinguishable from the other. My eyelids were drooping, and I was quickly growing insensate. Just before my eyes closed completely, I saw Finnick’s—he who wasn’t really my Finnick—lips move. It wasn’t in my bleak reality in which I heard him speak, but rather in my mind, and God, did his words offer the sweetest relief.

“I’ll see you when you fall asleep.”

[deluluass]

Reception: Squid Game AU

Content warnings: rape/noncon; canon typical violence; pregnant sex; mommy kink (kinda?)

[ANON PROMPT: The dynamic between player 388 and 322—the former protecting naive vulnerable pregnant you in the games, thinking of him as your reliable “brother” but unfortunately, he wants something more between you two.]

"What- what if," you choke. "What if they make us kill each other?"

Thick layers of tulle burn against your scabbed knees. The gown isn't made of starchy fabric, like the ones they sell at the flea market for half a price because it tends to itch anyway, but it still stings every time you move and graze your barely healed wounds. So you don't.

You sit still, not even letting your spine touch the wooden vines intricately carved on the back of the chair. The delicate cream lace spanning along your chest to your wrists might as well have been worn by a corpse for all the breathing that you do. 

You don't even touch your food.

Bokuto, on the other hand, is ravenous. 

Sitting on the opposite side of the long table, he tears through chicken leg, then venison, then the boiled potatoes. He chews and chews and washes it all down with wine, chugging noisily as it drips past the edge of his mouth.  

"They won't," he finally replies before wiping his chin with the back of his hand. You pass him your table napkin even though he's yet to use his, absently reminding him to keep his elbows off the table unless he wants ragu all over his suit.

He follows you, but not without a toothy beam and a, "Seriously, trust your big bro, 'kay? This is our last meal in this hell hole, so just relax– relax ! And eat!"

Big bro . You snort. He really knows how to lighten the mood, this guy. 

"Alright," you sigh, not quite slouching. "What do they want us to do then?"

"What they want?" Bokuto tilts his head, like he's really thinking about it, as he picks at his molars with the tip of his tongue. "Well, they wanna be entertained."

It was a rhetorical question. You don't tell him that. You'd long lost the urge to actually ask him how he knows what he knows about the games, having learned much earlier that it's better to just shut up and do what he says, because between the two– asking or following, that has been the only choice that has kept you alive.

You didn't ask why he had to stop you from picking the pyramid. You didn't ask why he had   to make you hide and sleep under his bunker at night. And you certainly didn't ask why he had to bash that man's head when he could've just easily pushed him out of the door.

Repeatedly. As if that first one didn't already do that man in. Smack, smack, smack, until he'd sprayed blood and bits of white-pink flesh onto the cheery, lemonade walls. 

He could say that the man wouldn't have left on his own, even though you both heard the room next to yours desperately searching and shrieking for another player to meet the count. He could even say that he'd done it because the man had grabbed and tried to drag you out first, that if it hadn't been him then it would've been you: you and your bits all over those walls, but, still, why –

"Hey."

You look up. 

Bokuto was staring at you. Irises ablaze, cheery lemonade under the crystal chandelier. 

“Eat,” he says, eyes smiling, all teeth, blood splattered lemons. “You hafta eat.”  

Holding your utensils with trembling fingers, “Junior’s havin’ a tantrum in there,” Bokuto suddenly taunts, pointing at your stomach with a parfait spoon. 

Your jaw drops. 

To hell with your anxiety. You prioritize making a face at him.  

“ Mommy, mommy ,” he cries in response, cackling, pitching his voice up and making you groan. “ Stop being so stubborn! I’m so sick of the rice balls! I want ham now! Waaa! Ham!”

“Idiot.” You grin through the first bites of pasta. “She could be a girl.”

“Then hurry up ‘n eat!” Bokuto slams his fist on the table. “Eat so we can scram outta here. Baby girl has got a princess' life to live!” 

Glass and ceramics clatter, prompting the masked guards to bark a warning. Both of you stifle a chortle, leaning forward into each other and shifting in your seats like reprimanded fourth graders.

You finish your plate one morsel at a time, rubbing your bump as you do. It’s paste and wet scrap paper in your mouth, but you force yourself to swallow. He wouldn't stop looking at you if you didn't. He was right anyway. You do need to be more mindful of the baby, especially after everything you've been through.

Then, reaching for your drink, the folded napkin next to your plate glints. You gnash your teeth. That's why you’d asked him. Because if you weren't there to shove that thing at each other’s necks, then what in the world were you supposed to do now? 

Just…eat?

“Bo-kun,” you mutter. He pauses from scraping vanilla out of a crystal bowl. “They gave us a knife, you know.”

“Hm?” 

You know he heard you. 

“A knife. We both have a knife.”

“So what?” The thin stem of his spoon clangs with a bite. 

Same set of teeth that could rip and spit out a grown man’s ear like watermelon seed. It was dark and the lights were flashing, but you saw . 

“Hm? You gonna kill me?” 

Stocky gray brows clash in confusion. You think that this is the last thing field mice see when they come into contact with a barn owl. He pops the strawberry in his mouth.

And before you know it, he blurs out of view, and you sniffle and feel the overwhelming need to hide your face.

Bokuto leaves his seat. The guards close in on him.

“Shit, hey, man, look– I’m not doin’ anything funny– look , I’m not– fuck .” He goes around the table to your side, panting slightly as he bends down and props his hand on his thighs.

“Hey, don't cry, don't cry,” he murmurs softly. “I’m sorry, got my foot stuck in my mouth. You know your big bro. I’m a freakin’ airhead, yeah? I was being a fool, shoulda been more sensitive given your- you know-” drawing an imaginary (far too large) arch over his tummy, “-situation.”

Your sobs stumble into giggles. He drops to his knee, the other supporting his arm, as he sighs and glides a large hand over his gel-slick hair. Bokuto shakes his head.

There was once a time in your life when you would’ve given everything in the world just to see something like this. Be in something like this. Praying for your ex to, one day, come home and finally– after all that you’d sacrificed for him, offer this to you.

Man in a dapper suit on bended knee. The pretty white gown. Food that only the rich people in your phone could indulge in. Hundreds of roses in full bloom that it boggles the mind.

Life has a way of giving you what you want: wrapped and tied with a big, fat knee-slapper. 

Well, whatever happens now, it finally got the reaction that it’s been asking for. 

You laugh. 

“Gosh.” You wipe your tears. “We look so weird. Is that the game? Eat while looking like.. like this without breaking. In that case, we lost, Bo-kun.”

He doesn't seem to agree. And he's not laughing with you now.

You don't know if you like that he’s not. It doesn't look right. He even laughs with his thumbs pressed to a living, breathing human being’s sockets.

“I’m not with you on that one.” Bokuto shrugs. “I think you look beautiful.”

“Ugh, don’t make me cry again.”

“Wha- at ? It's true.”

He’s still kneeling. The idiot.

“You too,” you sniff, hand out to fix his bow. “You look beautiful too.”

You feel your smile wobble. Now, he's the one who’s on the verge of tears, but the moment is interrupted by the sudden glow of the tile under his oxfords.

Heart in your throat, you watch wordlessly as the one behind it follows. Then another. And another. Once translucent, some of the tiles now form a warm orange path leading to a–

“That a pond ?” Bokuto chirps.

This is it. The guards start to flank you. Bokuto helps you stand. Warm hand spans your waist, guiding you to your destination. 

This is it, you believe. This is where you die.

The baby.

You halt. “It's okay,” Bokuto whispers. “I’m with you.”

The path does not lead you to another arena. 

There, water trickles. Out of nowhere, unseen strings play a sweet, languorous melody. 

Light shines down on the middle of the pond, revealing a broad, rounded grassy meadow. Flowers, real ones, have sprung along its circumference, almost like it's a fancy cake. 

All that's missing are the–

Beside you, Bokuto takes off his dress shoes. You’re about to ask him what he's doing but seeing the couple of feet going to the center, you remove yours too. 

The pond is nice and cool when you dip into it. Tiny fishes brush your ankles as you wade through the water. You carry the skirt to your calves, tail end still managing to get soaked, while Bokuto holds you close all throughout.

You land on a marshmallow field. The grass is plush, and you try your best not to give in to the temptation of just lying down, wiggling your toes through the trim, pillowy blades instead. The light pulls your eyes to the ceiling.

You gasp.

They’ve poked a massive hole through it. Above your heads, wispy clouds drift along the bright, open sky. There are migratory birds forming a V in the distance. 

“Bo-kun, look…!” 

You twine your fingers together, pulling him to you. His are much longer, firmer than yours. 

He is looking. Just not in the same direction as you.

When you meet his gaze, neither one of you could have prevented the other from being reduced into tearful, boisterous laughter. The music rises higher and higher, like those birds flying out of reach, and you recognize it as the same one folks usually play when the bride marches down the aisle.

“I guess… we dance?”

Bokuto whistles. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He is warm, Bokuto. If you could make a home out of this, you would. He spins you around, gently, causing you to wheeze. “You’re such a sap,” you tell him with a grin.

“Mhm”

A syrupy kind of ache seeps from deep within you as he sways you in his arms. Treacly sugar and cloying, like the junk you’d stuff into your mouth when you were a kid and making silver bands out of soda pull-tabs; veils out of moth-eaten blankets. It gathers at the bottom of your heart, sticking to its fragile walls and reminding you that there’d been nothing worthwhile to fill it with ever since you turned your body into a work machine. 

Not until that day, sitting inside a cubicle that other women had also lined up for, as you stare at the test that’d come out with two, undeniable pink lines.

When the music fades, you convince yourself that it’s perfectly normal to be overtaken by panic. Because, what now? Is this the part where they blare their instructions through the intercom? What will it take? A knife? A shove? The one that falls off the edge dies and the last one standing wins? What ? 

You search for the guards, only to find them at the edges of the room, shrouded in darkness.

“Bokuto Kotaro,” you gasp. “That- that is your actual name, right?”

He looks at you like you’ve sprouted another leg. But, picking up on the hurried cadence of your voice, he says nothing and runs a comforting palm on your back. His gaze softens, before stooping down to touch your forehead with his.

Your eyes flutter close. 

“I would never lie to you,” he answers. 

You nod. 

His breath scorches to the point of being feverish. Worry besets you when he suddenly releases a stabbed groan, thinking maybe he’d been sick this whole time and just didn’t tell you.

“Are you okay? Bo-kun, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“S’nothing,” he rumbles, leaving a brief, soft peck on your cheek. 

Your breath hitches. 

Then, he goes for your lips. 

“What the hell–” you cry, turning away, but he manages to capture it in his, molding them together, moaning at your taste. You feel it reverberate inside the caverns of your mouth. He glides his tongue inside, sliding over yours, and, not for the first time, you begin to wish that this is something that would be over if you could only just wake up . 

It doesn’t, however. And you don’t.

You stay here, in this moment, with Bokuto’s kisses trailing down your neck. He laps at your sweat, then traces the tender spot that makes you gasp and buckle.

“H-hold on, Bo-kun– wait– Bokuto, stop…! ”

You wriggle out of his arms. He grabs tighter. 

“Shh, shh , it’s what they want,” Bokuto murmurs, the bridge of his nose nudging your chin. “They want a good show. We gotta give it to ‘em. Gotta get outta here.”

To your horror, the man has already bunched your gown in his hands. You feel a squall trapped in your throat as the calloused tips of his fingers move, creeping like vines between your legs.

“No, no, no, please– ”

He touches you through your cotton panties, rubbing your clit as something hot and hard bump against your leg. “This won't take long,” he grunts. “Been like this ever since you came out lookin’ like that. So lovely. My lovely, lovely wife.”

You’re brought down to the grass, carefully, even with all your pleading and squirming. Tulle piles at your waist like a cloud as Bokuto sets you on your side. He’s spooning you, one large arm trapped underneath your torso, supporting your head, as he bucks his cock between your ass and rambles madly into your ear.

“We’ll get hitched for real after this, alright? Take care of you– Gonna make more so they're not lonely– Won’t ever, ever leave you like that motherfucker , you hear me, darlin’? This one's mine now too, got it?”

He’s grasping softly at your bump like somebody might steal it from him. Your child. Your baby.

You shake your head, sobbing, but he doesn't hear you, too rapt picking at the lace covering your chest with his other hand. Without a warning, he rips it apart.

The air is ice cold on your breasts. You hiss out in pain. 

Bokuto guffaws. “ Fuck me. ”

He cups them slowly, his heated, wet gasp hitting your nape. Goosebumps rise all over skin. He’s giggling like a child, and you have never feared him more in your life.

“They're really swollen, aren't they?”

You whimper, pushing your ass back into his cock in surprise, the hardened thickness of it rubbing snugly into your clothed pussy. Layers of fabric separate you from each other, but you realize, terrified, that the gusset of your panties are now becoming wetter, and wetter, as he groans and grinds his hips, calling you sweetheart, darlin’, baby . Saying please as if he's not already taking from you. 

He brushes your nipples with his fingers. You claw at his wrists, fingers digging into his corded by veins, but he doesn't even budge. 

“Bo– too much– ”

You wail as he starts tweaking them. It zaps through your entire body. Live current straight to your core, your eyes rolling to the back of your head and drowning the world in white. You think you’ve kicked his shins. That only makes him gyrate more fervently into your cunt.

“Fuck, these tits ,” he sucks in, practically inhaling your cheek. “These perfect fuckin’ tits. I dreamt about ‘em the moment I laid eyes– Oh my god, I wanted to grab ‘em so fuckin’ bad. Could see your nipples poking through in this dress- almost went nuts–”

Bokuto squeezes them together, sluggish and deliberate, oohing and aahing as he kneads them apart, then squeezes them together, and pinches your nipples. You don't know if he's being mindful or if he wants to savor your humiliation at being manhandled. With him, it's probably both. 

“Can't wait till they get so heavy with milk– Gonna help you– Gonna suck it out for you like a good husband should– I can't wait anymore–”

Zipper comes undone behind you. 

You thrash out. Bokuto tuts as he pins you to him. 

“Careful, mommy,” he coos, his fingers pulling your soaked panties to the side. “Don't move too much. Don't wanna hurt you.”

The tip of his cock stretches your pussy lips, fat head dripping, sliding back and forth into your hole. 

“Oh…! Bokuto, no, no..!” He pushes in and you already feel like bursting. His thrusts start shallow, not even shoving half of him, but then they stop staying shallow, and you cringe as you feel him edging close inside. “Not too deep p-please, please, the baby– not too deep not too deep not–”

You’re bawling, almost tasting your snot as you grasp at his arms, and all he does is laugh .

“M’sorry. Too big? You're alright. Won't go too deep. Promise.” 

He does keep his promise in the end, oscillating between “ please, please, wanna fuck you so bad” and “can't, can't, can't ” until he's growling nonsense; until he's no longer recognizable from the man who’d called himself your big brother, his hold on you dangerously close to choking you into unconsciousness. 

“ You feel so fuckin’ good, ” he mumbles fervently as he twitches inside you. “ So fuckin’ good you're such a good mommy we’re gonna be mommy ‘n daddy soon I love you so much I love you I love you I love you– ”

The pressure builds like water– the higher it rises the faster you sink, as you spasm and contract around him, then falling apart in the dark without a single sound. 

You finally open your eyes as you feel him shoot thick ropes inside you. Bokuto thrusts his cum, making sure it doesn't spill out, he says, and you turn to the sky. 

It's gotten dimmer, you think. 

Wispy clouds drift along. Migratory birds flying into a V in the distance. And you wonder if god has many faces, and if, maybe, they're all grinning down at you.

  –

The first game ends with a card.

Bokuto buys everything he’s ever wanted. He dines at the places where everything’s pint sized and complicated to eat. He gets fast cars and even faster motorbikes that almost kill him. He gets himself limited edition sneakers. He gets himself a model and a stripper and an actress and someone who's all three.

He goes around the world and dives out of a moving plane and does everything that makes his blood sing, then he comes back home and he buys himself a place that has a pool and a jacuzzi and a court and a private theater and a game room and when he's alone at night he thinks about the people he stole it all from and he throws up in his big, big, brand spanking new house. 

  –

The second game ends with an invitation given to him in the limo going back, which he turns down because, “ Your mask is creepy, dude. I’m not wearing that .”

He doesn't know why he came back, even when he finds out, eventually, why they allowed him to. The last dinner was shared between Bokuto and two other people– a man and a woman, both older than him, both ex-military. It gargles out of them, after Bokuto has them under his knees, that they've been here before too, just like him.

Their audience is getting bored, Bokuto figures. 

He returns to that big, empty house wealthier than before and with a clearer idea on what he wants to buy next. 

He may know jack shit about the specifics of putting his money into things that can double it, but Bokuto knows a lot about deals. He knows how to smile at the people that look at him and only see another set of limbs that’ll keep their plates full. The rooms may be different this time around, nicer and with a lot less killing, but it's all still the same game. He knows about luck and getting a crowd going and most of all he knows a lot about hunger. 

So he gets himself a seat at the tables that he never even would’ve been allowed to get close to all those years ago. He gets himself teams that have molded their bodies into playing games, big ones where luck and crowds and hunger flow like blood off gutted arteries. And he doesn't really have to, but he gets and handpicks the players himself, because he knows best the kind of animal that possesses the audacity to stand in the middle of any court, any arena, any stadium, and bring its spectators– every last insatiable one of them, on their feet.

And as he watches from the sidelines, he imagines a world where the circumstances are different and everything goes as planned and survival does not have to come at the cost of destroying yourself. And he imagines that in that world, it is him– Bokuto Kotaro, that hits the ball and makes the score and brings the crowd to its feet. 

  –

The third game ends with an encrusted ring in the pocket of his suit. 

It takes a couple more years until the audience gets bored again. He comes back mostly because, well, why not?  It's not so bad, playing.

The kicker this time around is that most, if not all, of the players are of the same breed as Bokuto– animals who have the strength to get whatever they want and the desire to get it however they want. 

Except for you.

You come waddling to Bokuto with your head down, hands over your belly, and jacket zipped up to your chin like a hen protecting herself from the cold. 

The cutest little thing to have ever existed.

You ask him if you could join Bokuto’s team because, of course, nobody wants you. The woman next to him– the first one who manages to put a scratch on Bokuto much later in the game, says that he shouldn't, because she could tell that you’re at least six weeks pregnant and you’ll hold them back and no good mother would ever put herself in this kind of situation in the first place. 

Bokuto keeps you anyway. 

Pregnant girl. All on her own. Nobody to rely on. Somebody’s gotta look out for you, he decides.

After that game, he knows that he made the right choice. You’ve got blisters on your palms from all the rope pulling and you’re thanking him for saving your life. He tells you not to sweat it, and to call him Bokuto from now on. 

You say, “Okay, Bo-kun,” while caressing your bump, pretty eyes begging him to protect you and guide you and put another one inside you, and that’s when it dawns on Bokuto–

He's the only thing standing between you and this world’s bottomless stomach. 

And ever since then Bokuto just couldn’t stop thinking, “ What will happen to you if he's no longer there?” So he runs faster, and strikes even harder, and, for the first time in a long while, he feels like all of this– running, hitting, staying alive – now, isn't it all just so much fun ?

Bokuto smiles at the memory as he fishes out the ring from his pocket, then tosses it to the other side of the pond.

“You’re not keeping it?” Game master guy’s words filter through his mask, stripping it of all feeling.

It kinda bums him out. For all he knows the dude might actually be sad that there's not going to be a fourth time.

“Not her type,” Bokuto tells him. “Diamond’s too freakin’ large, man. Could poke somebody's eyes out.”

He closes his fly, dusts off the blazer to cover you with it, then carries you in his arms. There's a ceaseless drumming in his chest that only gets louder seeing you sound asleep, tucked safely into his chest. He doesn't even bother with combing his hair.

The pink dudes have got their guns ready behind game master guy, index to the trigger. Bokuto wets his lips, and he doesn't miss the way they all flinch. 

“It's a shame, Player 388. Our valued guests were looking forward to your proposal.” 

That makes him snort. “Tell ‘em I said sorry.”

“Quite unnecessary,” he says. “We should be thanking you. You always deliver.” 

“Yeah, well, not really hard to put two and two together.” 

Fancy ring. Suit. Gown that still gives him a boner looking at you in it. Bokuto might be a genius.

The pond soaks his slacks again as he walks through it. He frowns. You won't like that. Bokuto ignores his socks since Game master guy accidentally kicked the other pair into the water with his big feet. Bokuto wears his shoes without them, itching for a shower that’ll scald the grime off of him. And you. 

A nice, hot shower with you. Now, that's heaven–

Game master guy doesn't move out of the way, though. He doesn't budge even as Bokuto very politely says, “‘Scuse.”

Bokuto then looks at him. He looks and he laughs. And he dares them.

He stands there with the mother of his children in his arms and begs, “Go on. Do something fuckin’ funny .”

They part for him. 

“The offer still stands,” comes from Game master guy.

“Dude,” Bokuto whines, not even looking back. “Just tell me you’ll miss me like a normal person!” 

    –

The house feels warmer when he returns. It feels smaller, too, which he does not mind at all, especially now that there's a happy family of three to fill it. 

[demonictacobeard]

Adam, still going through it, texting Lucifer because that’s the only fucker he knows here who he only hates most of the time: Why is a fucking pig lying on my bed?!

Lucifer, texting back right away: It’s hard being the only one of your kind in a place, he must have been so excited to hear you were here that he came to see you himself

Adam, using Doomgle for the first time to find pictures of ducks saying die in a fire: Die

Lucifer, torn between being pissed at the duck meme or loving it: You first, no that would be second wouldn’t it?

Adam, sending a rolling eyes Hellmoji: Oh no I’m dead, so fucking original. Not like I haven’t done this before, bitch nothing you say will piss me off more then dying from advanced aging

Angel Dust, accidentally reading the whole thing over his shoulder, an easy task: That’s where Fat Nugget is?! Fuck, why’d he run off there? I don’t wanna go into the depression cave, and I know Adam doesn’t want me to come knocking either

Lucifer, waving his hand and opening a portal into Adam’s room: I’ve got this. Adam! You can deposit the pig here into the waiting arms of his owner

Adam, shoving his hands through the portal while holding a whining Fat Nugget: Who’s miniature ham is this even?

Angel Dust, scooping Fat Nugget up: Mine! Nugget, my sweet little shit. Why’d you go and fall asleep in a lamb paddock?

Adam, flipping Angel off through the portal and slowly dragging his hand out of it: Wilbur got lonely, guess Charlotte isn’t entertaining after all huh?

Angel Dust, flipping him off back with his lower arms: Just shut up you shitty ass sheep, a Shepard would leave you behind on purpose

Lucifer, cutting that short by closing the portal: Charlie’s going to be so happy he spoke to someone today

Husk, cleaning his lemon juicer: She’ll be happier about it then Adam himself

Lucifer, shaking his head: No, trust me he lives for this shit. He’d rather argue then being left completely to himself. Because if he’s all alone he’ll get bored. He hates being bored

Angel raising a suggestive eyebrow: And…your majesty just how do you know that?

Husk, slapping his face because he warned Angel about teasing the King Of Hell a hundred times: He has fun undoing everything I do to keep his ass alive, doesn’t he?

Lucifer, staring at him silently before laughing a little too loudly: No reason!

Angel after Lucifer tugs his collar and leaves awkwardly: I think the king doth protest too much, Husk

Husk, sighing: I think you are doth interested, in the business of a man who can kill a seven deadly sin if he wanted to, too much

[ninihousebears3000]

HR Department! reader X Alucard

A goodnight kiss.

Pulling an all-nighter causes you to hear strange things.

CW: No warnings!

It's quite late.

You had to agree with the voice in your head. Pulling overtime was necessary considering how your workload suddenly increased. Now you're bookkeeper another responsibility on your plate. Computerizing this ancient system that the organization was barely running on was your mission. But efficiency is your reputation and you wouldn't be able to sleep knowing that things were left in limbo.

Rest, work will be here tomorrow but you won't be here much longer if you keep going on like this.

Morbid but true. Maybe some coffee will give you clarity? After all your computer screen began looking less and less clear. You were certain it was working just fine a moment ago. Standing up you grab your favorite mug off your desk heading to your in-office coffee machine. Walter had refused to use k-cups opting to brew a fresh pot for you every day. But he would cut you off after two cups so for your third and fourth cups you used your K-cups from home.

You placed your mug on the machine instinctively reaching for the box of k-cups. Only to be met with empty space. "What the hell?" You had a full box where did it go? Checking in the cabinets, your bag, and drawers, not a single K-cup could be found. Even your coat pocket didn't have an emergency K-cup. "Perhaps there's some upstairs?" Thinking aloud was your tendency nowadays since this was your own private office. Although, a few more employees and an assistant would be very helpful. Being the head of the human resources department doesn't mean much if you're the only employee.

You thought to yourself as you left your office walking through the basement.

"An office near civilization would be nice."

You retorted walking past the many cells in the dungeon. You know Seras' room is near here. "I wonder what she's up to?" You appreciate her company she seems chipper than most considering her situation. At times you can tell she just wants another person to talk to. It does pain you that she pops in at the busiest of times. It's only been a few weeks since the Police Girl ‘joined’. You did try advocating for her to have a change of uniform and to be at least called by her real name. Those were still ongoing battles.

Then there was Alucard. You're still trying to get a one-on-one meeting about his workplace misconduct. It's difficult to arrange anything with him he has no email! An audible groaning sigh escaped you.

Your thoughts kept you entertained as you finally made it to the kitchen. Normally, there would be servants and other staff members but the only remaining people here were the residents and the perimeter guards. Of course, the ones in the surveillance room which felt weird to think about them watching you right now.

Of course, there was no leftover coffee left so you were having to pull off your lazy slacks and brew some yourself.

Coffee at this hour? Your sleep will surely be ruined. The sun rises in only a few hours. How about lemon ginger tea?

You took your mug and started rinsing out the old coffee stains. Possibly something else for a change?

When you were filling up your mug with cold water to get the last of the stains out. You jolted the mug towards your face splashing your face with cold water. The sensation still shocked you but woke you up for certain.

"My voice is deep but why is my thought voice that deep?" Was delirium setting in? Or was someone truly talking to you? You can see why Sir Penwood said this place can be maddening. Instead of coffee or tea, you opted for ice-cold orange juice and a leftover banana nut muffin. The sugar should help until you find a stopping point. Plus the leftover wetness on your shirt can help keep you awake. Seems like you would be spending the night Walter gave you a ride since your car was practically living in the shop at this point.

Almost three in the morning the voice in your head was right about it being very late. By the time you returned, you finished the muffin and chugged the juice as soon as you sat down. Just one more paragraph to type and you can call it a night.

You've had worse nights from your undergrad years!

Cracking your knuckles your nimble fingers went back to work.

Sugar can't stop sleep deprivation.

There it was again! You can ignore it! Fight on you're the head of the human resources department!

What's the harm?

Just close your eyes for a few minutes.

You never noticed how soothing the baritone voice was until now. An eye break couldn't hurt, right?

That's right little human. Just close those pretty eyes.

The computer screen was looking warped in ways you've never seen a screen do before. Your lids were heavier and you were leaning on your arms at this point.

"But I am not finished yet." Trying to fight this heavy exhaustion was increasingly difficult. Before you knew it your head was using your arms as a pillow and the desk was a bed.

Everything will be fine little human.

"I am six feet." Your eyes closed for the final time. The heat from the cardigan now placed on your shoulders reminded you of the blanket on your soft bed.

Shh, sleep little human.

Wait, your cardigan was on the back of your chair!

Now be a good little human and stay asleep.

Hot breath grazed your exposed neck along with a hissing noise. You reached for the pistol underneath your desk and fired a shot at the source of this strange body heat. To your surprise you found Hellsing's trump card sitting on the ground in the corner of your office. Thankfully, Walter gave you a pistol strangely you asked for a silencer.

"ALUCARD! DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY WORKPLACE MISCONDUCT VIOLATIONS YOU STACKED UP!" Panting and filled with rage you kept your gun aimed at him.

"You know those blessed bullets do hurt." He was bleeding out of his left shoulder. Despite that, his face held an awful grin.

"YOU WERE TRYING TO DRINK MY BLOOD! AND YOU HAVE BEEN IN MY HEAD!" You never thought your first meeting with Alucard was going to be him nearly drinking your blood.

"Shh, you're louder than Police Girl." His nonchalant attitude was getting on your nerves. "Consider it a goodnight kiss little human." Alucard stood to his full height seeing how he still regarded you as little.

"We need to address some misconduct violations." Was this going to be your only chance to talk to him?

"I don't think your department applies to me." He began to walk past you. "Now if you'll excuse me the sun will be rising soon." But your reflexes were being kind to you. Opening your drawer you pulled out a thick binder and flipped to the middle of it pointing at a document.

"You and Seras Victoria fall into this category of employee." He leaned down to read it. His crimson eyes bounced up to yours and then to the book again. "Did you just call me a police dog?" A hint of irritation was in his tone.

"Therefore you must follow the same guidelines as every employee here." You were the head of the human resources department you weren't going to let this misconduct run rampant anymore!

"Please have a seat Alucard." Alucard narrowed his eyes at you and then smirked. "Alright then HR." He smirked while sitting down crossing his legs in the seat in front of your desk. While you grabbed your chair that was pushed across the room after his initial introduction.

You weren’t expecting him to give in judging from what Seras and Walter had told you. But you can’t rest knowing you had the chance.

"Now shall we begin with boundaries."

[broooooo]

Dronehood

____________________

In today's world , the world has been slowly taken over by drones, whether it was by force, choice or persuasion, men are being converted, covered in a shiny black latex, a second skin, a well built muscled body, constantly aroused and hard. The mind does seem to remain keeping the hosts personality, but there's a big focus of obeying the master and the pleasure of dronehood

At first the world was scared, but as the drone army expanded, it slowly became normal, as if it's a rite of passage for teenage, adult men. It's even become a kind of entertainment to watch a conversion happen, could inspire others , or worn them.

Then there's me

I am Aaron, 21, regular build, living in an apartment, IV never been opposed to the drone movement. It's interesting to watch.

Deep down I wouldn't mind becoming a drone myself, it genuinely sounds fun.

Iv watched my childhood friend, Jason, become one before my eyes, he had wanted it for a while, and decided to get a slow conversion, he wanted to experience all the feelings grow and build.

The conversion itself is simple, intercourse with a drone, you may or may not include leather articles of clothing such as gloves or boots for extra pleasure. When it's done, the new drone is given a serial number name, but can keep their human name for interactions with others, plus they can take off their head mask for easy identification.

I myself don't leave my room a lot, i just watch from my TV or the window, hearing it through my walls too at times. Jason's my roommate, but he's never home, he's busy converting others or just hanging out with other drones.

Somewhat makes me jealous, before his conversion , we were the same, locked in your rooms not doing much, it honestly is a better life for him, and I'm happy,

It's possible to request a drone conversion, many have done it, Idk why I haven't done it yet, I guess I want to keep my peace for a little while, but ik at some point it will get too much to bear and then I will know I'm ready.

_________________

It was a normal day for me, watching my conversions , and contemplating life. When suddenly I hear the front door open, I rush out to see him, Jason standing in the door way, his heavy leather boots stomping on the floor as he closes the door. He looks at me, I haven't seen his have a week's.

JASON!?* ITS been so long, how.. have you been?*

He smiles and embraces me in a hug

*Iv been well, I missed you*

My face goes flush red, as I hug him back.

His latex skin is soft and shiny , the feel of hard muscles, it makes my heart race.

We pull away and I ask*

What are you doing here Jason?* Don't you have missions ?*

Jason laughs and says * well I do live here, plus even drones need rest.*

I answer back"

Well that makes sense , yeah*

Jason goes sit on the couch to watch TV.

*mind getting me a sparkling lemon water Aaron?.

Oh? Ok sure , I'll make us both one *

I go the kitchen, fill two cups with soda and prepare to cut lemons, during all this my mind races with thoughts, the sudden appearance of Jason and the feeling of his skin, it felt great. I feel hot, almost dreaming of it

As I'm cutting lemons the knife slips and cuts my hand, breaking me out of my dream like state

GAH*

Jason turns and runs up to me concerned

Are you ok?*

I'm fine just cut my self.

I go to clean up the blood and find a bandage, but problem, we where out of bandages

*darn we're out of bandaids.

Well I have a suggestion*

I turn around to see Jason's bear hand outstretched holding a latex glove.

You took it off? Isn't that yours?

Don't worry, I get a new one, my body can create it naturally.

I look at the glove as I hold it, it's soft,

The glove has a healing effect to it, it protects us drones from major injuries.

Huh, convenient , as I smile* thanks

I put the glove over my disinfected hand, I move my fingers about feeling it, it was soft, silky and comfortable.

So this is how it feels?* I say

Yeah, it's quite the sensation isn't it?,

Very much so, no wonder many ppl become drones.

Jason helps me finish the drinks and we go sit on the couch together.

Have you thought about dronehood much Aaron?

I turn to him and choke a little ,

Have I thought about it? It's ALL I can think about xd* I say with laughter, I observe it happen from my room, since your never hear.

And before you ask, no, I don't think I'm ready yet.

Jason looks into this drink and back up to me, he leans a hand over to touch my shoulder,

He smiles and says, * when you're ready then, no force, I want you to enjoy it as much as possible.

I peek up, *I KNEW IT, you planned this, laughing.

You were always a trickster you, we both laugh

Well Aaron , I. Do hope you enjoy that glove, it will help you decide, I'm sure of it.

I turn to look out the window and smiles

*thanks, i-, will definitely have an answer soon I'm sure.

___________

Afterwards we hang out the rest of day, it was a fun reunion, full of talk and catching up untill sun down

We both go to bed , crashing instantly as I'd been so tired after today.

The next day Jason and I bid farewell as he leaves for a mission.

I'm left alone and go to my room , sitting on my bedroom couch

_____

Hm, planed or not, I'm happy I have this glove. I turn on the TV to watch some more conversions

I feel hot and steamy imagining it, before I know it I'm rubbing my bulge with the gloved hand , my dick getting erect from what pleasure I can muster,

And idea popped into my head, I head over to Jason's room, and my mind was validated when I saw them, an extra pair of leather boots,

*planned this too Jason? Well idc, thanks*

We happen to be the same size, even so is force my feet into them, the boots go up to my kne, tall and shiny, sliding my feet in, my heart and mind are racing , my dick is rock hard , the sensations are over powering, I lace them up tight, whist I remove my clothing.

I stand up to look to the mirror, naked with only a latex glove and leather boots on, the weight of the boots and the tightness, protecting me, I go to my bed,I start to edge off slowly, aroused to high heavens and enjoying it all. Whilst the sounds of conversions from the TV hum in the background.

I never realized it but the dream like state I was in of edging and leaking lasted 3 days, I was covered in pre, drooling and gooing out, the latex glove and boots has started to spread up my legs and arm, then came Jason, he stood in my bedroom doorway, smiling, he comes over and jumps on top of me, squeezing my nipples hard

I moan hard and leak over me

*ready Aaron?*

Laughing through the intense pleasure ,

*hehe yeah. Convert me friend* I'm ready*

Jason's glowing purple eyes look into mine,

___________

Jason's hard latex dick at the ready, and with a passionate kiss it commences, what felt like a. Eternity, lasted a week of slow intense sex and conversion. As I expected it all

By the end of it, we and the bed were wet in pre, drool and juices, through the days, the latex nanites from Jason's dick slowly transformed my body, spreading the latex all over whist giving my muscle to fit, the climax of the conversion was then.

Jason fucking my tight ass, we both prepared for it , cum

It was a screech of intense pleasure, black nantite filled cum sprayed in ropes out our dicks, lasting 69 minutes of constant cumming, fucking and kissing, and the cum pool around us and soak back up into our bodies, , strengthening the conversion.

When it was all over , we lay there together tired and in love

My eyes start to glow to an intense blue. My mind was reshaped and ready,

Looking to Jason's eyes I say.

* I am ready to obey , ready to spread , ready to cum alongside you *

Jason smiles and kisses me, *ik.. drone 6923..*

My eyes flash, * yes... My new name.. thank you..

Drone 8696..*

___________

In the end we two drones, continued to make out intensely, passionately, never running out of cum

Untill the next mission is handed to us, and. I join Jason on my first crusade, We will enjoy each other forever.

______

: D

I enjoyed this one , genuinely think it's one of my best works yet

Hope you enjoy it, fellow drones

[wroteclassicaly]

A/N: I’ve missed this man. I hope you like? Next part will have some saucy little smut. Just trying this out first, also for self-indulgence.

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, language, mentions of injuries, self-esteem issues, mentions depression and body image.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Plus size!Reader

Eddie Munson loves his new band of misfit friends, an extended family that has welcomed him and Wayne in with open arms. Hell, he’s even getting along with Harrington, Wheeler is tutoring him, and everyone else just understands. And then, well… Then there is you. He’s never seen someone so in tune with the needs of others without ever considering herself. Someone who purposely pushes herself on the world’s hottest back burner to avoid opening up and letting anyone truly see what’s going on… Behind incredibly beautiful eyes, if Eddie does say so himself.

It’s been over a year since shit unfolded with Vecna. They lost, he died for a little while, the apocalypse reigned down on the town and then he wasn’t dead anymore. Memories are vague, but most things he does remember. And when he wakes up tangled in his bedsheets, scars aching with prickles of phantom pains - you are the only person that he calls. A lot of times he ends up singing you to sleep, but it’s not without you always making sure he’s calmed and okay first.

It was a bond that grew since you began caring for him when he came back with memories. He’s lost track of days spent together, lunches shared, a graduation a long time coming, complete with a party he never expected to have. He isn’t sure when it became a deeper feeling than he’s ever known, one that scared him so damn bad he avoided you for days and began physically ill because of it. If Eddie Munson has to pick one moment, it was probably that day you walked into his Uncle’s living room, (a cookout happening in his yard with Steve and Wayne at the grill outside) your beautiful curves on display, a cherry sundress hitting you in all the right places, and some strappy red sandals adorning your feet. You wore a glowing smile beneath your bright red lipstick, energy matching with Henderson’s as you entertained his enthusiasm for Hellfire’s next campaign.

You didn’t have a clue of what you were talking about, but it didn’t deter you in the slightest. You were passionate about writing, you enjoyed Sci-Fi and fantasy, which meant you had to be the one who helped Dustin create new characters. He knew the game, you had some extra creativity to lend. You’d high fived Dustin, stealing his pen to jot down your scribbled suggestions on his spiral sheet. Eddie was a goner.

And now… Here you are, at his house, on a Friday night. You didn’t have plans, you didn’t make a date - nothing. You did what you normally do and called him up, accepting his invite to hang out all evening. He’d made sure to be off work by a steady time, picking up your favorite bakery cookies at the store on the way home, lingering over flowers that he was sure he should get, but knew it would probably cross a line if he did so. Eddie doesn’t want you to feel spooked, or even anything remotely close to uncomfortable around him.

You’re sitting above him, cross-legged on his bed as he rests with bent knees at the foot, your overalls bagging out at the sides to show your crop top with little lemons and daisies printed all over it, and the most delicious, overflowing curves Edward Munson has ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. He’s got a pair of your maroon sweats tied down, extremely loose on his narrow hips, and one of your decorative character shirts with a picture of Eeyore plastered front and center, hanging across his torso. You might not be able to wear his clothes, but he can wear yours, and Eddie would be stupid to say he doesn’t notice your eyes crossing a little whenever he steps into some of your ensembles. You’ve been chattering away at the TV, giving your input on Friday the 13th part 2, whilst being blissfully unaware of sending Eddie to heaven with your pink brush running through his freshly washed curls, your neon yellow painted nails scratching at his scalp. He’s like a mother fucking purring cat in your grasp.

“So, anyways… I can’t figure out if Muffin survived or if that was her in the woods. And did Paul really make it out too, or was Jenny imagining shit?”

Eddie smirks, tilting his head back to look at the curvature of your physique, the contours of your face - upside down (no pun intended). “Haven’t you seen this movie, like, a thousand times before?”

You have a mock look of offense. “Hmph.” He doesn’t like what it brings, because you can tease, but please - for the love of all things unholy - don’t stop brushing his hair.

“Hey, hey. Why’d you quit?” He’s pouting, it’s rather cute. One tattooed arm, decorated with scars - elongates, ring clad hand seeking out your wrist. Anything to get you into motion again.

“You know that you can brush your own hair, Eddie.” You’re melting at those fluttering lashes draped over an enriching, smooth chocolate pair of irises. And his mouth… Fuck.

“But it’s so much better when you do it, sweetheart. Pleaseeeee? Forgive me for questioning your brilliant questions!?”

You make a good show of it, tossing the brush out of your hand, it landing a pile of Eddie’s clothes in an unpacked hamper. They’re clean, but he’d rather wear yours. He gasps, shifting positions so quick that you think Steve must’ve Ninja-fied him. He’s got you by your wrists, the cool of his rings tracking across your arms as they follow warm palms, and dip under your pits to gain leverage - easing you forward into a heap onto the carpeting with him. “Freak attack!” He’s gleeful, tickling your denim clad sides (well, at least where he pretends he can’t see the overspilling flesh more closely now).

He smells good, like that familiar Old Spice wash and whatever shampoo he’s lathered his curls with. He’s hovering, he’s incredibly warm, he’s safe, he’s Eddie. Someone you didn’t know you needed until he appeared and retrieved his piece of your heart, snapping it into the place where all the people you love have their own shards. Hmm, not entirely though. If you could describe it, it’s as if they make up the outside lining, keeping the inside of your heart reserved for a more… Different, private type of love, that only Eddie Munson seems to have found.

“Should spank your ass with that thing for stoppin’,” he starts, interrupting your reverie, moving to shut his mouth when he realizes he crossed a line. Maybe? It’s there, your eyes flicker over his lips, your hidden reaction dancing behind your pretty little temple - he sees, giving him a fraction of hope. He isn’t used to this…

You jolt, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind, “Like that would be a punishment,” you finish, effectively crossing that line for him.

Both of you remain silent, your sweet perfume making him lose focus. What he thinks he should do and what he wants to do, those are two very different battles raging inside.

// Eat me paragraph //

[plantoyoon]

Can I have a taste?

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Synopsis: Unexpected romance develops between co-workers, going on dates, drinking some coffee and alcohol.

Genre: co-workers, slow development, fluff, smut

Warnings: 18+, social anxiety, one shot

Wordcount: 9.9k

second warning: might not make perfect sense, not really proofread, I've just started writing recently... soooo thank you for reading, and if you have suggestions, I am here.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

You know that moment when life seems to make so much sense, like everything is perfectly aligned, but actually if you look further and deeper you wonder how the pieces came together?

Well, working on international projects was something indeed interesting. From your coworkers perspective, the best part was meeting new people and making new friends. You being introverted, that seem like the worst part of it. Most of the people you met were nice or at least interesting, and finding differences and similarities between cultures was also entertaining.

It wasn't the best always working at your company, but it had it's perks. Like in this moment, being at a full table with laughing people, good food and great atmosphere after the end of a successful project. Everyone was making cute promises of new meetings and new ideas to put into practice. The overall effervescence of some wine and excitement was intoxicating.

You were sitting next to the only other girl from the big team and one of your coworker, being guarded and trying to interact as least as possible. It wasn't that you didn't like them, but it was a giving you a lot of anxiety being in a group, trying to throw in some ideas in the discussion. Being around some many passionate people about their field was a bit overwhelming. You were quite good at what you were doing, and you enjoyed it but it seemed like never enough to get on into this talks. Following all the ideas of all the people at the table was getting exhausting.

At the right moment you get a message from your boss asking you for some documents as urgent as possible. You're getting so caught up into finding what he asks that you don't even hear that someone asked you a question. But you heard silence, some laughter and raised your head from the phone to look around. Of course half of the people are looking at you, your coworker Hoseok comes at your rescue, making a small joke about the fault in being a workaholic and repeating the question for you.

"How it is to work in a project just with men?" You're looking to your left for the other girl and she is nowhere to be seen.

"Where is Sara?" you ask.

"I think she went for a smoke" another guy at the table answers.

"Hmm. Fine, I guess. We delivered what we had to deliver, so great." you answer and want to go back to your business. The idea for a distraction for them appears "You could ask my coworkers how was for them, because they mostly work in teams mostly formed by women, being more old in the company, I'm sure they have better insights on that. Guys?! you inquire and as soon as the conversation gets lively again you get to your phone, sipping on the water with lemon you had on the table.

As it gets noisier you get up to find a place a bit less agitated for you to focus. You know this place quite well so you identify quickly your spot, next to a staircase with a comfy chair and take a sit. But it doesn't take long until you get interrupted again. This time by one of the members from another country.

"Hei! What you doing down there?"

"I just need to solve some things urgently and I can't find this thing." you answer as politely as possible, because this was Yoongi. He was one of the first people you worked with outside your company. He was really nice, always helpful and seemed like a good person. And you wanted to be nice to him.

"How are you?" you ask seeing him still there, not quite ready to leave.

"Good. I really like this city, and the food is great."

"Yeah, it has his qualities." you didn't like your city, but you tried your best not to show that.

As you started getting more pings from your boss, you feel the need to hurry and ask Yoongi if he needs anything.

"I was looking for the toilet actually."

"Aah. I see. Well, it's right ahead, then you do a left next to the bar and then right and then you'll see the doors." you answer looking at Yoongi, seeing him now better, red in the cheeks, glassy eyes and leaning against the wall. He was a bit too drunk, and you chuckle to yourself at this tall, dizzy guy, looking for the bathroom.

You get up and start walking towards the restrooms. "Come after me." you say with your eyes still glued to your phone. He follows and enters the room after saying a shy thank you. With your eyes still looking for the files, you walk slowly towards your comfy hidden chair. But after a few minutes, Yoongi's back and seems a bit more fresh, with some droplets hanging at the ends of his hair, probably splashed some water on his face.

"Thank you, you're really good at giving direction. You could be a great guide." says he and then slowly goes back to the other people.

You wonder what is it with these people and their weird statements, but get over this thought quickly as you found the files you were looking for. You send them and dread the moment because now you have to get back to the table with the others.

As you get closer, you notice Yoongi took the seat next to your now empty one and you think to yourself that this should definitely get into some conversation, you have no escape at this point. Somehow, you don't despise the thought. You appreciated him, even though you have never seen each other until this week. You always talked through the phone, e-mails or online calls. Now you could also appreciate how handsome he looked, but you needed to stay as professional as you could and as you should.

You take your sit, trying to get into some small talk with the girl next to you, starting with complimenting her hair. You don't really know Sara, and try to ask some question to keep the conversation going. How did she start working with her team, what did she study, how the week felt like for her. The conversation runs smooth and you praise yourself for that.

After some time you feel a poke on your shoulder, and turn around not realising until now that you've almost turned with your back towards the people on your right. And you see Yoongi asking for the bottle of sparkling wine next to you.

"You're sure you want this? Maybe this?" pushing some water towards him.

He takes the water, pours some in his glass and some in your glass. Then asking again for the wine. You comply giving him the wine, and he firstly pours in your wine glass that still had some on the bottom, then going for his glass, followed by Hoseok glass. He asks the girl next to you if she wants some and pours the rest of the bottle into her glass.

At this point you expect some kind of toast, it seems like he has something on his mind to say. He raises his glass, demanding the others to follow in his movement and says: "This city is amazing, I like it so much and I am impressed by all the good work you people have put in." then he looks at you briefly "I want to see more of it. Towards more interesting projects and new friends. Cheers!" finishing the short toast with the clinks of the glasses.

You don't know why, but you felt some goosebumps when Yoongi looked at you. But this means nothing, he will go back to his country, his life and you should get your mind out of the scenarios that start forming in your head.

As time passes, you start getting more immersed in the conversation you had with the people at the table, especially with Yoongi, realising you have so many interests in common. You feel more comfortable now and the wine definitely made it a bit easier to get through the night. Hoseok turns his head towards you asking if you're going to stay any longer, because he wants to get home. You shake your head, looking at the time and seeing it was past 11 pm. You turn your head to Yoongi with inquiring eyes. He looks at you a bit lost, but answers after sighing, that he is ready to leave.

The three of you got up, said your see you tomorrows and goodbyes, and headed towards the exit. You feel the dizziness from the alcohol getting stronger, but the cold autumn air makes it a bit easier.

"I think I'll walk for a bit before calling for a taxi."

Hoseok already called his taxi and tries to convince you to call quickly for one because it's late, you have work tomorrow and so on. He is a good friend, but sometimes he is too much of a control freak. So you say "I'll just walk Yoongi to his hotel and then get it from there." knowing it will be a ten minute walk, enough for you the feel better. Hoseok seems pleased with your solution, and Yoongi is looking stoic without saying anything.

"Only if that's alright with you, Yoongi!"

"Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. Of course it is!" says him as fast as possible.

Both of you walk in silence. You enjoy the cold breeze of the night and the rustling of leaves from the nearby trees and it feels quite peaceful. You hear a chuckle and look up towards Yoongi.

"What's funny?"

"How are you walking so fast? I was told I walk fast, but I feel I am putting some effort to keep up with you." Yoongi answers with another chuckle at the end.

"Ah, sorry! I think it's the wine for my speed and probably for you being a little more slow than the usual."

"Haha, maybe." followed by a long hmmm from him. You wonder what that sound was supposed to mean. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That hmmmm?!"

"Aaaah. I think I make this sound involuntarily when I'm thinking."

"Hmmm, I see. Hmmmmmm." You slightly mock the sound he made.

"Want to know what I am thinking about?"

You feel a trap, but you answer with "sure" anyways.

"I'm thinking…" he takes a moment before continuing "we definitely need to drink more water."

You agree, and as you see the hotel getting closer you get your phone and type in your address, ready to call for an uber. As you reach the hotel, you panic a little bit as no uber accepts your order. Yoongi stops next to you and asks if everything is alright.

"Yeah, but I think it takes a bit longer to get an uber at this hour."

"Hmm. I'll wait with you then."

"Don't worry, Yoongi. We have a long day tomorrow, I'll be fine. I'm sure someone will accept eventually."

"Don't say nonsense, I can't leave you by yourself. I would actually suggest to get into to lobby, drink something until your ride arrives."

You don't argue with that and feel a bit softer on the inside hearing that from him. You wonder why did you expect him to be less friendly. So you get inside, ask for some water at the still open bar and sit with Yoongi, talking about some of the countries he visited, and checking from time to time your phone.

15 minutes later a driver finally accepts your order, he is 3 minutes away. You let Yoongi know, and stand up, grabbing your bag. He follows you towards the exit and as you sit next to each other, he puts a hand on your shoulder, leaving it there for a bit too long, but you think about all the alcohol that was in his organism and try to not pay it attention. But the next thing surprises you, as the car stops in front of you, Yoongi closes the distance between you two with a small kiss on your cheek. "See you tomorrow! Yeah?"

"Mhm. See you tomorrow!" and you rush to the car. Was that something? It couldn't be. Your heart beats fast as you make comfortable in your sit. Maybe that's how he is with other people, friendly, french people always kiss each other on both cheeks when meeting. You try your best for the next 20 minutes to bring some sense to yourself and stop building expectations. As you get into your apartment, you check your phone one more time, and you have 3 new messages. One from Hoseok, one from your sister and one from Yoongi. All of them asking the same thing: "Have you arrived home?" you quickly send a Yes to all of them, and place your phone down trying to stop thinking about Yoongi.

"Shower and water, now." you say to yourself focusing on the moment.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

The next morning brings a new sense of relief as it would have been the last day of work activities. Most important it will be just half of day, the rest being for the other people to visit your city on their own before leaving.

You get ready, read some e-mails on your way towards your first stop of the day, the coffee shop. This day required your favourite beverage, Iced Americano, before meeting with the others. After sipping the cold drink, you feel more ready to tackle this day, more prepared to block any Yoongi related thoughts.

At the office, everyone seemed to have the same need for coffee as you, as you found almost all of them around the coffee machine. Good thinking in getting your drink from another place. You greet everyone and try to wiggle your way to your place in the meeting room through the crowd. Not even placing your stuff on the table, you hear Hoseok asking you:

"It's october, I can't believe you bought an Iced Americano again. How could you drink that even now?"

"Hoseok, I already told you. This Iced Americano is the only coffee that I enjoy, so leave me alone and drink your bitter double espresso." You say in a jokingly manner, not realising Yoongi was behind you.

"Where did you get that?" he asks.

Startled, you give your answer, telling him about the coffee shop 10 minutes away from there. He looks at his watch and groans as you were supposed to start in just a few minutes the meeting. Yoongi takes the sit next to you and turns to face you: "Could you give me just one sip, I really don't like this coffee." whispers he pointing to the small cup in front of him.

You take your place and confused at his request you push your cold cup towards him. As he takes it from your hand, his fingers brush slightly over yours which brings some goosebumps up your arms. As fast as possible you start pulling out your stuff from your bag, looking down on your notebooks, sure that your cheeks were more rosy than the usual.

Yoongi groans a little after tasting the coffee "This is so good! You need to show me this place, Y/N?"

"I know, they have the best coffee. I'll give you the address later if you want to get one in our break."

He answers just with a mumble that you don't understand, getting another sip before giving your drink back.

For the next two hours of the workshop, Yoongi keeps on brushing in unintentional ways his arm against yours. You try to move yourself to give him more space to move when he explains his ideas, but somehow, each time he requires more space. By the end of the meeting you realise that you closed the distance between your chair and the empty one on your left. You sigh and think that these touchy people will drive you nuts one day. You don't enjoy being touched, you could even say you despised it. Not really, you like hugs from your favourite people and even cuddling. But with people close to you, not everyone. And this thing with Yoongi, it just fuels something that shouldn't be fueled.

The coffee break starts, you grab what is left of your iced drink and go to grab a mini croissant looking at the other people talking, forming small groups. You see Hoseok, Yoongi and other two people talking, and notice how Yoongi kind of retreats each time one of the other guys tries to touch him on his arm. You chuckle to yourself and wonder if he realises that he did the same to you. Your thoughts are interrupted by Hoseok who makes a gesture to join them. As you reach them he grabs your hand, telling the others how you don't like being touched by people, only if you know them for some time.

Once again you wonder what is with all these strange conversations these people have. You care a lot about Hoseok, but sometimes you want to punch him because making people aware of your quirks it's not on his employee responsibilities. But you knew him for such a long time, him actually being the one who recommended you for an interview at your actual company, so… you had enough time to get used to him.

"I am the same." answers Yoongi and it surprises you and start thinking if you should deconspire him or not. You decide not, but comment "Well, some people are more used to this and others are not. I think it's related a bit if you are in a relationship or not. If you've been in a relationship for a long time, it's probably more comfortable to be so touchy." You look at Hoseok, him being the first example for your statement. He nods and continues the talk, giving it a new twist. You've been always impressed with his way of making the conversation go into the whatever direction he wanted.

In your mind though, the thing Yoongi said about not liking being touched took a sit. The internal debate starting. He was so touchy, but he doesn't like being touched. Probably just lied, you think to yourself.

The rest of the programme passes smoothly, and at the end of it Hoseok asks how long everyone is going to be in the city. Most of them answer that they'll be leaving in a few hours or tonight.

"What about you, Yoongi?" Hoseok asks seeing he was the only one not answering.

"Actually, I'll be staying for a few more days to visit. If you have recommendation or want to plan anything, let me know."

"Oh, cool. For sure we'll plan something, I promised to show you to that Korean bbq place."

You follow the exchange in silence, until you hear your name called by Hoseok once again. "Y/N, let's organise with our team to see who would want to get together these days."

Nodding, you sigh at another event you need to be in charge of. It might be something informal, but you're so tired of so much socialisation. You just want a cozy night, some music and silence.

Maybe Yoongi felt your resentment that he announces that it could be the smaller team, no need in putting any effort into it. You look at him, smiling, grateful for his suggestion.

After all the other details have been discussed and all being done, almost all the guests left. You gather your notebook and laptop, getting ready to leave to your desk. By the door there is a small group of people still talking, as you pass by them you feel your elbow softly grabbed by someone, expecting to be Hoseok, you put your bored face: "What is it?"

"Hmmm."

Before you get to turn to look at him, you realise by the sound that is Yoongi, but the feeling stays the same.

"I was wondering if you could show me that coffee shop, maybe eat something there if they have any food?" asks him. You were hungry and the rumble in your stomach definitely approves his idea at the thought of those tasty sandwiches.

Your other coworkers get behind him: "What a great idea, Yoongi! We need to get some food, we're so hungry."

You follow the group who comes with new ideas for where to get lunch, finally deciding on another place.

"Hmmmm. Still, I think I want to get to that coffee shop. What about you Y/N?" "Yeah. I was kind of set on a sandwich from there and another coffee is more than welcome." you answer.

"Alright, then we'll meet back at the office. Yoongi, you're free to come also, if you don't have any other plans yet." says one in the group.

"Thanks, I'll think about it."

Now, with just the two of you, the conversation flows smoothly, with Yoongi asking about what he should visit next, where should he eat and what other activities you recommend until you reach the coffee shop.

He orders first "Two iced americano and two sandwiches!"

"Hei, I can order on my own." you pout.

"Well, I drank at least half of your morning coffee, so at least let me get that for you."

You try to convince him that isn't necessary, but he does not listen. Eventually, you give up, getting your food and drink and placing them on the small table next to the window. Yoongi follows you, sitting next to you.

"Why don't you sit in front of me? It's more space…" you ask, at which he just shrugs not bothering to answer and taking a bite.

"You were right Y/N, this place has great sandwiches and the best iced americano I've drank in this city.

You wonder "Have you been here before, in our city, I mean?" 
"Yeah, a few times."

"Then why ask for places to visit. There not that much to see here."

"Hmmm." again that hmm, which you need to recognise, you were getting quite addicted to it.

"I wanted to hear about the places you like, so… yeah." follows Yoongi looking into your eyes. Your heart skips a beat and your cheeks are definitely red. Not knowing what to answer, you mumble a yeah and sip from your coffee.

Almost done with your meal you ask: "So Yoongi, you're coming to the office after we finish here?"

"You want me to come?" you almost choke at his come at his question, wondering if you're insane or if he is indeed in a flirty mood. You feel the need to step back a bit and tell him that is his choice, not yours.

"Alright, but I'll see you this evening. We are meeting at that restaurant Hoseok was telling us about. Yeah?"

"I'll think about it, I still need to catch up with some work."

"Hmmm. Y/N…. " mumbles he disapproving.

"Alright, alright. Let's get going now and I'll think about it."

He pulls a large smile, and slightly nudges you with his shoulder. "Good."

The day passes fast, still wondering if you should meet with the other for dinner. Noticing your excitement to meet Yoongi, you wonder if that's a good thing or not. He is just a friendly person, and the attention he's giving you makes you overthink this situation. But by the end of the work day, Hoseok and the others just assume you're coming, taking you with them and it's too late to back off now.

Arriving at the restaurant, Yoongi was already waiting for all of you sited at a table of six. Why does he look even more handsome and at the same time cute in this dimmed light. You place yourself strategically on the diagonal side of him so you could focus more on your discussion started with your friends from the office. This dinner not being a project meeting, your favourite coworkers could join. You are feeling more comfortable in this environment, with people you knew for a long time, so you laugh, and you drink, bottling up the small crush that was unfolding in the afternoon. But from time to time you throw a glance at Yoongi, and all you could think is how adorable he looks laughing and enjoying himself.

Around 9 pm you decide it's time to wrap up and go home, this was wholesome and fun, but tomorrow is Friday, another work day. You announce the others and grab your bag to leave, taking a last look at Yoongi, knowing you might not see him in person for a while.

"I'm really glad you came after all, Y/N!" said Yoongi as he gets up to give you a hug.

"Me too, Yoongi! Enjoy your stay here and have a safe trip." he squeezes you once more before letting you leave.

Why do even his hugs feel great, you think to yourself while getting into the uber.

Your phone pings noticing you got a message, it's Hoseok. The text is stupid, just a line of question marks and you think he might had a drink or two too much and ignore him for now. But five pings later you check the chat again to see what does he want.

Hoseokeeee: ????????? It's something going on? You and Yoongi? What is going on? Y/N? ????????

You: ???????????? What are you even saying????

Hoseokeeee: The hug????

You: What about it? He was just saying goodbye?!

Hoseokeeee: Y/N????? I know him for more than 3 years. He never hugs anyone, he barely shakes hands with us

You: ????? whaaaat??? Maybe he just felt friendly tonight, will probably hug you too

Hoseokeeee: We left! NOOO HUUUG he did gave us a handshake, but yet I am really suspicious! (detective emoji)

You: Ok. Maybe if you didn't leave all at the same time, he would have hugged you

Hoseokeeee: I don't want him to hug me

You: Yeah, sure (heart emoji) But honestly, don't overthink it. Nothing it's going on

Now you are the one who overthinks it. Is something really going on?

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Barely getting any sleep, the morning arrives and you're tired and groggy and in desperate need of coffee. A large Iced Americano for you today.

At the office you are glad everyone seems to be on occupied with their own business, not even Hoseok tries to open the last night discussion, not even at lunch. At least there's that, and you think to yourself that everything is fine and nothing is going on actually. But the universe has a funny way of blowing up your life conclusion, as a message from Yoongi appears on your screen.

Min Yoongi: Hi! Tonight there's a opening of this gallery, and has some paintings by O'Keeffe exposed. Would you like to go?

First you wonder how did he recall about O'Keeffe, you don't even remember mentioning this artists name ever. Second you panic and your mind runs at full speed. Thirdly you wonder if he invited other people and you glance at Hoseok's desks.

You breath in, get up and go to your friend, your always and forever adviser in this matters. You don't say anything, but show him the message. He looks confused at you, then checks his phone, refreshing the chat app.

He gets up and you take his place. "Hoseok, what is going on?!"

"You tell me Y/N?!"

"Does it seem I know. You two are friends, I am just the new confused girl. Did he ever told you anything? Please, think carefully."

"Well, it was this time… but no, I don't think it's related. Or that time…" he keeps mumbling things like that until it annoys you.

"Hoseok!!!!" It gets him out of the memory digging. "I don't even know what to answer."

"If you ask me, it's just a gallery visit. It's not anything to worry about, maybe he just thought you would be the only interested and that's why you're the only one that he asked."

"Okay, that makes me feel a little bit better." you answer going back to your desk. "I'll think about it then."

Hoseok leans back in his chair, studying you carefully. "You like him, don't you?"

You blink, caught off guard by his directness. "I… I don't know. I mean, he's nice and we get along, but…"

"But?" Hoseok presses gently.

"But he's from another country, and it's complicated," you finish, feeling a bit flustered.

Hoseok chuckles. "Complicated is your middle name, Y/N. Look, if you want my advice, just go. Enjoy the evening. If nothing else, you get to see some great art. And if something more happens, well, you can deal with it then."

You nod, feeling a bit more settled. "Okay, I'll go."

"You do that, Y/N." said Hoseok with a grin, but try to not pry into that. Hoseok was always a step ahead of you, having the overview of every situation. So if he thinks it's not a big deal, then probably isn't.

You: Hi! Sure, sounds nice. Meet you there at 8?

Min Yoongi: Awesome!

Your focus for the day was gone, your mind going at full speed about your outfit, hair and make up, how to get to the gallery and counting the minutes until the end of the work day. You felt excited, the only thing that kept you relatively grounded were Hoseok's words: "Don't overthink it." You opt for a black simple yet elegant outfit, something that strikes the right balance between professional and casual.

Arriving at the gallery, you spot Yoongi waiting near the entrance, looking effortlessly stylish. As you approach, he greets you with a warm smile.

"Hi, Y/N. You look great."

"Thanks, Yoongi. You too," you reply, feeling a slight blush rise to your cheeks.

The gallery is buzzing with people, all eager to see the new exhibit. Yoongi leads you through the crowd, guiding you to the section featuring Marino's paintings.

As you stand side by side, admiring the artwork, you find yourself relaxing and enjoying the moment. Yoongi's presence is comforting, and the conversation flows easily as you discuss the various pieces and their interpretations.

"Thank you for inviting me," you say after a while. "I really enjoyed this and the wine is good."

Yoongi turns to you, his eyes softening. "I'm glad you came. I knew you'd like it."

Baffled by his assured statement you ask: "How could you know?"

He doesn't answer, but comes closer to you, slowly placing his hand on your waist to turn you around to face a blue and green painting. You get a bit closer to read the name, with Yoongi's hand still on your waist.

"It's called Blue and green music, it reminded me of you."

You scrunch your nose, you like the painting, you like everything done by O'Keefe, but this is dark, complicated and being called that felt a bit weird. "How so?"

"Well, it shows passion, strength, vibrant vulnerability, all in harmony. I feel that's you." said Yoongi, looking ahead at the painting.

Feeling the warmth of Yoongi's hand on your waist, you take a deep breath, absorbing his words. The painting indeed captures a depth that resonates with you. "Passion and strength", you murmur, with your gaze fixated on the painting. "I never thought of myself that way."

Yoongi's eyes finally meet yours, a gentle smile playing on his lips. "Well, you are. Y/N. More than you know."

"Thank you" you whisper, your voice barely audible above the hum of the gallery crowd. "That means a lot."

His smile widens, eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's just the truth." He takes a step back, his hand slipping from your waist but leaving behind a trail of warmth. "Come on, there's more I want to show you."

As you walk side by side, the conversation flows naturally, each painting sparking new topics and reflections. His knowledge of art and every other subject that comes up, fascinates you. You even forgot about your thoughts about this not being a date, you really hope it is now.

Yoongi leads you to a quieter corner a small table is set up with some desserts and more wine. Grabs two glasses, giving one to you with a soft smile on his face. "Have you ever been on this building rooftop?"

"Yeah, a long time ago. Have you?" and he shakes his head. He takes your hand, leading you through the crowd and corridors until you reach a staircase that leads up to the roof.

The night air is cool and refreshing as you step out onto the rooftop. The city sprawls out before you, lights looking mesmerizing. You walk to the edge, letting this moment bring a sense of peace to you.

"It's beautiful." he says softly, his hand brushing against yours.

"It is, and the company makes it even better." you turn to look at him and notice a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart beat fast.

He places a hand on your shoulder, bringing you closer to him. You raise a bit on your heels, but you stumble as someone yells in the distance that you're not allowed on the rooftop. You laugh and place a hand on Yoongi's chest. "You heard him, we need to leave."

As you step back into the gallery, both of you laugh about the interruption. The energy from earlier dissipated. You and Yoongi share a comfortable silence as you make your way through the nearly empty space. "Looks like we're some of the last ones here."

"Hmmm. It's been so nice. Thank you for joining me." mentions Yoongi as both of you step out of the building.

"Thank you for inviting me. I had a great time." You smile, feeling warmth engulfing you once again this night.

Yoongi hesitates for a moment "I don't want this night to end, but it's late and I don't want to ruin your sleep more as it's already 2 pm. But can I see you tomorrow too?"

Your heart skips a beat at his words and a big smile crosses your face. "I'd like that."

He waits with you until your ride home arrives. When he sees the car pulling in front of you, he leans in and gives you a gentle kiss on the cheek. He closes the door of the car behind you, waving as he watches it departing. You watch him until he's out of sight, your heart still racing.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

The next morning you wake up with a sense of anticipation and excitement. It doesn't take long as a sense of reality crashes over you, realising what are you actually doing. He is someone you work with, he leaves in a few days. The best you could figure it out is seeing each other a few times a year. Everything feels kind of hopeless. As you go on with your morning, this feeling doesn't disappear whatever spin you try on the matter. You even try to think about what would Hoseok would say. Probably "Don't complicate it and don't overthink it." It was a bit too late for that.

Last night was so amazing, it felt so good, you felt so connected to him, so interesting and appreciated. But now, the practicalities loom large, casting a shadow over the happiness.

Your phones pings and the screen lights up. Min Yoongi: Good morning. Want to grab lunch together later?

You: Yeah

Min Yoongi: Awesome!

You: There's a nice place in the city center. I'm sending you the address.

Min Yoongi: Great! See you there.

You don't text back, still with some remnants of anxiety. You decide to let it happen, not think about the future and to enjoy as much as you can this moment the universe placed in front of you.

Another ping on the phone follows.

Min Yoongi: Can't wait to see you again. (star emoji)

Why is he so cute, you sigh and smile, sending back the same text.

You hide your doubts, and cover them with a cute outfit in light colours. "You can do this, Y/N, you can do it!" you say encouraging yourself before leaving for the restaurant.

Yoongi was already there, waiting inside. His smile brightens as he sees you, welcoming you with a kiss on the cheek.

"Hey" you reply, feeling again that flutter in your chest, now more sure than ever that you are able to enjoy this.

The restaurant is charming, with a warm and inviting atmosphere. As you look over the menu together, Yoongi leans in and says: "You look amazing. Last night a black cat and now a white cat."

You laugh at his statement, you always thought he resembled a cat with his sharp eyes. "You look great too. And I think you're actually the cat here."

He chuckles at your response.

As you order your food, the conversation flows easily. You talk about everything and nothing, just enjoying each other's company. Yoongi shares stories from his travels, and you tell him about your latest project at work. The doubts you had earlier seem to fade away, replaced by the warmth of the moment.

After lunch you suggest, "How about we go for walk in the park, I think there is some immersive art installation in the nearby one." He agrees, seeming excited about the idea. The walk through the park is pleasant and as you reach the art installation you both start to fool around, feeling like children.

The first one you try is this huge piano that you can walk on. You jump first on it trying to play Twinkle Twinkle Little star, being the only song you know the key notes too. Yoongi follows you trying to help you with your song, but ends up crashing into you. You try to gain your balance, but he has other plans wrapping his arms around you before he falls.

"Yoongi, what are you doing?"

"What were you trying to play?"

"Twinkle Twinkle"

"That was definitely not it" he laughs brushing your hair of your face as you try to get up. You extend an arm to help him up too, he grabs it and doesn't let go, having you follow him in his steps trying to play the correct version of the song.

"Is this what were you trying to play, Y/N?" you nod, following his steps carefully.

"Now I know how to properly play this" you laugh as Yoongi pulls you into a side hug, leading you to check the other installations.

You find an installation that is called Dark Matter, and described as dark room, with meticulously composed soundtracks, fusing with gleaming shapes and colours. "This might take a while, but would you like to try it?" you ask Yoongi.

Both of you find seats in the dimly lit first room. It's pitch dark, and you can't see anyone else, but the rustling of clothes and whispers around you assure you that you're not alone. The anticipation builds as the music starts, and the play of lights begins to dance around the room. You're immediately drawn into the immersive experience, completely forgetting everything else around you.

Amidst the sensory overload of sound and light, you suddenly feel a gentle movement on your pinky finger. It's Yoongi's finger, lightly playing with yours in a tender gesture. He then wraps his finger around yours, intertwining them gently. Your heart starts beating fast at the small gesture and you stay like this until the end of the show.

Stepping outside the building you notice that the night was closing in, typical for mid autumn when the sun sets earlier. You take a look at Yoongi and hear his thinking sound "Hmmmm. I think I know how to solve our problem from yesterday."

"What problem?"

"The rooftop problem. There's a bar nearby on a rooftop, great atmosphere. Want to go there?"

"Sure, lead the way. You're quite the local. You know that?"

Yoongi laughs. "Not really, but I know some good places around." He gently takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, making you blush at his newfound assertiveness over the past few hours. As you walk through the busy streets, Yoongi's hand in yours feels warm and reassuring. You contemplate how in his presence, everything seems to slow down and becomes more manageable. You steal glances at him from time to time, admiring his calm demeanor contrasting with the urban chaos around. Finally, you arrive at the bar. The entrance is tucked away in a quieter corner, yet the rooftop promises a good view. Yoongi lets you first climb the stairs, following closely behind. As you reach the top, you take a sit at a table next to the edge, giving you the best view. Mesmerized by the view, you affirm it "The view is amazing."

"I thought you'd enjoy it" Yoongi replies, a soft smile playing on his lips as he pulls out a chair for you. "What would you like to drink?"

"I think I might need something different than wine" you ponder. The waiter comes before you could decide so you let Yoongi order first, he gets some red wine.

"I see you have Hibiki, could I get some with a large ice cube?" this drink always made you feel a more confident in yourself and sweeps away a big part of your insecurities.

Yoongi looks at you with big eyes and a huge grin on his face, which makes you feel self-conscious about your drink choice. You recall how people often comment or poke fun at your preference, and now you feel the need fort that drink more than ever. You look at the city unraveling before your eyes to clear your head, letting some silence sit between you and Yoongi.

As the drinks arrive, you feel a surge of enthusiasm as you take your first sip. The fiery warmth of the liquied plays with the coolness of the ice, creating a unique sensation that you like. For you it's not so much about the taste as it is about that intriguing combination. Feeling satisfied with your drink and the courage it brought, you glance at Yoongi. He still gazes at you with those dark wide eyes, prompting you to say "Go ahead, you can judge me all you want, but I enjoy what I enjoy."

"I'm not judging you, I liked your choice." takes a sip of his wine, licking his lips. "Can I have a taste?"

"Sure" you push your glass towards him. He moves his chair closer to yours and settles down, placing his hand over yours, which is still wrapped around the cold glass. "Can I have a taste" he asks again, now a bit more clear, looking into your eyes and then down to your lips.

You feel flustered, goosebumps rising all over your body. Raising the glass to your lips, you try to mantain eye contact as you take another sip, letting the liquid slide down your throat. Everything seems to move in slow motion.

Setting your glass down, you feel Yoongi closing the distance between you. He hovers with his lips just above yours for a moment before pressing them gently against yours. The kiss is slow and tender, sending a wave of warmth through your body. His hand reaches your neck as he deepens the kiss. Your hand goes up to caress his face as you give access to his tongue to explore the inside of your mouth. It gets more passionate by the second, with the other hand of Yoongi going to your hip, making you slip a moan into his mouth. Getting a low groan out of him. You slowly start to feel out of air and as much as you don't want to, you interrupt the kiss.

Refiling your lungs with air, you look at Yoongi who appears still focused on your lips. Bringing his hand up your neck, you let his thumb gently play with your bottom lip. "Tasty"

You chuckle at his assessment, giving him another taste. This time, the kiss is more eager, both of you, trying to get as much as you can out of each other.

"I've wanted to do that, since I first saw you on Monday, you know?!"

Completely shocked by his words, you pull back slightly. "Don't look at me like that." he continues "I've been flirting with you for months, but you've been so dismissive that I thought it was a lost cause. Until I saw you in person. After talking with Hoseok about you, giving me some insights, I knew I had to keep trying. I am convinced now it was a good decision…"

"Wait, wait. What do you mean months? What about Hoseok? What are you even saying now?" you stop him from his rambling to bring you some clarity.

Yoongi takes a deep breath, rubbing his thumb over your hand gently. "We've been working together online for a while, and I've always admired you from a distance. I tried to drop hints, little comments here and there, but you never seemed to notice."

"What about Hoseok?"

"He and I talked about it, and he encouraged me to be more direct. He mentioned that you tend to not notice when someone likes you. He thought we'd be a good match."

You blink in surprise, processing his words. "Hoseok said that?"

"Yeah," Yoongi nods. "He said you were amazing and worth the effort. So, when this trip came up, I saw it as my chance."

In your mind all the mixed messages that Hoseok gave you regarding Yoongi started to make sense. He wanted to push you to try this thing, but not be too direct because he knew you'd get scared and run from it.

A mix of emotions swirls within you "I had no idea."

Yoongi smiles, and his eyes do too. "Well, now you do." He cups your face with both his hands placing a loud kiss on your lips.

The evening goes on, filled with laughter and tender moments. You both share stories of Yoongi's past attempts at flirting. He recalls a particular video call where he complimented your hairstyle, only for you to brush it off.

"Not going to lie, I was so frustrated," he admits, laughing. " I thought I was so obvious."

"Well, I guess I'm just oblivious," you reply. "I'm glad you didn't give up."

As the night goes on, the atmosphere becomes more intimate. You find yourselves sitting closer, holding hands, and stealing kisses between sips of your drinks. Yoongi leans in to whisper something in your ear, and his breath sends shivers down your spine.

"Do you remember the first project we worked on together?" he asks.

"Yeah, you were so serious and focused." you reply.

"And you were so passionate and creative," he says, his voice soft. "I knew then that I wanted to get to know you better."

After finishing your drinks, Yoongi suggests taking a walk. The night is cool, and the streets are quiet now, creating a nice atmosphere. As you reach his hotel, he says between kisses, "I want to see where this can go."

You look up at him, your heart racing, "Agree."

He smiles, leaning down to kiss you one more time before calling an uber for you. This kiss is slow and sweet. As a driver accepts your ride, being a few minutes away, Yoongi places a soft kiss on your forehead, whispering "Goodnight"

"Goodnight" you answer walking towards the spot where the car should arrive, with your eyes still on Yoongi. He starts walking towards the hotel entrance. In that moment something clicks inside you and press cancel on the ride, striding behind Yoongi.

"Wait", you call out, your voice trembling with nervousness.

He turns around, surprise and hope flickering in his eyes. "Y/N?"

You catch up to him, "I don't want to say goodnight just yet. Can I come up with you?"

Yoongi's smile broadens, and he takes your hand, intertwining your fingers. "I'd like that very much."

Together, you enter the hotel and make your way to his room. The elevator ride is filled with charged silence, both of you stealing glances at each other. When you reach his floor, Yoongi leads you down the hallway to his room. Once inside, you explore his room, passing through straight to the window. His room was situated on the topmost floor of the hotel, you knew it had to be a good view from up there. And you were right, the view was breathtaking presenting the city skyline twinkling under the night sky.

You notice the strategically placed couch in front of the large window, casting a gentle glow from the city lights. "Almost everywhere you took me this week, had a great view of this city that you might not know, I don't quite like. Was this planned?" you ask playfully, turning to Yoongi.

"No plan. I just enjoy a good view and I had a hunch you would do too." he replies casually, moving towards a small bar and pouring some sparkling wine "Feeling festive?"

You laugh, feeling at ease as you take a seat on the couch and wait for Yoongi to join you. The room is dimly lit as he settles next to you, handing you the glass. "From this spot you can see the Orion constellation, it's a bit cloudy, but you can identify the stars and connect them."

You smile, watching Yoongi's eyes fixated on the nightsky, makes you feel warm inside. Leaning in, you place a small kiss on the corner of his lips, catching him by surprise. He gaze shifts from the stars to you. Without hesitation, he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Both of you place your glasses on the small table in front of you. He gently caresses your chin, raising it just slightly towards his. You feel you could get lost into his dark eyes. Yoongi's lips brush against yours in a gentle, exploratory kiss, sending small electric waves in your body.

Wrapped in each other's embrace, you deepen the kiss. Drunk on his touches, you get more courageous, exploring with your hands as much as you could. And he does the same, caressing your waist, while he peppers small kisses on your jaw, going down your neck. You let out a small moan when he bites into your collarbone. Seems like he enjoyed the sound you made, biting the spot again harder this time. 
"Ah, Yoongi." The sound snaps something in Yoongi, making him grab and move you to sit on top of him. "I love when you moan my name like that." not leaving time for you to answer kissing your lips eagerly. His hands slowly pull your shirt to sneak beneath it, to touch your skin. A shiver runs down your back feeling his big hand holding you so close to him. His hand guides you to sit more comfortably in his lap and too properly feel how hard he is through your clothes. Another moan gets out of you at the sensation. Hearing him chuckle, you pull at his hair, putting some distance between you two. Allowing yourself for a moment to gain control of the situation, to kiss his jaw and lick at his neck, but it doesn't take long. His fingers start unbuttoning your shirt, getting quickly rid of it. His lips tracing lines along your chest and above your lacy bra.

Feeling on clouds with all the sensations Yoongi brings, you roll your hips onto his to get more out of him. You adore how his voice vibrates on your skin at his small moans and groans.

With a swift movement, he turns both of you around so he could be on top of you. You wonder how can he be so gentle and strong at the same time in his touches.

Before he can go back at licking and sucking on your skin, you try to pull his shirt over. He takes it off fast, allowing you to finally see him. His skins looks so pretty in the dimmed lights, and you can't stop to run your fingers on it, mesmerized by the view.

His attention goes back to your lips, kissing you with such fervor, leaving you breathless. His hand travels down, starting to unbutton your pants. Gaining access, his fingers starts rubbing over your clothed pussy. "You're so wet." he whispers against your lips. "I want to taste you, will you allow me?"

Nodding in approval, too afraid your voice will crack, you wonder how this soft person could be so assertive in this moment. But you can't ponder too much as his lips starts licking at your chest, then going lower. He pulls your pants and panties down in one movement, looking lustfully in your eyes. Without any hesitation he bites onto your thigh, licking and kissing the spot immediately after. Choosing several points to do the same thing, transforming you into jelly under his touches. Finally reaching your pussy, it slowly licks at first, but as your moans get more frequent and louder, he becomes more fast in his treatment.

Once again you find yourself moved by him, bringing your ass the edge of the couch, your back against the backrest. He kneels before you, rubbing your entrance with his fingers then bringing them to your lips to suck on them. " I want the have the best view when I look up from this beautiful pussy."

The sudden confession brings heat to your cheeks, bringing your hands to cover them. Yoongi groans in annoyance, as he pushes his first finger inside you, making you throw your head back at the sensation, forgetting everything about shame.

As he pushes another finger, you moan his name "Yoongi, fuck", and in your desperate need to ground yourself you run your fingers through his dark locks, holding onto them. Yoongi seems pleased, moaning into your cont, sending the vibrations through your whole core.

He spends the following minutes sucking your clit, alternating with biting it softly and with his fingers wrecking your hole. Your hips lift higher and higher to give him the best access, your moans getting louder until you finally come in his mouth, closing your thighs around his head. But it seems Yoongi doesn't mind it as he says "You're such a good girl, coming all over my face."

You're such a mess and you can't believe how those words turned you on so bad. Slowly Yoongi gets up, sitting next to you placing soft kisses on your face as you gather your breath. "You feeling good?"

"Fuck, yeah." you answer in between loud breaths.

He laughs at your response, pulling you into a deep kiss. "I'm feeling good too."

After finally recovering your breath, you slowly get up, wanting to return the favor, going for his pants, unzipping them. But Yoongi allows you just to undress him, before grabbing you into his arms and lifting you up. He places you gently over the soft covers of the bed, then disappears for a second, coming back with a condom in his hand.

"But I want to taste you, Yoongi" you pout, getting another laugh from him. "Not now, you don't want to upset me. Don't you?"

His demeanor in this situation makes you feel so hot on the inside, that you can't contradict anything he says. "Of course not."

"Then be a good girl and spread it for me"

You follow his instruction ready to feel his length inside you.

He pulls you closer to him, pressing his fingers hard into the skin of your ass, making your back arch at the sensation. Bringing your chest back into his attention he places soft kisses on them, before getting one of your buds into his mouth, sucking it.

You feel him pressing the tip inside, not realising until now how big he was. You wince a bit at the discomfort. He pushes in slowly. "Fuck, you're so tight"

"You're so big" you barely breath out the words.

He places soft kisses on your neck until you feel him completely inside you. Letting you get accustomed for a minute. You feel yourself pulsating around him, and wrap your arms around his neck. He places a gentle kiss on your forehead, before starting to move. It feels so good, despite the slight discomfort. But the pain dissipates, replaced by the pleasure. As he starts moving a little faster, you find his lips to signal you're feeling good.

That is all he needs before he thrusts deep, shaking you to your core. Your loud moan is followed by another deep thrust into you, and another, and another, and another until it becomes a rhythm of fucking you relentlessly. This feels so much better than everything you have experienced until now. Your mind goes blank, being able to focus just on his movement and his hands on your waist. A stupid smile crosses your face at the overwhelming sensation.

Once again you're being moved by him, turning both of you around so you're sitting on him. You thought he was deep inside you until now, but you were so wrong. The need to get accustomed to his size appears again, placing a hand on his abdomen to stop him from moving. "You're so fucking big, give me a second".

He plays with your ass, pressing his fingers into your skin and running them along your thighs, until you feel ready to move. You go up and down his cock, feeling your boobs bounce at the movement. Yoongi is looking completely hypnotized. "Touch yourself for me, baby."

Following his instruction, your left hand travels down from your boob to your clit, rubbing it slowly. And your right hand goes to his mouth, asking for some saliva from him. He sucks on your fingers, wrapping his tongue around them.

You pull them out just to touch your tits with them, pinching hard one of the nipples. Yoongi's hands guide your hips in your movements, pushing his cock deep inside you, establishing an insane rhythm.

Sounds from both of you fill the air, moans, groans and whispered obscenities.

"Yoongi, I'm so close."

"Yeah? Then be a good girl and come for me."

Yoongi grips your hips even tighter, thrusting hard, feeling him whole. You fall onto him, unable to keep your balance anymore, giving him access to suck on your nipples. Already lost in all the pleasure waves, you shiver hard when his hand finds your clit and plays with it.

"You're doing so good, baby" whispers into your ear and that was all you needed to come.

"Yeah" you cry out at how good all he says to you makes you feel. You start pulsating hard on his cock, feeling him coming inside with loud moans into your ear.

You take a moment to catch your breath before sliding next to him. He takes you into his arms, placing sweet kisses to your cheeks. You laugh softly, "It felt good"

He doesn't answer but catches your lips into a kiss so deep, and possessive, hinting at how good it felt for him also.

[jjkamochoso]

Imagine… Making Lemonade for Levi on a Hot Summer Day

Fluff

Postwar!Levi Ackerman x gn!reader

Warnings: none

The summer heat was scorching down on you as you stretched out on a lounge chair in your backyard, soaking up some sun. You were enjoying your lazy day, getting some much needed Vitamin D. You flipped through a magazine, your mind still blown by the fact that the glossy pages had entertained people for much longer than you had even known they existed. There were many things in Marley that were completely new to you and every trip to the market was filled with enchantment as you learned of all the wonders that had been held from you in your previous life in Paradis. Now, you and your boyfriend Levi were living it up together in your cottage and you couldn’t be happier. Speaking of Levi, you had a fantastic view of the raven haired man while he was hard at work, tending the garden. His white shirt was clinging to his sturdy back as he dug the spade into the dirt, his arm muscles flexing with each movement. When he was finished planting, you saw him lean back a little as he wiped the sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. The extra moisture made his whole body glisten; he looked absolutely divine and you couldn’t tear your gaze away from him. He cocked his head, finally acknowledging your unbridled interest in his figure.

“Didn’t your parents teach you that it’s rude to stare?”

“There’s no harm in admiring the spectacular view in front of me,” you said, cheekiness apparent in your tone. Levi scoffed and rolled his eyes, getting back to the task at hand, but you could tell that you flustered him a bit with your flirting as the pink tinge that now graced his face wasn’t just from the heat. You tried putting your focus back on your magazine but you started to feel quite parched. You decided to go inside and make some lemonade for yourself and your handsome boyfriend. You gathered everything you needed and began to squeeze the lemons. When you got enough juice, you made a simple syrup on the stove, then poured both of those and lots of water into a giant pitcher, mixing it all up. Taking out two tall glasses, you filled them up to the brim with ice and the lemonade, enjoying the relief of the cold that seeped onto your hand. You left your glass inside so you had an empty hand to open and close the back door and headed into the warmth of the outdoors.

“I got something to cool you down, hottie,” you greeted Levi, this time earning a groan and an eye roll.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” he chided, shaking his head when you attempted to wink at him. Though he found your antics silly, he also thought you were completely adorable with the way you showed your affection toward him. Putting words to his feelings was never his forte so having a partner like you, comfortable in expressing your attraction to him, was something he was extremely grateful for. You reached out your unoccupied arm to help steady Levi as he stood up from the ground, his legs shaky from exertion. You held up the glass of lemonade for him to take a sip from, hoping he wasn’t dehydrated from his time under the sun. He put his lips around the straw and took a long drink, eager to quench his thirst.

“Y/n, that’s really good. Thank you,” he said, giving you a close lipped grin.

“Of course,” you replied, brushing a stray piece of hair from his face. He suddenly got shy from the intimacy of your gesture, opting to study the ground instead of your face, though he still leaned on you as you helped him walk over to the patio where a chair in the shade was waiting for him. You sat him down and retrieved your own drink from inside the house before sitting in the chair next to him.

“Thank you for all your work,” you told Levi, a kiss lovingly placed onto his cheek. “The garden is beautiful. The flowers are going to look phenomenal this year.”

“Not as phenomenal as you look now,” he observed, meeting your eyes once more as you gasped.

“Levi! How uncharacteristically suave that was!” you exclaimed, playfully holding a hand over your mouth in faux shock.

“Tch. I can be romantic, you know.”

“Wow, I can’t believe I got the Levi “Loverboy” Ackerman to fall for me. How lucky am I?” you asked, swooning. “Ooh, maybe next time you can garden shirtless and give me a real show. It’ll be like those romance novels Hange always told me about.”

“Just drink your damn lemonade,” muttered the man, failing to hide the tenderness that appeared on his facial features at the sound of your laughter. You couldn’t contain your giggles, trying your best not to choke on your drink and Levi wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer and enjoying this carefree moment with you. The lemonade was the perfect drink for the perfect day with the perfect love of your life.