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featherandferns · 2 months ago

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god's test (fic)

jj maybank x fem!reader | inspired by this song amongst others

content warning: abusive parents; allusions to s3xual abuse; drug use/misuse; sexual content (female and male receiving; p in v); unhealthy relationships; brief mentions/discussions of fertility | Some heavy themes in this so please feel free to message if you're unsure.

word count: 18k.

blurb: what if the Pogues never found El Dorado? Life in survival mode at the age of twenty-two sure had lost its shine. In that tarnish, JJ wonders if your relationship has too.

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, til' death do us part.”

JJ sits crossed legged on the floor of his living room. To his right is a half empty can of Coke and to his left is the plastic case for the VHS tape which is currently whirring in the player, displayed on the TV through grainy, wibbly lines. His bright blonde hair sticks every which way. The Goodwill sourced t-shirt is too big on his frame but his dad insisted he’d grow into it, and to stop his moaning and bitching. Be grateful, was his last warning. The shorts on his skinny legs seem to be getting smaller everyday, perhaps because JJ only seems to get taller. That slight discomfort is a lost thought right now. Instead, JJ is glued to the wedding video on the screen. Glued to the image of his mother, smiling up at his father, the two of them unaged and undamaged. The two of them are in love.

“I do,” JJ’s dad, Luke, says in an almost unrecognisable tone. Then, he leans forward at the officiant’s approval and kisses JJ’s mother. JJ misses her deeply. His heart squeezes at the sight of her smile, turning to the camera with a beam. He finds his own lips twitching up too as if her happiness is contagious. Then the tape cuts suddenly to the reception. It seems a small affair with only a handful of friends and family. JJ can place his uncle and aunt, who cradles his cousin Ricky in her arms, and a few more of his dad’s crowd of so-called friends. His mother can be seen in the background talking to her parents - JJ’s grandparents. They’d made themselves scarce after she walked out on JJ and his dad. Never once did JJ think he’d lose not only his mother but his grandparents too. Loneliness likes company, it seems.

Another sudden cut and it’s his parents dancing. Their first dance. The dark lighting of the hall messes with the low-quality cam-corder's exposure. They’re painted in rays of shadows and glow almost ethereal-like as they sway to the music. Luke whispers something in his new wife’s ear and she giggles, soundless as the crooning voice of Rod Stewart sings their wedding song: ‘Have I Told You Lately’. JJ grins. He decides then and there, at the big age of eight, that that’s what he wants. That sort of happiness. As if blinded by the cinema of it all, he forgets the reality. The mess that surrounds him in the neglected house; the absence of his mother and the recklessness of his father; the strange definition of love that’s been tied to the Maybank name.

So distracted by the tape, JJ doesn’t hear his dad rouse in the other room. He doesn’t hear the sound of the creaking door or the aching floorboards, and when he finally catches sight of Luke staggering down the hallway, it’s too late. His dad has caught sound of the song and it’s as if he’s intoxicated again, only now with rage. He glares at JJ and makes a b-line to the television screen, coming face to face with his hidden wedding tape. He had no idea JJ had found it and stashed it for his own safe keeping.

“What the damn hell do you think you’re doing?” he barks, turning to JJ. He grabs him by the shoulder with one hand and hoists him onto his feet. JJ’s tiny body floods with terror. His feet go numb and cold and his face burning hot. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, huh boy!?”

JJ flinches at his father’s tone. His lip quivers. “I…I only wanted–”

“You only wanted to what, huh? Stealing things like the no-good son-of-a-bitch you are, eh?” Luke hollers, spit flying from his mouth and onto JJ’s rosy skin.

“I just wanted to see mama,” JJ blubbers.

“You ain’t ever seein’ her again, you hear me?” Luke shouts. He tosses JJ back onto the floor. He lands on his backside with a smack, flinching at the feeling, and looks up to see his dad aggressively messing with the player. A new wave of panic comes over JJ as he jumps to his feet, darting forward for the tape before his dad can snap it in two. To JJ, it isn’t just a stupid VHS. It’s his mother.

“No! Gimme it!” JJ screeches, scratching and clawing at his father’s arms as he attempts to wrestle the tape from his hold. His small hand latches around it moments before Luke’s own smacks him clean across the cheek. The force sends him flying onto his side, reuniting with the floor. Sobbing, JJ clutches the tape close to his chest. His dad yells abuse at JJ, tumbling cuss words in casually amongst his berates. Keeping the tape close and safe to his stomach, JJ manages to his feet and faces up to his father. An anger that he’s never known before takes control. “I hate you!”

Before his dad can lunge for him again, JJ darts for the front door. He almost trips down the stairs in his hurry. The sound of his dad’s footsteps behind him sound like a giant’s, pounding against the floorboards. He chokes on his sobs as he sprints away from the house. I’m never coming back, he thinks to himself. That’ll show him. He doesn’t dare check to see if his dad is following. Not until he’s well away from the house, almost completely shot of breath, panting and heaving, no tears left to cry. Finally, he stops. He looks down at the tape with shaking hands to find it safe and intact. Luke and Marie’s Wedding Tape, it says in black sharpie across the front. He hugs it against him as if hugging his mother.

The moment of tranquillity is broken by a loud whoop and holler. His head flashes to the side to find a girl climbing on the old pier. It’s nearly completely decayed, broken down by a hurricane a few years back. Now it’s just pillars of wood, splintering and misaligned.

Some adult on the new pier is yelling at you. “I’ll tell your father, missy! You listenin’? You get down from there now!” Beside them are some friends, blissfully ignoring the warnings, cheering you on. You turn to them and JJ catches sight of your smile. It reminds him of his mother’s and a warm feeling sparks somewhere in his chest, as if lighting a match in a damp cave. The sun twinkles above your head and that’s when JJ notices the streak of hot pink in your hair. Woah - Cool. And then you’re falling - hurling yourself into the air and flying down into the water - out of sight. He takes a step forward, as if to do something, and waits anxiously with the others for you to re-emerge. You break to the surface with a cackle. Your friends erupt in cheers and you giggle, splashing water as if aiming for them despite being metres down below the pier. And then you look straight at JJ. It's just for a second, only a second, but a second was enough. Eight-year-old JJ Maybank was in love.

6 Years Later

Confidence is a powerful armour. It makes you almost untouchable. Nobody messes with the mouthy kid. The kid who gets in fights; the kid who makes the room laugh. JJ knew what it was like to be on the bottom of the food chain and he was never going to willingly put himself there. At school, he made himself a staple. A delinquent, known for his short fuse and reckless choices. It kept the bully’s off his scent and gave him a good outlet for the repressed anger and hatred he held towards his father. Though, the older he got (now fourteen), the more JJ fought back. His dad could no longer throw him to the ground as easily. Not now that JJ had taken up working out and picking fights in the school yard. Luke wasn’t the only one who knew how to throw a right-hook now. And the most important lesson JJ had learnt? Never let them see you cry.

The downsides? Cut lips, lingering bruises, and detention. So much detention.

“Nice of you to join us, Maybank,” the teacher mutters, not bothering to look up from his newspaper as JJ loiters into the classroom after school on Thursday.

“Happy to be back, sir,” JJ casually returns. He scribbles his name down on the sign up sheet, confirming his attendance, then scans the room.

There’s the regulars: Tommy Peach, who’s always doing time for selling whatever pills he can get his hands on in the parking lot; Ashley, who has a habit of smoking in the girl’s bathrooms; Colin, who got spotted with a gun in his backpack just the other day, supposedly just to ‘show it off’; and Pearl, who skipped three classes in one day (her record being four and a half). He catches her eye and winks - they’d made out behind the bike shed last week. You can spot the one-time offenders easily. They’re usually hanging their head at the very back, biting back tears, full of shame for letting down mommy and daddy. JJ had a certain distaste for them. He supposed it was because he knew his father could give less of a crap if JJ wound up in detention. If anything, JJ preferred it. Less time for him to be in his house and less risk of getting a beating for some slip-up. This time, the new offender is Patty Grayson - a goody-two-shoes smarty pants who had forgotten her homework. JJ’s surprised they didn’t let it slide given her track record. Finally, his eyes land on another new timer.

You’re not hanging your head as if praying for forgiveness, nor are you sobbing your apologies into the abyss. No: you look rather comfortable and - if anything - bored, as you lounge in your seat. A bottle of silver nail polish sits on the desk as you paint your nails. As if feeling his stare, you glance up and meet his gaze. You frown. Right, yeah, I’m being weird. JJ decides to take a seat next to you. He watches you in his peripheral vision for a while as you paint and paint. At one point, the teacher heads to the staff kitchen for dinner, giving a half-arsed warning about sneaking out. Pearl is happy to skip detention, probably addicted to the thrill, but everyone else stays sat. Suddenly, you look at JJ.

“Can I help you?”

“Huh?”

“You keep looking at me,” you say, irritated.

“I do?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, y’know…” You quirk a brow, waiting for his reply, and JJ scrambles for one. “Your hair.”

You frown. “What?”

“Your hair,” JJ uselessly repeats.

“What about it?”

“It’s purple.”

“Yeah. I dye it. It’s not my natural colour, idiot,” you reply.

“It looks nice,” JJ tells you. You’re visibly taken back, blinking at him for a second.

“Oh,” you mumble, lifting a hand to pet it, “thanks.”

“You ain’t ever been to detention before, right?” JJ checks, finding it easier to converse now that you’ve calmed down.

You laugh. It sounds just the same as when you were little, from the first time JJ saw you, but only deeper. More mature. “Cause I’m good at not gettin’ caught, unlike you.”

“Oh, you been keepin’ tabs on me or somethin’?” JJ grins.

“You hold the record for the most detentions, Maybank. Sorta puts you on the map," you say with a roll of your eyes.

Holy shit, she knows my name.

“Maybe you’ll have to teach me your ways some time,” JJ smoothly quips.

Shaking your head, you turn your focus back to painting your nails. “I work alone.”

Like some dork, JJ watches you for a while. Something tells him you know he is as there’s this little smile on your lips. His eyes trail down from your face to your arms and soon to your hands. Your knuckles are bruised and scabbed over and JJ frowns, curious and concerned despite having only just officially met you. Ever since the day at the pier back when he was eight, JJ had been vaguely aware of your existence. You were in the year above at school and undeniably cool. He’d seen you skating in the parking lot, caught you getting lectured for shoplifting at the local grocery shop for a candy bar, noticed you helping (who he assumed was) your dad fish, and seen you from time to time in the halls. The only person who was aware of his infatuation was John B, who tortured JJ relentlessly for it. Over the years, your hair has undergone many changes. At one point it was buzzed completely off. He didn’t see you much that year, come to think. Now it hangs just past your shoulders, a deep, enticing purple. It caught him off guard because only last week it was royal blue. Not that he was keeping track or anything…

“Here.”

JJ snaps out of his daydream to find you holding out something to him. A thin, white stick, rolled rather wonky.

“You want some?”

“Won’t we get caught?” JJ reflexively asks.

“Boo. Pussy,” you teasingly return, retracting the offer. You briefly glance to the doorway before retrieving a lighter: bright, shiny silver and square. You light the end and take a drag. There’s a sweet, sickly smell that comes from it.

“I ain’t a pussy,” JJ counters. There’s a smirk on your face as he takes the joint from you, guiding it to his lips to inhale. It catches uncomfortably in his throat and chest, making him cough. Laughing, you consolingly pat his back. He clenches his eyes shut: so embarrassing.

“You good?” you giggle.

“Never better,” JJ manages out through his chokes, giving you a shaky thumbs up.

“First time?”

He shakes his head but you’re unconvinced. Smiling, you dig about in your pocket to retrieve a set of house keys. JJ watches as you scratch something into the metal of your lighter. He takes another hit of the joint as you do so, managing better this second time around. As he goes to hand it back, you trade him for your lighter.

“Here,” you say, passing it to him. He takes it and looks at your inscription. JJ. His lips twitch in a smile. Glancing to you, you light-heartedly explain, “your first stoner lighter.”

As you finish taking another drag, the teacher’s footsteps sound from down the hall. Cool as a cat, you put the joint out on the underside of your chair and slip it back into a little metal box decorated with Powerpuff Girls stickers. It slips safely into your bag just as the teacher rounds into the room. At first, JJ worries you’re caught, as the teacher’s finger singles you out. But then he tosses his thumb over his shoulder.

“Your dad’s here early to pick you up,” he tells you.

If you’re happy to be leaving early, you don’t show it. If JJ didn’t know better, he’d even say you’re reluctant as you pack up your stuff. Shucking your backpack over your shoulder, you flash JJ a smile, rising to your feet.

“Well, hopefully I’ll see you around, Maybank.”

“Yeah, same here,” JJ says, smiling.

You walk past the desk and head out the door. JJ’s sure it’s the effect of you rather than the weed that leaves him feeling more dazed than ever before in his life.

Two Years Later

What better way to lay-low than by throwing a kegger? JJ’s logic was undisputed. Not only had he encouraged the Pogues to hang onto the money and the gun that they'd found in the motel room, but he also got them to throw a last-minute gathering at the Boneyard. Honestly, his genius should be rewarded.

As he mingles through the ever growing crowd, the sun growing darker by the minutes, JJ peruses the options. Some tourons had shown up: clueless but eager as they got roped into drinking games and conversations, and hit on constantly by locals. The kooks were mostly keeping to themselves, happy to drink the beers and cans brought by the people on the cut. Typical. Pearl catches JJ’s eye and she tips her cup at him in greeting from across the way, a seductive glint in her eyes and a telling message in her smile. JJ lazily tosses a hand up in return. They’d hooked up a few times now but he wasn’t feeling it tonight.

As if guided by fate, you come perfectly into JJ’s line of sight. You’re drinking from a red solo cup, chatting with some of your friends, pretty in an oversized tee and shorts. Again, just as you had in detention two years prior, your eyes catch onto his. This time, you smile. Saying something to your friend before heading over to JJ (who’s half certain he hit his head earlier and might be hallucinating).

“Enjoying yourself?” JJ asks the minute you’re in front of him. He’s taller now. Ever growing in his confidence; sex does that to a guy. It makes them feel invincible.

“I’m guessing your group is the one to thank for this kegger then?”

JJ grins. “We know how to throw a good party.”

“I’ll say,” you smile. “I wish there was more music though.”

“You dance?”

“Sometimes. If I’m with the right person,” comes your sly response, smiling up at him. “You look different since detention.”

JJ would like to think so: that was two years ago. “Really? Different how?”

“Taller. Fitter.”

“Hotter?”

You laugh as you say, “you’re pretty sure of yourself, huh?”

“I was told confidence is sexy,” JJ returns. “What’d you think?”

You don’t say anything but JJ knows he isn’t crazy when you take a sip of your drink, your eyes scanning over his body leisurely as you do. You give a small hum.

“So, got tired of the purple?” JJ asks, gesturing to your hair. It’s long now and seemingly your natural hue again, like it was that day at the pier all those years ago. There’s now little strands of tinsel in it that reflect different colours in a silverish shine depending on how the light hits it. Your nose ring is new too, though JJ noticed that the minute you had that done. He noticed you a lot, even if he never spoke to you. You never did to him so he just assumed to stay clear. Besides, there was a rumour that you went out with Tommy Peach a few months back and JJ didn’t feel like getting his ass handed to him. JJ was good at fighting now, as unfortunate as that was to admit, and he was aware he was in good shape, but Tommy was feral and tall. God knows why you wanted to go out with a scumbag like that, but JJ supposed he wasn’t much of a step up either.

“My dad hated it,” you say. “And I wanted a change.”

“Shame. I liked the purple.”

“So you don’t like it like this?” you wonder. “Bummer. I was gonna try and shoot my shot with you but guess I’ve lost my chance…”

JJ’s eyes somehow don’t fall out of his head. He chuckles, almost nervously, and clears his throat. “Say what?”

You roll your eyes . “When a girl gives you her lighter and says she hopes she sees you around, JJ, it’s her way of saying ‘you’re cute, we should hang’.”

Oh.

Laughing, as if hearing his inner monologue, you shrug. “Guess I got tired of waiting for you to make the first move. Lucky for you, I’m two beers in and that seems like enough confidence to come over”

“Two beers? I don’t wanna be taking advantage of you,” JJ teases, making you laugh.

“Can’t believe you’re accusing me of being a lightweight when you nearly died after smoking your first joint.”

“Woah! Low blow!”

“I thought I’d murdered you! I was scared you were allergic or some shit,” you giggle.

JJ grins down at you and tries to retrace his steps to how he got here, stood on the beach, talking to you and having you actively hit on him. It feels like a wet dream he’d concoct on lonely nights. He stays in that borderline stupor as the two of you talk and talk. You’re funny, but JJ already knew that, and you’re an adrenaline junky too, but JJ knew that as well. The two of you like the same kind of music so that leads to a huge discussion which almost becomes an argument of who was better: Kid Cudi or J. Cole? The more the drinks flow, the more your hand finds solace on his thigh, and the more his on yours. Soon enough JJ's foot’s rubbing leisurely at your ankle, personal space a long disputed myth, and he’s fighting the urge to kiss you. He’s not sure why he’s dragging it out when you’re obviously into him. Maybe he just wants to keep the anticipation alive for a little bit longer. After all, he’s wanted this since he was eight years old.

The moment is interrupted by someone hollering your name. As you look up, JJ realises how dark it is. It’s officially night now with the moon high in the sky. A few people have pulled on sweaters as the evening has cooled, especially with the seafront breeze, but JJ feels burning hot. He spots someone waving at you and beside them is a girl crouched in the sand. You cuss and get up.

“That’s my friend. I better go help,” you hurriedly explain. You pass JJ your empty cup and give an apologetic smile. Then, you press a brief kiss to his lips. It's so brief that it barely feels real, and JJ doesn’t register it until you’re already walking away. “I’ll be back soon! Sorry!”

JJ watches as you hurry over and help out your vomiting buddy. Sighing, bummed, he looks around and tries to track down his friends. The alcohol hits him when he stands, flooding from his brain, down to his body like ice cold water. He staggers for only a moment in the direction of John B, filling up the cups in his hands on the way as if willingly ignoring his body’s messages. He whistles out to catch his best friend’s attention, offering him one of the cup’s of beer. But Sarah Cameron and her douchebag boyfriend Topper make their way past, and something inside of JJ seeks mayhem. He offers it out to her instead but Topper tries to lay claim.

“That’s nice of you man, but I didn’t ask you,” JJ returns. “If you said ‘pretty please’, maybe. But you didn’t.”

“Oh! Pretty please!” a squiffy Topper checks.

“Yeah,” JJ replies. “So, Sarah, I promise–”

The beer hits JJ’s face in a non-refreshing wake-up. His anger tips quick like a nuclear bomb. His hands come up to Topper’s shirt, grabbing him before shoving him back. John B’s hand comes up to JJ’s chest, firmly trying to hold him back.

“You’re so funny man!” JJ sarcastically urges. Before he can push it further, Topper says something that has John B lurching at him and soon enough, a full on fist fight begins. Pope is quick to intervene with JJ, holding him back, and no matter how much the latter struggles, he can’t seem to get to his best friend. Concerning seeps into the anger as he watches Topper lay into John B, kicking him into the water. And then pride when John B starts to fight back. “Give it to him, man!”

The night feels as though it’s split into two as JJ loses himself in watching the fight. His conversation with you might have happened years ago as his attention homes in on the flying fists and chants of the watchers. And then it all turns sour. Topper holds John B down into the water, face smushed into the sand, and all he can hear is Sarah begging for him to stop. JJ fidgets nervously, eager to do something, unsure of what. Then, another genius idea.

It feels out of body as he retrieves the gun and checks the safety. As he makes his way over to the water and presses it against Topper’s head. It doesn’t feel like he’s in control of his body when JJ clicks the safety off. Topper stills beneath him.

“Yeah, you know what that is,” he warns through clenched teeth. “Your move, broski.”

Nothing but the waves. Nothing but his heartbeat. Nothing but John B’s choked breathes in the water.

“Put the gun down!”

“Did you say something, princess?” JJ asks Sarah, focus on Topper’s hands. Eventually, they lift off John B’s weak body. The rich asshole repeats that they’re good and JJ shoves him down. But he’s still so angry. He’s always so angry. The mentality comes back from when he first started school. Never be the weak one. Never let them get the upper hand. Assert your dominance. He raises the gun into the air and turns to the dying crowd. “Okay, everyone, listen up! Get the hell off our side of the island!”

The gun fires twice, the recoil minimal. It cracks in the silence of the night. A few people scream, alarmed, and then they start to run.

JJ comes back to his body when Kiara shoves him. An argument breaks out between himself, Pope and Kie, and as the two others rush to help John B (who collapses back into the waves), JJ finally remembers the night. The whole night. He remembers you. As he looks out into the mass of bodies rushing away from the scene of the almost crime, he spots you. You look conflicted, for only a second, and then you leave too.

Shit.

The next day, JJ kills the time in the mid-morning with target practice in the back yard. The cops had swung by earlier and he thought it right to celebrate keeping the gun. Your whistle sounds like a birdcall. JJ’s head whips around at the sound, startled, and it seems to amuse you. He lowers his gun and frowns, confused at the sight of you.

“How d’you know I live here?”

“I have my sources,” you smile, tapping the side of your nose. You wander leisurely into his back yard toward him as if you’ve been there thousands of times before. Nodding to the gun in his hand, you quirk a brow. “So, they didn’t take it off you?”

“Let me off with a warning,” JJ shrugs. “They couldn’t find the gun and have no proof that I kept it…”

“Ah. Loopholes,” you hum.

When you come to a pause beside him, JJ awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “Look, I’m real sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“Freak me out how?” you frown.

“With the whole…gun…thing.”

Laughing, you shake your head. “That ain’t why I left JJ.”

“It ain’t?”

“No! I mean, Topper looked as though he wasn’t gonna let up, so,” you say, shrugging in agreement with JJ’s previous actions. “I just can’t go back to prison anytime soon. My dad’ll kill me.”

“Back to prison?” JJ says. He shouldn’t be as impressed (or turned on) by that as he is.

“Ooo, the big scary place, I know,” you grin, teasing, before randomly making a grab for the gun. JJ barks out a laugh, holding it up and out of reach. “Come on! Lemme have a go!”

“You ever shoot before?” JJ asks, eyeing you up.

Rolling your eyes, you nod. “We have a BB in our house that I fire around all the time. I wanna see how this one feels.”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t give a weapon to a known criminal, right?” JJ says, tone almost flirtatious.

“Come on. You can do the whole ‘let me show you’ thing.”

Lowering the gun, JJ chuckles, befuddled. “The what?”

“You know! When guys wanna feel a girl up they pretend to teach them how to do stuff. Like a tennis instructor or something. They’re all like ‘let me show you’.”

“You tellin’ me you got a tennis instructor?”

“Yeah, and a mansion with three yachts - now come on!”

Shaking his head, laughing, JJ relents. He hands you the gun, safety on, and partly to follow along with your joke, but mostly to feel your body close to his, JJ stands almost fully behind you. He checks which is your dominant hand and guides your arms up into position. He shifts the position of your fingers. Your hair catches slightly in the wind and the smell of fruit and herbs dulls his senses. When he speaks again, you giggle.

“Your breath tickles,” you mutter.

“It does?” JJ checks, purposefully speaking even closer against the skin of your neck. You squirm and laugh and JJ has no idea how any of this happened, but he sure as hell isn’t complaining. “You gotta keep still.”

As if to coax you to do so, JJ plants one of his hands on the side of your waist. Your breathing seems to catch with that, all giggles dead on your tongue, and JJ struggles to bite back his smirk. His chin rests comfortably on your shoulder as he follows your line of vision. You click the safety off under his instruction and then fire. He feels the power of the gun run down your arms, the recoil making your body jilt only slightly. Clicking the safety on again, you lower the gun and turn your head. Eyes half-hooded, you look up from his lips into his eyes. JJ notices a small, relatively fresh cut under your eye. Was that there last night? That train of thought derails when your tongue peaks out, dampening your lips. JJ loses all patience. His lips are on yours, kissing you, hand tightening just so on your side. You carelessly drop the gun to the floor and turn in his hold. Hands on his face, on his shoulders, around his neck, in his hair…JJ kisses you until he’s not sure what his name is anymore. Even then, he kisses you still.

From there, the two of you were intertwined in one another’s lives. There was no other way to put it: JJ adored you. It was as if you constantly shared a common thought: JJ had never met someone so like himself. Two sides of the same stone. The Pogues noticed it easily. You didn’t exactly have to ask to join the gang. The fact that JJ trusted you enough to bring you around spoke volumes to his friends. They’d never met one of his previous situationships or flings before, and from that they could recognise this was something different. Seeing the two of you together just drove that point home faster. Birds of a feather. When the wild goose chase surrounding the Royal Merchant cropped up, you joined that too. Pope joked that there was something wrong with your amygdala, which upon explanation meant that you seemed to have a pretty low fear factor. It came after you literally wrestled Barry for the gun when they got held at gunpoint. All you’d done was shrug and said that you’d known “true fear” and that wasn’t it. Nobody knew what that meant, including JJ, but he had a feeling that he might after he dropped you home one time.

The Chateau had become almost as familiar to you as it was to JJ. The pair of you had claimed the porch as your go-to smoking spot. One Tuesday afternoon, you sit sprawled in the armchair: head on one armrest and legs swung over the other. Your now lilac highlighted hair dangles in two braids. JJ is keeping himself entertained by tracing his eyes up and down your legs, over your stomach and chest, up to your dozed out face, and back again. The two of you were smoking hash, passing it back and forth leisurely, sharing mindless musings about life and the world and what things might be like if you actually found the gold.

“I’d buy a house,” you say.

“Lame.”

“A big house,” you continue, ignoring him and gesturing in front of you as if visualising it. “It’d be pastel blue with big white shutter-style windows and a wrap-around porch. There’d be one of those porch swings sat out front. Oh! And flowers. A shit ton of flowers.”

“You can’t even keep a cactus alive,” JJ snorts.

“I’d hire a gardener. Duh,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Anything else?” JJ wonders. He keeps a mental checklist: blue house; white shutters…

“A dog,” you smile. “And a cat.”

“Alright then.” Maybe it’s the manner that he says it that has you looking at him, amused. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll ‘do it’?” you chuckle, raising your brows.

“Yeah. When we find the gold–”

“If we find the gold–”

“When,” JJ insists, making you laugh, “I’ll get you your house and your dog.”

“Don’t forget the cat,” you warn, pointing at him.

“Christ, lady! And your cat.”

“Good,” you smile.

You look back to the ceiling and slip your eyes shut, sighing contentedly. JJ chuckles, shaking his head, gazing at you as if you sculpted the planets and personally hung them in the solar system. It’s short lived bliss, however, because your phone pings. Then again, and again, until it’s nothing but an ongoing buzz of noise. JJ frowns at it and you quickly reach over to the window ledge where it’s precariously sat. The moment your eyes scan the screen, you sit up. Everything about your demeanour shifts. JJ sees the second you switch to panic.

“I gotta go,” you mumble. You swing your legs off the sofa and stand. JJ’s quick to follow.

“Everything okay?”

“I just gotta go home right now,” you reply, already making your way down the porch steps. JJ ditches the spoon pipe on the coffee table and catches up.

“I’ll take you on my bike,” he says, grabbing your hand and guiding you to it. You don’t argue and he doesn’t ask for an explanation for the urgency. Wordlessly, the two of you climb on - your arms tethering around his middle - and JJ starts the engine. Speed limits become a pleasantry rather than a courtesy as JJ speeds to your house. Your phone doesn’t let up the whole journey and with every ping, JJ bumps it up by another mile per hour. It’s a skidding halt when he stops outside your house. He’d only been there a handful of times before, usually to pick you up. Similarly to JJ, you didn’t like going home all that much. You’re climbing off the bike before JJ shuts the engine off. Seemingly at the sound of the engine, your dad emerges in the front door. You turn to JJ. He doesn’t recognise the look on your face.

It terrifies him.

“JJ, you have to leave - now,” you tell him.

He frowns, brows tugging together. “What’re you–”

“Just leave. Go. Please, JJ,” you push, glancing between him and your approaching father. Something softens in your tone, akin to desperation. “Please.”

JJ looks to your dad just as he passes the threshold of the porch, then looks to you once more as if needing approval. You nod as if understanding. The same thought, always shared. Then JJ’s turning tightly in the makeshift drive of your house and starting off down the road before your dad reaches you. He acutely registers the funny feeling, tight in his chest as if something was squeezing his heart and lungs in a vice. It was the same feeling JJ got whenever he went home.

The same feeling JJ got whenever he saw his own father.

As the months went on, the relationship you and JJ shared was soaked in marjuana and sweat. Smoking in the morning and fucking through the night. Not only did you encourage JJ’s idiocy, but you joined it. It was as if you were there to enable the other. Shoplifting beers, pier jumping in the thick of night, skinny dipping before dusk, pulling crazy stunts with the others that nearly wound up getting you killed more times to count. But just like JJ, you were loyal. It was as if the minute you became a Pogue, you wore it like a military title, nothing short of honoured. You’d lay your life down for the group and for the hunt for gold.

JJ wasn’t sure who said I love you first. He’s not even sure if either of you ever said it. You don’t have to say I love you to say I love you. Besides, two avoidant, daddy issue riddled teenagers didn’t make for the most textbook healthy relationship. The two of you would fight and it was bad when you did. But it was a rarity. There was little time for blow-out arguments when you were running from one place to another, chasing lead after lead. Hell, even when you seemed to have time to breathe, something else always came up.

“I never make good grades in school. When I get out, I act like a fool. I come in the party and cause a commotion. Yeah, I’m smooth they call me lotion.”

JJ cracks up with the others, breaking his beatboxing rhythm, as Pope loses his verse. He has a more than comfortable buzz going: energised by the beer and mellowed out by the weed. JJ thought he could handle his stuff well until he met you. This was the first time in a long time the two of you had properly partied together, outside of sharing a joint or doing edibles on an evening. You were about seven cans deep, one joint smoked and two lines of coke snorted. Your hair, now red, was damp from the hot tub; your nose ring sparkling in the disco ball’s reflecting light. JJ tried to keep his attention on the gang but no matter what, his eyes kept running back to you. The bikini top you’re wearing is truly a cruel design. Whoever invented it hated anybody who admired the female figure: they designed it to torture them. The liquor certainly didn’t help the situation, nor did your knowing glances and sly smiles.

"Think Kanye might have some serious competition there," you sardonically quip.

“Alright, alright, let’s hear it then,” Pope challenges, turning the focus to you. Everyone ooo’s dramatically as you laugh. You take a hit of your freshly rolled joint and shrug. As you rise out of the water, moving to sit on the outer edge of the hot tub, the gang erupts into cheers. JJ's mesmerised by the way the droplets of water race down over your tits, trickling down your chest.

“Okay, alright, well someone gimme a beat, at least,” you say.

JJ’s happy to indulge. Laughing, you bop your head along and try to follow.

“I failed the first grade in school, but my teacher told me I’m a cool dude. The kids in the playground scattered, cause my bars would leave them battered–”

The gang whoops and you crack up, trying desperately to stay on track. JJ’s trying desperately not to stare at your chest and lose track of his makeshift beat.

“When I fuck they call me lewd, cause I get freaky when I’m in the wrong mood. My boy never seems to complain, but his dick might be in some pain.”

JJ practically chokes on his laughter. There’s a symphony of cheers and jests and (in Pope’s case) groans from the others, and you throw your hands up in surrender.

“Y’all asked for it! I’m jus’ saying!” you giggle, sinking back into the water. You take another hit of your joint and wink across to JJ. His dick twitches uselessly in his swim shorts as you do so. Such a fucking tease.

“You two were made for each other, Goddamn,” Kiara chuckles.

The pair of you laugh it off but JJ feels his heart stir at the notion. Maybe it’s the weed talking or the alcohol intoxicating his thoughts, but the more time JJ spends with you, the more he’s certain that you two were meant to find each other. There’s no other explanation for it. You were an entire world in one small human being, filled with stories and secrets, some of which he might never know, but most he’d spend his life wanting to.

As the night stretches on and the drinks continue to flow, the mood simmers down from a bubbly celebration to an almost sentimental reunion. The hot tub has been abandoned as the mosquitos began to gather and the air began to cool, and JJ was sick of hearing you and Sarah drop hints about how you were “turning pruney.” So now you sit in the deck chairs with Kiara and Sarah and John B, watching JJ and Pope wrestle. Grappling on Pope’s upper arms, JJ tries to get the upper leg.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, go for the leg,” he lightly encourages his lesser violent friend. With that, Pope tackles JJ onto the floor. He hits the ground with a gentle smack. “You got a new technique now, huh?”

Pope rises in victory, pretty drunk, arms in the air. JJ laughs, sitting up to notice a beer extended out to him in offer from you. He takes it with a grin, having two large swigs.

“I’m done. I’m out of here,” Pope announces to nobody in particular, walking away from the campfire.

“You want a round two?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll take my losses,” Pope replies. JJ begins wandering back over to you with a shrug just as Kiara suddenly gets up from her seat. She flashes Sarah some kind of look that girls must track better than boys, as Sarah and yourself gape at her.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Way to be discreet!” JJ hollers after them. When he steals Kiara’s chair, sitting beside you, you’re still giggling.

“Okay, am I just oblivious or did nobody else notice them vibing on each other?” you wonder, looking to the others.

“Dude. Seriously?” JJ sniggers.

“I didn’t notice!”

“How could you not– You know what? It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Only one of us needs to be the love expert here,” JJ reassures, stretching his arm out over the back of your chair in what he thinks is a rather suave manner. You snort, gently brushing it off.

“Love expert? Uh-huh. Sure, kiddo.”

“Kiddo,” John B mutters, amused.

JJ scoffs, grinning at you. “Oh really?”

“Yep,” you return, not quite sure what you’re arguing over now. JJ decides to put an end to it by squeezing the sides of your exposed stomach, tickling your skin and causing you to squirm. As he does so, John B mumbles something about being out of beer. Sarah follows him and leaves you and JJ in the company of the music, the cicadas and chickens.

“Thought you danced,” JJ says, referring to the music, thinking back to the night at the kegger.

“I might do later.”

JJ just nods and the two of you smile at one another, the playfulness of the moment easing away the same way the arousal had earlier in the hottub.

“You’re so handsome,” you quietly tell him. "My good looking boy, huh?"

JJ chuckles, looking down, bashful whenever you threw compliments like that at him. He could handle ‘sexy’ or ‘hot’ rather well, took them in stride, but words like handsome were like flakes of gold being sprinkled in his hair. They felt valuable, especially when they came from your mouth. Not always the best with words, JJ thanks the self-medication for what falls out of his mouth next.

“You’re the prettiest Goddamn thing on this planet.”

You’re visibly stunned and JJ wants to high-five himself. Giving him a coy smile, you lean your head back against your seat, staring into the star scattered sky.

“God, I could just stay here forever,” you sigh.

JJ mimics your actions. He traces the stars and tries to see if he can make constellations of your face. He glances at you and notices how they reflect on your eyes, as if scattering diamonds into your irises to make them shimmer. Your skin is kissed amber by the fairy lights strung in the branches above. Everything just makes you glow: ethereal. A foot kicking his own snaps JJ out of his lovesick stupor. A rather amused John B smirks knowingly down at him.

“It’s creepy to stare, man,” John B joshingly berates.

“He does it all the time,” you mumble. “That’s why I asked him out.”

Sarah laughs at that and you crack up too, but before another conversation can begin, your laughter dies down and your brows furrow.

“What was that?” John B asks, as if reading your mind.

“Your chickens?” JJ wonders, having heard nothing but the incessant clucking of the birds.

“It sounded like a car door,” you mumble. JJ, distracted, begins to cluck like a chicken, hoping to lighten the mood, more drunk than he thought he was, but your hand presses over his mouth to silence him. You rise to your feet slowly and JJ decides to follow. He squints into the distance.

“I think someone’s here,” John B mutters.

“Up the trees. Quickly” you instruct, fast to take action.

You shut off the music as Sarah hurries to put out the fire. JJ decides to help her, tossing handfuls of sand atop of the flames. He looks to the tree to find you already a decent way up. He stands by the bottom of the other tree with John B to help give Sarah a boost, aware of the fragility of her stitches, and then lets John B go up before himself. He settles on the same branch as you, a hand protectively settling on your waist. You’d already taken a rather reckless course of action in Charleston with Renfield, trying to tackle the taser from his hands to buy all of you more time to run. In case you felt the urge to drop from the trees in some surprise attack, JJ could now hold you back.

Sure enough, only a couple of minutes later, Rafe and Barry creep into the backyard. JJ feels you stiffen and he tightens his grip just slightly in reassurance. They didn’t know you were in the trees. God bless your quick thinking. Barry makes his way into the house, gun raised and ready, whilst Rafe studies the spots you’d all been relaxing in only moments prior.

“Where the hell are you?” he mumbles to himself.

None of you speak. None of you dare breathe let alone move. JJ looks to John B and Sarah, who look just as troubled as he feels. Rafe was unpredictable. Unstrung. And it was easy to assume that JJ was not on Barry’s nice list, that was for sure. As they sit and lie in wait, praying not to be spotted, Barry and Rafe seem to decide that nobody’s home. As he’s about to take a sigh of relief, Rafe fires the gun up into the trees. His heart jumps and his chest heaves. The bullet ricochets off the trunk of the tree near his back. You flinch in JJ’s hold at the gunshots and the shock nearly has you losing your balance. JJ quickly shifts his hand higher up your side, leaning as close to you as physically possible to whisper in your ear.

“I got you,” he reassures.

Barry thankfully ushers Rafe away at that point but none of you dare move until you the car is long out of sight. Sighing, you relax against JJ and him against you. It was ironic how the two of you were no strangers to violence and yet, the same spark of fear was alight anytime either of you were faced with it.

You see, the same way ‘I love you’ didn’t need an explanation, neither did yours and JJ’s homelives. JJ never intended to introduce you to his father and he never met yours. More times than not, you’d meet and hang and sleep at the Chateau. If you spent time at one of your two house’s, it was when it was empty. The cuts and bruises that would appear on either of your bodies never came with questioning. Somehow, someway, the two of you knew how and where. You’d soundlessly clean them and console the other and the whole thing would be as forgotten as a terrorist attack: over, in the back of the mind, but never fully erased. The anger JJ felt whenever he saw you after you’d had a run-in with your father was different to that which he felt when he had a run-in with his own. Deeper, darker, more vengeful. One night, it reached its crux.

JJ wakes up with a start. At first he isn’t sure what snapped him out of sleep. Then, he hears it again. A faint creaking in the floorboards from the main body of his house. His house that he now lives in alone. What if his dad came back? JJ gets out of bed dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpant shorts. He slowly picks up a spanner that’s laying on his bedroom floor, ditched after a day trying to switch out the deck of his skateboard, and pushes his door open carefully. He slowly inches down the almost pitch-black hallway. The only light is that from the window: moonbeams that shine through the glass.

At the sight of your silhouette, JJ lets out a heavy sigh. The spanner falls to the ground with an echoing thud.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the crap outta me,” JJ says with a relieved laugh. He makes his way across the room to you but his smile fades when he notices how stiff you are. “You a’right?”

This close, he can begin to make out your face through the dark. It’s haunting.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” JJ breathes, horrified.

Dark bags sit under your eyes which are hollowed out as if you’d been lost at sea, a vacant stare that almost looks past him. Your lip is quivering. Small, shaky, shallow breaths come in and out of your mouth. The worst part? The blood.

His hands fly up toward your face and your eyes clamp shut quickly as preparing for a hit. JJ freezes before he touches your skin, slowing his movements, trying to ease his own panic. His eyes scan your features, counting the injuries, trying to see the damage beneath the gore.

“What the fuck happened?”

You don’t talk. Nothing but that same ominous silence. You’re in shock. JJ’s seen it before from when he pulled over at a motorcycle crash. It’s as if the mind retreats in on itself and guards from the unpredictable. JJ swallows and clenches his jaw, trying to steal himself.

“A’right, we, uh, we gotta clean you up,” he manages. He carefully links his fingers through yours and feels your barely tangible grip. Then he guides you into the bathroom. Lowers you gently onto the toilet seat. In his peripheral vision, he sees no sign of movement or acknowledgement as he retrieves the beloved first aid kit from the bathroom cupboard. It balances precariously on the edge of the sink as he digs about for cleaning supplies.

JJ starts with your face. Your upper lip is busted at the edge, coated in dry blood but already beginning to scab. When you get in as many bruise ups as JJ, you learn to have a strange appreciation and fascination with the human body in how it heals. The antiseptic must sting but you don’t even blink. You just stare past him. Even before, you’d never been this detached. You might be angry or frustrated or even upset, but never absent. Never this. The blood around your eye comes from a gash just across your right brow. There’s an impressive bruise on the apple of your left cheek and a telling pink handprint that refuses to fade on your right. The fury begins to chip at JJ’s resolve.

Following your bizarre routine, JJ moves to unbutton your shirt, to check for any signs of internal bleeding, broken ribs, open cuts or ugly bruises across your upper body. The minute his fingers brush your sternum, your hands fly up. He’s not even sure how he winds up on the floor and it takes a moment to piece together the seconds and register that it was you. Frowning, thoroughly alarmed, JJ’s head shoots up to find your chest heaving. You make a noise as if you’re crying but no tears fall. His lips part in horror and his mind scrambles for any explanation other than the obvious.

“Woah, woah, woah, hey,” JJ hurries, rocking onto his knees and planting his hands reassuringly on yours. Your whole body is shaking. “It’s a’right, yeah? Jus’ me. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Your eyes clamp shut and the tears begin to fall.

"You're safe now."

After a trembling inhale, you begin to sob. Heartbroken, hideous, harrowing sobs. JJ feels tears swirl in his waterline at the sight and sound. He knew you better than anyone - better than the Lord himself - and to see you so far from who you are was like seeing someone’s body turn inside out. Unsure of what to do, he wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace and lets you fall into him.

You just cry.

Later, JJ sits outside the bathroom. His back is pressed against the door. Inside, he can hear the slosh of the bath water from time to time when you shift. He meddles with the rings on his fingers. His teeth gnaw on his lower lip. JJ assesses his options. He knows the “right” thing to do and he knows the “wrong” thing to do, and he knows the one he prefers out of the two, even if he shouldn't. His eyes flit over to the pile of your clothes that he’d taken out the room with him, back turned to give you privacy when you changed (as if you hadn’t given your body to him countless times before). The blood stained shirt. The shorts that had a telling rip at the crotch, the zip practically shattered. The missing panties. His throat turns thick and his eyes clench shut, forehead falling down against his clenched fists. He tries desperately to breathe through the anger. Before he can reach any sort of conclusion, he hears you get out of the bathtub. A few minutes later, the twisting doorknob prompts him to stand. You stand dressed in his clothes and offer him a small smile, and JJ feels his whole body sigh with relief.

“How you feelin’?” JJ asks.

You shrug, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Exhausted.”

“Anything hurting still?”

“No,” you say. You walk past him and into his bedroom and he follows. Climbing onto his bed, you wrap yourself up on his side in the blankets. JJ heads to the kitchen to grab some water and pain meds before coming back and joining you, sitting against the headrest, unsure whether to touch you or not. You seem to answer the question for him. You cuddle into his side and nestle your head against his upper chest. His hands coil safely around your body, holding you close, and he plants a kiss on top of your head. Then he finally speaks.

“We need to go to the cops.”

You sigh and close your eyes. “JJ, no–”

“You don’t even gotta press charges but they have to know.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because you know how it is, JJ,” you argue, sitting up to face him. “It’s my word against his and he never technically did anything. They’ll take one look at him and listen to my story, and then probably get me to recount it a million times over to a million other strangers. To a million other men. It’s humiliating and it’s pointless and I don’t want to do it.”

“It ain’t pointless and there’s nothing humiliating about it,” JJ insists. “You’re the victim here–”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, glaring at him.

Sighing, JJ closes his eyes and clenches the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his cool. The last thing you need tonight is another fight. Besides, it’s not as if you’re wrong. JJ trusted the police as far as he could throw them; he didn’t doubt that they’d be useless. But the thought of you going back to your dad and for him to get away with what he did…JJ didn’t know what other option you really had. Your fingers gently wrap around JJ’s hand, easing it away from his face, coaxing his eyes to meet yours.

“Two more months, JJ.”

He sighs again but you’re quick to continue.

“Two more months and I’m eighteen and he isn’t my legal guardian anymore! I don’t have to deal with the whole rigged court system or with a foster home - I can just be rid of him for good.”

“Two more months? You think I’m gonna let you go back there for two more months after this?” JJ scoffs, eyeing up your injuries. His stomach churns and jaw ticks at the thought of what could’ve happened if you hadn’t managed to get the upper hand. You sigh and look away.

“I don’t know…Maybe he won’t do it again.”

“If he does it once, he’ll do it again,” JJ mutters. He remembers having the same thought the first time his dad hit him. It was an accident. He apologised. He didn’t mean it. By the end, JJ was on cloud nine if he went a week without a smack. But your situation was somehow even heavier than that. His stomach churns again.

“I don’t know,” you repeat, sounding nothing short of defeated.

JJ just tugs you back against his chest. You trace a finger over his chest in swirling patterns as if personifying the state of his mind. Maybe you could live with JJ. I mean, you practically already did. The two of you were rarely away from the Chateau these days, and once you were eighteen - just as you said - your dad had no hold on you. Maybe if the Pogues could get the cross then JJ could finally afford that big pastel blue house for you, with the wrap around porch, and guard dogs to sick ‘em anytime your dad came within a fifty mile radius of you. Maybe–

JJ’s eyes widen. It hits him. His best idea to date.

“Marry me.”

JJ isn’t sure he actually said it for a while because you don’t speak. You don’t even move.

“What did you just say?”

“Marry me.”

You immediately start to laugh. You shake your head against his chest. “Jesus Christ. Did you slip and hit your bed whilst I was in the bathtub?”

“I’m serious. Marry me,” JJ says. Maybe it’s his tone that cuts off your hysterics. You quickly break out of his hold again and look at him, studying his expression. Your eyes widen.

“Holy shit, you really are serious,” you mumble.

“Marry me,” JJ repeats as if those are the only words he knows how to say.

You laugh, bewildered, “JJ, we’re seventeen.”

“So.”

“So? So…We’re seventeen!” you cackle. “We can’t get married JJ.”

“Who says?” JJ shrugs, beginning to smile. You haven’t said no.

“Um let’s see,” you mumble, lifting your fingers to count. “The court…The law…Our parents.”

“We don’t have parents.”

“Maybe not good or present ones, but we still have legal guardians, JJ.”

“Those are all technicals–”

“-Technicalities-”

“-Whatever. Point is, those are irrelevant,” JJ says, wafting it away. His hands grab yourself in a tight clutch. Your mouth remains perfectly parted, slightly upturned at the corners. It only pushes his smile. “I know you’re it for me. I ain’t good at all the sappy-dappy-love-crap, but I’ve been in love with you since I was a kid–”

“--JJ–”

“--And I don’t want anybody else! Ever. We’re a team, ain’t we? Hunt for gold together, spend our life together.” When you study him in silence for a while, JJ tags on, “I mean, I’m gonna do it eventually so I might as well do it now.”

“That is insane reasoning to propose, JJ,” you laugh, shaking your head at him. Even if your face is half beaten beyond recognition, JJ knows you’re the most beautiful girl on the planet. The moment he knew he shared the same earth as you, JJ wanted you to be in his life. And you still haven’t said no.

“I love you,” JJ says, plain and simple. Shaking his head slightly, he grins. “P4L, right? I mean, we really got nothing to lose here.”

You stare at him and scoff, quiet and underbreath, almost fascinated. Your eyes slip shut and JJ begins to grin because he knows. A deep, heavy sigh, and you laugh again.

“God help me, I must have gone crazy,” you mutter. Your eyes open into his. Then you smile the prettiest smile the world has ever seen. “Yes. I’ll marry you, JJ Maybank.”

JJ wastes no time in connecting his lips with yours. You giggle against them, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, holding him closer and closer. When you break apart, barely a hair’s width between your damp lips, you smile as you speak.

“My good looking boy.”

Five Years Later

Whiskey isn’t quite caramel. No, it’s more tawny. More gingerbread coloured, especially in this hue, illuminated by the crappy bar lighting hanging above JJ’s head. His knuckles knock against the side of the cool glass, mesmerised by the sound of his metal rings clinking, distracted in his drunken haze by the bobbing of the three ice cubes in the liquor.

“JJ.”

His head sluggishly lifts at the sound of his name. He comes face to face with the long-time bartender, Corbin.

“It’s last orders, man. You wanting a refill?” Corbin asks.

JJ sighs and shakes his head. “Nah, I better not. What time is it?”

“It’s nearly one,” Corbin replies.

JJ nods then repeats, “nah, I better not.”

“You wanting to settle up for that now?” he wonders, glancing down at JJ’s half full drink.

JJ swallows and rubs tiredly at his eyes. “I, uh…Just put it on my tab for now, a’right?”

Corbin sighs. “Look, JJ. I’ve known you a long time so I’ve been letting it slide but this tab’s starting to stack up. You gotta pay it sometime.”

JJ shoots him a glare; his emotions twisted by the alcohol. “And I’m gonna. I just…Things are a lil’ tight right now so I can’t settle it just yet.”

Corbin decides not to push the topic. He does as he’s asked and adds JJ’s three whiskey on ice beverages to his resume-like tab. When he leaves to square things away at some other end of the bar, JJ glances around the room.

Corbin’s bar, Grub Bucket, hadn’t changed in anybody’s lifetime. JJ could recall coming out here as a kid on the hunt for his dad and sneaking past the intimidating bikers out front, weaving through the drunken fools of Kildare to find his dad almost paralytic near the pool tables. The smell was the same too: musty and beer drenched and tired. JJ wonders if he finds the smell comforting - nostalgic maybe. At the sight of several patrons leaving through the door into the pitch-black night, JJ remembers himself and the time, and he downs the last of his drink. The bitter sting is soothing on his tongue and eases the ache, and it goes down easy like a crisp, cool apple juice back in grade school.

He staggers out the bar and stumbles the familiar route home. It’s as engraved in his mind as the journey to the shops or the docks. Home appears through thick overgrowth. It’s a piece of shit trailer, obvious even in this lighting, that’s discoloured and dirty on the exterior. There are weeds that protrude from below the body of the home and gas canisters lined beside overflowing trash cans and countless fishing, surf and mechanic crap. The recycling bin is always full of empty wine bottles and cans of beer.

The stairs creak in concern as he makes his way up them. The third is broken in the middle and even intoxicated, he has the sense to avoid it. A squeaky door that needs the entirety of his body weight to open, his shoulder slamming into the upper left, and the instant smell of damp desperately trying to be combated with some cheap candle from Goodwill.

There’s few rooms in the trailer. A kitchen with about one empty counter to cook, that shares the same area as a living space. A couch that JJ found abandoned on a roadside sits before a crackly television, divided by a thrifted coffee table. The World Atlas was proving useful keeping the latter piece of furniture upheld on the far right leg. The area is littered with belongings, tight on space and storage. Trash takes up a lot of space too, as much as he hates to admit it. A strategically placed poster-print conceals a concerning dent in the wall that may signify rats at one time had made this trailer their home. That could explain the steal that JJ got it for.

The bathroom is where JJ’s legs take him next. Here, with the door closed, he can turn on the light. It takes three flicks of the switch and the buzz that it generates might remind a war veteran of a looming grenade. The shower is permanently discoloured and runs warm perhaps once a year, so JJ skips that stage. Instead he looks into the dirty mirror. His exhausted face greets him through blurry vision and speckles of toothpaste. A well-used toothbrush is rushed around his mouth and he spits into a dusty sink that drains frustratingly slowly. A quick piss and JJ is all washed up.

He’s careful not to turn on the light when he makes his way into the bedroom. By now, it must nearly be two in the morning. The boots come off first, followed by his shorts, socks and shirt. Clad in only boxers, JJ can make out the bed through the dark and slides under the covers. His eyes slip shut and his body tries to relax.

“It’s late.”

His eyes clench shut. Shit.

“I, uh, didn’t know you’d still be awake.”

“I was waiting up for you to come home,” comes your mumbled response. JJ looks over to you: your back facing him as he lies on his.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Hard not to when your husband’s out until two in the morning without texting or calling.”

JJ’s brows knit together. “My phone died,” he mutters.

“Convenient.”

Sighing, JJ runs a hand along his forehead and rubs tiredly at his eyes. “Look, I’m really fuckin’ tired, a’right? It’s been a long day and I just wanna–”

“You’re tired?” you hiss, turning over and sitting up. Fuck. “You’re fucking tired, JJ? Where the hell where you!?”

“Out!”

"Oh! Out! God, I don't know why I didn't think to check there!" you tunefully say.

JJ grits his teeth. The exhaustion and booze make a sticky concoction, flammable to the smallest fuse. “I don’t have to fucking give you a play by play of what I’m doing. I’m my own fucking person.”

“Okay, sure, JJ. You can finish work at five in the Goddamn afternoon and not reappear until two in the Goddamn morning without a text or call. I mean, what a fucking evil wife I am for worrying about you being - oh, I don’t know - dead in a ditch somewhere or sat in a fucking cell. I mean, I’m just bitter to the bone.”

At your spiel, JJ sits up in bed, propping himself up with his elbows. “Yeah, it’s such a fucking Goddamn surprise that I’m in no rush to come home when this is the fucking greeting I get!”

“Don’t come home at two in the morning and you won’t get this type of greeting!” you screech back.

The two of you meet eyes through the dark. Your faces are contorted in anger: brows tugged close together, lips downturned in ugly frowns, tired eyes narrowed at one another.

“Jesus Christ - what? You need me to give you a text every two minutes or some shit? Tell you where I am every two seconds?”

“Right, yeah, that’s what I said, JJ,” you argue, gesturing violently with your words. “I said, ‘send me a text every time you take a breath of air’. No, no, you’re right: I said, ‘put a tracker in your fucking penis and then maybe I know where it’s going’.”

He studies your face a moment and scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re try’na incinerate there but–”

“It’s insinuate - you fucking idiot - and I think you know damn well what I’m referring to,” you spit. Your voice sounds almost as bitter as the liquor JJ was drinking peacefully only an hour ago. Maybe he should have just stayed at the bar.

“Go on, then. Say it with your fucking chest, then,” JJ urges, sitting up in bed too.

You glower at him. “Pearl.”

“Oh my fuckin’...” JJ can’t help but laugh right in your face. It’s ludicrous! It only seems to worsen your rage, not that JJ could care at this moment. “You really think I’m out hooking up with someone? Is that seriously what you’re accusing me of?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” is your all-to-quick reply. “You spend all night in a bar and come home smelling like booze. Wouldn’t be surprised if you were hooking up with her, or some other whore. I mean, who else would want you?”

JJ can’t think clearly through the blinding rage. His vision goes blurry and this time, it isn’t from the alcohol. There’s the distant fear that he might crack a tooth from how tightly he’s clenching his jaw. He feels his fist close up around the sheets.

“You better think really fucking hard about what you just said to me,” he lowly says.

Your brows raise. “Is that a threat?”

JJ doesn’t reply. Decides it might be best not to. It’s hard to side with that thought process though because a smirk slowly but surely begins to sneak onto your face. There’s this viciousness in your eyes that JJ used to be unable to recognise, before El Dorado. Before life got somehow all the more real.

“Starting to sound like your dad now, huh, Maybank?”

Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. Don’t say–

JJ leans in close to your face. Can feel your heavy breath on his cheeks. See the emotions swirling like a thunderstorm in your eyes. The thin veil of tears in your waterline. He hardly recognises his own voice.

“I wish I was fucking some whore. Anything’s better than being in this bed with you.”

Your whole demeanour shifts. It’s palpable. The room is hot and suffocating. The words hang in the air and JJ hates himself for not being sure if he even wants to take them back, even if he doesn’t mean it. He just wanted you to hurt. And what an awful thing to want.

JJ hates this. He hates how the two of you know just the right buttons to press and just the right things to say to make the other furious. To break one another down. When two people fall in love, you learn everything about the other. It’s not just the intimate details - how somebody looks naked, the way they react to every touch, every kiss, their favourite song, the way they talk when they’re drunk - but also the sensitive stuff. The traumas and the skeletons and the insecurities.

“Get out,” you spit.

“Get out?” JJ laughs incredulously.

“Get out! Get the fuck out of this bed now,” you seeth. JJ doesn’t move. As if possessed, you grab at your pillow and toss it at him. “Get out!” Toss your book too.

JJ dodges them, bats them away. “You’re fucking psycho! Do you fucking see yourself!” he shouts.

“Get out! Get out, get out, get out!” you scream.

But JJ doesn’t. He should. In fact, he should go for a walk and let the two of you calm down, and then discuss it in the morning with a civilised conversation, just as you would do when you were both younger. But JJ was never the one to make the right decision. Instead, he feels himself smile. Then, he settles leisurely on his back, snuggling into the sheets like a child returning home after a long day out. His body aches from a hard day’s labour at the docks, stomach empty save for the booze. Even with his eyes closed, JJ can see your glare. It’s ice cold and sends shivers along his spine.

“Fuck you, JJ,” you mutter.

Another rustle of the sheets, the mattress dips, heavy footsteps, a slamming door, and you’re out of the room. The door shivers in the rickety frame and the noise seems to echo around the room. JJ slowly opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. He runs a hand along his jawline as he sighs, feeling the ever growing stubble that he can’t find the motivation to shave. He used to, wanting to keep up appearances for the job market, but it seemed futile now. Pointless. The feeling of satisfaction that came from winning the fight was fleeting, passing as quick as a poppers-buzz. Now, the ugly emotions seep in as JJ wallows in the lonely silence. The emotions JJ usually wards off with whiskey and beer and weed and cocaine. The guilt and the shame and the self-loathing. The sympathy and the heartache. The awful things he said to you bounce around in his head like a ping pong ball. The awful things you said to him bury deep in his heart. When he closes his eyes again, trying to mellow out his breathing and drift off, he can hear your sniffles through the door.

You never used to hide your tears from him.

Sighing, JJ clamps his hands over his face and fights the urge to scream. Why does he do this? Why does it keep happening? Why can’t you both just stop?

After thirty minutes, sleep is nowhere to be seen. The sniffling has stopped in the other room but JJ doubts you’re asleep either. Soon enough, he can’t stand the internal struggle anymore. He gets to his feet and makes his way into the living room before he can lose his nerve.

You’re lying on your side on the sofa, bundled up with a moth-nibbled blanket. JJ can’t see your face from here but he knows you’re awake. Dating you for five years meant he learnt to pick up on things like that. Walking over, he comes to the back of the sofa and reaches over to gently place his hand on your shoulder.

“You awake?” he rasps.

A pause, and then, “yes.”

“Come to bed.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got that stupid interview tomorrow and you’re going to hate yourself for sleeping on this fucking thing in the morning.”

And I can’t fall asleep unless you’re next to me.

“You remembered I have an interview?” you mumble.

“Course,” JJ mumbles back, as if embarrassed that he remembers something his wife told him. “So come to bed.”

You don’t say anything else. JJ has a million things he could say. They’re things that he should say and that he wants to but it’s like his mouth is soldered shut. He can’t let them pass as if they might incriminate him. Oh no! She’ll know I care about her! Instead, he swallows and removes his hand, sighing as he turns to return to the bedroom.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” he says. Again, there’s no response.

Only after JJ has closed the bedroom door does he hear movement from the sofa. By the time you reappear, he’s already in bed, curled up on his side, facing the wall. You make your way to the right of the bed. There’s the thud of the blanket joining the floor before you sneak under the sheets and shuffle about until you’re settled.

The two of you don’t cuddle that night just like you don’t most nights. Neither of you apologise. Neither of you say a word. But just as JJ’s about to drift off, he feels the faintest press of your lips to the back of his bare shoulder.

When JJ wakes up in the morning, you’ve already left. His head hurts the moment he opens his eyes. Groaning, he tosses the sheets off and sits up on the edge of his bed. JJ’s aching back was a common companion to his life since El Dorado. He’d fallen funny on the adventure and seemingly fucked it up for life. Lifting heavy cargo at the docks probably didn’t help much but what choice did he have? You both needed the money desperately.

The hunt for the gold went sour. Not only did Ward Cameron steal it and use it, but Rafe stole the cross and melted the timeless relic down into chunks. At first they thought El Dorado - the timeless mystery - was a possibility. JJ believed it too. In trying to get himself and John B there, he’d got himself in pretty hot water back in Kildare. That and the eviction notice plastered to his dad’s house meant that coming back home, empty handed, meant tough living. At first, the two of you persevered. You took the loss as best you could and started out on your life together. A courthouse wedding marked the beginning of your new life, gold-less but not loveless. The Pogues threw a party at the Chateau afterwards. JJ sent out an invitation to his dad at his last known address but he never showed. You never invited yours and thankfully he stayed away. Not long after was he arrested. That was a good day. You’d sold your father’s house and used that money to buy the trailer you and JJ now resided in. It was supposed to be a temporary spot but you fell on rough times. That was almost four years ago.

The day at work dragged on like any other. After missing one shift at the local grocers, JJ was fired and had to take the next available job to let the two of you meet rent. Now he spends his hours (nearly seven days a week) fixing up old fishing rigs. It was gruelling work: lifting and slamming and hammering and loading. Even in the September air, the summer less stifling than before, JJ works up a sweat. He doesn’t have enough food to spare for things like pack dinners so he goes off an apple during his breaks. Sometimes Pope would offer JJ some food if they crossed paths but JJ didn’t want to be a charity case. He was aware how frail the two of you looked though: having about one semi-decent meal a day. Just as the day begins to wrap to a close - the amber sun low in the sky - does Billy, his employer, come over to JJ as he’s scrubbing his hands.

“Goddamn oil, swear to God,” he mutters under breath, scratching tirelessly at the skin.

“Hey, JJ, we gotta talk,” Billy sighs.

JJ looks up and wipes his hands dry on his shirt. “What’s up?”

“Look, uh…” The moment Billy clears his throat, JJ knows what’s coming. “I hate to do this, man, but I gotta let you go.”

“Dude, seriously?” JJ sighs.

“Look, it ain’t your fault, Jay. I just…The business is going under and I can’t keep all you guys on anymore. I hate to do this to you, I really do, man. I've got your last paycheck here but you, uh, don’t gotta come in on Monday,” Billy not-so-delicately tells him, digging in his pocket and retrieving a white envelope. As he hands it over, he adds, “sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” JJ sighs, taking the money, “sorry don’t pay the bills, does it?”

Before Billy can reply, JJ pockets the paycheck and sets off from the docks towards his truck. He had to trade in his bike a few years back when the two of you married: a truck seemed more practical, especially for the plans you had. The anxiety seeps in as he starts his engine and only rises the closer he gets to home like a flood caused by a running tap in a home. Rubbing at his heart, trying to alleviate the nerves, JJ takes a breath and turns up the drive. He never used to feel this way when coming home to you. In fact, it used to be the highlight of his day. Now he just prays that he can get through the door without the two of you falling into an argument.

You’re standing at the stove, steam billowing up from the pan that you’re stirring, and at the sound of JJ shoving his way through the entrance, you turn and offer a small smile. It seems like an olive branch for last night.

“Hey,” you say.

“Yo,” JJ hums, closing the door. He heads for the pile of envelopes on the cluttered breakfast bar and flicks through them. Every FINAL NOTICE makes him cringe. One is already open and he slips the letter out, but you speak before he has a chance to read a word.

“We got a week until they shut the gas off,” you tell him.

“Well, I got the solution to that.”

JJ tries his best to smile as he holds the envelope up. Gasping, you abandon the stove and grin, taking it from him and scanning over the amount. He’s ashamed by his surprise when you wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him. He doesn’t have a chance to respond; you’re back at the stove, stirring dinner, within seconds.

“Yeah, well, that’s the good news,” JJ says.

Frowning, concerned, you look over your shoulder to him. “There’s bad news?”

JJ can’t meet your gaze as he tells you, “I got let go.”

“What? But I thought–”

“Yeah, me too,” JJ sighs, shaking his head. He leans against the fridge and feels it shudder at his weight. The bottles of cheap wine clink together tellingly and JJ tries not to cringe. “Anyway, how’d your interview go?”

You shake your head, looking back to the pan. “They said they’d let me know in three or so days but I don’t know…They were hard to read.”

He watches you in the artificial light, your now naturally coloured hair looking almost unrecognisable in the glow. You’d stopped dying it a couple years ago because you thought it might make finding work easier. It didn’t. Two ex-convicts, one of which had arguably the worst reputation in Kildare, who disappeared for several months at a time as teenagers. No high school degree, no college degree, no qualifications or former training, and no reputable name to fall back on. JJ contemplates coming over to you and wrapping his arms around your middle, pulling you against him. He wants to dance with you in the kitchen to non-existent music and then cuddle up on the couch, sharing a joint and putting the world to right. But he doesn’t. Instead, JJ stays by the fridge.

“I’m sure you’ll get it.”

“Maybe. You going back to the job centre tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” JJ echos. He should. It’s hard though. It feels as though every time one of you picks yourself up and dusts yourself off, you get kicked to the dirt again. Jobs felt as unstable and unpromising as a rebound relationship. If either of you can hold down a job in the shaky economy that was the Cut on Kildare, then something in the house needs replacing, and you’re somehow still as broke as you were to start.

Neither of you bring up the argument from last night even though you should. Instead, you eat your dinner in mostly silence as the radio drones on in the background about the weather and the news. JJ’s apology lingers on his tongue but with every mouthful of his grits, it gets brushed away. It stays that way as the evening drags on. One glass of cheap red wine turns into two and three. Somewhere in the tipsy haze, the two of you find one another, naked under the sheets. His bare chest brushes against yours as he kisses desperately at your neck, thrusting into you. As his hands caress along your familiar figure, it feels as though you’re miles away. Or maybe it’s him. Maybe he isn’t the one that’s present, as if standing across the room, watching it all unfold. Your heavy breaths in his ear don’t excite him as they did before. The feeling of your walls squeezing around him doesn’t send him spiralling the same way it used to. It feels as if he’s just going through the motions. Chasing the brief wave of euphoria and distracting himself from the maelstrom of anxiety that is his mind lately. No job, no family, no future.

“Harder, JJ,” you sigh against his shoulder, your breath warm on his damp skin.

He hardly registers your words and only responds when one of your hands coaxes his hips deeper. Something about the new angle hits JJ just right. His eyes slip shut, a groan falling past his lips as he shudders against your body. He comes rather quickly: the white hot pleasure fast as it passes through him. He lingers inside of you a moment. You lay stone still underneath him.

“Did you just come?” you ask.

“Yeah, I just came,” JJ sighs, pulling out of you. Sighing, chest heaving, he flops onto his back beside you. He can feel your stare the same way he did last night. As if trying to escape it, his eyes slip shut.

“Are you fucking serious, JJ?”

“You know your body better anyway. Go to town,” JJ mumbles. He’s aware of how douchey he sounds but he feels a thousand miles away. He’d only disappoint you anyway. It feels like all he does is disappoint you.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, climbing out of bed and heading presumably to the bathroom to piss. The door slams the same as it did last night. More arguments and JJ will have to replace the hinges. Just another thing in the house that’ll be added to the list of repairs, with the thing at the top being your relationship. As JJ works through the list in his mind, he drifts off to sleep. He isn’t sure if you ever came back to bed. You’re gone when he wakes up in the morning.

“I don’t understand man,” John B says. “Why don’t you two just get a divorce?”

JJ’s head snaps to face his best friend. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying–”

“--John B–”

“--You guys are miserable,” he finishes, not letting JJ cut him off. Groaning, JJ shakes his head and paces away. “It’s not like divorce is frowned upon in your family! Your parents did it, hers did it - hell, mine did it too!”

“I don’t wanna divorce her,” JJ says, turning around. He takes his cap from his head and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s damp with sweat from the humid heat of the day. He’d been at his lifelong best friend’s house since eight in the morning, helping to clear up the yard and fix the jetty. Whilst unemployed, JJ may as well keep himself busy. As always, the conversation had veered into relationship territory: John B and Sarah, and JJ and you. The fight was two weeks in the past. You hadn’t let JJ have sex with you since. JJ wasn’t sure if he even wanted to. It just made him feel more confused and disconnected. He didn’t like being the reason you were upset.

“There’s no shame in it,” John B assures. “You guys were a good fit when we were teenagers but now you’ve grown up and life’s gotten hard. That’s okay.”

“She’s it for me, JB,” JJ states. He wanders over and lovingly pats him on the back, making his way to the cooler for another beer. “I ain’t giving up on us.”

“Cool. So, you’ll just stay stuck in a loveless marriage for the rest of your life then. Awesome,” comes John B’s sardonic response.

“It’s not loveless. It’s just…going through a rough patch.”

“A two year long rough patch?”

“It’s not as simple as ‘divorce her’,” JJ sighs. The crisp crack of the beer sounds like heaven’s gates opening. “She’s the girl of my literal childhood dreams. And things have been hard for her too. We don’t mean to fight, we just…do.”

“Denial is a six-letter word my friend. You know what else is?”

“Don’t say it–”

“Trauma.”

“JB–”

“I get it! Your dad was shitty and you’re trying to break the cycle! But maybe you can’t! Maybe there isn’t a cycle! Maybe that’s just life!”

“Look, I don’t therapise you so how about you don’t therapise me,” JJ suggests. He tosses a beer to the brown haired man. His face isn’t all that different from when they were young. The crows feet around his eyes are deeper set, as are the laughter and frown lines along his forehead. The stubble on his beard challenges JJ’s. “I’m not gonna give up on us. We just need to reconnect. I feel like we’re always at odds.”

Sighing, John B relents. He clinks his can against JJ’s in an informal cheers. “Well, I hope you’re right and you guys can figure it out. I just want you happy, man.”

Happy. JJ hardly knew the meaning of the word these days.

He lingers at John B’s house until sunset, when Sarah returns from the hospital. She’d managed to get a spot on a nursing course and was blazing through it. She’d tried to get both you and JJ employed there too but the criminal check killed any chance. She offers for JJ to stay for dinner but he declines, saying that he should head home. The walk back is filled with unnecessary diversions. He goes to the pier where he saw you jump as a kid. He goes by the grocery store that the two of you used to shoplift beers from. He wanders along the coastline where you used to skinny dip in the dead of night. Somehow, JJ ends up outside what used to be his home. Nobody had bought it after the bank repossessed it. Sitting in dilapidation, nature reclaims the isolated structure. It’s barely recognisable to JJ. Seeing it in such a way makes JJ question if his childhood was even real. The traumatic memories feel as though they don’t fit well on this canvas: it’s too peaceful and serene. He leans down and grabs a large rock from the floor and hurls it towards one of the windows. It shatters through the glass and thuds as it lands on the floorboards inside. A small smile pushes onto JJ’s ageing face. That’s better. He continues to walk home.

It’s pitch black outside by the time JJ makes it back. He wonders if you might have gone to bed as he walks up the porch steps, dodging the broken one, reminding himself to fix it. The house is cast in a warm glow from the living room floor lamp when JJ walks in. The kitchen has been cleaned up and for once seems almost homely. His eyes are immediately drawn to your frame, sat crossed legged on the sofa. A large shoebox sits on the coffee table, the lid off, and a stack of old VHS tapes sit in a pile to its right. There’s a bottle of open red wine and a half filled glass too. You’re looking down at something.

“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him.

“Hey.”

“What’re you doing?”

You finally look up. You’d put your nose ring back in and it shines under the gentle glare of the lamp. A smile blesses your features. “I was going through the closet to see if I could sell some old clothes and found the picture box. Remember how we were gonna hang some up when we first moved here? I think we still should.”

JJ grabs a glass for himself and joins you on the sofa. You smell like soap and shea butter. He pours himself a glass of wine.

“Look,” you say, holding the picture out for him to see. He places down in his glass on the table and takes the photo from you. JJ chuckles quietly under breath. It’s of John B and JJ when they were younger; they sit on their surfboards, legs submerged in the water, hair damp, smiles brimming and big. “Cute, huh?”

“Very cute,” JJ agrees. He places it amongst the pile of scattered pictures strewn across the table and picks another out. It’s of Kiara, pulling a stupid face as she lounges outside the Chateau. Sarah throwing up peace signs. A candid of Pope and John B playing cards one afternoon. You, dangling upside down from the slats of the jetty, lilac hair barely scraping the surface of the water.

“I like this one.”

JJ leans into you to see the picture in your hands. He smiles at the sight. One of the Pogues must have taken it. You both look about eighteen. You’re sat on one of the deckchairs that resided outside of the Chateau, talking vivaciously, hands gesturing wildly and smiling wide. JJ’s just staring at you, a lovesick smile on his young face, chin resting on his fist. For a while, the two of you sit in the drip-drip-drip of the kitchen sink, staring at the picture as if in a trance.

“You used to adore me,” you whisper.

JJ’s brows knit together. He looks down at you. “I still do.”

Your laugh is sad. Your eyes remained trained on the moment frozen in time. “Not like you used to. Not like before.”

“Before what?” JJ mumbles, heart suddenly heavy.

You look up and meet his gaze. Whatever emotion is on your face makes JJ want to cry. “You know what.”

He shakes his head, his lips quivering. “That’s not true.”

“Everything changed after that.”

“It’s not true,” he says again. His hand slips up, cupping your cheek, and his body sings when you lean into his hold. “That weren’t your fault. It never was and never will be.”

“But would you still have married me,” you begin to ask, voice turning thick as the tears start to build, “if you knew? If I knew before.”

“Yes,” JJ swiftly answers.

“JJ–”

“--You’re it for me,” he says. His forehead gently falls forward, resting against yours, needing to be closer. “Girl of my dreams.”

“Even if…” You take in a shaky breath, trying desperately not to cry. “Even if I can’t give you a family.”

“You are my family. I got everything I need right here.”

Something between a sob and laugh shakes your body. You sniff and nod fervently against him. JJ sweeps his calloused finger across your cheek. He feels the warmth that radiates from your skin. Inhales the soothing smell that is you. Counts the smattering of blemishes and freckles and scars that decorate your skin like cracks in an antique painting. They don’t take from your beauty - they just speak to the value.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say.

It’s your turn to frown now. Opening your eyes, they shimmer with unshed tears. “What’d you mean?”

“I’m so sorry I let you marry me,” he says in brutal honesty. “This ain’t the life you deserve.”

“JJ–”

“You deserve so much more than this. More than all this scrimping and saving. You deserve your house. Your pastel blue house, with those white shutters and the porch - that damn wrap around porch - and your cats and dogs.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. Your own hands come up, cradling his face just as he has your own, and you smile dotingly up at him. For the first time in months, JJ feels as though he recognises you. JJ feels as though he recognises himself.

“I don’t need all that, JJ,” you tell him. “That’s just stuff. Things. You said it best: I have everything I’ve ever needed right here.”

“You don’t gotta say that,” JJ gently argues. “This trailer isn’t a house, baby.”

“No, it ain’t,” you agree. “It’s a home. It’s our home.”

“Baby,” JJ sighs. His eyes slip shut, unable to look at you, feeling nothing less than a failure.

“You remember our wedding day?” you ask him. JJ can’t help but snort.

“Course I do.”

“Remember our vows?”

His lips can’t help but upturn as he follows your train of thought. He was always good at following your mind.

“For richer–”

“--for poor,” JJ finishes.

The caress of your finger along his jawline has JJ close to tears.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you tell him softly. “We're gonna get through all this. It’s just God’s test, that's all, and we’re gonna pass it, and it’ll be okay again. I promise.”

JJ manages to open his eyes and face you. You’re smiling up at him, gazing as if he was the entire solar system laid before you, and the anxiety slips away as suddenly as winter changes to spring.

“My good looking boy,” you whisper.

JJ’s never been good with his words. But sometimes words aren’t needed.

His lips find yours like a bird migrating home. You immediately hold him close to you, tilting his face with yours to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushes against yours. The taste of red wine is strangely erotic and it spurs JJ on. He sighs against you, pushing deeper as if to consume you. Your fingers slip into his hair; nails teasing at his scalp, combing through the sea salt treated strands. JJ’s hands sink away from your face, tracing along your arms, down to your waist. You sink into the cushions of the sofa on your back as JJ climbs atop. His lips map across your cheeks, along your jaw, find home on your neck and collarbones.

“I missed you so much,” he confesses in a breath against your sensitive skin.

The removal of clothes is like a ritual: each piece commemorated with kisses and love bites and praises. Your hands explore one another’s naked bodies as if it were your first time. Like a blind man regaining sight, JJ is in awe of your effortless beauty. The way your back arches at the trace of his finger along your sternum, down to your weeping cunt. You clench helplessly around his digits as he fingers you, slow and sensual, savouring every moan and whine.

“Missed you so fucking much, baby,” JJ sighs against your thigh. Presses kisses against the stretch mark decorated skin, like watering tree roots. “So fucking pretty.”

“JayJ,” you croon, eyes clenched shut, a balled up fist rubbing helplessly at your forehead.

His tongue laps at your clit, suckles at the wet, driven by the feel of your fingers knotting in his hair. You climax with a gasp, soaking his fingers and lips, overstimulated until you’re gently pushing him away and pulling him up to you. He’s painfully hard as he kisses you. When your hand softly takes hold of him, he sighs against your mouth.

“I missed you,” you tell him between kisses. Your hand rubs at him in long, meaningful strokes, thumb occasionally teasing over the tip. JJ groans against your chest, eyes pressed shut, trying to revel in the feeling of having you so close, having you jacking him off, whilst trying desperately not to come. But you know him better than anybody else. You know when to guide him to your entrance, coating him in your slick. JJ kisses at your nipple as he sinks into you. He doesn’t feel miles away this time as he fucks you into the sofa. Doesn’t feel like he’s stranded across the room as he makes love to you for the first time in months, maybe even years.

Your begs and pleas and praises are like words from the lord being spoken into JJ’s ears in your breathy whimpers. Harder, deeper, feels so fuckin’ good, faster. JJ’s no better, slurring anything that slips into his mind as he sinks in and out of you. So fuckin’ wet, prettiest fuckin’ pussy in the world, tell me how bad you need it. His hand holds an almost mean grip on your hip whilst his other finds your left. JJ intertwines your fingers as the two of you chase your highs, the digits slick with sweat, slipping in the hold but never letting go.

"I'm s'close," you whine, hooking your legs over his hips, driving him deeper.

"Fuck, feels so fuckin' good," JJ grunts, ploughing into you. "So fuckin' good for me."

"Please, JJ," you gasp. You're so close. JJ fucks you hard and fast. "Please, please, please..."

You come first, gasping and panting against JJ’s ear, and he follows, moaning desperately against your clammy skin. His eyes slip shut as he rests atop of you.

JJ blinks awake, somewhat disorientated. For the first time in forever, his aching back isn’t the first thing he registers. Instead, it’s the steady rise and fall of the warm body underneath him. He slowly lifts his head to find you, sleeping soundly, still naked. He’s soft inside of you and gently slips out with a small shudder. You stir only slightly but soon drift back off to sleep. JJ gets up carefully so as to not disturb your slumber. The bathroom doesn’t feel as grimy when he goes inside to pee, and his face looks younger, lighter, refreshed, when he checks the mirror as he washes his hands. After tugging on a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt, he returns to the living room. You’ve curled up on your side, snoring quietly, and JJ smiles. How could he forget how beautiful you are? He lays a blanket over your body and plants a kiss to your hair. Then, he begins to tidy away some of the pictures. As you requested, he leaves out some that he thinks you might like to be framed, one of which is from your wedding day: the two of you laughing as you smush cake against one another’s mouths. His eyes fall on the tapes and he picks them up, flicking through them. He takes pause at one. Luke and Marie’s Wedding Tape. He stares at it like the box of Jumangi, both terrified and enticed.

JJ powers up the TV, ensuring it’s on silent, and turns on the old tape player. By some miracle, it still works. He slips the tape in and swallows the lump in his throat, and sits on the sofa beside where your head rests. You’re still dead to the world, snuggled up cosy in your blanket cocoon, and JJ’s weirdly grateful for your company as the tape kicks to life. It’s grainy at first, the picture wobbly, but soon enough the image comes to life. His dad who JJ hasn’t seen in years stands young and stupid at the altar. His mother who JJ wouldn’t know if she passed him in the street stands young and forgiving opposite. They’re speaking soundless words, smiling. JJ isn’t aware that he’s started crying until a teardrop lands on his hand. He wipes his cheek absently, eyes fixated on the screen. He watches as they dance: giggling, graceful, giddy. Just as you were the day JJ laid his eyes on you.

Maybe John B was right. Maybe JJ did want to break the pattern. It wasn't either of your faults that you both reacted to adversity the way you did. Years of built-up anger and rage and pain with nowhere to go but within was like a boiling over crockpot of disaster. Two borderline-abandoned, abused teenagers married at eighteen? Of course you didn't have the blueprint for how to be a functional couple. Neither of you knew the definition of compromise, or backing down, or making peace. All you knew was pain and betrayal and self-defence. But that could change. It would take time and patience, but it could. JJ wanted it to. He was sick of working against you. You were a team before and you would be a team again. JJ never wanted to go to war against you, not when you were the best soldier on his team. JJ had always feared love because he feared what it would make him. Would he be like his father or his mother: resent or retreat?

As JJ's eyes sweep down to your sleeping self, he decides what he'll be. He'll be neither. He'll be himself. He'll be resilient.

One of JJ's hands raises and his fingers lovingly stroke at your hair. You don’t wake, just shift a little, and a barely there smile slinks onto your face.

“Don’t give up on me, baby,” JJ mumbles, petting the strands of your ever changing hair. His good looking girl. “These times are hard and they’re makin’ us go crazy, but don’t give up on me. Cause I meant every word.”

For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…

"Til' death do us part."

448 notes · View notes

ichorai · 11 months ago

Text

thread ; coriolanus snow.

pairing ; young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; “they’re all just copying us, you know,” he said, sounding almost bitter.

“of course they are,” you replied, taking a drawn-out sip from your cup. “we showed them there’s no sharks in the water. obviously they’re going to jump in.”

words ; 6.6k

themes ; mild fluff/angst, action

warnings / includes ; themes of classism, violence/injury/death/drug misuse, coryo's paranoia, he isn't exactly toxic yet but the seeds are very much planted, i tried to keep him in character as best i could </3

series masterlist. main masterlist.

Coriolanus came late to class. He rushed in, uniform only slightly askew, and hair messier than usual. You moved your bag aside so he could take a seat beside you. With a nod, he slipped into the row and began laying out his books.

You wondered how Tigris reacted once he got back home. Probably worried sick for her cousin and her friend. Your father, of course, was furious with you once he learned about your tryst with Coriolanus in the Capitol Zoo, but there was little he could do when he was off working in the districts. During dinner with your mother, Lucretius Flickerman, and his wife, the tributes and the games were practically all the three could talk about. Lucky was going to be the first ever host, apparently.

How fun.

To neither of your surprise, Highbottom eyed the two of you with disdain. When you had strode into the hall, he remained silent. Coriolanus’ arrival seemed to tip him right over the edge.

“Both of your little excursions were in violation of about five different academy rules,” he grumbled. “Chiefly amongst them—endangering a Capitol student. Yourselves.”

“There were peacekeepers crawling all over the place,” Coriolanus retorted.

The dean’s nose twitched angrily. Then, he fixed you with a harsh look over his spectacles, and drawled out your name. “Since you are the academy’s brightest, and your records have been… untarnished until now, I will let you off with a warning.” There was a pause, before the dean continued. “Mr. Snow, I’m moving for the gamemakers to disqualify you as mentor, effective immediately.”

“What?” the two of you exclaimed at once.

“You said we had to get them to perform, not stay away!” Coriolanus just about spat.

“I’ll add insubordination, as well,” Highbottom replied, tone venomous.

Raising your hand and ignoring the dean’s irritated exhale, you haughtily said, “It was me who went into the tribute’s truck. Coriolanus only followed. We didn’t know that we’d end up in a zoo enclosure.”

Arachne tittered with condescending laughter. “Yeah, and then you held hands with them. Made it seem like we’re the same as those animals.”

From your other side, Sejanus was quick to defend the two of you. “Coriolanus and Y/N didn’t show those people anything they didn’t already know.”

Stiffening, Coryo scowled and said, “I don’t need your help, Sejanus.”

He ignored him and continued on, “That the tributes are human beings, just like us. That’s why nobody wants to watch the games—because people know, deep down, that winning a war ten years ago doesn’t justify starving people’s children, taking away their freedoms, their rights!”

“Dean Highbottom,” you called, not bothering to raise your hand this time. “How is it fair that Coriolanus gets disqualified while I’m not? We did what you told us to do! We were just trying to get to know our tributes.”

“Would you like to be disqualified as well? I can surely arrange for that to happen,” he deadpanned. “But poor little Wovey would be left all on her own.”

Nausea coiled within your abdomen. You drew yourself up to your full height. “Well, that would be entirely unnecessary—”

Before you could finish your sentence, the doors to the lecture theater swung open once more, and Dr. Volumnia Gaul crept in, footsteps completely silent. How she managed that, you weren’t at all sure.

With everyone’s eyes on her, she fixed her stare on the two of you. Her hair was wrangled back into a high up-do, tall and grey on her head.

“Quite a show you two put on. You’re good players,” she said, voice booming throughout the theater. “The hunger games needs good players. Maybe one day you’ll be gamemakers, like me.”

The thought sent chills up your spine. Coriolanus kept his expression stoic.

“If the games continue at all,” said Highbottom.

Singular blue eye flashing, Dr. Gaul grinned in an unnerving manner. “Oh, they’ll continue. With performances like young Snow and L/N in that zoo? The people would never stop wanting for more.” She drew closer to the rows of seats, gloved hand trailing over a few of the desks. “I came here to ask the star mentors a question… what are the hunger games for?”

You and Coriolanus exchanged a quick glance.

“They’re to punish the districts for their uprising,” he said, as if it were obvious. “To commemorate the end of the war.”

Volumnia’s tongue darted out to wet her lips, in a similar fashion to a snake.

“And what would you say, Y/N?”

It was hard to maintain eye contact with her, especially because it felt like she could peer into your very soul and dissect you apart from inside out—but you managed. With your father being such an avid supporter of the hunger games, you wondered if your answer would be what she was looking for. “I don’t agree with the games. But I know it’s because—fear is power. Keep the districts afraid for themselves, for their children, and you’ll always have the upper hand.”

She smiled, wide and eerie. “You’re right. Fear is power. But punishment and fear can take many forms. They can come from bomb droppings, the cancelling of food shipments, stage executions. The question is, why games?”

Defensive, Sejanus spoke up, “Shouldn’t we be asking whether or not it’s right in the first place?”

“You have a problem with my games?” she asked, unimpressed.

“Some of those kids were two years old when the war ended! The oldest of them were only eight!” he exclaimed. “The Capitol is supposed to be everyone’s government now. It is supposed to protect all of us. I don’t see how making children fight each other to the death is protecting anyone.”

With a sneer, Dr. Gaul told him, “That sort of sympathy might be interfering with your mentoring assignment, Mr. Plinth.”

Finally, Highbottom said to his colleague, “Perhaps Capitol students are ill-suited to be mentoring tributes. Perhaps the games’ time has passed.”

Yes, you thought. It’s time to let it go.

To your surprise, Coriolanus abruptly stood up from his seat. “Dean Highbottom is wrong,” he asserted. “My classmates, too. Maybe Sejanus is onto something here. We should be viewing those tributes as human beings. You saw those kids at the zoo. They just wanted to get to know Lucy Gray. If we need people to watch, we should let them get closer to the tributes before the games. Make the stakes personal.”

“Who would watch the games if they care what happens to the tributes?” Dr. Gaul asked, as if the notion of caring about district folk was ludicrous.

“Everyone,” replied Coriolanus. “Especially if they thought the tribute they cared about had a chance of winning. People need someone to root for and someone to root against! And if we bend a few Capitol laws, we can even have them place bets.”

You felt sick as you looked up at Coriolanus with a mildly disturbed expression. If he noticed, he didn’t give you any indication.

“I know Lucy Gray may not win in the arena,” he continued. “But if you give her a chance—I would bet the Plinth prize that she could win people’s attention.”

Dr. Gaul was effectively intrigued.

“I would like you to write up a proposal of these thoughts tonight, Mr. Snow,” she said.

Clemensia, strong-headed as ever, stood up and said that she should be working with Coriolanus, as his class partner.

With an amused snicker, Volumnia bowed her head and made her way back to the door. “It’ll be an interesting test,” she ominously said before turning on her heel and exiting, her dark cloak billowing out behind her.

During lunch, you sat down across from Coriolanus in the cafeteria, noticing that he had three sandwiches stacked on his plate, along with half a dozen cookies on another. It was a rare thing, seeing him with so much food. Usually he opted for just starving himself to save some money, despite your urges to get him to eat.

“Hungry?” you asked with an arched brow, but he shook his head.

“It’s for Lucy Gray,” he replied, staring down at the food. Then, he pulled out a red handkerchief and started wrapping the food up. “I’m going back.”

With a soft sigh, you started digging into your own lunch. “Hopefully not inside this time.”

He spared you half a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Are you coming? Everyone else is. I heard Arachne tell Felix she’s going to use food to get her tribute to do tricks for her.”

With a wrinkle of your nose, you glanced over at her several tables down. “Sounds like something she’d say.” You took a bite of your food and chewed thoughtfully.

“They’re all just copying us, you know,” he said, sounding almost bitter.

“Of course they are,” you replied, taking a drawn-out sip from your cup. “We showed them there’s no sharks in the water. Obviously they’re going to jump in.”

He tied the handkerchief together so the sandwiches and cookies would stay put. “They’re all sheep. No original thought whatsoever.”

There it was again, your wind-chime laugh. Coriolanus smiled down at his plate, now empty save for a few bread crumbs.

“It’s not that big of a deal, Coryo. Besides, I’m glad most of the class is going. The tributes must be starving in there,” you told him. “I’ll come and bring some food for Wovey.”

A voice from your right jutted into your conversation, Sejanus’ angry face coming into view as he slammed down his lunch tray in the empty spot beside you. “You guys going to fatten up your tributes so you can finally start taking bets?” he just about snarled.

“Do you think they’ll give those kids a scrap if we don’t give them a reason to do it?” Coriolanus responded defensively, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. “How do you think your tribute will have a chance if he can’t eat?”

“We can’t send them back to their homes,” you told Sejanus in a juxtaposingly calm tone. “The best we can do for them now is help them out here.”

The curly-haired man slumped forward, his shoulder stooping like an old wildflower. “He was my classmate,” he muttered. “Back in two.”

Though you gave Sejanus a sympathetic look, Coryo regarded Sejanus as if he was confused. He wondered why Sejanus even bothered to care this much when he was no longer a part of the districts.

“It’s not your fault that—” Coriolanus began, but was swiftly interrupted.

“Oh, yeah, I’m so blameless I’m choking on it!” he gritted out. Then, he let out a shaky breath, trying to steel himself. “My father bought him for me, you know. At the reaping. Just so he could show me that I could never go back to two.”

A frown marred your features. “He bribed Highbottom?”

“Something like that,” Sejanus told you, using the prongs of his fork to poke and prod at his food. “Morphling costs a pretty penny.”

Silence stretched over the three of you for a few seconds. Coriolanus looked annoyed, but Sejanus didn’t seem to notice.

“Being in the Capitol is going to kill me,” he sighed.

This made Coryo scowl. “So do something about it.”

Sejanus’ dark eyes flitted over to the bundle of food in Coriolanus’ hands. “You’re quite the rebel.”

Coriolanus retorted, “Oh, yeah. I’m bad news.”

When he said that, he’d expected you to laugh again, but you kept quiet, staring down at your now-unappetizing lunch.

There was a considerably larger crowd around the enclosure that evening. You had a small basket clutched in one hand, consisting of juice boxes (still grape, since you now knew it was a safe option), soft bread rolls, and wrapped leftovers from your dinner with Lucky. You hoped Wovey wasn’t allergic to anything—you’d forgotten to ask in the heat of it all.

Coriolanus still only had the few sandwiches he saved from lunch, but you assured him that you were more than happy to share with Lucy Gray if need be.

She looked much more haggard tonight, most of her makeup smeared off, her lips chapped and bleeding at the center from what you assumed was anxious biting, and her hair was more unruly. Though her eyes still held the same fire, the same passion, lighting up when she noticed the two of you approaching. She asked if the food was for them with slight surprise—you often forget that they hadn’t much to eat in the districts, anyway—and took what was offered, before handing off a good portion of it to her district partner, Jessup. The larger man declined the food at first, claiming he wasn’t hungry, but eventually caved and took the sandwiches.

When he turned to walk off, Coriolanus asked about the nasty wound on his neck. It was just behind his ear and oozing with blood and pus. A bat bite on the train, Lucy Gray told the two of you, looking awfully guilty on behalf of her friend.

Crooning from a little way’s away drew your attention to Arachne and her tribute. She was dangling a cold bottle of water just inches from the tribute’s reach, urging her to beg.

Lucy Gray’s brows cinched. “One thing I learned in twelve is that hunger is a weapon. Your friend over there sure knows it.”

The two of you scoffed at the same time.

“She is not my friend,” Coriolanus told her. “She is poison with perfect teeth.”

“How such a vile tongue hides behind those pearly whites, I wouldn’t ever know,” you remarked, earning you a snicker from Coriolanus. Finally, you peered around for Wovey, eager to finally get her something to eat. However, curse your damned softening heart, your eyes grew gentle upon seeing her curled up by the very same tree stump, head resting on Bobbin’s shoulder, fast asleep.

Lucy Gray casted a glimpse over her shoulder to see what you were looking at.

“Could you give this to her?” you asked, slotting the small basket between the enclosure’s metal bars. “When she wakes up, that is. She must be famished. Feel free to take anything in there, but just… leave some for her.”

The girl nodded, taking the basket from you and handing it over to Jessup, who cradled it as if it were more precious than gold. You watched him carefully—not because you were worried he was going to keep all the food to himself, but because you were curious as to why he hadn’t reached in to take anything for himself yet, even after several minutes passed by.

Coriolanus leaned forward, wrapping a hand around one of the bars as he lowered his voice. “Are you going to share everything with Jessup?”

Lucy Gray’s expression faltered. “Why? You think I oughta build up my strength to strangle him in the arena? Not exactly my forte.”

“I might have a chance to help you,” he told her, watching her keenly. “To make some suggestions to the gamemakers. I might even be able to get the audience to send you gifts in the arena. Food, and water, to keep you going. You just have to try singing again.”

Firmly, Lucy Gray said, “I don’t sing when I’m told, I sing when I have something to say.”

“And you have nothing to say?” you asked her, head tilting. “The whole world is watching, Lucy Gray. Now’s your chance.”

A myriad of emotions crossed over her face. “It doesn’t matter much now, does it? I’ve seen the arena—there’s nowhere to hide. What’s the point?” Her gaze traveled from you to Coriolanus. “The guards say you get money if you get more people to watch and you say you want to help me. Which is it?”

“Both?” he offered.

It didn’t satisfy her, but it was enough, for now.

Then, she grabbed a sandwich from the red handkerchief and took a large bite, a muffled noise of appreciation falling from her lips.

“Bread’s soft,” she said around a mouthful. “Softer than in twelve.”

Then, she offered a cookie to Coriolanus. He began to protest, but she insisted he take it.

“I saw you staring,” she said. “I always thought there was plenty of food in the Capitol.”

Coriolanus laughed, a coarse and unrefined sound. “One time during the war, I ate a whole jar of paste just to stop the pain in my stomach.”

A match of pity struck within the confines of your chest, but you remained quiet. Coriolanus told you stories of his times during the war often—usually after the two of you laid together, sweaty and naked, bearing your souls to one another. Pillow talk made him quite emotional, you found.

“And how was it?” Lucy Gray queried, eyes round.

Coriolanus took a bite of the cookie, humming in though. Then, he shrugged. “Pasty,” he said.

Lucy Gray laughed. She looked back to you, appreciative. “Thank you, for the food. I’m sure the little one’s going to be happy.” Your eyes flickered back to Wovey. She stirred a bit on Bobbin’s shoulder, but remained asleep. “She’s so sweet. So young. Something about her reminds me of my cousin, Maude Ivory. I can’t stand to think of them without me like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Coriolanus whispered.

You nodded in agreement. “They’re waiting for you, I’m sure. You’ll see them again.”

Lucy Gray smiled sadly. “I won’t hold you to that.” Then, after she took another bite, she blew out a gentle sigh. “You two seem like… genuine folk. It sure would’ve been nice to meet you under different circumstances.”

Coriolanus leaned his head against the enclosure’s bars. “One of your shows, maybe.”

Somehow, her smile grew impossibly wider, but her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Yeah. Yeah, I would’ve liked that.” With a light sniffle, she asked the two of you, “You two keen on dancing?”

You thought back to all the dance lessons you were forced to take as a young child. It was never your strong suit. “Not really, no. Coriolanus is much better than I am.”

“Not your fancy Capitol dancing,” she told you, waving a hand in the air. “Dancing like you’re free. Dancing with no rules. Just the music, to guide you.”

Both you and Coriolanus exchanged glances. “Can’t say I’ve tried,” you replied. “But it sounds fun.”

Lucy Gray nodded, showing more enthusiasm than you’d ever seen in her before. “You’d have the time of your life. If you ever visit… I’d love for you to come. Both of you—we’d have a drink. Share a dance or two. We’d have all the time in the world. People always say our music shows are the best places for romantic dates. It’d be perfect for you two.”

It was a pleasant fantasy to entertain. But that’s all it was—a fantasy. When you looked at Coriolanus, his expression was simultaneously strained and distant, as if he were far away, thinking of other things. You reached out to place your hand on his shoulder.

But before you could, screams erupted from around the enclosure, followed closely by shattering glass. You whipped your head away from Lucy Gray, seeing Arachne’s tribute jabbing the broken glass bottle straight into her jugular. Coriolanus yelled something—you weren’t entirely sure what, but he jumped up to grab Arachne, applying pressure to the wound.

It wasn’t enough.

Blood, dark and viscous and filling the air with the smell of copper, began to pool around her neck, down her shoulders, filling the crevices of her collarbones. She was blubbering something, gargling through blood, but you couldn’t quite hear with the loud static buzzing in your ears.

You glanced to the side, catching sight of peacekeepers lining up their guns to shoot. You rushed forward to get to Coriolanus, yanking him down just as several shots rang out. He was whimpering, telling Arachne to hold on for him, but when you frantically reached down to feel for her pale wrist’s pulse—it wasn’t there.

Arachne was dead.

You clambered off of Coriolanus, away from the dead girl, backing away. You only barely registered Sejanus calling out your name in concern, but you didn’t pay him any mind. Instead, you turned your eyes to the tributes, all ducking and cowering behind trees and tires. To your relief, Wovey was now awake, eyes wide as she crouched behind the tree stump with Bobbin.

The relief was short-lived, however, because peacekeepers began urging everybody away from the enclosure. You reached out for Coriolanus, taking his arm. He was shaking, eyes as large as saucers and visibly distraught.

The two of you walked to his estate in tense silence.

Once there, Grandma’am and Tigris fawned over the two of you, though in far different ways. Grandma’am dove into a lecture about rebels and how lucky the two of you were that your tributes hadn’t done the very same. Tigris wrapped a warm shawl over you and a patched blanket over her cousin, telling Grandma’am that Lucy Gray and Wovey weren’t rebels, just innocent girls.

“Trust me, that one hasn’t been a girl in a long time,” Grandma’am bitterly retorted. “Outside this Capitol, they’re savages, however they may smile. She will use you, Coriolanus. You must use her or you’ll end up dead in the trees, like your father.”

Coriolanus stiffened.

An hour later, he tugged you into his room and kissed you hard and desperate, as if he wanted to distract himself from his own thoughts. You were the one to pull away, even if everything inside you was screaming to stay. You almost caved, almost, when his head dipped forward in an attempt to capture your lips again, but you placed the tips of your fingers over his mouth with a soft, sympathetic smile. You hugged him tight until he stopped trembling, and reluctantly drew yourself away from him. After embracing Tigris goodnight, you walked home alone with your thoughts, wondering if the games were going to continue in lieu of the evening’s events.

There was an assembly held at the academy for Arachne’s death, followed promptly by a proper funeral. Though, it didn’t quite feel proper with all the cameras and reporters hovering around. You wondered if people were expecting to see you cry. You were incredibly shaken, sure, but were you sad?

It’d be a lie if you said yes.

They made sure to zoom in on you and Coriolanus when you kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his hand just before he was appointed to go on stage and sing the national anthem. Why he was the one to do so, the two of you had no idea. It’s not like Arachne was friends with him, despite what the reporters wanted to think. It was a ridiculous waste of breath, he thought, singing for a girl he barely knew.

After Coriolanus’ performance, President Ravinstill gave a rather monotonous speech about courage and bravery. How Arachne was going to be sorely missed. Right—of course she was.

And the very next day, life moved on. As if Arachne’s death had never happened.

Soon after, they had all the mentors and tributes gathered into one of the academy halls— with the tributes shackled to tables, of course. It wasn’t like there was anywhere for them to run. You’d seen all the peacekeepers lining the hallways outside.

“In spite of yesterday’s tragic events,” Highbottom said, not a shred of sincerity to be found in his tone, “our President has decided that the games must go on. Show everyone that the Capitol is unafraid of such acts of terror. To which end Dr. Gaul wishes you to preview the arena this afternoon with your tributes. Later this evening, there will be a special, televised presentation of each tribute to our audience so they could… get to know them.”

A glorified show-and-tell, you dryly thought. How wonderful.

You and Coriolanus looked at each other for a brief moment—he’d ask Lucy Gray to sing again, you were certain. Then, you turned back forward, where Wovey was fiddling with her thumbs, sniffling a few times.

“You’ll have an hour to discuss strategy,” said the dean, before whisking himself off to the shadows of the room to down another vial of morphling.

You sat down in front of your tribute, trying your best to offer her a warm smile.

“Did you like the food I brought? Was it okay?” you whispered, making sure to lower your voice.

A nod, a scuffle of feet. Her bottom lip trembled.

Gnawing on the inside of your cheek, you moved on to the pressing matter at hand. “Okay, Wovey. I need… I need to know what you’re good at. Are you a fast runner?”

She thought for a moment, but then shook her head.

“I know you can climb?”

She let out a shaky sigh. “I used to climb in my mama’s factory all the time. Trees, too.”

“Good. That’s good,” you murmured, pulling out a notepad so you could jot some things down. “Are you good at hiding? Staying still?”

“I think so,” she said, looking awfully uncomfortable. “Will I go back home if I win?”

A sharp pang hit you square in the chest. You tore your gaze away from your notes on the paper to look at her.

“Yes,” you hesitantly replied. “They’ll take you home.”

This seemed to satisfy her for the time being. Gave her hope that you perhaps shouldn’t have instilled.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “So—for your televised presentation. We need to win the audience over so they send in donations—I’d be able to send you things. What do you want to do?”

After quite a bit of back and forth, you managed to get Wovey to agree to talk about her family on stage. How much she missed them. It wasn’t much, but perhaps the youngest tribute sympathy card would push the odds in your favor.

Halfway through the hour, however, Coriolanus and Clemensia were called away by Highbottom—most likely to discuss the proposal Coryo had written up once you left the estate. You made a mental note to ask him how it goes once you saw him again. You felt bad, seeing Lucy Gray sitting all alone, bound hands lightly rapping against the table’s wood.

By the stroke of four in the afternoon, they gathered all the mentors and tributes in front of the arena. Coriolanus came bounding up to the group just seconds away from the gates opening, appearing breathless and mildly frazzled.

“You okay? Where’s Clemmie?” you asked, resting a hand on his elbow, brows kinking with confusion.

“She’s… not going to make it.” He winced, appearing distinctly torn. “I’ll tell you later.”

There was a brief silence where you scrutinized him, eyes wide. Something bad happened when he was with Dr. Gaul, and you weren’t too keen on finding out.

You walked alongside Coriolanus into the arena, with your two tributes in front of you. Lucy Gray was saying something comforting to Wovey in that sweet voice of hers, and for that you were grateful. The last thing you needed was Wovey to break down in an anxious mess.

The arena itself was spacious but incredibly rundown, crumbling under the weight of its neglected upkeep. The glass roof was stained and dusty, rusty slants creaking as they parted to filter sunlight into the dome.

“Welcome to the arena of the 10th annual hunger games,” a distorted voice echoed through the arena’s shoddy speaker system. “Tributes, mentors, you have fifteen minutes to survey the space and discuss strategy.”

With one final squeeze on Coriolanus’ shoulder, you parted ways with him, stepping beside Wovey to urge her into a lap around the arena. Staggered rows of dusty seats lined the edges high above the ground—Wovey was a good climber, wasn’t she?

You tried your best to give her advice. “Hiding in the seats is your best option. Climbing over the rows whenever someone comes to attack you should buy you time. You’re small, too—I think you’d be able to crawl beneath the seats to get away. As for weapons… maybe grab something small from the center. A knife or a dagger. But only if you have time, and only if you know you can make it. If not, just make a break for the seats, as fast as you can. Got that, sweetheart?”

Wovey stayed silent. But she nodded. Nodded and nodded until you worried her head was going to pop right off.

You bent down at the waist slightly so that you were eye-level with her. “I’ll be watching you the whole time. I’m there if you need m—”

Sudden explosions rang out about the arena. Plumes of dust flew everywhere, blinding you almost instantaneously. With your eyes squeezed shut, you felt the ground shake and split and rumble until another closer explosion flung you a good few feet off the ground. You landed on your side with a strangled scream, though the pain only registered a few seconds later. Cracking your aching eyes open and squinting through the haze of dust, you caught sight of shattered glass thundering around you like crystalized rain, nicking your skin with sharp pin pricks.

Your right side buzzed with warmth. Something damp. You dazedly looked down.

Oh.

It seemed you’d landed right on a broken metal pipe, sticking right out of your abdomen. Blood was pooling down your academy uniform, soaking the fabric a far more sinister shade of red. You choked out something akin to a dry sob, before screaming out for help. You heard dozens of similar cries echo back to you.

With a grunt, you pushed yourself up,

“CORYO?!” you screamed as loud as you could. Faintly, you could hear his strained voice echo your name back—somewhere across the arena, you’d wager.

The pain was starting to grow worse. Searing, almost, as if you were being laid over an open fire. You staggered through the rubble, pressing a hand to your side in a terrible attempt to staunch the bleeding, careful not to jostle the pipe. It was probably the only thing keeping you from bleeding out right then and there.

As you kept moving, you caught sight of a large, gaping hole at the opposite end of the arena. There were tributes running out. Peacekeepers shooting them. The explosions had been so loud that your ears were ringing with terrible white noise—you couldn’t even hear the sound of the rifles blasting.

You glanced around wildly.

You spotted the small little girl near the edge of the arena. Running with Dill, you realized, mind still lagging a second too late from shock. Another explosion rattled through the arena—this time, crumbling the roof away completely.

With a mangled noise, you began limping as quickly as you could.

Another call of your name, echoing and rattling about your skull, and Coriolanus materialized right beside you out of seemingly nowhere. There were two of him, you realized. He appeared fuzzy.

You reached out for him, but he suddenly pulled you forward, yelling something. Something you couldn’t hear. A flash of rainbow by his left, and you saw Lucy Gray just barely escape being crushed by a large stone support column.

More crumbling ceiling. Coriolanus’ hands were cold when he urgently shoved you forward. So hard that you went tumbling down, screaming with the sudden painful jolts the metal pipe sent shooting up your spine. A second later, you blearily looked around for Coriolanus—realizing that he’d pushed you into the clear when you found him pinned down under heavy foundational slants—and they’d caught on fire.

Numb panic shot through your mind. You barely registered your own voice croaking out his name. You tried to crawl towards him, but he only seemed to get farther away.

The last thing you saw before your eyes rolled into the back of your head and you went careening backwards was the rainbow dress, and wild, dark hair.

The hospital bed was far from comfortable, but you’d been so tired you were knocked out for half of the day. Though, Tigris told you that you did sort of wake up at some point in the night, mumbling Coriolanus’ name with half-cracked eyes, before falling right back asleep.

He’d startled awake before you—rushing to your bed (right beside his) and taking your limp hand in his cold, clammy one. Brushed the hair away from your forehead and muttered apologies and please don’t die like they were a mantra.

When you finally stirred, you nearly burst into tears upon seeing Coriolanus.

“I thought you died,” you dry-sobbed. Your side ached considerably with the effort. “I thought I was going to die.”

He drew you into a loose hug, careful to avoid your bandaged midriff. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I’m here. I love you—I’m not going anywhere, okay? Lucy Gray saved you. Saved us.”

“She did?” you croaked, voice soft. Yes, you sort of remembered. It was all a blur.

“She caught you before you could crack your head open on the ground,” said another voice. You turned your stiff neck to see Sejanus at the foot of the other side of your bed, next to Tigris, who was running her hand up and down your arm in a comforting manner.

You blew out a shaky sigh. Your head pulsed, and you suddenly felt nauseous. “What… what happened?”

They took turns explaining. Rebel bombing. The dead tributes. The president’s son, Felix, in critical condition. Sejanus’ tribute missing. How the games were still commencing regardless. The pipe that had been lodged in your abdomen missing any vital organs. How you were lucky to be alive.

“Wovey?” you whispered. “Is she okay?”

Coriolanus smoothed a hand over your head. “She’s okay. Not one of the ones that died.”

“Lucy Gray?” you whispered.

“Alive. She could have run. She stayed back to help you and me,” he said as his hand traveled down to gently cup your face. There were dark circles under his eyes. “I owe her now. She saved the love of my life.”

“Oh, Coryo—are you okay? Are you hurt?” Your gaze roamed all over his form, clad in an identical hospital gown.

“A few burns and bruises. Nothing compared to you.”

You drew in a staggered breath. Every muscle and tendon in your body screamed with even the slightest movements.

Tigris squeezed your hand. “We were so worried for you. Coriolanus couldn’t sleep all night. Your mother came by earlier but she had to leave—a spill in the lab, or something. And your father sends his love from district two. Your mother said he was furious. Military is doubling down.”

“Typical,” you whispered, supplying the three with half a weary smile, glad that they were there for you. “I can’t believe they’re going on with the games tomorrow. This is absurd.”

“They don’t want to seem weak,” Sejanus bitterly replied. “But you woke up just in time. The televised presentations are starting soon.”

Nearly an hour later, Sejanus switched on the television set hanging in front of the beds. Tribute after tribute went by, most of them appearing gaunt and exhausted. True to what the two of you had discussed, Wovey got on stage and talked about her family back in district eight, despite looking rather shaken. The audience crooned and sighed with pity. Donations were sparse, but still more than you had expected, to your bittersweet relief. You watched from the hospital bed, curled up with Tigris at the head of it, your head on her shoulder, whilst Sejanus and Coriolanus were standing far closer to the curved screen.

Lucy Gray was the last to go on. She had a guitar with her. And she sang a beautiful song—one about a boy back from home, she said. The audience cheered and sniffled. Even the nurses stopped their bustling to watch, some of them discreetly wiping away tears.

Once visiting hours were over and Tigris and Sejanus were shooed out of the hospital, Coriolanus sat beside you and slung an arm over your shoulder. He slotted his fingers beneath your chin and kissed you deeply. It was a slow embrace, with not a hint of sexual intentions—he just wanted to hold you. Remind himself that you were still alive, still here, still his.

Your nose nudged his when he laid his forehead over yours. The two of you breathed in each other’s comforting presence. Just the two of you. It reminded you of when times were so… uncomplicated. Before all the mentoring came along, the only things you had to worry about were grades and Coriolanus’ refusals to eat properly.

Then, he told you about Clemensia. How she was probably somewhere in this very building. How she screamed when she was bitten by the snake muttation. Your mind raced with questions, but you yawned instead and leaned against his chest.

“I love you, too, Coryo,” you whispered into his hospital gown, realizing you hadn’t said it back earlier.

A few minutes later, you were back asleep. Coriolanus was careful not to wake you when he laid you back down. Tucked the blanket up to your chin. He kissed your hairline once more, regarding you with a fond expression, before straightening, trying his best to ignore the aches blossoming over his back and legs.

And then he left the ward, assuring the doctors that he was fine and he could be discharged. They reluctantly agreed after a brief check-up, and had him sign off for himself. Once he was out, he immediately set off for the arena, trying to search for something, anything to keep his tribute alive.

Tunnels. The ground had collapsed into them, giving Lucy Gray a perfect place to run and hide. He went back home, making sure Grandma’am and Tigris were asleep—before pouring a copious amount of powdered rat poison into his late mother’s compact.

It was cheating. But you and Sejanus had both said it before—he was a rebel by nature. Bad news.

He visited the zoo enclosure and gave it to her then, informing her of the tunnels. Wiped her tears with a handkerchief, then told her he owed her his life and more. That you were okay, and it was all thanks to her. Lucy Gray looked overwhelmed for a moment. She did what any decent person would, she thought. He promised her that she’d get out. Return home to the Covey. False hope whispered unrealistic dreams into her ears and she let herself listen.

“We all do things we’re not proud of to survive,” he whispered when Lucy Gray attempted to protest, not wanting to poison anyone. He pushed the compact firmly into her hands. “Do it for your family.”

Conflict warred across her features. She nodded once, then twice.

Coriolanus' expression set with determination. “We are going to win this, Lucy Gray. We’re going to win this together. I’m going to get you home.”

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow fluff #coriolanus snow x you #hunger games fanfiction #coriolanus snow drabbles #tbosas fanfiction #tbosas x reader #young!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow angst

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nightwngz · 3 months ago

Note

Food for thought: hal jordan and barry Allen sandwich.

Like imagine hal flat out degrading you while barry is up in your ear praising you for doing so good but only increasing the speed of his fingers.

Another side note, misuse of speedforce powers and misuse of the ring in the bedroom? 👀👀 sign me up.

-🌾 anon

— 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 !! ♡⃝ eng.

hal jordan 𝒙 fem!reader 𝒙 barry allen

✶ | warnings. . . porn without plot, smut. fingering. dirty talk, praising kink and degradation. nipple play. biting.

✶ | language. . . english is not my first language and I tend to make mistakes, so I apologize in advance.

✶ | note. . . hey anon, I hope you like this. I am so bad at answering asks but I keep trying hahaha.

It might have been your fault, though you weren’t entirely sure. You weren’t completely certain if what you were doing was right, but the mix of Barry's gentle sweetness and Hal's roughness created a bittersweet obsession, both in bed and in your relationship.

Barry loved to be gentle and affectionate. Even as he curled his fingers inside your hole, arching your back, his attention to detail was unmatched. He enjoyed watching you delight in his caresses, especially when he used his powers to vibrate his fingertips at high speed, touching you in that sensitive spot inside you while whispering, "God, honey, you're doing so good. Always so beautiful.”

Hal, on the other hand, was never known for his kindness to you; he enjoyed rubbing your clit with his ring until he made you cry, then laughing at you for it. He would tease Barry for pampering you and trying to make you feel good with his words, whispering in your ear, “You must be the only slut who can take being humiliated and flattered at the same time just to get fucked. How disgusting.”

Although they are very different, they both agree on how to please you. Even as Barry goes out of his way to remind you how beautiful you are and how much he enjoys the feel of your pussy squeezing his fingers, he increases the speed in a way that even your best vibrator couldn't match.

And Hal, with some competitive intent, rubs your clit harder, not caring if you're a little sensitive. He can't stand Barry hogging the spotlight just because he's faster, so he starts kissing your neck with some aggression, whispering in your ear, determined to charm you with his degrading words.

They see you crying on the bed as you writhe, and it only fuels them. You can even feel their lips curl into a smile as they hear your moans fill the room. Through your tears, you murmur barely intelligible prayers: "More, please, don't stop. I'm so close, so close.”

Hal nibbled gently on your neck while he used his free hand to spread your thighs, trying to keep you from closing your legs. Meanwhile, Barry searched for the most vulnerable spot on you, running his thumbs deftly over your nipples. The intensity of the moment made your cheeks blush so red that you hid on the brown-haired man's shoulder to hide your embarrassment.

Hal laughed softly. "Why the sudden embarrassment, doll? Who knew you'd have a hint of shame all over your body with two of Barry's fingers buried in your little hole?” But the blonde looked at him disapprovingly for laughing at you. 'Don't tease, Hal. She's extremely sensitive in that area, aren't you, honey?’

But you could not react. Barry's gentleness and Hal's roughness in taking care of you were so different that they created a strange mixture of sensations in your body. This combination brought you close to orgasm in an addictive way, and when you realized it, you couldn't help but enjoy it.

#— 🌾 anon #dc comics #dc universe #dc comics x reader #dc comics smut #dc comics x female reader #smut #green lantern #hal jordan #the flash #hal jordan x fem!reader #hal jordan x reader #hal jordan smut #barry allen x fem!reader #barry allen x y/n #barry allen x reader #barry allen smut

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bloodiedrogue · 1 year ago

Text

EASY DAYS AHEAD

SUMMARY: Astarion's not used to feeling cared for. Luckily though, you're as caring as they come.

PAIRING: Astarion & Gender Neutral Reader

WORD COUNT: 1,925

WARNINGS: Astarion's POV, 18+ sexual content, oral sex (male receiving), body worship if you squint, CONSENT!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi, consent is incredibly sexy. That's all I gotta say. Also that I'm pretty sure I was possessed by something because I wrote this in literally an hour and a half???

MASTERLIST

Astarion doesn’t deserve the care that goes into loving him. With nothing more to offer than a broken mind wrapped in precious, tainted silk, it’s hard to wrap his head around the tenderness. Specifically the feeling of your skin, trailing patterns down his spine —painting fresh images over the scars that line his back as you praise him for his efforts.

Your voice sounds wrong in his ears. Every word distorting. All the syllables jumbling up in ways that make him narrow his eyes, staring through the darkness of the tent at nothing in particular.

“You okay?” you ask, and even now, weeks after your first night spent together, he has to muster up everything he’s got not to break down in front of you.

“I’m fine, darling.”

His lips always pull in that liar’s grin, ripping through his face like knives. Slicing the inside of his cheeks each time his fangs bite down on the wet flesh inside.

He has to force himself to look at you. To stare at the exhausted smile that slowly shifts to a frown, showcasing your insight. How you know he’s lying before he can even elaborate on why he’s fine or how you shouldn’t worry about him —he’s a creature of the night after all.

Pressing fully against him, he hears you click your tongue and shake your head as if scolding him. “What do you need?”

Each time you pose that same question he feels like dying. Despite the fact his heart no longer works like yours —despite the act of breathing being nothing more than a habit he’s carried over from his deathbed— there’s a dread that coats his chest. Like oil, thick and slick, it completely drowns his organs. Suffocating his body while his mind and soul fight over what comes next.

As the internal argument grows, his eyes always dart back and forth. One moment they’re locked onto your face, obsessively viewing each section and the next they’re anywhere but. In the forest, on the battlefield, back home tucked tightly inside the palm of his master’s hand —each night he travels everywhere, lingering in certain places while speeding through others, praying to all the Gods that never listened that he’ll make his way back to you. That just this once, instead of drifting off to sea, they’ll grant him the anchor he so desperately craves. The one that’s tethered to you and the solid ground beneath.

“You still there, handsome?”

He is —sort of— depending on the moment, but instead of saying that he merely hums. Offering the bare minimum to the only person he’s ever met deserving of more.

“Tired?”

“Incredibly.”

You push your chest against his back and grip his shoulder, allowing your fingers to tighten around as you maneuver your lips to his cheek. “You should rest then,” you tell him afterward, but like always the words get pushed together. Morphing into something else entirely, causing him to narrow his eyes.

“You’re one to talk, aren’t you?” he teases, watching you roll your eyes —feeling your nails tentatively dig into his flesh as a warning.

“Shush. Don’t make me shove a sleeping potion down your throat.”

In response, he lets out a humorous huff. Then, his hands move to snake around your waist, pulling you on top of him. “Go ahead. I’m sure Gale would thoroughly enjoy such misuse of his wares.”

“My wares,” you correct, pressing an annoyed kiss to his chest, making sure to catch his skin between your teeth in the process as a warning. “I bought them from him fair and square.”

Immediately, he grabs your chin and raises his brow. “Why the hells would you need a potion of sleep anyway? You already sleep like a corpse.”

You merely look away with a smile. All while rolling your eyes in that way that makes him feel like he’s young again. Freshly born into a world that hadn’t yet chewed and spat him out. One where the veins beneath his skin are full of warm blood, pumping through his system, fuelling the desire he knows he should have now that you’re lying against him, flesh against flesh. Beating heart against—

Your lips press against his sternum and he swears they’re the most tender things he’s ever felt. Next to the way your fingers always seem to lace in his when you’re sitting by the campfire, they’re softer than any touch he’s ever experienced. Hungry yet restrained for his benefit, knowing it’s hard to feel like this. To experience the kindness of a pair of lips, worshipping a slab of skin so undeserving of such care.

Each time your mouth makes contact, your eyes are always on him, asking for permission. Begging for consent. He’s never told you this but it’s the most selfless thing he’s ever experienced. Despite it’s obvious subtly, that look you give each time your mouth can’t help itself or your hands grow a bit too greedy, means more to him than life itself. More than power or revenge. More than freedom. Because that look requires worth. Value. An offering of submission he’s long since memorized.

Each time it’s given to him, he has to compose himself. Otherwise, he might just shatter entirely —fall to the floor in a hundred tiny pieces not even you may be willing to put in the effort to fix.

Swallowing hard, he has to stare intently at your face, taking in the way you look up at him through your lashes. How you arch your brow just slightly upward, asking for forgiveness. Atoning for your sins in the form of restraint until he eventually nods, hearing your voice.

You always ask out loud to make sure. An act that only further fuels his desire to feel you wrapped around him. To experience the warmth of your flesh tenderly pressing against the iciness of his.

“Go ahead, darling,” he tells you, and for once, he means it. Truly.

Instead of pretending like he wants this for the sake of a game, he accepts you in full. Watching you genuinely grin as you lean up to capture his lips, savouring the taste of his approval. Consuming the sound that absentmindedly passes through his lips as your hand lingers down, drifting past his chest and stomach until you’re pulling away to breathe.

He can feel his mouth swell with need. The rest of his body following suit as you begin to descend, touching and kissing and biting —putting him through every sensation he’s gifted so many others.

Leaning up to watch you work, he can see the excitement in your face each time he accidentally twitches beneath you. How the edges of your eyes crinkle with anticipation the moment you find yourself tucked between his legs, looming over him with heavy hands and breaths.

“You’re beautiful,” you tell him then, and for once it means something.

“You’re beautiful,” he repeats back, and for once it isn’t a lie. In fact, it’s the most honest he’s ever been, and secretly that scares him. So much so that he has to look down to see if you’re still there.

Hoping that the sudden sincerity in his voice hasn’t scared you away, he can’t help but focus on the curve of your spine. How it starts low; your chest slightly leaning against one of his inner thighs.

Somehow despite the precarious position, you look perfect. Like a piece of art so carefully made, he can’t help but reach down and touch, revelling in the way you shudder beneath him. Sighing at the sudden desperation that erupts when you pull at the fabric against his waist.

“Greedy, are we?” he jokes.

Shooting him an embarrassed look, your hands continue to work his underwear down his legs —ignoring the way they catch at his knees and ankles. “I just really want to make you feel good.”

The way you speak sends him over the precipice of ruin. Even before you discard the cloth and wrap your hand around the head of his cock, he’s already done for. Lost to the feeling of your digits. Fully enraptured by the heat of your breath as you lean forward and take him between your lips, coating him in spit. He has to close his eyes despite wanting nothing more than to look at you. Feeling the way your cheeks hollow out against him, he can already imagine the expressions of your efforts. All the time and care put in as you stroke him gently, maintaining the slowest pace he’s sure he’s ever experienced.

It drives him mad with need. Bucking upwards each time your tongue drags across the tip, he instantly feels you push back. With a firm hand, you grip his hip and dig the pads into his flesh as yet another warning, telling him to behave. To just sit back and savour the pleasures he’s deserved rather than rushing through.

He isn’t used to enjoying this. More often than not feeling like nothing more than a body designated for others enjoyment, he isn’t entirely sure how to properly relish your efforts. Or at least, in a way that doesn’t feel forced. Because he could do what you’re supposed to in this situation: touch you, moan for you, utter sweet nothings in your ear to further spur you on. He could do one of them or all of them, perhaps a mixture of two and still, it wouldn’t be enough to fully showcase the weight that fills his chest each time your mouth bobs up and down. How, as you begin to push him further and further into your mouth until he’s grazing the back of your throat, everything you do feels like the greatest gift he’s ever received. How maddening it is to feel loved like this even when he’s at his most unloveable.

Because that’s what you do to him. With the simplest of touches, you make him feel like him again. Like his mind hasn’t been shattered by the repeated slams of a sinner’s hand. As if his skin, etched by the knife of that same bastard, isn’t scarred. That instead it’s merely just skin. A grouping of muscle and tissue wrapping around his bones —a simple casing of flesh meant to be licked and sucked and pumped for all it’s worth until he’s gasping for air and uncontrollably shaking.

And sometimes he feels like he’s earned it. During the easy days when he’s able to forget about his past and instead focus on the beauty that’s pressed against his leg, continuing to suck the come from his orgasm, it’s as if he’s on top of the world. Standing on a pillar of his past self’s hopes and dreams, he can easily look down at you with pride. Reaching down to touch your temple, he can feel the haze of your affections in full. The tremors of your possessive lips slowly slipping off, granting him a slick-coated smile that makes him almost faint.

During those days he can smile back and pull you up into his chest, ignoring the ache between his thighs in your absence. Opting to hold you close.

“Was that okay?” he hears you ask, and despite the question seeming almost juvenile, all he does is kiss your face. Starting at your forehead before moving to your nose and cheeks —eventually ending on your lips, he answers the question the only way he can. By showing you that, thanks to the care you foolishly offer, the days really are getting easier.

@poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo @jjfchk @idiotsatan @bluestuesday @bloopthebat @art-by-greenie @heneralmoon @sukunababe @dreamingaboutyousworld @ranfithegood @haniscrying @liadamerondjarin @the-lake-is-calling @marina-and-the-memes @rookieoftheyear @zraloci-cpr @kaetmo @snickerdoodle-daydream @wowowwild @d1anna @raswiet @conniesbbymama @venus-wrts @demonicthorns @kihten @sanscas @spammypasta @leighsartworks216 @rose-gold-blue @p1ssmagg0t @hellish-writes @ghostinvenus @otayz @sexysquatch @sleepyeclair @colorful-anxieties @alina-exe @lillifer @girlwiththepapatattoo @acelin-ginsberg @pinkuranium @catrad0rable @scarletrosesposts @qwnamidala @itsrosebabe @bunnyperi @queenofcarrotflowers-s @tatumadams20 @spkyxszn @chlort @f3v3rs @awkwardwookie @joy-the-reader @warm-milk-with-honey-blog @vertigocrime @iyis @wildpiper @pebblethestone @tillywasneverhere @bex-03 @revemiya @staticspouse @itzagothamcitysiren

(tags continued in comments)

#easy days ahead #astarion x gender neutral reader #astarion x reader #summer writes

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wri0thesley · 1 year ago

Text

famous last words - dottore x reader x dainsleif (9.6k)

you can take care of yourself.

cw: dead dove, do not eat. not sfw, minors dni. non-con, drugging, syringes, mind control. yandere dottore and yandere dainsleif. reader is the traveller and has been travelling with dain. bondage, restraints, misuse of the akasha system, reader is traumatised and taken advantage of by dainsleif after being at dottore's mercy. reader wears a dress and has breasts/a vagina, but is referred to by they/them pronouns. please please heed the warnings.

a/n: please please (i am repeating it!) read the warnings on this one. one of my favourite yandere/dark content tropes is actually 'reader has a horrible experience and then a character who is supposed to take care of them takes advantage of them', and i don't think i've ever written it before, so this was super interesting to write!

this was a commissioned work.

Dainsleif has been on edge since the two of you crossed Sumeru’s borders.

He doesn’t say it out loud - you have learnt, over the time the two of you have spent travelling together, that Dainsleif is a man of very few words even at the best of times - but you know his small quirks and foibles well enough now that you sense it. It’s in the set of his shoulders and the line of his mouth, the way his eyes are constantly darting about wherever you go.

It’s somewhat in the way he walks closer to you, his height casting a shadow over your own, as if he can protect you merely by being near you. It makes a muscle in your jaw twitch - you are grateful for his care, of course, but surely he knows by now that you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself? You have gotten used to the feeling of a sword in your hand over your search for your twin - you have made a name for yourself in every nation you’ve traversed, and only some of the time has Dainsleif been by your side.

You suppose that the newfound relationship between the two of you is clouding his judgement somewhat too--

Well.

‘Relationship’ might be too strong of a word.

Dainsleif is hesitant with you even now; checks with you, twice and three times, before he so much as touches your shoulder. But you hope you have made it clear he does not need to, with the way you have let your hand entangle with his and the way you have smiled at him when nobody else is looking, the soft confessions to him at camp overnight that he’s one of only two people in this world you would trust whole-heartedly . . .

All of that, perhaps, has made Dain even more protective over you than he was before, despite the truth of the matter being that you are almost equal in swordsmanship and combat ability. And he’s said enough to you, too, that you understand his hesitance. Other people he has loved have been taken from him - a whole nation, in fact. Dain has had to struggle on for years all alone, and walls built over such a long time do not crumble so easily--

But still. You wish he would not fret so when you walk away from him in Sumeru City to investigate an interesting looking fruit and to ask the stallholder some questions about their wares.

You’re startled out of your reverie - handling the Zaytun peaches that lay in plump piles in round baskets upon this particular stall - by Dain murmuring your name. He has attracted some attention - he is tall and handsome and blond, an air of mystery and exoticism emanating off of him - but he is unaware of the giggles behind other people’s hands, his gaze set firmly on you.

He has always been like that - those piercing blue eyes, even through his mask-like patch - never fail to make you feel as though you are the only person in the world. You have woken up in the night at camp plenty of times, too, and felt safe in the knowledge that Dainsleif is there and his gaze will not falter.

You toss some Mora to the stallholder and turn to Dainsleif, proffering one of the peaches to him. He takes it like a precious treasure.

“Is something wrong?” You ask him, before you take a bite. His brow is furrowed - you sense something brewing in the wind. A kind of unease that lies hot and heavy in the humid Sumeru air. Dain sighs softly.

“I have some things I must do,” he says to you, his voice soft and low. “I don’t want to leave you alone, but . . .”

“I’ll be fine,” you tell him, smiling. You wonder what it is that he does not want to take you along with, but you do not push - Dainsleif will tell you in his own time, you are sure. You have no desire to push him too far when his hope seems such a fragile thing still. “I’ll meet you tonight, here?”

His shoulders untense, just a touch.

“Will you stay in the City?” He asks you, and you laugh.

“Dain,” you say, smiling, just a touch of reproach in your voice. “I can take care of myself, you know! Go and do what you need to do. I will be absolutely fine. You know that! When have I not been?”

Dain does not look entirely convinced, but whatever it is that he has a need to do has a hold on him - he looks at you with those serious, piercing eyes and takes your hand. Your cheeks go hot all over as he bends to press a chivalrous kiss upon the back of it. The crowd of admirers that Dain has amassed are all atwitter over this - you cannot blame them. If you’d seen it happen to someone else you’re sure you’d be swooning. Even now, your heart is beating a double time march against your ribcage as you wonder how you got so lucky.

“You promise me?” He asks. You can sense he is barely holding back the urgency in his voice; anxiety that tugs at the syllables like it is weighing them down. This errand he has to run . . . your curiosity runs rampant at what it might be that it is so clearly important to him.

“I promise I’ll be more than fine,” you say to him, smiling. There is the slightest snick of irritation, in the back of your mind - have you not fought dragons? Have you not befriended Archons? His concern is sweet, but he does not need to fret about you so. You say to him, trying to make sure your voice is as reasonable and convincing as possible; “You don’t have to worry about me.”

As it turns out, this proclamation will come back to haunt you.

They will become what are referred to in some places as ‘famous last words’.

You notice the earpieces that the Sumeru citizens wear as you wander around; when you ask someone about it, they look baffled as to your own lack of them.

“Usually you’re given one when you come into the city,” the young woman explains, as she kindly guides you back towards the entrance of Sumeru City. This explains it; Dainsleif always prefers to take the least populated way into anywhere, and most of the time you are happy to agree with him. Your exploits across Teyvat so far have occasionally resulted in some notoriety that isn’t always conducive to exploring new nations; you’re not surprised that Dainsleif had avoided the grand entrance of Sumeru City proper. Still, you’re beaming as the young woman brazenly walks up to one of the men standing at the entrance greeting newcomers.

He has dark hair and a moustache, and is wearing the robes that you recognise as marking him out as a member of the Sumeru Akademiya; as the young woman explains that you two are without the devices - she calls them an ‘Akasha’ - you smile at him, as bright and hopeful and friendly as you can manage.

He nods thoughtfully, and raises a hand to his own Akasha system.

“Just a moment,” he tells you, “I’m scanning the system for any information on you - just to ensure we don’t go around letting in criminals, you see?”

As he does that, you ask a few more questions of the young woman - what it is that the Akasha system does, and whether your . . . unusual physiology (a far easier way to explain it, you’ve surmised over weeks of practise, than explaining that you are a traveller from beyond the realms of Teyvat) will effect it in any way. She is effluent with her praise - the Akasha, she tells you with a wide smile and genuine pride in her voice, has truly revolutionised what it is like to be a citizen of Sumeru.

“This is unusual,” the man says, finally taking his hand from the complicated earpiece of the Akasha system. “I’m terribly sorry, but . . .”

“Is everything alright?”

You hadn’t wanted to mention it, of course - but you’d been afraid when he’d said he was scanning for information on you. Though you have mostly made peace with the nations you’ve travelled through, there have been plenty of misunderstandings too - and there are an unfortunate amount of activities that may be considered criminal in your past. Your heart beats just a little too quickly, as you carry on smiling and hope that your nervousness isn’t written too plain on your face.

You’d hate to get yourself into trouble after promising Dainsleif you would be absolutely fine on your own.

“I’m sure there’s no problem at all,” the man assures you, as he tries to return your smile. “It’s simply that we do have a record of you - oh, please don’t worry, it doesn’t name you as a wanted criminal or some such thing! It merely asks that you be shown to the Akademiya to meet with one of our trusted scholars, if you are to set foot in Sumeru City.”

This sounds a little more understandable, you think, as you let loose a small sigh of relief. Your reputation precedes you in several places - and this scholar would be far from the first person who has sought your help with matters. It’s strange that they couldn’t manage it alone with all of the resources of Sumeru behind them, but you are not in a position to judge.

“Is it just me?” You ask. “I usually travel with another man, a different blond--”

He checks, the vine-like contraption of the Akasha pulsing over his ear, but then he shakes his head.

“No,” he says, as he offers you his arm. “The only information we have is on you.” Another smile, clearly meant to reassure. “I really did mean it about not worrying; if you were a danger, I’m certain that this would not all be so civil. Sumeru maintains several forces of Eremite mercenaries to keep the peace, and the Akademiya itself has the Matra . . . If you were about to be in trouble, there would be far more of a guard than simply me.”

You still consider running. You let your eyes flash over the surrounding area to map out all possible escape routes, to see who you might have to fight if you need to - but in the end, you take the proffered arm. No matter how much Dainsleif might want you to lie low and not attract attention, you can’t help thinking that causing a scene like that would be far worse than going along with whatever it is you’re wanted for up in the Akademiya.

You do not know it at the time, but it turns out to be just another decision that will come back to bite you.

As the two of you walk, Panah - that is the man’s name, you find out - sends a message up to the Akademiya proper via the system, to let them know that the two of you are coming. He seems almost giddy when he is done, a smile playing beneath the moustache.

“I was permitted to speak to him myself,” he says, and you gather from the excitement in his voice that whatever man it is you’re about to meet occupies a place of high honour within the walls of the Akademiya. You’re impressed by the technology; you can’t help thinking how useful it would be, if you and Dainsleif had such a way to communicate when you were apart.

He’s not going to be happy about all of this - but with any luck, this will be a quick thing for you to deal with and you’ll be able to rake in some glory and reputation in Sumeru so the two of you don’t have to worry so much on your journey. A lost dog, perhaps. A band of Treasure Hoarders who need to be taken out--

If you had one of those Akasha systems, you think, you wouldn’t need to be trailing up all of these steps. You bring this up to Panah, and he laughs, still riding a high from speaking to whoever it was he was permitted to speak to.

“Ah, don’t worry about that! You’re going to be very lucky - he told me he even has an Akasha terminal set aside especially for you, with a couple of brand new features he’s been wanting to test out--”

Later on, you’ll curse yourself for these words not setting alarm bells off in your head. But right then, under the bright Sumeru sun and with the freedom of a day in Sumeru without Dain’s occasionally too protective presence, you just laugh brightly and daydream about the knowledge your very own Akasha will place at your fingertips.

There’s a little bit of pomp and ceremony when you make it to the Akademiya proper; the other staff members and workers and students who have been assigned to help you are all excited and chattering as they wave Panah off and begin to lead you into the labyrinthine halls. It’s a beautiful building, to be sure - but it’s deceptively large, and after going through lifts and corridors and being taken through door after door you begin to lose sense of where exactly it is you are. You feel a brief flare of panic inside; you much prefer to be in places where you have an idea of how to escape, should the need arise--

But everyone around you remains excited about the great scholar you’re about to meet, and their smiles and pats and their wistful proclamations about how lucky you are serve to soothe the fear, just a little.

“Here we are,” says one of them, stopping outside a great wooden door with a complicated series of locks on it; some of them are easy to understand (you know what a padlock looks like, after all), but others seem to be rather more high-tech than you’re used to. Whatever it is behind this door, you think, it must either be very important or very expensive. “Oh! We have your Akasha terminal--”

He reaches into the folds of his robe to produce one of the vine-like contraptions that everyone in Sumeru wears on their ears.

“This one was designed by him specifically,” the man tells you in awe, as he reaches over and affixes it onto your ear. “It has a few brand new functions that he wants help testing out, and he said that your experience would be a huge boon in working out all of the kinks--”

Ah. So that’s what he wanted your help with. You wonder which of your exploits it is that has made this scholar think you’d be a good fit for this kind of testing; you wonder, too, why Dainsleif wasn’t included in this idea. The two of you have done so much together, after all--

You feel a brief electric zap that seems to flash over your vision and down to your spine. A little noise in your ear, a sense of heat that lasts barely a moment - and then, the man is stepping away from you and giving a strange little bow.

“It’s working, I think,” he says, as he reaches into his pocket to turn a key, swipe a card, as his own Akasha pulses to life and some of the locks upon the door respond in kind. “Ah - I’m afraid we’ll be leaving you. His temperament can be a little unpredictable, and I’m sure he’d rather meet you alone--”

“That’s alright,” you say, smiling. You wonder what kind of brand new functions this Akasha system is going to have; perhaps something for combat capabilities? Wilderness scanning, to be able to identify poisonous herbs and dangerous animals? The big wooden door slowly creaks open, as the entourage who have guided you into the bowels of the Akademiya all disperse, leaving you alone.

“Come in,” calls a voice.

The voice is familiar; somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know that you recognise it. A kind of low, smooth drawl of a voice, that shivers with suggestion as it calls out to you. But it is not enough to deter you, now you’ve made it all the way here.

You step into the room, walking further and further into it to see that it’s a . . . workshop, of some sort. There are a few tables scattered with various tools, deconstructed machinery lolling on the floor and propped against walls. There are a couple of remains of Ruin Guards, but in Sumeru this is hardly a surprising sight--

The door slams closed behind you. You hear the click and the whirr of the locks resetting themselves, trapping you in here, but even then you still do not panic just yet. You are in the Sumeru Akademiya, after all - what horror could possibly befall you at the hands of someone so well-regarded, in such a beacon of wisdom and hope in the nation?

That’s when you spot the bed in the middle of the room.

Sterile white sheets, white metal frame, restraints at the head and at the feet. An IV standing proudly beside it; a table to one side that is scattered with, instead of tools and screwdrivers, medical equipment. Needles and scalpels and pill bottles. Your throat goes dry.

“Ah,” there’s that voice again, and out of the shadows steps a figure. Your brain snaps into action sickeningly quickly; this is indeed a man you recognise. This figure, in his doctor’s coat and long boots, with his hair falling over a masked face-- “You’re just as lovely as I remembered you.”

You crouch, your body primed, your position ready to jump to attention at any moment. You reach behind you to will your sword into your hand - if you incapacitate Dottore quickly enough, perhaps you can knock him out whilst you search his workshop for tools to help you break the locks--

“Oh, my,” he says. “Such an unwelcome reception, my dear. Still. That won’t be for long.”

“Open the door,” you snarl, through gritted teeth. “Let me out, and I won’t ram my blade through your throat.”

He smiles beneath the mask, the tilt of his lips almost fond.

“There’s that lovely fire,” he says to you, in a pleased purr. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for you for what seems like forever.”

“I’m warning you--” Your fingers wrap around the hilt of your sword. Your breath comes short; your heart pounds.

You do not truly know if you could take Dottore in a fight - he is ranked second of the Harbingers, after all, and you do not think such a position would be granted without some combat capability. But you have to hold fast to your hope - and without Dainsleif here, all you have to rely on is your own skills. What might happen if he does overpower you doesn’t bear thinking about--

(You’d noticed, the last time the two of you had met, the way his gaze behind the mask had lingered on the shape of your body. The way he had spoken silky smooth, shivering with intent, when he had addressed you. The way his leather gloved hands had felt, on your shoulders, lingering there as if they wished they could be somewhere else--)

“Ah, ah,” he clicks his tongue, chiding. “Now, darling. That won’t do at all.”

You realise too late that the Doctor himself is not wearing an Akasha system earpiece - but you are.

And as you feel it pulse into life, as bright colours flash against your vision and you stumble, your sword slipping through your fingers . . .

Everything goes black.

“Now,” Dottore’s voice cuts through the blackness, as everything seems to slowly fall back into place like a jigsaw puzzle being re-assembled. “This might hurt a touch. Just a sharp scratch, my dear--”

You’ve been strapped onto the medical bed, just as you had feared. The straps are wrapped around your ankles and your wrists, binding you spread-eagle upon the thin little mattress. You can still feel the vines of the Akasha system wrapped around your ear, and your throat clogs with the fear of it - if it could knock you out stone cold, what else could it do? Your eyes flutter open, and Dottore pauses--

He’s leaning over you with a syringe in his hand, the liquid within glowing with the same blue glow as the earring he wears. As he sees that you’re awake, his mouth opens into a wide smile with just a hint of too sharp teeth.

“Oh!” He exclaims in delight. “You’re finally awake! My, you’ve missed quite the little drama.”

He carefully places the syringe down upon the metal table as he reaches over you and fiddles with some kind of control on the side of the bed. Slowly, it creaks upwards, propping you up a little so you are bent at the waist.

“That’s better,” Dottore coos. “Now we can all see one another. Look, darling. Your knight in shining armour.”

Dainsleif.

How long have you been out cold? How easy was it for Dottore to strap you onto this operating table - how deeply did the Akasha knock you out?

Long enough for Dain to realise you were missing. Long enough for him to track you down - long enough for he, too, to be overpowered by the second Harbinger and find himself entirely at the Doctor’s mercy.

Your travelling companion sits across from the bed you are restrained upon, ropes tied around his broad chest to keep him lashed to a rusted metal chair. A gag has been crudely shoved into his mouth so all he can do is make a soft little distressed noise at the predicament you have found himself in; more ropes bind his ankles to each leg of the chair, just to ensure that he’s fully unable to so much as wriggle in his bindings. He stares at you, agonised.

“We’ve been talking about everything I’m going to do to you,” Dottore hums - and something hot and sour crawls into your throat as he leans over, and his leather gloves caress your face like a lover and not like a madman. “Ah, sweet little traveller . . . I’ve barely been able to wait to get my hands on you. A pretty face like that, and that fighting spirit . . . Ah! You stick in a man’s mind.” His smile is just as wide and unhinged as ever as he taps your cheek fondly. “I don’t think your poor knight is going to enjoy it, but . . . well. I’m sure you will.”

You struggle in the bonds, as your strength returns to you. You try and use your not inconsiderable strength to see if you can loosen the leather around your wrists, as fear of the undercurrent of desire in Dottore’s words and anger at Dainsleif finding you like this and worry about Dain himself all war at once within you like a churning whirlpool.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you seethe at Dottore, tugging hard. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but it would be better for everyone if you just let me go now, and we can pretend none of this happened--”

Dottore throws his head back and laughs.

“Oh,” he practically purrs at you. “You’re so lovely when you’re enraged. But . . . ah. No, I don’t think I shall. Now, my dear. How shall we start? A kiss, perhaps? Your lips have been haunting my dreams recently--”

“I’ll bite your tongue off,” you snarl, and though you cannot see Dottore’s eyes you can tell from the way that his face moves that he has raised his eyebrows. He lets out a low, silky chuckle.

“Ah. So that’s how it’s going to be. Well, if so . . .”

He reaches back over to the metal table, and in his hands now he lifts the syringe once more. He taps the barrel of glowing blue liquid once, twice, that infuriatingly calm and smooth smile returning to his face.

“This won’t knock you out,” he tells you. “I want you to be aware of everything we do together, darling, so you remember how good it makes you feel . . . how much we belong together. But it shall . . . how should I put this? Take a bit of the edge out of you.” He leans in; finding the crook of your elbow, thumb smoothing softly and almost lovingly over the patch of skin. “I’d hate for all of your fire to go missing, but . . . perhaps we should at least dull your teeth a little, hmm?”

Dainsleif makes some awful noise; a whimper crossed with a moan, a kind of noise you’ve never heard the stoic Twilight Sword make before, as the needle sinks into your skin with a sharp scratch. Panic flares in your mind white hot at whatever kind of concoction is being injected directly into your veins--

But the panic quickly dulls, as you feel the drug beginning to take effect.

It adds a muzzy kind of quality to everything. You see Dottore and Dain before you - the Doctor smiling, Dain agonised behind his patch and gag and rope. You know that there is something terribly wrong with this scene, but your mind is too hazy to pull up the specifics. You go to open your mouth and put word to a question, but nothing comes out - your tongue is too heavy, your teeth feeling as though they’re in the wrong place in your mouth.

“Oh, lovely,” says Dottore with relish. “My, you took to that sedative better than even I hoped you would! Sweet dear thing, will you let me kiss you now?”

You know, in that hazy mess of your mind, that you do not want this man to kiss you - but as he leans forward, you cannot remember why. You cannot make your tongue move to say no, and before you know it a pair of lips have firmly pressed to your own, tasting of the smell of antiseptic and peppermint. Dottore kisses you as thoroughly as he does everything else - his mouth working against yours, sharp teeth tugging at your lower lip, his tongue slipping into your mouth and laying claim to the shape of it as if he is an explorer mapping out newly conquered territory.

From somewhere that seems very far away, you hear another angry noise, half groan and half moan.

Dottore pulls back, his tongue tracing his lips as if he’s savouring the taste of you left on them.

“Even better than I imagined,” he murmurs. “But . . . ah, my dear, don’t you want to kiss me back?”

There’s a pulse by your ear. Your mind short-circuits - and then Dottore is leaning in again for another kiss, and without you sending a single signal to your body you are kissing Dottore back, your mouth working against his, your tongues twining with one another as if possessed by an unknown force. Dottore groans into your mouth, at the same time as one of his gloved hands comes to land on your thigh, bare beneath your skirt.

You realise dully that it is the Akasha, taking control of your body; doing exactly what Dottore tells you to do.

If you hadn’t been drugged with the sedative that the Doctor had used, perhaps this realisation would make horror rise in you - it clearly does in Dainsleif, who struggles desperately against his bonds. But to you, in your current state . . . it is merely a realisation that washes over you like a cool stream. An inevitability.

“Ah,” Dottore says, and he smiles something horrific and tender down at you. “We’re going to enjoy ourselves, aren’t we?”

Those gloved fingers slide higher and higher up your thigh, the touch remaining soft. You think it would be better if he started pawing at you like an animal; if he ripped and tore at your clothes. Something about the softness of how his thumb moves over your inner thigh, the soft untouched skin there - something about the gentle way his thumb brushes over your underwear . . . that feels a hundred times worse than you could ever imagine.

He sighs in pleasure. All you can do is lay there and take it; your wrists and ankles bound, your entire body prone, your veins numbed with sedatives. Your eyes seek out Dain’s across the room - and he looks at you, so broken that you think you will cry.

Dottore’s other hand reaches up to the catches down the side of your dress. They are there to make it easier to dress yourself - catches and buttons up your spine are not helpful when you are alone or injured, and since you have found yourself in Teyvat you have been both of those things more often than you’d like to have - but you curse them, now, as Dottore’s other hand gently (oh-so-gently) peels them from your body and you are almost bare before him. Your nipples pebble in the cool air; your cheeks flush hot at how he tilts his head to look down at you.

If you could see his eyes, what would you see written in them?

“Oh,” Dottore is quiet when he speaks; appreciation dripping off every syllable. He moves his other hand away from where he’s been constantly petting at your sex through your underwear in order to turn all of his attention to your newly bared chest; you feel the hot flush across your collarbones at the sheer admiration that seems to ghost every movement. “You’re even more lovely than I could have thought.”

His leather-clad palms reach down, taking a handful of the soft curve of your chest; squeezing the half-globes in his hand, sighing happily at how they fit in his grip. His thumb and forefinger find the nub of your nipples, pinching one each until they stiffen and pucker beneath the attention and you squirm, a hot little bolt of lightning going straight from the place Dottore is pinching to the place between your thighs.

“You like that?” He murmurs, not missing the way you shudder beneath the attention. “Ah, sweet thing - has your knight not done this for you? Have you been saving yourself for me?”

Again, you can’t make your tongue form words; all you can do is let out a little whimpering moan of a noise that makes Dottore chuckle. It sounds far too close to affirmation for your liking, but what can you really do, as Dottore continues to pinch and pluck at your nipples and the warm zaps of pleasure and excitement continue to run hot in your veins?

You can hear the way your breath is starting to come out in little pants; how it shudders in the air, heat coalescing between the bots of you as Dottore’s insistent pinches further cloud your mind. You can’t help the noise that falls from your mouth as he bends his head and applies his tongue just so upon one of the buds; as it swirls around it, suckling the nipple into his mouth, lathing it with attention that makes your back arch involuntarily.

Dainsleif, still bound across the room, fights against the ropes once again and lets out a muffled noise of anger; words caught in the gag, vitriol spewed at the Doctor as he does whatever he wants to with your body. It is all for nothing, though.

Dottore’s thumbs are hooking into your underwear. The thin cotton tears at the seams at only the flimsiest tug from the second ranked Harbinger, and then Dottore is looking down at your spread thighs and the folds of your sex on display for him and cooing at you so sweetly that it cloys.

“Oh, darling,” he says to you. “You’re this wet for me?”

It’s not fair.

Frustrated tears rise to your eyes. In your current state, drugged and confused, under all of Dottore’s touches . . . your body has betrayed you. You know you’re wet; you can feel your own slick, oozing out of you, your folds wet with droplets of arousal. Desire to be touched warring with disgust for the man before you inside of you - frustration that you cannot so much as speak to put voice to your anger. Not even to beg him to stop.

Hand on your thigh. Two fingers, deftly parting the lips of your labia so cool air hits the sensitive inner folds; the swollen bud of your clit, waiting to be touched, thrumming with excitement. A whine catches in your throat at the sensation of being studied like this; the way that Dottore is looking down at you like a wolf about to thoroughly enjoy his meal.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, again. “So much lovelier in the flesh.” He turns his head without turning his body, catching Dainsleif’s gaze. “Look, Twilight Sword. Ah. Don’t you wish you were in my position now? Aren’t you simply longing to have your wicked way with our sweet little Traveller?”

Dain struggles desperately, the muscles of his shoulders flexing, his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth working at the gag firmly pressed within it. You know that he wants to help you; that Dain would tear Dottore limb for limb for what he is clearly about to do to you, if only he could get himself free.

But, too, there’s something in his eye that you do not want to admit to.

Shining bright behind the agonised blue is a palpable lust; a desire to be in Dottore’s place. You know that Dain would never hurt you - would never strap you to a table and use you against your will, you’re sure of it - but that look in his eyes makes you shiver.

“Don’t worry,” Dottore assures him, turning back to you with that wicked smile on his face. “I’ll make sure you get to watch.”

He eases the way his fingers are keeping you spread apart in order to be able to slowly slide his index finger through the valley of your sex; to wet his glove on all of the slick, to let it gather on his fingertip. He raises that gloved finger to his mouth, tongue darting out to taste you as he tilts his chin back to savour it.

“Ah,” he says, as he tugs his glove off with his teeth. “Forgive me, my dear - I simply must feel you without them.”

His fingertips feel just as cold, as he touches you with them instead of the gloves. Your back arches again, though your own restraints keep you on the bed and stop you from being able to wriggle away from Dottore’s questing fingers even if the sedative hadn’t filled your limbs with honey.

Dottore lets out a soft chuckle at the way your body moves, another chiding click of his tongue.

“Breathe out,” he advises you, as his finger circles your entrance, as his thumb finds the swollen pearl of your clit and begins to draw slow, firm circles over it. “It will make it easier, sweet thing--”

One of his fingers swiftly presses inside of you, punching the air out of your chest. You hate it, you think - you hate the feel of his slender digits pressing further and further inside of you, the feel of him crooking his knuckle just so that the bone rubs against a spot inside of you that makes you see stars--

It feels good, too. You don’t want it to. You don’t like how the feeling of him inside of you seems to satiate an ache that had started when he had rubbed over the seam of your underwear and kissed you and toyed with your chest. You don’t like that, as a second finger rubs around your entrance in preparation to be put inside of you, your breath catches in excitement at the thought of being stretched further.

“That’s right,” Dottore is murmuring, his own voice a little breathless now as excitement leaks into his tone. “Oh, you’re doing so well, lovely thing. Ah-- you have no idea how good you feel. Like silk . . . Thinking about doing this to you doesn’t at all measure up to the real thing.”

The thought of Dottore having these thoughts about you makes your heart twist. You close your eyes, just so you don’t have to see Dainsleif sitting across from you, watching you with agonised eyes as Dottore’s fingers make you feel a way you didn’t know you could.

A few more months and perhaps you would have imagined Dain himself doing this to you - something more intimate than the shy, awkward kisses the two of you have so far shared, as Dainsleif silently agonises and worries about his body being tainted and his curse ruining everything that shimmers between the two of you like fragile gossamer. Perhaps then, it would have been slow and careful - Dain waiting for you to give the go-ahead, letting you lead . . .

That choice has been taken from you, now, as two of Dottore’s fingers scissor inside of you to open you up wide and his thumb continues to rub over your clit in firm, sure circles. The way that Dottore touches you would almost be clinical - designed solely to make you feel good, to prepare you for the inevitable stretch of his cock, to make sure that your slickness would provide adequate lubrication for the glide of the same - were it not for the bright mania that fills his grin as he stares down at you, watching your sex swallow his fingers with every wet, slick pump of his wrist.

That is the look of a man very much enjoying what he’s doing to you.

“Sweet Traveller,” he murmurs, low and cajoling. “I think you’re going to come for me.”

You have just enough control of your body to toss your head weakly, shaking it from side to side, your hair falling over your face. It does not hide the fact that your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are bright, that your chest is heaving as every rub of his fingers sends brand new sparks of pleasure careening to the middle of your stomach into a hot, tight ball.

“Oh,” Dottore’s voice is laced with faux sympathy. “That wasn’t me asking, darling. Come for me.”

Another zing; a zap, a pulse, where the Akasha terminal is wrapped about your ear--

And your body twitches and pulses under his command, as the hot tight ball of want inside of you seems to get a signal from the terminal that now is the time to explode. You don’t know how to explain it; the way that your mind seems to contract at the same time as your body, and then you are panting and whining helplessly as shivers rack you underneath Dottore’s twisting wrist, his insistent thumb.

He lets out a sigh of pleasure as he pulls back, his fingers glimmering wetly with your own orgasm. Again, he lifts them to his mouth; again, you see a sharp flash of teeth as his tongue traces his own digits and he savours the way you taste on his tongue.

“That’s more than enough,” he says, pleasantly. He looks at Dainsleif, the blond all wide-eyed and desperate and seething with hatred, and gives him another smile that is like the edge of a knife. “Don’t you think so, knight? Ah. Don’t you think it’s time for me to take them fully?”

Dainsleif struggles again, and Dottore laughs like a creaked, rusting hinge on a sharp iron gate.

“I don’t want to hurt them,” he says, syrupy sweet. “Oh, they mean more to me than that. I merely want them to understand how badly I need them . . . and how good I could be for them, too.”

The sedatives in your system do not allow you to fight back; to bare your teeth and growl and tell him you could never imagine how he could possibly be good for you. But though your mind churns with these thoughts, your body is still not quick enough to respond - your veins still weighed down with honey. Too tenderly, Dottore reaches for your face; traces his thumb over your cheekbone.

“We are going to consummate our mutual adoration,” he tells you, and he reaches for his fly. You hear the buttons of his placket undo as if you are somewhere very far away, button sliding through button hole. Dottore sighs happily as he repositions the table and himself, making sure that Dainsleif has an even better view of the way that he slots himself between your thighs. Your breath catches in your throat as you feel Dottore’s cock slap against the bare skin; the wet, slick head of him, as he rubs it over your own soft inner thighs. You burn with humiliation, as the wet pap of him slapping the cockhead against your cunt echoes in Dottore’s workshop, and the Doctor keeps smiling as if he’s enjoying himself terribly.

“How about,” he says, loud enough for Dainsleif to hear it, “before we begin, you tell me what I want to hear, Traveller?”

You blink at him slowly, as he pushes his hips forward, and the head of his cock catches on the ring of your entrance; as your body clenches and puckers, waiting for him to move further forward. You wish he would just get on with it, but at the same time you wish that this wouldn’t happen. If you were fully in control of your body, you’re certain you would be struggling and sobbing and spitting - but you are not.

“Oh,” he murmurs, syrupy sweet. “You don’t know what I mean? Darling, let me say it a little simpler whilst you’re still all addled from me making you come . . . Loud enough for the Twilight Sword to hear, now. Why don’t you tell me you love me?”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence.

It’s not really silent; there’s a buzzing in your ears, there’s a constant hum from the machinery that surrounds you both, there’s the sound of three people breathing within the room, panting and seething and hating . . . but that’s how it feels.

You would never tell this monster you loved him.

But Dottore is still looking at you, his cock still pressing against your entrance, his head still tilted to one side, his mouth still quirked in a smile - and there’s an eager kind of obsession in his gaze, as if he thinks you might actually get the words out--

The pulsing in your ear. The flash across your brain. You can’t breathe; you can’t think, through anything but the sudden desire to tell the Doctor who’s about to ruin you that you love him.

Your tongue is slow. Heavy. Your voice echoes too loud around the room.

“Doctor . . .” Dainsleif lets out a pained whine behind the gag. “I-- I love you--”

“Oh, good-- well done--!”

Dottore pants in wild pleasure at the sound of your voice, the way it sounds desperate and reedy not with hate, but with feeling. He cants his hips forward, still too wild - and your head falls back, a whine escaping your slow-tongued mouth as his entire cock sheaths itself inside of you in excitement.

It’s easier to close your eyes.

You do not want to see Dainsleif, over Dottore’s shoulder - the disappointment and horror and despair that’s written clear across his handsome face. He must have seen the Akasha pulse, he must know that you would never say such a thing of your own volition - but that doesn’t stop the fact that you did say it, and he did hear it. Eyes squeezed shut, the feel of him inside you is all the worse; the way you can sense your body tightening around him, the feel of being stretched wider than you’ve been stretched before.

Dottore’s pants do not let up; there’s a desperation in him that you would never have thought the Doctor possible of - bringing a horrifying kind of truth to all of those things he had said, all of the ways he had stared at you. Perhaps it is more than just lust--

And that makes it all the worse.

His hips judder against yours in desperation, his white coat rustling as it rubs against your own bare body. One of his hands explores your chest, even as he keeps rutting into you; thumbs pinching at your nipples, palming at your hips and your waist and your chest, as if he cannot truly believe this is happening.

He is undone, like this; and you cannot quite believe he is letting you see some of those walls fall down. There is no more the strong, smooth Doctor - the one who could raze cities to the ground if he so chose. There is a man; a man who is fucking into you, a man who wants to have as much of your body as he can, a man who seems to want to devour you.

You cannot believe he made you say that you love him. The Akasha upon your ear feels like a parasite, worming its way into your psyche, taking complete control of you. You think of Dainsleif, forced to watch, and a juddering sob manages to tear itself from your throat.

Dottore kisses your cheek, the tears catching on his lips, his tongue tracing the saltwater tracks.

“Don’t fret so, darling,” Dottore murmurs, against the apple of your cheek. “It’s alright . . . Doesn’t it feel good?”

It doesn’t - and it does. You don’t want to admit to the way that his constant thrusting and the grinding of his pelvis against your still-swollen clit are working together to make your insides churn, your body feverishly hot and confused. Your breath comes out in pants that match Dottore’s own. You can’t come for him again, you simply can’t - it doesn’t matter, you try and tell yourself, that there is heat bursting anew in your stomach. That it is not really because of Dottore, but natural biology--

You came earlier, yes, but Dottore told you to; used the Akasha against you. If you came now, without him forcing you to, it does not bear to think about - it doesn’t bear to think about how Dain might react, if he watched you come of your own volition under Dottore’s fucking--

No matter how sternly you try to speak to yourself, one cannot stop biology in its tracks.

Dottore’s pelvis batters against your clit; Dottore’s cock bullies itself mercilessly into you, as if it is trying to make you mould to the shape of him. With each thrust, it rubs against spots inside of you that your own fingers have never been able to reach; ones you had never realised would feel so good. You try and tell yourself, over and over and over, that you will not let yourself come for Dottore.

But your body betrays you.

Your body betrays both yourself and Dain, a man who you had always thought would be the only one to ever do this to you, though you had not let your fantasies yet get further than a hand over your dress, skimming your bare thigh. You come for the second Fatui Harbinger, as he continues to fuck into you with wild abandon - and this time, you do not even have the Akasha to blame it upon.

Your wrists are still held either side of your head by restraints; all you can do, as the spasms of pleasure resonate out from your sex and into every other part of you, is dig your nails into your palms. All you can do is let out a heavy, slurred whine-moan escape from your parted lips. All you can do is take it - come for the Doctor, the way he always knew you were going to.

“Fuck,” he growls, and his hips double their speed, desperately rutting into you. “I didn’t even have to tell you to, that time - you want me just as badly, don’t you? Oh, sweet thing, don’t worry, I’ll give you everything I have--”

His words are slurred too; he is too far gone within the euphoria of finally being inside of you. His hips rock into you, harder and harder, his cock twitching wildly as he hisses out your name.

He comes inside of you with a wild bite into your bare shoulder, grunting and groaning, more animal than scientist - proof that, beneath it all, he is just a man. He remains there, humming into your skin, his cock softening inside of you. His tongue licks across the bite on your shoulder as if he wants to remember the taste of you.

“Why,” he says, a pleased hum in the back of his throat. His cock twitches. “I think I might even do that again--”

There’s a knock on the door.

You are still too out of it after what Dottore did to you to register much beyond his frustration that he is being called back to Snezhnaya, now of all times. An awkward assistant, unsure of what they’re supposed to be doing, lingers by Dottore’s side as the Doctor grumbles under his breath and pulls your clothes back on over your bruised body, his come still leaking out from between your thighs.

“I’ll see you again,” Dottore says to you, with a smile, as he brandishes another syringe. “Oh, I won’t be forgetting about how much we shared any time soon, darling. You’ll keep me warm many a cold Snezhnayan night.”

The syringe is brought up to your elbow; the liquid injected directly into the vein once again. You barely have time to wonder what he is injecting you with this time before the heaviness of unconsciousness begins to blur the corners of your vision.

Dottore strides across the room to Dainsleif, another syringe glowing within his gloved fingers.

Before you slip into oblivion, you watch Dottore roll up Dainsleif’s sleeve, and you hear him say this;

“Now, I’m sending them back with you, Knight - but you won’t soon forget, will you, that they told me that they loved me?”

You slip into the abyss.

You wake back up at the camp you and Dainsleif had established, on the edges of Sumeru, as safe as the two of you could find - as if absolutely nothing has happened.

Oh, there’s the lingering reminder of Dottore - there’s a soreness to your thighs, there are bites on your shoulders, there’s a muzzy headache from the drugs and the way he had used the Akasha upon you . . . but other than that, there’s nothing. The system itself isn’t even attached to your ear any longer.

Dain, too, has reminders of the ordeal upon him - rope burn on his wrists. A burning look in his eyes when his gaze falls upon you that makes your insides crawl in fear, lest he be disgusted by you now - lest he never want to look at you again. Perhaps, you think wildly, he is going to cast you away - say that the two of you can no longer travel together, accuse you of being damaged goods . . .

It does not end that way.

Dainsleif stares at you across the clearing after waking up, as if he is trying to sort all of his thoughts out. His fingers twitch, his eyes raking over you desperately - and then he has moved, lightning quick, and his arms have wrapped around you and you are being crushed against the weight of his chest.

“I thought . . .” He whispers into your ear, his voice so broken it makes you ache. “Oh, I can’t believe he would . . . I’m so sorry--”

“You couldn’t have done anything,” you whisper to him - relieved to find that your tongue and your throat are once more capable of working. You reach up to touch his face, and Dain groans, torn between leaning into the touch and pulling away as he so often does, so worried that he’s somehow going to taint you.

You’re not sure if you could ever feel more tainted than you do right now.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” his voice cracks. Dainsleif is normally so stoic and solid; you cling to him as you journey through Teyvat, relying on him. Seeing him like this makes you ache.

“You won’t,” you reach for his hand, take it gently and place it over your collarbone, shivering at the touch of his glove on your skin. “See? I’m still here.”

Dain sighs again, his lashes fluttering closed against his sculpted cheekbones. He murmurs your name again, so softly you can barely hear it; and his fingers slide along the imprint of that same collarbone, to your shoulder, until they find the place Dottore had bitten into when he had come.

“I can’t bear seeing his marks on you,” he whispers. “I want to scrub you free of every touch.”

You close your own eyes and let yourself be lulled into Dainsleif’s arms; you let your head rest against his chest, you let yourself be comforted by the familiar scent of him. His fingers don’t stop tracing the bite marks, his touch getting more and more agitated.

“Dain--” You murmur. You’re suddenly so tired. You know you were just unconscious, but that’s not the same as getting real rest. This morning - or was it this morning? How long were the two of you really with Dottore? How long had it been before Dainsleif had come to find you? Whatever the case, it seems a hundred years ago now.

You wonder if Dainsleif would mind if you fell asleep on him, right here.

“Please,” Dain’s lowered his head now. His breath flutters against your ear; delicately tickling your ear. “Let me . . . Let me make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, but it clearly means a lot to Dainsleif, and you do not mind the gentle touch of his hands as they smooth softly over the places Dottore has bitten, the places you have bruised. Dainsleif has lost so many people, after all - you do not blame him for wanting to check on you. You nestle your head under Dain’s chin and he takes a shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your hair. “Do I still smell like myself?”

“Don’t joke,” his voice breaks. You don’t know how else to cope with it; the thought of Dottore’s hands all over you, the reminder of what the Doctor took from you. Dain’s hand slips under the bodice of your dress.

You go all-over cold, all-over still.

Dainsleif doesn’t even notice. His hand gently travels further down, further down, squeezing the weight of your breast in his hand. Your fingers twitch where they lay against him, cradled as you are in his arms - but Dainsleif is still murmuring to himself now, lost in a frenzy of his own thoughts, and for the first time you feel afraid of him.

“Dain--” You try to say, throat clogged. “Dain, don’t--”

“Please,” he repeats, ragged. “I just . . . I need to touch you. I need to know you’re here. I need to know he didn’t--”

You can’t do this. Your heart jumps into your throat, a sickening thumping beat as Dain’s thumb rubs a circle over your nipple and traitorous body, it responds to him just as it had to Dottore.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I love you,” Dainsleif whispers, broken into your ear. “Let me . . . I won’t hurt you . . .”

His other hand, pulling you further into his lap. Holding you spoon-fashion against him, like a lover.

You wouldn’t complain, ordinarily.

But now . . .

All you want is for him to hold you. All you want is for him, you think, to kiss your forehead and reassure you and take care of you. The way his hands keep travelling over your skin - the other is kneading at the flesh of your thigh now, his breath coming in those same great shuddering pants as if he doesn’t have full control over his own body right now. You whimper aloud as his hand brushes further, further--

You’re not wearing underwear. Not after Dottore had torn it at the seams.

Dainsleif sighs.

“It killed me seeing him touch you,” he whispers into your hair, dropping a kiss onto the top of your head, disgustingly tender. His fingers are petting at your folds, his arms iron-tight like the ropes that had wrapped around him earlier. He doesn’t notice that you’re trembling; he ignores the soft little entreaties you do manage to get out.

“I can’t,” you say, as Dainsleif tugs at your nipples.

“Dain--” you whimper, his fingers spreading the lips of your sex apart.

“Not yet,” you beg, as he drops a kiss over the bruising bites Dottore left on your shoulders.

“I wish I could cover you with myself,” Dainsleif says, as he continues to use his mouth and his fingers and acts as though he does not hear a word. “But . . . oh, I don’t deserve you . . . Not yet . . . Please, let me make sure you never think of him again--”

It’s too much. Too much, too soon, your body churning with feelings and your mind churning with thoughts that you can’t yet put in place, because Dainsleif is touching you and not listening to you and you wonder if this makes him just like Dottore, in his way.

You think about yourself, in Sumeru City, your smile bright, laughing off his concern - and you think about Dainsleif now, his touch so possessive and so desperate that he’s going to cover the bruises Dottore left with bruises of his own.

“I’ll be fine,” you had said. I can take care of myself.

Dainsleif takes care of you, when you cannot; when you are injured or sick or lost. You have always had him to rely on; your travelling companion through Teyvat, as you desperately tried to make sense of the world that you have found yourself in.

Here, though . . .

You think, as the tears roll down your face, you could do without Dainsleif taking care of you like this.

#writing #dark content for ts #non con for ts #dead dove do not eat #mind control for ts #dub con for ts #genshin impact posting #commissioned work #not sfw text

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miss-oranje-disco-dancer · 6 months ago

Text

never penelope, always calypso

pairing: leon x reader

cw: infidelity?, p in v, alcohol usage, oral sex, angst, smut, possible misuse of words, questionable metaphors, allusions to the odyssey (i'm cringe), pseudo-poetic nonsense

summary: leon is married to ashley and they have an open relationship. you become fwbs when he visits dc. accidental feelings happen

a/n: the title is a reference to the odyssey (no discourse/analyses allowed on this post!!)

wc: 5.5k

taglist: @rigorwhoring @porcelainseashore @mrswint3rs @dilfprayers @pawrincss

link to join taglist in bio! link to commissions & ko-fi in bio! link to ao3 in bio!

Winter 2012

You first meet Leon at a bar near your apartment. Outside, it's freezing, yet you order your drink on the rocks. Drunkenness makes your cheeks match your ears, rosy and slightly numb to the cold.

It’s been a rough day for you and the way Leon’s head hangs as he looks blankly into his glass - half-empty - lets you know that he’s in the same boat. He’s got blonde-ish hair, icy blue eyes, and a hint of a five o’clock shadow. His voice, low and tired, holds a sympathetic chagrin, subtle and genuine. He must feel your eyes on him because he picks himself up as best he can and smiles at you.

He’s not drunk. Neither are you, only tipsy.

“Hi,” you say because you’re not good with pickup lines.

“Hey. How’s it goin’?”

“It’s goin’,” you say because it’s the best way you can tell the truth without being too much of a downer.

“Not great, huh?”

“A complete shitshow if I’m being honest.”

“I can relate.” He thrusts his right hand out and you take it. His palm is calloused with a life much rougher than you’ll ever know. “I’m Leon.”

You tell him your name and he releases your hand from his grasp.

You recount your disastrous day and he laughs at all the right times and keeps his smile sympathetic for the rest of your story. He doesn’t say much about himself, and the next morning you worry you were venting, but you come to find over the years that he prefers to listen rather than to talk. He has unparalleled patience. He’s not like other guys. You’re just like other girls.

The one time he speaks over you is to insist to the bartender that he is paying for your drinks too when he asks to close his tab.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

He grabs his wallet from his back pocket and you notice on his left hand, a wedding band. It was all just friendly conversation, you realize. Your smile drops and you don’t have time to pick it back up before he turns to you.

“What’s up?” He asks.

“Nothing.” You give him a fake smile.

“You sure?” He probes you with minimal force. His questions never make you feel like you’re being interrogated, strapped to a metal chair despite the fact that a gun sits on his hip; not like an interview either with bright lights an audience; more like a surgery, penetrating, tearing and mending your organs while you’re numbed by alcoholic anesthetic.

“Mhm,” You respond. You are already falling into a dreamless sleep, breathing, but comatose.

“Okay. Do you live close? We could split a cab.” He places his hand on the small of your back and whispers while you walk to the exit, “Unless you want to come back with me to my hotel.”

You look at him, almost angry for her – the woman you don’t know – and yet, still wanting. He removes his hand quickly. “Whoa. I’m sorry. I clearly misunderstood the situation. I thought we were having a flirtatious conversation and that it was heading that direction. I apologize for overstepping your boundaries.”

“No, I was flirting, but…” You point to his left hand. “You’re married.” There is a part of you that is already willing. You’re his puppet, his ragdoll, willing.

“Oh, yeah,” Leon says with a smile, thinking of her. He holds up his hand, proudly displaying his wedding band. “I am married, but we have an open relationship.” He sounds so honest you’re tempted to believe him. But, there is still a sliver of your consciousness left.

“Prove it. I don’t want to be involved with a cheater.”

“Prove it? Alright. Would you like me to text her and ask if I can invite you back to my hotel room?”

“Sure.”

You don’t think he’ll do it, but he does. Her name in his phone has a heart next to it. You notice it when he shows you her response: Have a nice time :).

He calls her ‘baby’.

He calls you a lot of things during the act, but mostly your name once it’s over.

He calls you ‘gorgeous’ as in, “You look fucking gorgeous like that” When he looks into your eyes from above you. You’re on your knees with his cock down your throat while his hand holds your hair in a makeshift ponytail. You look gorgeous if gorgeous means messy - the mascara that was already smudged when you entered the bar mixes with tears and drips down your face. You look like a canvas drenched with paint water. Filthy and accidental. And in an abstract way, something that could be conceived as beautiful in the eyes of a downright horny beholder.

Leon holds your wrists above your head when he fucks you. His grip is firm just like yours is around his cock, though it’s not your intention. In fact, you want more of him, all of him.

He calls you ‘darlin’ as in,“Darlin’, you’re squeezin’ me so tight. I’m not gonna last like this.” When you’re on all fours and he’s feeding himself to you from behind. One of his hands guides his cock to your entrance while the other holds your hip – that one continues to steady you while he’s fucking you at a merciless pace. With the other, he runs his fingers through his hair – you can see him in the mirror, sweat beading on his forehead.

He calls you ‘babe’ as in, “C’mere, babe.” When he beckons you towards him, lying in bed with his head propped up enough to see you. “Want you to sit on my face”. When you comply and sit on his face, your thighs drown out his words but the noises he makes reverberate through your entire body. Much to Leon’s dismay, it’s the last orgasm you can handle that night. (You have to walk home tomorrow, right?)

There is a distinct difference between babe and baby. The difference being that he calls you one and his wife the other.

That first night, you go for three rounds, only stopping because Leon ran out of condoms and neither of you feel like going to the pharmacy to buy more. At least, not until the next day.

The next morning when his alarm rings, you grab his phone from the bedside table and hand it to him. You catch a glimpse of his lockscreen. It’s him with a woman. “Is that her?”

“My wife? Yeah.” He hands you the phone and lets you see her. She’s beautiful. More so than you. You understand why she lets him do this. And why he shows her off with no hesitation and a prideful grin. You’d brag about her too.

You imagine their first date, their wedding, the sex they have in their home that they share, and every other thing while Leon makes a trip to the drugstore across the street.

“Sorry I took so long,” he says when he climbs back into bed, “there was a long line at the checkout.”

It’s okay, you think, you gave me time to decide that it’s better if I leave now.

And yet, the second he lies down next to you, your decision changes. The prospect of lazy morning sex with Leon is too beautiful to resist. Even in retrospect, if it were purely about the sex, you wouldn’t regret any of it, it was even better than you imagined it would be.

When he takes the blue box from the plastic shopping bag and jiggles it in front of you, playfully asking the question, you nod. None of this requires words.

You sit up in bed, closing the gap between you and your objective, but he stops you. “Don’t get up. I’ll come there.”

He’s quiet despite the room being empty of sleeping children and nosy parents. The hustle and bustle of the city on Saturday morning covers up any sound. His wife knows anyway and she’s 1000 miles away. It’s for the sake of your ears, still acclimating to the ceaseless knocking at your eardrums that comes with being alive. He moves slowly, spreads your legs for you, removes your panties - the boring beige pair you wore to work the day before. He runs his hand over your folds like he’s petting a stray animal, getting you to ease up and let him in. Two fingers mold you to his liking. He fits you for himself despite being taken. He feeds your desire and sets you free when he’s finished. (You’ve finished too, so it’s not cruel, is it?).

He steps into the shower alone.

If getting some more material for your spank bank was your goal, then you accomplished it. Not just the sex but the sight of him with a towel around his waist, his toned body on display. It’s the first time you’ve seen it in the daylight. He only removed his pants when he fucked you from behind. And the night before, you only got a glimpse of his beauty in the dim of the lamp-lit room.

The ounce of self-restraint that remains in your being, holds you back from ripping the towel away from him and kneeling before him, begging him to use your mouth.

There is a piece of you that regrets not taking the opportunity while you had it. You would have another memory of him to fill the Leon-shaped hole inside you. Better yet, he could’ve called you pathetic and told you to leave, and ruined it all before your infatuation could turn into something worse. But, he wouldn’t do that. And that’s why you like him.

Summer 2012

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. Well, honestly, it wasn’t supposed to be anything at all. You had each other’s phone numbers but no plans were made and the goodbye hug didn’t feel like a ‘see you later’, more like a ‘have a nice life’.

But a couple months after your first meeting, he texts you. “I’m in town. Are you busy tonight?”

You happen to be very free and though you denied it at the time, very infatuated with Leon. In your mind, it’s simply the fact that he’s the best sex you’ve ever had and none of it has to do with the fact that during the second night you spend together you’re mere centimeters away from love-making when he bites your lip, tugging lightly before he flips you over to fuck you harder. You know he knows, it’s too obvious for him not to know, that’s why he refuses to look into your eyes, opting to push your face - which he reminds you is gorgeous - into the mattress. Your mascara still runs while you wonder if he’s still thinking about you when your face no longer serves to remind him of the woman whose cunt he uses.

But that happens later. You meet at the same bar because Leon is oddly unfamiliar with the area despite having lived here years ago. Maybe he wanted to forget. That’s a question you never bother to ask.

“I was constantly working. I went out with Ashley on the weekends when she wasn’t busy, but she always picked the restaurant. So, you’ll have to be my tour guide,” he says.

You amble around downtown because you’re not decisive like Ashley. You didn’t prepare anything besides the matching set of lace under your clothes. In June, the sun stays up late, and though they say that certain crimes of the flesh are only committed at night, for the two of you daylight can be far more dangerous.

Simply fucking in his hotel room one night was well within the boundaries of whatever “this” is; however, kissing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial when the sun begins to set makes you feel like a teenager, being romanced for the first time and risking your overbearing parents finding out your dirty little secret. But, none of this is secret. Leon’s wife knows, passersby know, the statue of the 16th president of the goddamn USA who sits behind you knows.

But what truly feels wrong is how chaste it is, how his hands cup your cheeks like a chalice. In a crowded bar, you drink gin and tonics for the Eucharist. Tomorrow, you deal with the unholy hangover.

Still, you’re not sure if this is romance or friendship until you’re walking side by side and your pinkies inch their way closer until they brush against each other. You interlock them playfully for a second, but Leon pulls away rather than grabbing your hand fully. The one time he does take your hand, it’s to guide you through a crowd. He does not interlock fingers with you. He does not kiss your knuckles before he lets go.

Later you end up at your favorite bar because you are his amateur tour guide.

“If this is your favorite, then why weren’t you here the night we met?”

“Would you have preferred I were?”

“No. I’m just curious.”

“The other bar is closer to home. Quieter, too.”

You’re practically yelling at this point over the band that’s playing. It takes two drinks for you to stand up and dance. It’s not some sort of high school prom slow dance. It’s stupid and drunken, but Leon spins you around and his hands are on your body - the less intimate parts - for most of the duration. He doesn’t have to flirt with sensual touches because he doesn’t have to lure you into bed. You are already planning to accompany to his hotel room.

Usually, he is in town for a week at most, and busy for the majority of the time. You see him for a night or two each visit. However, one night after the usual routine of going to the same bar, drinking old fashioneds and Leon picking up the tab, he takes you to the apartment that he’s renting for the next 3 months.

“Three months?” you ask.

“Thought you’d be happy,” he says. “After you admitted that I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

“Cocky much?”

“Wanna find out?” He raises an eyebrow, daring you to take him up on his offer. He’s still unpacking in the bedroom, but you don’t find that out until later because you don’t make it that far into the apartment. You end up fucking on the couch. And then on the living room floor.

What you have is not romance but it’s dangerously close. You realize this when you accidentally take one of his t-shirts home and you wear it to bed again that night before washing it. Because it smells like him and you miss him. That’s not something you ever plan to admit to Leon, and because you don’t say it aloud, it’s not real. It’s only real when he says, “you should just keep a toothbrush here.”

So nonchalant that it catches you off guard. “What am I, your girlfriend?”

“Sorry for being logistical.” He huffs, though you can’t tell if he’s really mad or not.

On his next run to the pharmacy to buy condoms, he gets you the toothbrush.

It’s summertime and Leon has a balcony that overlooks the Washington Monument, so naturally, you eat your dinners outside. Leon cuts back on his drinking, so you often make lemonade instead – from scratch, like your mother used to.

Over dinner you ask him, “Why don’t you just move to D.C. if you spend so much time here?”

“I lived here for years – so did Ashley – and we both hated it. But her dad has a house in Vermont, and we spent our first anniversary there, and we realized we wanted to spend as much of our lives as we can there.” When he speaks, he doesn’t meet your eyes. He’s looking for the memory, reliving it with a smile on his face. You can feel the tranquility.

“Makes sense. If I had a father with a second home in Vermont, I would probably move there too.” Plus, I’m not tied to anything here. Except maybe you, Leon.

“It’s gorgeous in the summer. It sucks that I have to spend it here.”

“Wow,” you say, jokingly, “So, being around me really sucks that much?”

“No, you’re the only part of it that I like.”

You’re left speechless, flustered by his words, and you both know that he shouldn’t have said that despite the fact that it’s the truth.

“Anyway,” he transitions, poking at his salad, pretending to be incredibly interested in the lettuce in an effort to avoid your face. “This lemonade is great.”

“It’s my mother’s recipe. A little extra sugar.”

You take away the plates – his enthusiasm about his salad has faded. He stays on the balcony for a moment because he knows you want to do the dishes – “It’s kind of therapeutic,” you said to him. “Clean plates make you feel like your life is together”.

Regardless, when he comes in, he says, “You know you don’t have to do that.” because that’s in his nature. Other people make messes and he cleans them up.

“I know,” you say, and he doesn’t protest.

You have sex because it’s either that or watch TV. It’s rough and impersonal, and over relatively quickly.

And then, it’s five o’clock somewhere, and somewhere is right where you are, so you pull out a bottle and toast to something stupid like the sex you just had or the TV show you’ll watch until you fall asleep.

Leon doesn’t drink but when he does (which is only when he’s with you. Ashley doesn’t let him indulge like that because she’s more sensible than you are) your conversations venture into topics that you would typically shy away from. You find yourself talking to Leon about his sex life outside of you.

“Do you guys fuck, like, immediately, when you get in the door?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Depends on how long I’ve been gone and how gross I am.”

“Do you think about it a lot? When you’re not with her?”

“Of course I do.” The question sticks in your mind: when we’re having sex too? “But we have phone sex,” he says, oddly prideful.

“That’s good. I’ve never been very good at phone sex.”

“If you’re horny enough it doesn’t matter.”

And that’s probably true. You have sex again shortly thereafter and you wonder if he’s thinking about her. You notice that he does not say your name when he cums.

February 2013

The next year you see him on Valentine’s Day. “Shouldn’t you be spending this with your wife?” you ask.

“I would be if I were at home.”

“You could go home or at least, call her.”

“I could call her, and I did, earlier today. But, it’s just a day. It’s not like it’s our anniversary or one of our birthdays.”

It’s just a day, so I’m spending it with you. It’s just a day, you’re just a girl.

“When’s your anniversary?”

“March 16th,” he says without missing a beat. Because he remembers things. As do you. For better or for worse.

“Are you going to go home for that?”

“No, she’s coming to visit.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” You probably don’t sound very convincing but you’re already making new plans for that week mentally – not that you had any explicit plans with him.

“You could meet her,” he offers, and you think he must be joking but it’s not that funny so you don’t laugh. He doesn’t laugh either because it isn’t a joke.

“Wait what?” you say. “Don’t you see how that’d be a little weird?”

“She knows you exist.”

“Yeah, but-”

“-And,” he leans in to whisper into your ear because you’re in a relatively fancy restaurant where you probably shouldn’t be speaking too loudly about such topics, “I don’t know if you’re into women, but I think she’d be into you.”

It’s a blessing that your dress is black because you choke on red wine and it dribbles down your chest and onto your clothes before you can catch it.

“Sorry. I’m now realizing that sexuality is a sensitive topic and maybe I shouldn’t have broached the subject like that.”

“It’s not about my sexuality. It’s about the fact that you just asked me if I wanted to sleep with your wife.”

“Well, I was hoping to be there too in that hypothetical.”

“It’s your anniversary. I shouldn’t be there. You two should get some alone time.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

He asks you to help him pick out an anniversary gift for his wife. You study pictures of her to see what style of jewelry she wears. Apparently you’re good at buying gifts because you see a new picture of her as his lock screen in which she’s wearing the necklace you picked out.

It’s silver not gold, so it’s not the necklace you care about but the jewelry behind the glass that you gazed at while Leon talked to the cashier.

But before the necklace, before the picture, before Leon’s anniversary, you leave the restaurant together the same way you arrived except you’re covered in red wine. You complain about the way your heels leave blisters so he carries you to the front door - bridal style, ironically, but you’re the only one thinking about it. It’s just a name that comes from an old tradition. It’s like how Valentine’s Day is just a day. He gets down on one knee and because you’ve already imagined him in this position, seeing it play out in front of you startles you, but he’s just unbuckling your shoes. He sees the look on your face - you try to play it off - and he laughs because he knows what you’re thinking, but then again, he doesn’t know anything at all. To him, it’s a silly misunderstanding. To you, it’s a cruel joke you’ve played on yourself.

In his bedroom, where you spend most of your time together, he unzips your dress like he’s trying to save the wrapping paper on a gift.

“It has wine all over it, and I got it on sale,” you say. “You don’t have to be so… gentle about it.”

“Would you prefer I rip it off of you?”

But it’s already slipping past your knees, dropping to the floor, revealing your bra and panties, revealing the secret - that you made an effort, that he is opening a gift, and the gift is a woman in lingerie. His face says enough, the way he looks you up and down, with arousal coursing through his veins but a certain fondness and admiration in his eyes.

You distract him by unbuttoning his dress shirt - slowly because you’re pretty sure this is the one he likes. There’s no tie to undo, no tie to pull him into bed by. He doesn’t like things around his neck. Once, he tried to wear one and couldn’t tie it himself, and you had to help. He only kept it on for a second because he felt like it was suffocating him.

You’re stuck in a mutual trance until you hear the neighbors fucking - not making love, fucking. You throw your head back laughing and Leon drags his hands down his face in faux-exasperation, laughter peeking through his fingers.

“Way to kill the mood,” he sighs.

“Should I go get the broom,” you ask, intending to bang on the wall between apartments.

“I think it’d be a little hypocritical.” Considering how much sex we have. Considering the fact that we’re about to have sex.

“Okay, but we don’t sound like that.”

He shrugs with a stupid grin.

“Oh God, do we sound like that?!”

“I hope not.”

“Leon,” you draw out his name, not quite whining, not quite begging. Not yet.

“Here,” he says, and sticks a CD in his stereo, something he rarely uses. He prefers the quiet. There’s too much noise these days, he once told you.

"You sound like an old man."

"I feel like an old man."

When he stands in front of you in only a white undershirt and a pair of slacks, his belt lost somewhere along the way, while you’re freezing to death in black lace lingerie because he keeps his apartment at 70 degrees maximum, you let go of all inhibitions, and let your surprise be a pleasant one when you realize what album is playing. Grace. As if you have any left.

“I love Jeff Buckley,” you say.

“Everyone loves Jeff Buckley.”

“Not like me.”

The soft music doesn’t fully cover the sounds of your noisy neighbors but the sentiment does. All you can think about is Leon when he’s atop you. You make out like teenagers, savoring it in a way that makes it feel like there’s no expectation that the two of you will have sex.

But slowly, it becomes more than that. His hands cup your breasts, his tongue flicks your nipple, his hands spreading your thighs, his fingers brushing over the fabric. And then the CD stops. It’s been 52 minutes. It’s like a parent knocking at the door, interrupting the magical moment. When Leon stands up to choose another CD, he sheds his shirt too.

Fade Into You plays as he walks back to you and you want to ask ‘How did you know?’, but you opt for taking off his pants instead. You lie face to face atop the covers with the lights only dimmed while he thrusts slowly in and out of you. You worry you’ll start singing along because you know all the words to this album. But Leon’s mouth rarely leaves yours - except when his face is between your thighs.

It’s slow, intimate, undeniably romantic. Only urgent when you’re both nearing the edge and he picks up the pace. You cum together and wade through the aftershocks with heavy breaths. So Tonight That I Might See fades out and covered in sweat, you bask in the shared euphoria that tries to fill the melancholy air. You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

July 2013

Once, after a particularly terrible mission, you meet Leon at his hotel room and he fucks you so hard he has to keep his hand over your mouth for the duration to avoid a noise complaint. A second noise complaint.

Another time, he fucks you so hard the condom breaks. You’re on birth control but he has a wife, a wife that’s not you, so he offers to buy you the morning after pill, and since there’s no logical reason not to take it, you agree. Before you pop the pill in your mouth, you ask him, (mal)apropos of the situation, “Do you think you’ll have kids?”

You let him answer while you wash it down with a gulp of water.

“We’ve been trying actually.” You see the way he smiles and it makes you choke on the water. You wouldn’t have been surprised by a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, but you realize what his statement means: he would never buy her this pill. He wants to have a baby, but not your baby. He doesn’t love you like that. He doesn’t love you at all.

August 2013

You realize you love him right after he leaves. The best and worst part is that you do not see him until 2015. Almost 2 years later. You don’t hear anything from him or about him and sometimes you assume he was KIA, more optimistically, MIA. (Really, he’s just drunk and busy most of the time.)

If Leon died would his wife send you an invitation to the funeral? Who are you - the mistress, a friend of the family, a long-lost somebody?

Summer 2015

When he calls you in July, you half-assume that his voice won’t be the one on the other side. It’ll be someone else who recovers his phone from the ashes of whatever the fuck he’s fighting. You’ve started to forget what he sounds like and it terrifies you.

“I’m gonna take some time off,” he tells you.

“You deserve it since you’re always working so hard.” You understand what ‘time off’ means. It means time away from you too. It means he goes back to where he belongs – in bed, beside his wife.

“I never thought I’d get a vacation – I tried, but it got interrupted. Bio-terrorists don’t care about vacation time as it turns out.”

“How long is your time off going to be?”

“I’m not sure yet. We don’t technically have paternity leave, but I think the DSO feels-”

“Paternity leave?”

“Yeah. I forgot to mention, Ashley’s pregnant.”

The “trying” they were doing finally worked. She must be so happy – they both must be so happy. You force yourself to be because it’s cruel to hate a child. It’s not the baby’s fault that you’re in love with its father.

“That’s… awesome, Leon. I remember you saying you were trying, so, congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he says, and the smile on his face looks genuine but you see his hands come out of his pockets, only to retreat. He was going to hug you. But something holds him back. Though she’s physically carrying the baby, he takes on some of the weight it seems.

“You’re gonna be a great father,” you say. And that’s the one statement that you mean wholeheartedly.

The next words to leave your mouth surprise you both. “How far along is she?”

“Not sure about the exact number of weeks, but she’s pretty far into her second trimester.”

“Does she have a bump yet?” “Can I see a picture?” “What about the ultrasound?” You’re just tearing your own heart out so he can’t when he inevitably leaves. Or, maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re curious to a fault. Maybe you’re genuinely a little bit happy because you do love him. That’s what makes it worse.

You realize that this is the last time you’ll see him. He’s not dying, and will likely return to DC, but his wife will call him, ask him to switch to video so she can show him the baby that sits perfectly on her hip. In your mind, she’s walking around their kitchen, still in frame while the phone sits on the counter and he watches, imagining the joy he’ll feel when he takes on half the weight of parenthood while he lets her sleep in on the weekends.

You can’t be in the shower across the hall while he sings to a baby over the phone. You know he’ll sing.

He has a better voice than one might expect and you know this because he once got drunk enough for you to convince him to sing karaoke.

“C’mon,” you say, nudging him in the direction of the stage.

“I don’t sing,” he says, though he’s smiling.

“Everyone sings.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me.”

“I’ll make a deal. If you sing, then I’ll sing.” He’s already holding your hands, you don’t have to shake on it. But you do (and he spits on his palm first to seal the deal and you tell him it’s disgusting but mimic the gesture anyway).

You sing Like A Prayer, and though you can’t hear his voice over the surrounding noise, you can see him singing along by “Heaven Help Me”.

He sings Jessie’s Girl, and you would be enthralled even if he completely bombed, but you’re a face in the crowd of dozens, singing along with varying BAC’s, you’d guess. You’re not Jessie’s Girl, or Leon’s girl, you’re just a girl.

But the last night you spend together, you let yourself believe that you’re Leon’s girl when you fall into bed with him. When you interlock your fingers you pretend your ring is at the jewelers or on the bedside table. When he fucks you, he’s being quiet because you can’t wake up the neighbors or the baby in the nursery. In your mind, your husband is making love to you after he’s returned from the war.

He explains what happened at Alcatraz and you’re Penelope, he’s Odysseus, except there are no other suitors for him to kill. No bow to shoot, no olive tree bedpost.

But like them, you sleep together in a familiar room. Finally, fully, skin to skin, he gives himself to you. He gives himself to you temporarily, it’s sweaty and sickly sweet. You kiss until your lips turn red, catching your breaths forehead-to-forehead until you hold his cheeks in your hands like a pomegranate, ripe and rotting.

He grips your hips until they bruise, and barely pulls out in time to spill his seed on your inner thighs, only a bit ends up inside.

It’s not the first mistake you make together but it is the last.

His trip is barely long enough for him to stand outside the bathroom and pray for one line while you sit alone praying for two. Silently, you show him the result.

“What do you want to do now?” he asks.

“Watch TV, I guess,” you say.

You sit next to each other on the couch. He leaves in the morning as was always the plan. You kiss him goodbye and with the same lips, he kisses Ashley hello.

You were never Penelope. You’re Calypso, and he longs for home.

#leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n

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cherryxblossxms · 10 months ago

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🔞 Letting Buggy fuck his frustrations into you~

[nsfw obviously, afab reader, oral (m receiving), some degradation, rough sex, some ass slapping, creampie, followed by fluffy aftercare; a lil devil fruit misuse; 1.6k ahahahaha this....... was intended to be short idk what happened]

He's extremely hesitant when you first bring it up because he knows he's strong, and he never wants to bring anger into the bedroom. He's already anxious when it comes to his relationship with you, he wonders how he ended up with someone like you and if he even deserves you. It's a thought that's on his mind on a near-constant basis, though it improves over time. So the first several times, he adamantly refuses.

He still tends to fall back on old habits and mannerisms and it takes a lot for him to rein himself back in, control it so he's not causing harm to you. He already feels awful when this causes a fight with you that he didn't intend. So even though you're the one bringing this subject up, he's still worried that he'll hurt you somehow, physically or emotionally or maybe even both, and he'd never forgive himself if it caused you to leave.

It takes a while to convince him. But eventually, there's one day where seemingly nothing was going right. Buggy and his crew dealt with a particularly annoying opponent, destroyed a town but didn't get much loot out of it, and none of the crew members could seem to do anything right. At this point, all he wants is to shut himself in his room with you and forget about the world.

And then he remembers your offer.

The second he gets back to the ship, he's dragging you back to his cabin. He doesn't say anything at first, but you can see the gears turning in his head, thinking of what he needs to say. When he finally does speak, it's clearly with much effort over thinly veiled desire and frustration, asking you if you're sure that you want this.

He asks you not once, not twice, but three times. Even as you move forward to kiss his jaw, as you trail your hands over his abdomen and down to cup his growing erection, as he lets you brush your lips over his, he's still asking in between to make absolutely sure you're okay with this, because once you give the okay, he's not letting you go and he's not going easy. And it's clear how much he's struggling not to take you right then and there.

Finally, once he's convinced you understand what you're asking for and established a safe word and a call sign in case things get out of control, it's like the floodgates open. He's ripping your shirt open, buttons flying everywhere. You're on your knees before you know what's happening, face to face with the straining tent in his pants, and Buggy's hand holding the back of your head to keep you close.

He has you undress him, exposing his fuzzy chest and watching as you undo and tug his pants down, and his cock is so eager that it slaps against your jaw, catching you with his dripping precum. It's always intoxicating being on your knees for your captain, but it's even moreso as he directs you on how to touch him, no hands allowed. But you're happy to oblige, teasing him with your tongue along the side of his shaft and along his heavy balls, drawing out a needy groan from his painted lips before he's gripping your hair, indicating his patience is waning quickly. And you're not one to want to anger your captain most days, or deprive him of what he needs. So you happily oblige, finally taking him into your mouth.

He's a struggle to fit in your mouth on a good day, blessed with a thick curved shaft that always manages to make you scream, and it's even harder now that you're doing this hands-free. But as Buggy directs your movements, bobbing your head on his dick, it's intoxicating letting him control your movement. It also doesn't help as you feel a hand suddenly grabbing your rear, having not even noticed he detached one. He temporarily lets go of your head to detach the other hand, using them to tug your pants and underwear down your thighs, before one hand comes back up to continue holding your head.

As you keep sucking him off, it shouldn't be a surprise as his one hand slides between your thighs, lightly brushing against your clit and sliding between your lower lips. What does surprise you both is how wet you are, and Buggy has no shame in pointing it out, commenting on how needy you are, what a slut you are to get off on being used like this. Buggy is no stranger to dirty talk, (it's hard to get him to stop talking about anything truly), but this time it's obvious how affected he is by everything.

He's quickly pumping one, two, three fingers between your legs, making you moan around his shaft as he preps you for the main event. With all the frustration built up in him, it's not long before he's twitching, already ready to cum, especially as he gets to listen to your noises. But he wants to finally take you. He pulls you off of him, dick coated in your spit, and you look fucked out already, making him chuckle. Once he reattaches the hand that was fingering you, he's finally completely removing your bottoms and hoisting you up in his arms, letting your legs wrap around his hips as he presses you to the cabin wall.

It's a struggle not to scream as he immediately pushes in, still causing some stretch even with all the prep. And although his thighs are shaking with the effort, he gives you just enough time to adjust before he's pounding you into the wood. If the ship wasn't already rocking with the sea, you're sure his movements alone would have made the place shake, the sounds of your wetness and skin slapping filling the air. At one point, he adjusts his position so your legs dangle over his forearms, effectively folding you like a lawn chair and allowing him to reach even deeper.

Your first orgasm blindsides you, making you scream and shake in his arms as Buggy keeps fucking you towards overstimulation, his movement barely halted as you suddenly clamp down on him. He slows his pace, but only barely, just enough to tell you how good you are for taking him like this... but that he's not done yet. You can barely register his words before you're on his bed, face down and ass up, thighs trembling from your orgasm and a cooling feeling between your legs as your cunt is exposed and presented.

You can only imagine what a mess it looks like, especially given the pounding he'd just given you, before a hand comes down on your ass, snapping you out of your thoughts and drawing a cry from your lips. Now this is not unusual for Buggy, whose hands are always finding their way to your ass. He loves the plush, the jiggle, and he especially loves the noises you make when he slaps it. But of course, even that's short-lived as he grinds his shaft against you, still hard and aching to cum already, before pushing in once more.

By now, although he hasn't cum yet, Buggy is actually feeling better already. Just having you cum for him, watching your expressions and feeling the way you hold onto him, eased much of his frustration, now mostly replaced by just his usual hunger for you. So he's quick to snap his hips against yours once more, making you moan against the sheets as he sets a brutal pace. Once again, one of his hands separates to keep up occasional slapping, making you tighten around him, before it eventually slides between your legs against to circle your clit.

The sensations are too much, and you're babbling as such before you realize it, but Buggy is quick to promise he's almost done, just a little bit longer, you're doing so good for him and he can't wait to fill you up. By now, his body is pressing down on yours, warm and sweaty and strong, his balls and thighs slapping against you with each thrust, and his detached hand still toying with your sensitive pearl, trying its hardest to make you cum again.

The combination of things finally drives you over the edge, and your orgasm triggers Buggy's this time, making you both moan in tandem as Buggy presses in close, cumming deep inside as your cunt tries to milk him for everything its worth. His moans echo in your ear, hot breath panting against your shoulder as you two struggle for breath. It takes much too long to separate, and the ache between your thighs tells you just how sore you'll be tomorrow. But as Buggy comes into your view, now seeking to check on your wellbeing after fucking your brains out, you can see that it'll be well worth it, his eyes only filled with love and worry now instead of their earlier anger.

Buggy always struggles a bit with aftercare, but he tries his best for you, finding the cleanest rag he can to clean between your legs. Once you're dressed in one of his shirts, he's quickly pulling you into his arms. It's sweet, if overbearing, how he's checking in with you and asking you about a hundred times if you're okay, if he was too rough, if there was anything you didn't like or if he scared you. You might have to interrupt him with a kiss to get him to stop for a moment, but once he's reassured about how you feel, he'll finally relax.

When you first brought up this offer, he was so scared about how it would turn out, afraid to hurt you and afraid to scare you off. But now that it's out of the way and he knows you're okay, he might be more willing to come to you more often with his... troubles.

#its year of the clown fucker yeehaw #buggy x reader #buggy one piece #buggy smut #one piece smut #buggy thirsts #afab reader #i cannot believe the chokehold this character has on me i am suffering #posting this before i chicken out so its not really proofread...#the minx can write ✍️#spicy minx 🔥

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hey-august · 7 months ago

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March Madness Event - Winner (NSFW | Buggy X Marine!GN!Reader)

Woah woah woah, this story concludes the March Madness event!

(In case you missed it, throughout the month of March I posted polls pitting kinks against kinks. The ones that lost in the polls received short stories involving a bit of failure. The kink that won at the end of the month was slated to receive a proper story. And that's where we are now!)

I'll be honest, I did not expect this to be the winner. Then again, I should have seen it coming with how it took off in every poll it was in.

Thank you all for participating! Voting, reading, commenting, liking, reblogging - everything!!

I hope you enjoyed this event and that you enjoy this story. 🩷

Description: As a Marine, you're responsible for safely escorting the captured prisoner, Buggy the Clown. Things don't go according to plan and while the prisoner remains captured, not all of him ends up behind bars...

Teeny tiny teaser: "This fucker needed to know the effect his dumbass decision had on others."

Word count: ~3.4k (I don't remember the last time I wrote a one-shot this long 🥴)

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, marine!reader, no use of Y/N, insertion sex, bit of degradation, cockwarming (not solely intimate, but there is some eventually), misuse of devil fruit powers

“I can fuck you harder if you uncuff me,” he said through gritted teeth. “C’mon, tell me you don’t want that.”

The teasing remark was hissed behind your ear, sending a shiver through your body. Your weak fucking body, nearly wiped of all self-restraint. A thin thread of rationality kept you tethered to a sense of preservation, but the constant pounding threatened to snap that hold.

You were responsible for locking up the prisoner - a duty you’ve fulfilled many times without issue. Over the years, your strength and cleverness helped you climb the ranks of Marines, yet this was the first time you failed to complete this responsibility. Well, you haven’t failed yet, but the more the thread frays, the more your legs shake, the more his heavy grunts fill your ears…

Your shaky hands gripped the seastone cuffed wrists wrapped around your body. Although the pirate couldn’t grip your hips the way either of you wanted, he was able to pull your body towards his as he relentlessly slammed himself in you.

Of all the captured criminals you ever escorted, it was the goddamn clown that broke you. The pathetic clown with a face of smeared paint. Left behind by his crew. A captain who was visibly crestfallen when none of the Marines appeared impressed by his presence.

Despite his circumstances, the prisoner - Buggy the Clown - lived up to his namesake. Nearly every comment out of his mouth was a joke, often at the expense of anyone around him. The lack of laughter after each quip should add to embarrassment and pity for the clown, but you found yourself enjoying the amusement he was clearly creating for himself. It was…endearing.

As his sole escort below deck, his attention quickly turned towards you and the warm fluttery feeling you had moved lower in your body. Silence only protected you for so long before your face was too red to ignore, giving the clown encouragement to continue. Changing tactics, Buggy started spouting cheesy and overused pickup lines. Each remark said with unabashed enthusiasm added to the heat on your face.

“If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put ‘U’ and ‘I’ together.” “I’d like to report a crime. My breath was stolen.” “That Marine uniform doesn’t look so bad on you. But it would look better on the floor.”

Those comments were so stupid and worked so well. A few hissed retorts and threats of punishment were disarmed with a charming smile. You had no chance of winning whatever this game was. Secretly, you weren’t sure you wanted to win. There was something alluring about this pirate who tried to hide behind jokes and laughter that you wanted more of.

Arousal easily increases in potency when mixed with other feelings. For you, it was unexpected affection and the lure of degeneracy. For Buggy, you assumed it was the fear and anxiety that comes with imprisonment. Each concoction was perfectly portioned and all it took were choice words, overly-familiar touches, and curious glances for the poison to take effect.

Alone in the room, it only took seconds to pull your pants low enough to grant Buggy access. You leaned forwards, steadying yourself against the wall, while he grabbed the lower hem of your top. His thrusts were erratic and sloppy as he tried to find a decent pace. There was barely enough time for this moment of guilty indulgence and you both wanted as much from it as possible.

Bringing his bound hands overhead, Buggy pulled you close to his chest until you were wrapped in his hold. With his hands closer to your hips, he was able to move both of your bodies at a quick tempo. He was rewarded with a whine that escaped your heavy breathing.

“S’that how you like it? Hard and rough? I didn’t expect you to be so fucking filthy. Do all your prisoners get welcomed like this?”

Fuck. Why did his voice sound so good? And why did it sound better saying such degrading shit?

You shook your head and leaned into his touch, wanting to feel more. “Sh-shut up. Don’t you ever stop talking?”

“You d-don’t want that,” Buggy groaned. “I can feel your body squeeze when I talk. You like it.” His teasing was met with a delicious whimper.

Every word from his mouth had your head spinning. You wanted so much more. You wanted to taste his voice, to feel his mouth against yours, to feel his lips on your skin, but he wore that stupid face paint. You wanted his touch everywhere, for his hands to roam your body, for him to hold you tighter, but he needed to keep the cuffs on. Buggy was a Devil Fruit user. He was dangerous. And he was breaking you down.

Almost as if he could read your mind, Buggy started describing all the ways he wanted to screw you. How good you are at taking him. He wants to hear how good he makes you feel. Lost in the haze of lust, you barely remembered pulling out the key you wore on a chain and had tucked under your clothes. Your palm ached from how tightly you gripped the key while fighting against the horny instincts crowding your body.

You were so close, so achingly close. Maybe if you timed it right, it would be okay. You could minimize the danger. That makes sense, right? It could work. The wisp of rational thought faded away so softly that you didn’t miss its absence.

“Please,” was all you could get out as you unlocked the cuffs and let them fall to the floor.

It was like you released a feral animal with that decision. You didn’t realize just how much the seastone had sapped from Buggy until you felt his bruising grip as he brutally slammed his hips into yours. Even his cock seemed to get harder as it was bullied deeper in your body. He struggled to stay quiet, grunting like a wild boar as he rut into you.

You were on the edge of the precipice, ready to throw yourself over the ledge, when a horrible sound yanked you back to solid ground. A piercing siren sound filled the ship, signaling the top of the hour and a change in duties. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You needed to finish your job before anyone found out what you were doing. Who you were doing.

In a panic, you elbowed the pirate and spun around. “They’re gonna catch us,” you said with wide-eyes.

With all his blood below the belt, Buggy was already caught off-guard by the loud noise. Your rapid change from a whimpering needy thing who needed to be railed, to a Marine who wanted to follow the rules was a lot for the pirate to follow after losing the trail of his own orgasm. All he could do was struggle to pull up his pants as you shoved him into the jail cell and locked him in. Thoughts slowly returned to his head and weakness seeped back into his body as he watched you fix up your uniform before freezing.

“What the fuck did you do?” The question started as a shout before you restrained the rest of your temper.

“I wanted to make sure you come back for me,” Buggy responded with a wink. “Besides, we didn’t get to finish. I figured you could keep it warm for me until the encore.” He reached down and grabbed the crotch of his pants, which was baggier than it should be.

“Are you fucking ser-” The rhetoric question was stopped by the throbbing in your body.

Between your body fully accepting the rough fuck and the whirlwind of anxiety about being caught, you didn’t notice that Buggy left you with a piece of himself. Of all the things he could have done with his Devil Fruit powers in that moment, rather than doing something, anything, that could help him escape, the clown chose to part from his dick. What a fucking joke.

---

It was a sunny day with just enough of a breeze to keep the sails full and to blow away excess heat from the sun. The gentle wind helped dry the perspiration on your skin as you crossed the deck, towards the meeting room. While the air carried away some of the physical evidence, your body still burned and you chose to believe the unrelenting heat was shame. Punctual attendance was critical on the ship and you couldn’t even spare a few minutes to evict the pirate’s privates without risking a penalty.

With each step, you felt the fullness between your legs and the stretch from his girth. You couldn’t remember what it meant to walk normally. Every movement was over thought and analyzed. What felt normal made your core feel too tight against the intrusion. Longer strides had you worry that he might slip out. While it seemed unlikely (all of this was unlikely already), you worried about losing this bit of Buggy. There would be no reasonable way to explain a lone penis anywhere on the ship.

As hard as you tried to be upset with Buggy’s stupid horny decision, your body was still flooded with hormones that drowned logic and only allowed obscene thoughts to float. You were deep in a fucked up situation and you were enjoying it.

You arrived just in time for the meeting to start. It was a daily check-in where attendees would recite numbers and metrics that meant nothing to you. It was important and wholly unnecessary. The returning sheen of sweat and lingering redness on your face could be excused as the hustle needed to arrive on time and not the throbbing you felt inside.

Settling into one of the open chairs, you couldn’t find a position that was remotely comfortable. There was minimal padding on the wood chairs and the backrests were at an awkward height that provided no support. Leaning too far one way pushed Buggy further inside and you just barely concealed the discovering gasp as a deep breath.

Crossing your legs was a terrible idea, as it only added to the unforgiving pressure. The sensation attacked you both, as you felt the confined cock flex in its warm prison. You quickly uncrossed your legs, glad no one could see how they shook under the table.

Wicked voices began whispering to you, talking over the droning presentation at the head of the table. You couldn’t find any reprieve from what you were feeling. The only thing that made you feel better was giving in. You could afford to let your mind drift, this meeting was only to make others feel important. You had your own feelings to deal with.

Your mind wandered down to where those feelings radiated from. To the frustrating ache between your legs. Buggy was a good length, on the longer end of average, but his thickness was far more than average. Thankfully he got you so riled up earlier and all you had to suffer through was a burn that he quickly fucked away. Your body had grown accustomed to the wideness, but being held open for so long was different. Even through the uniform, you felt exposed. With each twitch from your hole as it fruitlessly tried to find some give against the occupant, you fell apart a little more.

You shifted in the chair again, cautiously rolling your hips with the movement. Just once. And then again, under the guise of trying to get comfortable. Fuck, that did feel good. Your body shifted against Buggy’s member just right. You tensed against him, chasing that sensation, and receiving a heavy throb in response.

Your name broke through the fog you willingly got lost in. Your eyes snapped to the man standing at the head of the table.

“Is there something more important than going over these reports?”

Maybe your movements weren’t as subtle as you thought.

“No, Sir. Just trying to get comfortable. I apologize for the distraction.” You spoke loudly, overriding the quiver hiding in your throat.

Buggy was reacting to the jolt of tension that ran through our body. Clenched fists pressed into your knees and your toes curled in the little space available in your boots as you rode out his movement. It was incredibly frustrating and absolutely embarrassing. So why did it feel so fucking good?

---

The rest of the meeting ended without further incident. At least, as far as any of the attendees cared. For you, every action and reaction from either of your linked bodies felt like a whole new event to survive. You offered a tight lipped smile to everyone as they left the room, preferring a small audience when you attempted to use your weak legs. Luckily, horniness and adrenaline held you up and supported you out of the room.

The infirmary was a few doors down and it was around the time the doctor took a break. If you were lucky, the room would be empty and you could put an end to this. The luck was debatable when you opened the door to two pale faces. One belonged to the Marine who was on guard duty and the other belonged to the prisoner being guarded. A prisoner who offered you a small smile that matched the one painted on his face.

The guard started babbling when you entered the room. “H-he doesn’t look good, r-right? I brought him h-here, but they’re all on break. I’m wor-worried he’s gonna upch- upchu-ugh, pu- v- vom-”

“Get sick?”

The guard nodded with pursed lips, struggling to hold back the hiccups and sympathetic heaves that wracked their body. “Doesn’t seem ser-serious enough to call the med-ugh medics b-back.”

You looked at Buggy, trying to assess what was going on. Was this a ploy or was he actually ill? Were you going to get sick?

“It doesn’t look that serious. I can stay with him. Why don’t you go lie down?” Your offer was accepted before you even finished speaking.

The infirmary door closed, leaving you and Buggy in an awkward silence. He sat in a chair, hunched over, still giving you a weak smile.

“Are you okay? Is it bad?” You asked, concerned that his flashy self seemed to be affected. Crouching down, you brought yourself closer to his level.

“Bad,” he repeated hoarsely, leaning towards you.

His trajectory would bring his painted forehead to the white shoulder of your uniform, so you intercepted. Pressing your head against his, you waited for Buggy to continue.

“N-need you. Made a bad decision, need you, please.” One of his cuffed hands pawed at the empty space where his dick should be.

With his strength and stamina taken away during imprisonment, Buggy’s self-inflicted secondary imprisonment was too much. He could feel everything - how your body continued to struggle around him, how warm you were inside, how you reacted to his involuntary cries and demands for more. It felt so fucking good, so deliriously wonderful, and downright torturous.

There was no end in sight, though. There had to be a reason you kept him inside, so even if Buggy could come, it would be followed with overstimulation that could go for who knows how long. Not to mention how upset you would probably be if you were unexpectedly full of his hot cum.

Buggy whimpered at the thought. At imagining you full and plugged. Of his jizz dripping out and collecting in your underwear. Of you being an absolute fucking mess under your prim and pristine uniform, because of him.

“Please,” he whined again.

You pulled away and locked the door. “We don’t have a lot of time. Again.”

Buggy bit his lip as you held out your hand to help him up and blubbered what sounded like, “thank you.”

You understood how he felt. So insatiable that nothing mattered more than giving into these desperate needs that aggressively grew out of desire. Giving up on everything but chasing the high, you uncuffed Buggy and undid your pants.

This fucker needed to know the effect his dumbass decision had on others. You shoved his hand down your pants, letting him feel how wildly aroused you were. How much of a mess he made.

His groan was laced with delight and pain at the knowledge. His touch was everywhere, committing all of the evidence of your lust to memory. As his hand crept further, it came in contact with his base and his body jolted at the touch. This was too much.

Yanking his hand out of your pants, Buggy rushed to unbuckle his and expose where his member belonged. Following his lead, you pulled your pants down and turned around. Wary about wasting precious time, Buggy pressed his hips against yours and shuddered when his cock returned to its rightful place. It felt as if his senses increased a hundredfold now that it was back.

“M’close,” he warned, struggling to set a reliable pace.

Honestly, he was about to explode when his hand was down your pants. But he needed this. He needed to feel you moving on his cock. To feel your body react against him. To feel you explode.

As if reading his thoughts, you grabbed his hand and pushed it down. You didn’t need much. This entire time, you didn’t need much, apparently. Just his attention on you was enough to pull you off the trail you were on. And that’s what he gave you - his enthusiastic attention.

His hand moved fervently, following the cues your body gave. The touches that had your breaths teeter on moans, pressure that had your body clench his, sensations that increased the tension in your core.

“Uh-haah, uh-huh, just like that. K-keep going, g-gonna… You’re gonna make me c-” You were cut off as the feeling ripped through your body, sharp and electric. The words in your mouth were wiped away as you fell to the indescribable surge.

Buggy huffed as he struggled to fuck through your orgasm. Your unsaid words rung through his head - he was responsible for this. You were shaking beneath him because of what he did. Your sweet sighs of relief were for him.

“Wh-where-” Buggy could hardly stutter a question he should have asked earlier.

“Finish what you started,” you said, leaning into his touch once again.

Feeling your body melt against his, accepting his thick cock so easily, pulling him deeper - that was more than enough.

“F-fucking shit,” Buggy hissed as he came.

The climax was nearly painful as he shot stream after stream inside your body. Feeling like the release would never end, the pirate clung to you and whimpered with each pulse. Eventually, he ran out. His hold released with a shaky sigh.

Buggy struggled with words to fill the next moment. Something about how this felt good. Maybe a thanks? But before he could decide, yet another loud sound interrupted the moment. A sound that was accompanied by a lurch that threw the pirate back. An explosion. Then came the alarms. The ship was under attack by pirates. You both rushed to fix yourselves up.

“I-I think that’s for me,” Buggy said.

You looked at him incredulously. Was this all a fucking trick?

“I want you to come with me.”

His request kept you silent. This didn’t make sense.

“I didn’t think they were coming. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. But it was fun - well, I had fun. I think you did too. We can keep having fun, unless you want to keep living this stuffy life.” Buggy spoke quickly.

His explanation was rushed, but you could see a hint of honesty among the turmoil.

Buggy held his hand out for you to grab.

---

Life on a pirate ship was different, but also similar to life with the Marines. Useless meetings couldn’t be avoided and petty drama existed everywhere. But the spirit and passion that came with piracy was unbelievably vast. Joys flew high, parties raged hard, drinks always flowed, treasure was celebrated.

And on Buggy’s ship, there was always more. More life, more color, more light. Dumb jokes, death defying stunts, fantastic skills, and stupid decisions that managed to work out in the end.

One of your favorite things about life aboard the ship were the quiet afternoons you spent with the captain. Afternoons that were spent laying in the shared bed, your body nestled against his. Afternoons full of stories and musings. Afternoons dedicated to the two of you, which you spent slotted together in warmth and intimacy.

#buggy smut #buggy x reader #buggy the clown #buggy x you #buggy the clown x reader #x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy #buggy the clown smut #one piece smut #gender neutral reader #hey-august march madness

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whaledenwtf · 1 year ago

Text

Halsin x Druid!Reader - The Forest's Calling

I'm currently HYPERFIXATING on Baldur's Gate 3. This is my love letter to Mount Halsin, the elf I would climb until my limbs fell off. You're welcome (or I'm sorry). Cross-posted on AO3 here: Link Enjoy!

Warnings: afab!reader and Male Smut, Dom/Sub Dynamic, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Choking, Oral (Female and Male Receiving), Kinky DRUID Forest Sex, Misuse of the Entangle Cantrip (hehe), Size Difference

I tried to keep Halsin in character as much as possible, but there is a significant change when y'all get funky

WORD COUNT: 4691

Nature calls to you, as it always had. The sounds of the forest have always been your favourite. Silvanus' creations had made you feel complete. The moss between your toes, and the swaying of trees; you had never felt so much peace during such perilous times. It's at times like this you are gracious for your god's teachings; nature is chaotic as it is gentle, and things will sort them out- if that is what is determined. This is how you kept such a level head during this adventure. Some of your companions saw your level-headedness as worrisome, but you always remind them that to persevere is in the forest's nature, and so it is in yours.

No good ever came from stressing over obstacles in your life.

"If you could stop thinking about the grass for five seconds, I'd appreciate you listening to me. Tch- tree huggers." Astarion tells you annoyed. You look into his crimson eyes and smirk.

"This tree hugger is your key to freedom. Unless you forgot about the tadpole in your brain." Astarion's eyes widen, before he smirks.

"Keep talking dirty, sweetheart. Might not resist taking a bite~" You chuckle.

"Settle down. Like I told you beforehand, we must seek out the Archdruid Halsin before we continue our journey. Nobody could come close to him in terms of knowledge-" Lae'zel rolls her eyes.

"Nobody could come close to the information about the ghaik than us githyanki. You istik entertain such useless ideas." You roll your eyes at her. Before you could speak up, Shadowheart speaks to the githyanki.

"Yes. I'm sure your barbaric race would know much more." She says sarcastically. "I, on the other hand, would much rather any other option besides yours." Before Lae'zel could fight back, Karlach speaks to them both.

"Shut the fuck up and kiss already. Wasting time when we could be slaying goblins and getting closer to being free. Stop fucking around and listen to (Y/N)." You nod your head in appreciation to the tiefling.

"Besides, even if Archdruid Halsin does not know how to help us, he may offer his services regardless. Leaving him with the goblins is a fate worse than death. His ally-ship will be indispensable." This appeases those in the group who were unsure of your leadership.

"Always the cunning one, aren't you sweetheart." Astarion speaks up. You turn your head and wink.

"Let's push forward and assist in any way we can." Wyll speaks up. Gale nods, looking over our group.

"Let's be smart and proactive, we do not want to lose eachother, nor do we want to get caught. We shall stay in hiding for as long as possible. Stealth is the best way forward with our little information we have." Astarion taps your chin.

"I like you like this." You smirk at him before leading the group to the Goblin Camp.

After killing every goblin in the vicinity, you all venture forward to a cage where a bear is roaming.

"A bear. He was probably going to be goblin fodder." Astarion says, smirking.

"Hush. Poor thing was being attacked by these goblins." Karlach speaks to him, bumping her shoulder into Astarions. He gasps, the wind being knocked out of him.

"Careful. I bruise like a peach!" He tells her angrily. She chuckles.

"And you're just as bitter as a rotten tomato-" Astarion bristles. You cut him off.

"Settle down, girls. We have time for play later. Show some respect. That bear is our charge." You unlock the iron gate before walking in alone.

"I don't think that's a good idea-" Gale says worriedly, but you shush him. When the bear makes eye contact with you, you see the gold swirling in his eyes. His mouth opens to show his sharp teeth, a warning.

You bow down infront of the bear, laying a hand out towards his snout.

"Are you sure that's... wise, sweetheart?" Astarion asks, concerned. You ignore him before speaking.

"Archdruid Halsin, it is my absolute honour to stand before you. We have come here to free you from your imprisonment and bring you back to the Emerald Grove. May Silvanus preserve us." Without a beat, the bear transforms into a tall, handsome, elf. Your eyes widen at his stature, but more at his beauty.

"Ah, a fellow druid. Silvanus has certainly looked upon me in favour. Thank you for assisting me." You realize you are still kneeling, at crotch level with the Archdruid. Your eyes flicker to his pelvis, and eyes widen at what you see. You rise to your full height, which makes you eye level with his chest. Your head tilts to look into his eyes, and notice him watching you, with a small smirk. He saw you gazing at him, how embarrassing.

"Of course, Archdruid Halsin." He shakes his head softly, braids swaying with the movement.

"Please, call me Halsin. My savior shouldn't have to call me by such a title." You nod, before looking over your shoulder at your companions. They are all looking at the tall elf in shock.

"He just- he just turned into a man!" Astarion says out loud. You chuckle.

"Yes. My preferred wild shape is a bear." He responds to the shorter elf, not looking away from you, glancing over you in curiousity. You turn back to look at him. Your eyes stay locked while you speak to your party.

"Let us leave. We will bring Halsin back to the Emerald Grove and then we can rest. I want to wash off this gods-awful goblin blood before it stains my armour." Everyone nods at that. They turn to walk out, ready to escort Halsin back. You follow your group, Gale and Wyll leading you all forward.

"Thank you, little flower. I truly appreciate you aiding me." Halsin whispers to you, matching your strides behind the group. Little flower... the nickname made you giddy. You blush softly, the heat reaching to the peaks of your ears.

"I can't leave a fellow druid behind. Especially with what those goblins were doing to you." You shake your head, looking over him and the dried blood that caked him from his wild shape form. He chuckles at your worried gaze.

"Nonetheless, the Oakfather has blessed me with your assistance. I am indebted to you for life." You turn to look at him, his easy smile and warm eyes making you feel something... magical.

"The Oakfather has blessed us many times anew. The air we breathe, the ground we walk upon, the forests. But alas, I did come to release you because we need your assistance-" His eyes widen lightly, before he looks down at you.

"What do you need, little flower?" The way he speaks to you is soft, unconcerned of the questions you will ask him. His caring nature speaks to the softest parts of you.

"I will ask you once we bring you to the Emerald Grove. However, I must warn you-" You stop walking and grab his arm. Holy hells his arms are buff. You must have paused for a moment too long.

"What is wrong?" You shake your head at your own thoughts. You're acting like a toddler, instead of the adult elf you are.

"At the Emerald Grove... Kagha is planning to do the Rite of Thorns, and is releasing all the Tiefling refugees..." Halsin's eyes almost bug out of his head.

"We must stop them! That rite does more harm than good! Those Tieflings... fleeing towards death. It is not right!" You tell him passionately. He takes your hand from off his arm and grips it in both his large hands.

" We will stop them, little one." You nod. He continues to hold your hand.

"The shadow curse has been on my mind for so long, I cannot believe I trusted such a-" He shakes his head, cutting himself off.

"We will continue our trek and once we stop the rite, I will tell you all you need to know." You bite your lip.

"If I could help carry your burdens, I would." He chuckles, a light blush appearing on the apples of his cheeks.

"I'm sure you would, little flower. Now, let us continue our journey. I appreciate you warning me." He lets go of your hand and waves his hand out, gesturing you to go forward, so you do. You can't help the chill that you feel when his hands release yours.

After stopping the rite, you did speak to Halsin about the tadpoles. He sighs when he says he cannot heal you of your affliction. A shiver of fear goes through your body. If someone as knowledgeable with healing like Halsin cannot heal you, you cannot imagine how to move forward. Its then that he tells you that the Shadow-Cursed Lands may be the key to assisting you in your journey. You bite your lip worriedly.

"I will continue to assist you. I will follow your party and do what I can. Not only for the cursed lands, but also for you." He says it with such conviction, such passion, you cannot help but feel safe and warmed from his sentiments.

"I feel indebted to you Halsin. Truly." He shakes his head.

"You will be helping me much more than I, you." You smile up at him. He cannot help but be captured by the radiance of your smile. Oakfather preserve him, you are the most beautiful of his creations.

"I will help you with this shadow curse. Take back nature and restore balance. I just hope I don't grow any tentacles in that time." You say humourlessly, your laugh hollow. He grabs your chin with his hand, his thumb stroking the side of your face.

"I promise on all of the Oakfather's creations, I will not let anything happen to you." Your eyes flutter, and you glance down at his lips before looking back into his eyes.

"Thank you." You whisper to him. His attention is taken elsewhere, and his hand caresses down your neck before releasing you, and moving to the Tiefling asking for him.

You feel this feral need to have him, to help him. You're attracted to him, and you can tell this will be problematic. Oakfather preserve you.

That night, the Tieflings throw a party for you all. The music is loud, and you can see them enjoying themselves. You look over your companions and see all of them enjoying themselves; albeit in their own ways. While looking over the festivities, you see Halsin standing away, gazing over the festivities and people watching. Your eyes make contact and you blush.

"This wine tastes like goblin piss." Astarion tells you, gagging on the swig he just took. You chuckle at him, breaking eye contact with the handsome druid to look over at the vampire.

"Not your type of red drink?" You ask him flirtedly. He smirks at you and leans into you.

"No, sweetheart. My type of red is standing right next to me, as radiant as ever." His face gets close to your neck and he sniffs you deeply.

"All of a sudden, I am thirsting for something else." He tells you. You chuckle at his advances.

"Are you now?" You flirt back. He smirks down at you.

"You're much more fun to speak to like this, sweetheart. I can't help but want a taste." You giggle at him, before taking the wine from his hand and taking a couple mouthfuls.

"Oh gods it does taste like goblin's piss." You splutter out. He laughs at your turmoil.

"Oh darling, you make me laugh." He tells you. You grin at him.

"Glad my misfortunes bring you joy." He smiles at you, sharp teeth glinting in the campfire's light.

"Mm. The only thing that would bring me more joy in this moment is having a taste of you." His voice lowers to a whisper. You roll your eyes.

"Easy there. If I didn't know you better I'd say you're a bard, singing my praises so I could follow you to your tent for the night." You push his chest gently.

"I'm sure I can make you sing, sweetheart." He tells you, looking at you with a smirk.

"As much fun as we would have, I think you've had enough to drink." You tell him jokingly, waving the bottle of wine in his face. You take another swig, and swallow down the bitterness. You go to walk forward, the alcohol driving you to your destination; Halsin.

"Ah, my little flower! It seems you were having fun." Halsin tells you, smile on his face. The crease between his brows tells you that he'd much rather had been the one sniffing your neck, rather than Astarion. You feel a rush of confidence surge through you, aided by the alcohol in your system.

"I decided to turn my attentions elsewhere." You tell him confidently. He smirks at your words.

"Is that so? Well, I am honoured to have such attentions on me." He tells you in a whisper. You almost whimper at his words, feeling hot. You feel as though molten lava has replaced the blood in your veins, and the heat is centralized at the apex of your thighs. You rub them lightly, which catches the elder druid's attention.

"You could have much more than attentions on you tonight, Master Halsin." Your voice lowers to a whisper, and the effect is immediate. His eyes shine golden and his smile becomes wider, more primal. Just like in the Goblin Camp, it was a warning.

"Is that so, little flower? Are you offering yourself to me?" He asks you gently, taking a step forward. You are now flush with his body, and the carvings on his undershirt graze the peaks of your breasts deliciously, hardening them. You moan quietly, looking up at the gargantuan man through your eyelids.

"I'd like to explore you, Master Halsin. See if those rumours of your... generosity are true." You feel his arm wrap around your waist, his hand resting at the small of your back. His fingers seem to tighten, digging softly into your skin.

"You seem to enjoy calling me by my honourifics." You hum, smirking at him.

"I'm just calling you by title. You would like to be my master, would you not?" He growls lowly, much like a bear would.

"You're playing a dangerous game, little one." He tells you huskily. You giggle at him.

"The only games I would like to play are with you, Master." In his eyes you can see him having an inner battle. You take the hand on your waist in yours, which snaps him out of his inner turmoil. The alcohol is rushing through you now, your (very little) inhibitions non-existent now. You pull it closer to your face, before taking a thick finger in your mouth and worshipping it. You kiss at the pad of his forefinger before licking it; inevitably taking it into your mouth and sucking on it softly. He watches you entranced, groaning softly as you let go of his finger with a pop. You take his hand in yours, and pull him towards the edge of the camp, leading to the forest. Once you find the small grove in the forest, you let go of his hand, spinning in place and enjoying the silence of nature. He stays at the edge of the tree line, watching you with sharp eyes.

"Little flower-" Halsin says softly. You turn to look at the man with a smile.

"Our worries are for dawn. With the moonlight shining on us, and the trees as our witness, I would like to show you the pleasures of the flesh, as nature intended." He groans loudly now, far enough from the camp that your voices would not carry.

"I'm afraid to lose myself. The beast-" You pull off your nightshirt, exposing your breasts in the moonlight. You then pull off your pants and undergarments in one shot, fully baring yourself to his sight. He inhales deeply, eyes looking at you up and down multiple times. You begin to to dance sensually, your hips seeming to beckon him forward. He takes a couple of uncertain steps.

"Halsin. I am not one so easily afraid of beasts. Let me help you forget your woes for a night." His resolve seems to crumble, and he runs to you, leaving you both chest to chest.

"Little flower, I will devour you-" You moan, pulling his hair to bring him to your lips. His chapped lips touch yours, and it feels as if there is magic flowing through your bodies. His hands find purchase under your thighs, lifting you up into him. Your legs wrap around his waist, and you moan into his mouth. His tongue prods at the seam of your lips, persuading you to open your mouth to his. Your tongues find each other, and a battle of dominance begins. You lose easily, his gifted tongue prodding and licking at yours with wanton need. You release each other to inhale deeply. He inhales from his nose and groans.

"I can smell your need, little one." You whimper, looking into his eyes.

"You're overdressed, Master Halsin. Allow me to undress you." He lets you down out of his embrace, and you begin to untuck his sleepshirt out from his pants and over his head. You begin to untie his pants, helping him out of them as well. That's when you notice he is wearing no undergarments, and his cock is thick and long, closer to the length of your forearm. You whimper, falling to your knees and looking up at him.

"You don't need to please me-" You cut him off.

"I want your cock to hit the back of my throat until I am unable to speak." He moans loudly, before your hand grasps him at the shaft.

"The Oakfather blessed me with such a giving partner. I- Oh Silvanus-" You take him in your mouth, licking at the tip. You taste his musk, and he tastes like pine and mint, and something that makes you absolutely feral. Without a care for your own wellbeing, you try to swallow him whole, his tip hitting the back of your throat, and then some. He groans, eyes closing as one hand finding itself locked in your hair and the other forming a fist at his thigh.

"That's right little druid, take Master's cock into the back of your throat." His voice goes down an octave, and you feel a rush of slick leave you. Taking him out of your mouth, you kiss the shaft downward until you take his heavy balls in your mouth and suckle. You're panting with need, moaning into his skin. You let go of him, one hand stroking his cock and the other inching down your body to touch your cunt. He looks down at you then with hooded eyes, and moans again.

"Are you touching your needy cunt, little flower? I cannot wait to fill you with my seed until your entire being is satiated." You moan, needing him back in your mouth. You remove the hand on his shaft and deepthroat him again, only getting two thirds of his member into your mouth. You hear your need, the wet sounds coming from your pussy only arousing you further. He begins to thrust into your mouth and you choke on him. After making sure you were alright, he continues his movements, thrusts getting rougher. The hand in your hair tightens and pulls you off his cock, as he growls.

"I will pound your quim until you are unable to walk without my healing, little one." His hands grip your upper arms and lifts you up to stand. Your face is smeared with his precum and your spittle. Once you are stable on your two feet, he kisses you passionately and you moan into him. His hands are touching you everywhere. His touch is searing hot. His hands find themselves at your breasts, rubbing and pinching the peaks of them.

"O-Oh Halsin. Don't stop." He chuckles into your ear.

"I'm not planning to stop until dawn shows itself." You whimper at his words, thrusting your chest deeper into his ministrations. You hear Halsin whisper before your hands are being pulled behind you, tightly grasped. Your feet are also held up, spreading your legs open. You notice that vines grew from the ground and are holding you up like a platter to Halsin.

"As much as I love your touch, little one, I don't want you to push me off when I get a taste of your ambrosia." You moan loudly, almost caterwauling for the elder druid.

His large hands caress up your leg, massaging the skin of your calves, before going higher.

"I wish you could see yourself as I do in this moment, little flower. You're exquisite; truly one of Silvanus' greatest creations." You blush, heaving.

"H-Halsin, please-" He chuckles at your enthusiasm.

"Don't fret, you will be chanting my name soon enough." His confidence is addicting, you could feel how drenched you were even with your legs spread so far apart. His hands finally reach close to your core, and he spreads your slit further open to look at you. You could feel your hole contracting, as if begging for an intrusion.

"By the gods... Look at your tight cunt begging for my cock. Can't wait to have a taste." You feel his breath on you. You look down and see him watching you, as his hands slide up to your breasts to play with your nipples like he had before. The first stroke of his tongue on your clit sent a sensation of pleasure up your spine. You struggle against your bonds, with an insatiable urge to grasp his hair and tug him deeper into you.

His tongue then ventures lower, tasting your essence. He moans loudly into your body, the vibrations of his moan pleasing you greatly. He continues licking you, tasting you as he tweaks your nipples, tugging before massaging. You felt powerless against the bonds, barely hearing anything more than the rush of blood in your ears.

"Your nectar... is just like honey. I can't wait to have you cum on my tongue multiple times." You moan. You can tell you're already close to your precipice, his words, moans and tongue vibrating and licking against your clit deliciously.

"Please... please Master Halsin-" He groans at the honourific. He plunges his tongue into you, lapping you at your source. His nose nudges your clit and that sets off your orgasm. You feel yourself leak onto him, his tongue cleaning your mess. You're shaking with oversensitivity, but he does not stop. One of the hands on your breast caress back down the length of your body, before he pulls away from your core. He grins up at you as he thrusts two of his thick fingers into you. He curls them, as you begin to shake harder.

"That's it, little one. Let all those in the forest know who is making you feel like this, making you cum and feel pleasure-" His words go straight to your core, and more of your slick leaks around his fingers.

"Halsin-H-Halsin- Oh GODS-" His lips wrap around your clit, sucking and licking at you. The attention was too much; you cum again. This time, you can feel much more than slick leave your body- did I squirt? You wonder to yourself, as your body is now lashing against the constraints. You didn't have much time to think about it, as he pulls his fingers out to taste you, moaning. You look down at him, panting. He spreads you open again, this time with both hands, before his tongue is back in you, tasting you like you were water and he was a man dehydrated. You whimper, begging him to give you reprieve. He pulls off of you, his mouth and chin covered in your release. He was panting, his eyes glowing a bright amber.

"You have no idea what you unleashed, little one." He growls out. You feel the vines dissipate. You're laid on the forest ground gently. Before he could move, you flip yourself over with enthusiasm, laying your upper body parallel to the floor and your lower body in the air. You wiggle your ass, one of your hands going between your legs and spreading yourself open. You look over your shoulder and look him directly in the eye. He is watching you with wonder, before you speak.

"Breed me, Master Halsin. Empty your seed in me and fuck me into a stupor." He growls, before kneeling behind you.

"I'll make sure you can't walk for weeks, little one. I'll spread you nice and good." You feel the tip of his cock at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down your slit, gathering your juices.

"Look how wet you are. Such a good little druid for me." You whimper at his words. Without warning he thrust into you, going to the hilt. His heavy balls hit against your clit, and your mouth goes open in a silent scream. He begins a brutal pace, pounding into you. One of his hands reach around your body, his large hand grasping your neck. His hold is tight, but not painfully so. You feel lightheaded, all your senses being overwhelmed by the Archdruid. You feel as though your floating, the only thing tying you to this plane of existence is the continuous thrusts from the elf behind you. You felt as though you were split open repeatedly, his cock reaching places in you that you were unsure existed before today. He growls as he pounds into you, and you begin to feel claws against your neck, before they retract.

"You make me feral, little one. I'm gonna fill you with my seed, fill you with pups." You moan, breathless. His thrusts begin to falter, but they seem to go deeper. You feel yourself fluttering around him, as you gasp.

"I-I'm close." You whisper to him. He groans.

"I feel you fluttering around me, little one." He chokes out. After a handful of thrusts he cums with a shout, and you constrict around him, cumming once more. You feel his seed in you, so abundant that it leaks out around him. You both pant for a couple seconds. He releases your neck and you gasp an inhale.

"Did I hurt you?" He asks you softly. You shake your head enthusiastically.

"N-no. Oh gods Halsin. I am unsure how I will walk right ever again." You tell him breathlessly. He chuckles at that, caressing your back and thighs with gentleness. You feel him slowly pull out of you, taking care to not punish your core anymore. You whimper at the loss, feeling your mixed spend leaking out of you. He flips you over softly, wanting to look you over. His hand goes to finger you lazily. You shriek, body seizing up.

"Not a drop goes to waste." He tells you huskily. After a couple moments, he pulls his fingers out too, and directs them to your mouth. You suckle on the digits, the taste arousing you once more. You both look into each other's eyes as you did this. Once he removes his fingers from your mouth, his lips replace it, tasting both of you on his tongue. He groans into your lips. You kiss for a couple moments, before you both need to separate so you could inhale. You felt utterly spent. He goes to lie down next to you, and your eyes follow him.

His hands begin to massage your sore muscles, before pulling you onto him. You felt utterly spent. He holds you into a lover's embrace and you can't help but sigh into his chest, caressing his pectorals and cuddling into him. You feel his lips on the crown of your head, leaving a trail soft pecks and kisses. You both lay there, absorbing the beauty of nature and speaking about your lives before the parasite and the shadow curse until the sun rose.

END

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