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hoseoksluna · 2 months ago

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LADY BEETLE | knj

pairing: non-idol!namjoon x oc

genre: situationship au ; sex playhouse ; glory hole / smut, fluff

word count: 10.4k

summary: when you came to seoul's hidden sex playhouse to forget about namjoon, you didn't think the anonymous mr. kim would actually be namjoon.

pin: lady beetle / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: sex club setting, oc struggles with her feelings towards namjoon, glory hole but with hoseoksluna twist, engaging in sexual practices with a person you don't know, commitment issues, heated conversations, dirty talk, patience game, counting down (for my neva play girlies), oral sex (f. & m. receiving), deepthroat, face fucking, nipple play, unprotected and rough sex, teacher namjoon, spanking, praise kink, size kink, choking on fingers, rough treatment in general, aftercare, oc and namjoonie smoke together.

note: i daresay this is my best work. :D fuck my life, guys. i need this namjoon like i need air to breathe. if i see any of you wearing panties... TAKE EM OFF NOW. sldjflskdjfsl jk, jk. THE SUPRISE IS REVEALED. GLORY FAWKING HOLE. my babies, enjoy this filth. stream neva play. imagine that deep voice of his.... yeah. yeah....... faaawwkwkjsdlfjsdlfjsdfjslfjsls. ENJOYYYYY. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK. MY ASK BOX IS OPEENNNNNNN.

The building looked ordinary from the outside view. Like any other building in this part of the city. Long and tall, coalescing with the evening heavens and with its freckles of stars—very much like those upon your skin. McDonald’s was just down the road, a to-go coffee stand perfumed the whole street with its coffee beans, and a bookstore stood right next to this peculiar piece of urban architecture, unaware of all the sins that lurked behind its walls.

It may pretend to be pure, with its grand hall, its sophisticated reception and even graceful employees—dressed in the finest of fabrics that glinted beneath the opulent chandelier—but it was just that.

An act.

They smiled at you, but in their heart they knew what you were here for.

In this seemingly normal, ordinary building all your sexual fantasies flare out. In the simplest of words, you come here to get fucked out of the norm that is considered vanilla. You fill out an online application, set the date, the time—and depending on your desire, you even get to see who your dream fulfiller is.

In your case, you were going into this blind.

And so was he, your dream fulfiller.

While you opted to stay anonymous, the only detail you knew about the man was that he was from the cursed Kim clan. Another male that bore the last name like the one who wrecked your nerves to the point that you had to bite the bullet and try this out as nothing else was working. It was a newfound obsession of your best friend, who gifted you a voucher to this place on your birthday. And you weren’t sure if Kim Namjoon had the sixth sense and somehow knew about this, although you’d believe he was very much capable of possessing one, just to piss you off even more.

You have been crushing on this man since the day you met him at your mom’s small ramyeon restaurant you are working in for her. Since the moment, in fact, you glimpsed at his vintage black Cartier watch with a matching singular bracelet adorning his wrist that he kept calmly on the table while he was on a work call, growling and snapping into the phone. Your mom curled her lips, swatted her eyelashes as she grew hot in the cheeks, chopping green onions for him from her cooking station while you were watching over the noodles. It was her who noticed him at first—and it was her who told you to do your best and seduce him.

And when you lifted your eyes, saw that thick mane of his cloudy hair, the cleft of his cheek as he gritted his jaw and then that picturesque hand of his, you sensed that unfamiliar, magnetic pull towards him that made you blush. And you never looked more like her than in that moment.

For some reason you knew better than to not listen to her and do as she says. You felt it was the right decision, the right move and so you fixed your hair, swiped your flower clip through a half of it while your face-framing wisps fell naturally in front of your pink face. Your mom tossed you her lip gloss from the pocket of her apron and you brought him the ramyon she cooked for him.

Smiled at him. Batted your eyelashes at him like your mother taught you throughout your girlhood and it worked.

Namjoon told you were a breath of fresh air when you sashayed towards him after such an important, yet aggravating phone call, apologized for the inconvenience, bowed slightly. Balanced, most delightfully, respect and flirting. Leaned more towards the latter when he would steal glances at you and smile at you at every opportunity that your gaze would connect to his.

Your heart hammered once he came to you to pay for his meal. Your mother stopped whatever it was that she was doing just to beam at him and he personally gave her a huge tip in cash—right into her right hand that he held. Turned to you and asked you if you’d like to have dinner with him sometime.

And you agreed—without knowing he would get on your nerves in the long run.

Namjoon was not a serious man, not as he appeared to be. Although he showed you the side of Seoul you would otherwise never have the option to see and feel with your entire being by taking you to luxurious dinners, cafés, art exhibitions and work events—the things he would say and the things he would do did not reflect those settings by any chance.

He took you from rags to riches and you paid for it by being a victim of his odd form of cute aggression.

The man would get you tangled up in your sentences because he simply enjoyed the view of you getting flustered. He found pleasure in revving you up enough for you to curse at him and growl at him, be it by bugging you with tickles, pokes or be it by making fun of you until you yourself laughed.

There was nothing sexual about your relationship, if you could call it that. He didn’t hold your hand, he didn’t regard you hungrily as so many men do in his place, but he did look at you with the rawest form of purity. At your freckles—ones that made him give you the adorable nickname Lady Beetle—at your butterfly tattoo on your ankle that your dress would always expose from its natural criss-crossed position. The things he would say did not contain any hints of this leading into the bed. And he never kissed you, even though there were many occasions, where he looked like he was about to do it.

He always held back. And while it, and everything else, made you pristinely fall for him, it also angered you so much that there was nothing else you wanted to do but to grab his head and kiss him madly.

And the other day, you did.

Leaned in after the heft of your shared tension grew too big for you to hide it in your hands—only for him to turn his head, slightly, and let you merely kiss his cheek.

That was the final straw. And so you stopped agreeing to his “date” invitations until you stopped replying to his messages altogether. You thought he wasn’t going to have any part of you if he wasn’t willing to properly date you.

And in your anger, you dwelled in the hole he left behind. The hole that was asking for his fatherly attention that caused you so much extraordinary joy. Your mother must’ve sensed it with her motherly instincts that he would occupy that place in your life, which your father didn’t. Your body missed laughing with him until your tummy hurt—and you missed him. And the more you did, the more your anger blazed.

You couldn’t get rid of it.

You tried exercising. You tried running around the block, only to never do it again because you couldn’t catch your breath and you thought you had almost died that day. You smoked a pack after pack, and that didn’t help either.

Neither did abusing your cunt until you couldn’t go on anymore. Your anger burned down your bedroom and once you groaned and whined, punched the pillows and kicked your legs, your eyes fell upon the voucher you had pinned on your corkboard

Your remedy was in front of you, and in the worst of your anger—you gave it a go.

You filled out that application in the middle of the night, one that made you even hornier. And because you didn’t want to see any other man but Namjoon while you were getting your brain fucked out of your head, you chose the only option there was for that case.

Glory hole.

And the idea of it made your anger falter ever so slightly. You could imagine it was him pounding you through the barrier. The wall would only help your imagination.

Friday. Seven PM. You had to come two hours early because it was a necessity for you to shower at the place after you signed the contract. You also had to quickly think of a safe word, it was the only thing you foolishly forgot to fill out that day, as lost as you were within your flight of fancy. And because the employee standing in front of you made you anxious, you wrote down the first thing you thought of.

Beetle.

Your heart pounded, and when you let go of the pen, the gravity of the moment hit you. You truly were about to swim in a pool of sin only because the man you desperately wanted didn’t want you back. At least not in the way you wanted him to.

The employee led you into the room, where your own personal sin would uncoil. A grandiose, large space, plucked out of a French chateau, with dark antique furniture, an easel with a painting you were quick to skip to in order to ogle at it. Your kitten heels clicked on the old, parquet floors that creaked, scuffed against the carpet that cost more than your yearly salary. It was a room that Namjoon would like—and it was a room that took your breath away.

And the painting paused your blood flow.

The Unequal Marriage by Vasili Pukirev.

A painting of you, essentially, because you can’t have the man you yearn for.

Your heart shrinks, painful pinpricks digging deeply into the flesh. You lift a finger and trace the despondent face of the bride, acknowledge yourself with that secret, yet vivid piece of your agony eternalized within the thickness of the brushstrokes. Her silver flower crown, the gossamer fabric of her veil, and finally her delicate hand. And in your soul, you hold it.

You peek at the elderly groom and disgust seizes you. Because of the poor girl’s fate, because of your own. It feels as though you’re about to sin with that very man and you regret ever coming here.

An emotion that you hurriedly shake off because your best friend paid a huge amount of money for you to experience a good time. Like she did.

Your hand slaps back to your side. Your emotions, too. You will them to hide their starlight just for this one night. Hide their love for the man they can’t have.

You turn around and glimpse upon a table with bottles of both champagne and wine. Think you need one at this moment; think your dream fulfiller would appreciate it if you poured him one, too. But having one sip of that dark liquid, you say fuck it and finish his glass as well.

Undress. Take a shower. Weep under the stream.

And the same employee waits for you when you emerge out of the bathroom in your robe. With manicured hands folded over her stomach, her eyes have softened a little bit, and abruptly, you realize how glad you are that a woman is accompanying you on this strange journey. If a man stood in her place, you would’ve already walked out and wasted your best friend’s money.

“Mr. Kim wishes for you to be naked,” she says, her voice light, but firm. Your skin prickles with goosebumps—you bought a lacy red lingerie for the occasion, to help your imagination do its job to the fullest. A certain wisp of sadness clutches you that you won’t be able to wear it.

Or…

“What happens if I disobey?” you ask, gripping the thick lining of your bathrobe at your chest for mental support. The seriousness of the situation inches nearer and nearer and your stomach knots.

She inhales, straightening up, as if she was about to leave this room. “Mr. Kim is not a regular, so I don’t know anything about this temper, but I would suggest respecting his wishes.”

And she does, making space for your thoughts to whirl, and your eyes trace the flowers on the red Persian rug underneath your slipper-shod feet.

He’s not a regular, so that means he’s not anything like the disgusting groom in the painting. He may be an ordinary person just like you, trying your luck in an unusual setting. Perhaps young, perhaps older—but normal. Not a lecher about to feast on your purity.

Your stomach relaxes as do your muscles and you walk over to the bed to grab your make-up bag. Set yourself into the doll version of you that enjoys a male company with your eyeliner and glitter. Finish the process with a red tendril of lipstick over your mouth—just to leave behind a pleasant trace if the man ever decides to up the fun a little bit.

Will it be fun? Or will you regret every second?

An unanswerable question for your doll brain. You shake it off. Sit down at the edge of the bed and wait.

Wait for him to fuck not just your anger, but your feelings out of your body.

The woman emerges out of the bright light of the hall as if she was a housekeeper coming in to clean the hotel room. To a naked eye, it is not far from reality. This time, her softness has deepened so much that she bears a smile on her face. One, that you’re unsure of what it means. And one that relaxes your system to its finality.

She raises a hand towards the double doors, in the direction of the easel with the painting, and nods, her smile unwavering.

“You may proceed, miss, through this door. You can take off your robe now and get on the bed through the back of the cubicle. Mr. Kim will join you in five minutes.”

Your breath shivers as you exhale. You thank her and she clicks the door shut behind her. Scurrying onto your feet, you gather as much bravery as you can. Your bathrobe plops down onto the bed. You give one last look to the unhappy bride in the painting before you open the door.

You sense her encouraging you to go on—to live a life full of emancipation that she never got to grasp with her fist. And that, you find, is your bravery.

The dimmed room, in size, mirrors the one you just walked out of. And it stares at you head-on.

The cubicle the employee spoke of faces you to the right. A black-painted wooden little structure with a hole in the middle, covered in leather that is cut into long fringes. The lower half of your body will stick out of it and you reckon it depends on Mr. Kim himself what he does with your legs—whether he pins them up using the restrains on the wood or if he holds them.

The unknown lengthens and for the first time during this night, a small ribbon of excitement begins to swathe your chest.

Next to the cubicle, in the far corner of the room, is a dresser. You believe the drawers are filled with toys, but the top is lined with dark bottles of alcohol that you recognize. European—Jack Daniel’s, Jim Beam. Suits the play house’s style, you guess.

And on the left, a monumental bed that takes up the rest of the room. And it’s hung up from the ceiling.

You don’t have time to ogle it as time ticks, but while you run to the back of the cubicle like you were advised, you do notice that there are no paintings embellishing the walls. No person from the old age of time to witness the unfolding of your so-called dream. Sinful, sinful dream.

Maybe that was done on purpose. Maybe you’re supposed to live this dream with the anonymous Mr. Kim in some way.

The mattress inside the cubicle is made out of leather, but it is the strong scent of fresh wood that hits your nostrils. It is decorated with twinkle lights all around, giving it a comforting feel. One pair of restraints is installed into the walls as well, but you think it’s more for leverage than for the wishes of the dream fulfiller. Milky and silken, they stand out from the dark tones of it all, and you gaze at them for some kind of comfort as you strengthen your legs through the hole, the cold tassels drifting along your bare body sending sparks of strange delight up your stomach. You bite your lip at the sensation, scooching up to an awkward, almost sitting position so your legs don’t dangle out, but the backs of your knees press against the edge of the mat.

You cross your ankles.

And you wait, all over again.

Wonder if you should touch yourself or if you should give the honors to Mr. Kim to make you ready for him, but the tassels, the sight of your hip bone tattoo that says angel… your nipples perk up on their own and maybe you’ve come to like the act of waiting for him. Or maybe you like the view of your nakedness at a peculiar place such as this. Of your angelic form bare and about to be taken back to heaven.

Your stomach swarms with anxious morsels at that thought and you take a deep breath. At your exhale, you hear the door creak open and close with a certain tenderness that you immediately know it was used in order not to startle you.

One point up for Mr. Kim.

Maybe the Kim clan has good manners and thoughtfulness engraved in their DNA, but they’re men and disappointment always awaits you eventually—

His footsteps lead towards you, carrying that same tenderness. The sound of the muted thuds grow more and more distinct, no ounce of hurriedness lodged in them. A small fire begins to burn in you due to his evident patience, awakening your body, and you’re so, so surprised to detect such gentle arousal just from the energy he’s brought in.

That, alone, causes you to curl in your coyness, but when you hear him huff out a gentle laughter, you instinctively squeeze your thighs first before you bury your face in your hands, your cheeks hot to the touch.

Why is he laughing—

He places a large, warm palm on your knee. You flinch and his touch becomes heavier as if he was telling you not to be scared, its warmth begins to descend down your shin—and then lips. His breath wafts over your skin and he presses his lips against it as a way of greeting.

It is the rule of this sexual practice—no speaking between the partners. And now that it’s unfolding in action, you find yourself absolutely enthralled by it.

You flutter all over, the apex of your inner thighs slick with the liquid expression of your arousal. Your heart pounds, touched by that unusual but kind gesture, and you’re curious for more.

He rubs the place he kissed with his thumb and then… coldness. He must have withdrawn, straightened his posture, and a great oddity begins to take form in you.

Your knees tremble, sensitive from his benevolence.

And you wonder if he’s watching his creation, taking his time as he is for the next move. You long for it, timid, unsure of what to do with your hands. You flex them and unflex them on the leather, your lower limbs gaining momentum, and you feel your wetness trickling down onto the mat. You do well to stifle the mewls gathering in your throat and you yearn for those considerate hands of his to touch you everywhere—

He yanks you forward and, remarkably, the yelp that is flung out of you is hushed, not heard by his ears. At least you hope so—you don’t want to get in trouble, turn that kindness of his around. You’d regret that, and you’d regret that very much.

Mr. Kim spreads your legs apart, but your femininity is concealed by those suspended tassels that tease your core, your clit, and your hip bones, the most sensitive and vulnerable parts of you. A great dose of pleasure surges through you from it and from the way those fingers of his glide upon the inner of your thigh. He reaches as far as where your shiny stain is. A low, deep breath is exuded from his chest when he feels it and he smears it along your pelvic bone and a little bit on one of your folds.

He heightens your tremor by doing that.

You feel bad for reacting like that, but you can’t help it—neither can you stop it. You try to keep your body still and through the opening you can see him propping his hand on your thigh, watching you do so, as if he won’t continue until he knows you’ve regained your composure. And something about that, in its own way, helps you, and it helps you tremendously.

With his palm flat, he caresses your flesh in a circular motion to praise you for it, lifting his hand upwards and beyond your sight. Your stomach undulates and it is now that you notice the navy blue of his dress pants, the growing tent that takes shape in the middle, and owing to the calmness and the sense of safety he’s installed within you, you do the boldest thing you’ve ever done, save for leaning in to kiss Namjoon nearly two weeks ago.

Turned on from the sight of his arousal, you grab a hold of the tassel and you begin to provoke him, deciding that you want his manhood to grow. Because of the way he treats you, you deem he deserves it.

You move, smooth, the leather strip along your cunt, collecting your slick. You shift your hips in circles, the fabric cool and sensual in a way you never thought it would be. Your breaths come out whiny the longer you do it and when you change the direction and move up and down, you can hear his breaths, too. And maybe the blackness of the walls are messing with your mind, but you could’ve sworn, his secret noises have become whiny just the same once you pressed the tassel against your swollen clit.

And it isn’t until you naturally feel the back of his leg with the ball of your foot that he lets you see how much your little show advanced his arousal. The print of is cock is prominent, thick in the tightness of his pants, and you want it.

You no longer want Namjoon’s. You want his.

The plan worked.

And with a smile of a winner gracing your features, to celebrate you start to make yourself feel delightful. You rub your clit, still with the strip, biting your lips in order to suppress your moans, the pleasure more vivacious this time around. He’s not palming himself, he’s not doing anything at all but watching you, his hands by his sides, and perhaps to reward him—you let go of the tassel.

You let him see your pussy.

Shiny, swollen and needy, asking for a man you haven’t seen and won’t even see.

How sinful, how titillating. You can’t wait to have a cigarette after this.

His cock twitches and it beguiles you, the way your hand, without your conscious knowing, extends out and reaches for it through the hole. Your femininity, your sexuality—brazen and alive, unafraid and illimitably splendid.

And in this situation, it is a thing of absolute sublimity, the act of him inching forward and letting you touch him, feel your own creation the way he felt his. You want his number, you want to make him come. You want him to take you out and you want to show it off on your Instagram story, hiding everyone else from seeing it except for Namjoon. A devilish laughter pricks at your throat, desperate to be heard. You sense how heavy his cock must be, how strong, how hard. It’s impossible for you to suck it as he’s not allowed to see your face, but you know the idea of it will haunt your daydreams—

He grasps a hold of your wrist, silencing your thoughts, and you hold your breath. He slides his grip down to your hand and he makes you squeeze him, his length, his balls. Your hole clenches, even your features scrunch up in need, and with your other hand you begin to help yourself, but he stops you.

Pins your hands down on the leather. Maneuvers to firmly grapple both of your wrists on top of your tummy and uses his free hand to push you forward a little bit. Your legs dangle out, uncomfortably, and he’s so attuned to you that he notices. Leads your leg to wrap around him, the other one two, and if it weren’t for the mattress jutting out, you and him would be flush to each other.

Body to body.

He sucks in a breath at the first contact of his thumb and your clit. He must feel how swollen it is and he dips down to your hole, circling it there, gathering your arousal before he returns to that needy flesh, continuing his circles there. Slow, slow circles that make you writhe on the mat, the leather creaking. You lament that he can’t attach his mouth to it, regret that you chose this option because of your foolish feelings, and despite the fact you thought your plan worked and Mr. Kim alleviated your anger, the emotion bursts within you.

Your muscles tense, your lips flatten in a tight line, your fists in his hold clench, and you’re angry. Angry, angry, angry. Hateful of your life, hateful of your body, of your heart. And in the middle of the explosion, you make a mistake.

You growl.

He stops his circles.

Time beats two times before you’re yanked out of the hole, your feet landing on the parquet floors with that familiar gentleness the man bears.

And the man…

The man is no other but Kim Namjoon himself. The source, the epitome of your anger.

And you feel nothing. Your shock evens out through every fraction of your nerve endings, paralyzing you. Time ceases its beats here—while you stare up at him and he stares down at you. Namjoon isn’t seized by the shock like you are, though. He begins to laugh, darkly, hushedly, humorlessly. Slides his hands into the pockets of his pants and takes a step back.

Embeds life into time.

“I fucking knew it was you,” he rasps, that laughter melting into nothingness until the gravity of this situation spreads across this sinful room. Heavy, heavy energy. You should feel ashamed at this very moment, you should cover yourself up, but you don’t. You don’t do anything. “I read your safe word. I thought it was a coincidence, life making fun of me. And then, I saw your butterfly tattoo, but tattoos can lie to me and it was too good to be true. But that growl… that growl of yours can’t lie to me. I know it like I know myself.”

Your growl was your response to his never-dying teasing. If he tickled you, nudged you, bugged you, the only way you would make it stop was by letting out that vexed noise of yours—and it would work. He’d laugh to himself and withdraw his hands.��

You part your mouth, but you can’t say anything. Your shock rises in you like a tidal wave that submerges in you and you drown.

Then, a perplexing song of a mockingbird breezing through the wind outside sounds out within the room, saying things your body is unable to.

Namjoon blinks, taken aback by your lack of retort. No words, no growls. Merely the song crooning along the spaciousness of the atmosphere. He licks his lips.

“Why did you stop replying to my messages?” he asks, and you find it obscene that he’s inquiring about this when you’re all bare, trembling, and with your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. If anything, he should be asking you what you’re doing here, but it’s like the fact isn’t news to him.

And what you don’t know is that he pours life into you with his bizarreness.

Your first reaction is to scoff. Your second is to bash your fists against his chest, pushing him a step back. And Namjoon… he smirks. As if he succeeded in his plan—pulling you out of your state of shock into a blooming garden of your emotions, where you can run, where you can scream and where you can inflict violence.

Where you can speak.

“Why did I stop replying to your messages?” you throw it back at him, your voice rising in volume, and Namjoon straightens, delightfully watches you be full of life. “You think you can share your life with me, take me on dates, pay for me and leave it at that? Turn your head when I try to kiss you? Do you think I’m some kind of lady companion—”

“No,” he interrupts, tilting his chin up, his dominance on full display with the deepness of his voice, the width of his shoulders and his powerful stance. You drip for him, but you’re as powerful as he is. You’re equal—equally tangled up in the same sin. “You’re my Lady Beetle, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitches, your nipples hardening, and your wetness is so, so uncomfortable, trickling down your flesh. And he provokes the pressure of your arousal in your core by that nickname, even more so when he lifts a finger and traces the freckles upon your right shoulder, the meaning behind that term of endearment, from his distance. Even more so when he sinks his fingers into the hair on the nape of your neck, uttering his following words.

“Get back inside the cubicle.”

But you’re not obeying. You don’t know his temper either, but you are getting yourself into trouble. And you’re not getting fucked until you know that he reciprocates your feelings.

And you know what to do.

“Kiss me,” you murmur, crossing the distance, inching towards his face. Namjoon tilts his head down, his lips nearly brushing against yours, and that’s all he does, nudging your anger. “Kiss me, Namjoon, or I’m walking out of this room.”

He lets the tension simmer, unblinking, consuming your eyes from this close proximity. And when he opens his mouth, you think he’s about to kiss you, but you’re mistaken. Deadly, deadly mistaken.

“Did you come here to forget about me?” he whispers, inching even closer until your nipples graze against the soft material of his sweater, hums in question when you don’t answer. Lifts your chin to make you look at him when your eyes stray away, your anger bubbling in you. He perceives the real you, always has, and you don’t have to say a word. Only a person intertwined with your soul could be able to do this; why won’t he act on it?

“Did you come here to look for me?” you whisper back, pressing your torso against him until your breasts squish against his hard chest. His still hard manhood pokes you in your tummy, harder than it was when you touched him earlier, and wrap your arms around him, your hands traveling all across the width of his back until they wander down his loins, even lower to his buttocks.

He pants, but his voice is not affected by the whirlwind of his emotions. Delicious, delicious whirlwind.

“Yes,” he says, firmly, flattening his lips and growling when you squeeze his butt. You enjoy those selfish touches so much that your grin illuminates the room, a ball of light amidst all this darkness. Your anger watches on, stunned. “What do you think? If I wanted to move on, I wouldn’t have chosen a fucking glory hole out of all the options. I’m not like you. I don’t give up. I’m patient.”

“Patient…” You taste those words on your tongue, dwelling on them. They’re bittersweet, and you stand in the middle of your decision whether you like them or not. “What are you waiting for?”

He sighs, lifting his hands and digging his fingertips into your ribs, holding you to him. You mirror his movements, and you let out that strained breath of yours when he bends his head and places a singular, wet kiss onto the side of your neck.

You had asked him to kiss you, even though you didn’t specify where, but you didn’t expect your body to tingle this much and grow boneless in his unfailing hold. You cling to him with all your might—there’s nothing left for you to do.

You’re his. Have been his since the moment you saw his watch.

And you can’t believe you haven’t noticed that Cartier adornment when you were ogling his manhood.

He brushes away a wispy strand of your hand before returning it back to its rightful place. “You deserve the world and I’m not there yet to give it to you. And you’re not gonna look for it elsewhere, I’m not letting that happen. I’m gonna give it to you.”

Honesty is here at last, the explanation to his distance. You hide the fluttering joy that opens in your chest, but you do let him see the smile that begins to curve your lips. He likes you; you can live at peace now. No more anger, no more daydreams.

“Kim Namjoon,” you breathe out, moving your hands to his sides. “Is that a promise I hear?”

He nods, tilting his head to the side as his pupils grow large. “Yes, that’s a promise. The last relationship I was in fucked me up, but I’m gonna get right, and I want you to hold onto that promise.”

You hum. “What does that mean for us right now?”

He smirks, that cheek cleft enchanting you all over again. “If you want kisses, then kisses is what you’re gonna get.”

Your smile lengthens until your cheeks hurt, heated. “I want kisses. Lots of kisses. On different places of my body, too.”

Namjoon retreats back to your neck, peppering kisses along that column. You whimper, hands hurrying to undo the button of his pants, desperate and arbitrary. But with a disapproving noise, Namjoon stops your hasty movements. Pins your hands behind your back.

“Patience,” he whispers, gliding his lips across the kisses he left behind. Your skin prickles with goosebumps against him, your nipples so stiffened that they ache, and, most unfortunately, you moan softly in impatience. “You’re gonna learn what true patience is, little beetle.”

Color heats your cheeks and as you grin, you bite your bottom lip. “Be my teacher, Namjoon.”

He chokes out a groan, dizzied by the idea, one that fades into your yelp when he unexpectedly turns you around and pushes your back against his chest, your arms long and criss-crossed behind you, hands flat against his cock.

Something tells you this lesson will be one of great difficulty for you. And of great pleasure.

Namjoon cups your jaw, swivels your head to face him a little. “Where do you want those kisses?”

Your quivering breath fans out across his big hand. “On my nipples.”

At your quick answer, he makes a sound of approval and with a feathery-light touch he sails his knuckles down the right side of your chest, from your collarbone down to the beginning of your supple breast, where he stops his voyage to study your reaction. As much as you’d die for his fingers to go a little lower, you keep your tremors in tact. Even your fingers remain obedient, relaxed in their position and not tempting his temper. You close your eyes, try your bestest to hold it while you wait it out, and your slick by now creates a pool between your feet. Namjoon’s cock twitches at your goodness and he sighs a little praise into your ear, just for you to hear. It roots deeply in your gut, where it stirs the butterflies that are painted in the color of his eyes.

His knuckles descend lower and lower, stop at the apex of your nipple, and the nearness is enough for you to stoop in your desperation.

Something you shouldn’t have done.

Namjoon slaps that pointy flesh, coaxing such a filthy moan out of you that it reverberates through the room. The harshness, intertwined with the swift stimulation of your nipples spreads a buzzing sensation down your body, settling in your aching clit, and the loud noise you let out echoes in small whimpers, wordless pleas for more. He becomes harder in your hands, as if he could translate them, and the temptation croons at you again, telling you to squeeze him. This time, you can’t really hold back. This time, you want him to do it again.

On the other breast.

You squeeze him, the weight of his cock an inexplicable experience that drives you to a point of carnal madness. You slide your palms along that thick length and the way he’s quiet, unspeaking, unbreathing, puzzles you and alarms you simultaneously.

You look behind you. Catch his features screwed up in such pleasure that you whimper again, announcing that you’ve seen him in his weakest. And Namjoon is brought back into his teacher mode. He allowed himself that fraction of time for his own pleasure, perhaps for yours, too, and you’ve never discovered something so imposing.

Your sexuality and his, interwoven, a thing of glory more magnificent than this playhouse itself.

“Little beetle, you’re just so naughty, aren’t you?” he rasps into your ear, pressing you against him with both of his arms wrapped around your chest, nuzzling his face into your neck. He kneads your breasts hard before he slaps them, both at the same time, and you make such a mess. “So impatient, so desperate to touch and be touched. What am I gonna do with you? Can you even learn, hm?”

Knead. Slap. Namjoon tweaks your nipples, circles them with his fingers, filling your body with such pleasure that your knees nearly give out on you. And he holds you to him by your neck, a firm grip that conveys to you that from now on, he won’t be very nice.

And you don’t really mind.

“Get back inside the cubicle so I can deal with you accordingly,” he mutters his order, tracing the shell of your ear with his puffy lips before he latches onto your earlobe, sucking it into his mouth briefly, making you cry out. “Do you know what happens to girls who can’t be helped?”

Your voice is strained, impossible to use. “No.”

“They get spanked and fucked so hard that they forget who they are,” he reveals, sailing his hands back down your body, flicking your nipples on the way, before his palms anchor at the V-shape of your private parts. He plays with your folds, stimulating your clit in that way without touching it. You grind your hips into his movements, seeking more, but he slaps your pussy for it, halting you. “That’s the only way they get salvaged.”

And then he lets go of you. And the look he gives you is so lecherous, so dirty that your legs are jelly as you scurry to the end of the glory hole cubicle, thinking that this entire moment is speckled with glory that will haunt you for the rest of your days.

You get back into position, your legs dangling out, and Namjoon repeats his voyage. Sails, sails down your tummy before anchoring at the mound of your cunt, but this time he doesn’t gratify you with any delight. He continues down your wet thighs and, abruptly, he turns you over, pushing you forward so your bum shows fully, your tippy toes touching the floor.

The tassels are warm and saturated with the dew of your arousal, tickling the small of your back.

“Now listen to me,” he says, his fingers wandering all around your flesh, but not where you want him the most. “I’m not Namjoon at this moment. I’m not your teacher. In your mind, you’re gonna go back to who you thought I was before I showed myself to you. Mr. Kim. And you’re gonna address me as so, do you understand?”

Your brows furrow and you curve your body to the side in question, not understanding this sudden change of the play. You may have wanted this fictional Mr. Kim more than you wanted Namjoon but that was before you found out that he felt the same way as you.

“Why?”

He massages the round, graceful cheeks of your bum, propelling you to rest your torso flat on the mat, comfortably. “Because you deserve it. Because your Namjoon isn’t where he’s supposed to be yet. So I’m not fucking you as Namjoon, I’m fucking you as Mr. Kim. This is the only time you’re getting fucked before I get right, so I suggest you enjoy every second.”

You gasp at his words, but your hole reacts first before you do, opening and closing all for his eyes to see—and they do. And he likes the view so much that he takes his thumb and perseverates the brief motion, your center coating his digit in sopping wetness. Your hips follow him and this time, he lets you. He gives you a moment to comprehend your future full of pure possibilities and kisses and you detect in your soul no disapproval. Because you’re rewarded with his heart in the end, it’s worth it.

His heart is one of gold, one that won’t perish.

You’ve seen it in the way he treated your mother, in the way he would stop his teasing when you had enough. In the respect he has towards you because he isn’t ready for a relationship. In the promise he gave you, even though that gold is scratched.

You love him, and because of that you shall play his game.

“Yes, Mr. Kim.”

He kisses the fleshiest part of your bum, wetly, humming into your skin—another reward.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, nibbling the place he gave love to. “Try staying one.”

You mewl, grinding into his face, desirous for a release. “Yes, sir.”

He draws back and chuckles. “Look at you, so good all of a sudden when you’re all spread for me. You’re still getting spanked, little girl.”

You whine, pretending that you don’t like what awaits you, when in reality you can’t wait. “Can I get another kisses after?”

His laughter roars through the room. “Where do you want them?”

“On my pussy, Mr. Kim.”

He growls, swearing, his hands nowhere to be found on your body. “You’ll get lots of kisses on your pussy if you take these spanks well. Can you count them down for me?”

You nod, but you quickly realize that he can’t see you. Your dusky world pirouettes and you’ve tumbled into a state of haziness, needing his firm hand, his dependable stability. “Yeah, I can.”

Namjoon coos, his palm back on your bum, fondling it. “Good. Do you remember your safe word? You’re still getting those kisses if you use it, darling.”

You dissolve into the leather, your body limp, but you do remember the magic word of utmost adoration. “Beetle.”

A kiss on your flesh. “That’s it. Perfect. Does someone you know call you by that nickname?” he asks and you giggle, the comfort and the safety of the moment almost lulling you to sleep. “From ten, little beetle.”

And he rouses you from your sleepiness by landing a sharp spank on the cheek that he made so tender. The pain is so acute, so good that you almost forget to utter out the number, swimming in the sensation as you are, but Mr. Kim isn’t upset by it. No, he helps you.

“What number was that?”

“Ten.”

“Ten, that’s right. You’re doing so good.”

Mr. Kim’s kindness enters you all over again, liquifies between your legs, and you moan out. The following sting of his palm is greater than the previous one and your chest arches off the leather, but you like it. Even though he doesn’t alleviate the spank, lets only the air make it better, you still like it—so much that you don’t make a mistake and count it down.

“Nine.”

And he repeats it after you, spanking you again and again until the skin of your left cheek is inflamed, burning red, and the perception of the pricks is too much for you to handle. But taking after him, you don’t give up. Grit your jaw, flex your fists, scream out the numbers until you reach one and that side of your bum feels numb.

And Mr. Kim praises you for it so lasciviously that you can only whine in response, your little noises muffled by the leather.

“Good girl. You took your punishment so well. Your ass is so prettily red, oh my God. You’re gonna get those kisses now. So, so many of them until you come all over my tongue. Spread your legs even more for me.”

You do as he says, mind blank, and you hear the thud of his knees hitting the floor. That alone makes you drool, the sound of his submission, let alone his satisfied groan when he attaches his mouth to your pussy lips.

And you can’t voice out the surplus of your emotions, the unrestrained joy that you feel because you’re being eaten out by a man that you love, but because of their boisterous nature, they come out nonetheless. Out of your tear ducts, out of the corner of your mouth in the form of drool and little muted noises that are impossible for anyone to hear but you. And you fail him. You can’t imagine a fictional person sucking on your clit like that, that feels as though your soul is being yanked out of you like you were so many times upon this night. No, only Namjoon can do this to you—and so, privately, you bask in it. In Namjoon’s tongue swirling circles on your clit; in Namjoon’s lips sucking them so hard that you lose track of time, surroundings and your own being. In Namjoon’s hands shaking your bum in his face; in his fingers rubbing rapid side-to-side motions on your wet clit from the front when he fucks you with his tongue from the back.

You’re transported to a place that is neither heaven nor paradise. A place he, himself, must have brought into existence by the energy of his utter devotion for you. And you make it real when you come—sprinkle him with the fountain of your essence that contains the molecules of the universe he created for you. And you float, you float, you float. And he seizes the gravity by praising you for squirting for him, for coming so well and making the best of your so-deserved kisses.

And then his pants flop to the floor, his sweater—until the only things he’s wearing are his watch, his bracelet and his affection for you. You turn your body halfway so you can see him, the wholeness of his manliness that is aching for you, dripping for you like you’re dripping for him, and his cock is so hard that it points up to his abdomen. You’ve never seen anything like this before and you grow so savagely hungry for it that you begin to suck on your index finger.

Purposefully loudly, smacking your mouth.

Namjoon chuckles, darkly, and the warmth of that expression of his pulsates in you. “Oh, you’ll be sucking on this cock, too, don’t you worry, my beetle. I just need to feel your pussy around me.”

Oh, the slip-up. He feels this on the same wavelength as you—no Mr. Kim, no anonymity. Only Namjoon and you. If you were unsure of his feelings before, you can’t be unsure now. The universe he created palpitates around you and you’re so drunk on all of this new knowledge that when he buries himself inside your heat, you can’t let him in. Your walls are compressing so tightly with your still-yet growing arousal that you clamp down on him, but at the sound of his torturous moans, you suck him in.

And he doesn’t go easy on you.

With his hard, hard, and long shaft he begins to fuck you, violently. He rams into you without any mercy, lifting your leg onto the mat and entering you more deeply, curling his hips to kiss and kiss your cervix again and again. His strokes are reverberated throughout your whole body—your nipples rub against the leather, your head rocks against it in a way that turns you feral, you gag on your finger, your clit is teased with those relentless pounds. You’re helpless, but also boundless, being fucked like that, and you realize, with your dumb, blank and empty brain, that you’re extensively getting your best friend’s money’s worth.

And Namjoon elevates your experience.

He reaches through the hole and roughly captures your hair in his fist, popping your finger out of your mouth. Decides it’s not enough, decides you’ve had enough of the hole time and he pulls you out, all while still being inside of you. Straightens you against him, grasps your jaw while his other hand slips down to your clit.

And the side-to-side motions are brutal. Mean. So dominant in the way he keeps the contact light, barely stimulating you, but stimulating you, regardless.

“You think you can gag on your little finger and that it does nothing to me?” he scolds, pinching your clit, and your growl is scratchy, raspy, so fucked out. He’s reprimanding you, but his words don’t reflect his actions. Namjoon kisses you everywhere he can reach. Ear, cheek, jaw, neck. So frantically, so impatiently. “Have you learned nothing?”

You pant, your orgasm so awfully close from being bound but unbound at the same time, fucked slowly and torturously as Namjoon begins to move, grinding against you. But he has to stop—because if he doesn’t, you’re gonna come all over his cock, right in the center of this room. He’s teasing your build-up, just like you imagined he would, letting it rise and letting it fall in short intervals.

But he has pity on you, stemming from his affection. A cold, cold pity that you need for the heat rippling through you.

“Get on the bed. On your knees.”

He pulls himself out of you and urges you forward—towards the hanging bed. And you don’t care to ponder if it will move under your weight. All you can think about is his dick as you crawl onto that bed that does not wobble at all, but remains perfectly offset. You sit back on your folded legs and wait for him—watch him take those leisurely, effortless steps like he did at the start of this evening. Only this time, you get to see it with your eyes. His tall height, his swaying shoulders, flat abdomen and that hard cock, glistening with your slick. Carmine, aching.

You lick your lips. Prop yourself on your knuckles in front of you, back arched. Realize he kissed you everywhere, but on your mouth. And so you pout—and you make puppy eyes at him.

He smooths down a flyaway on your sweaty hairline, endeared. “What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t kissed me on the lips.”

Namjoon smiles down at you, dejectedly. Curls your hair behind your ear, grabs you by the back of your neck, calls to attention all the butterflies in your tummy. “I’m sorry.”

And he captures your mouth. As Namjoon, as a golden-hearted man that longs to give you the world, and you can vividly feel it. Mr. Kim doesn’t exist anymore and Namjoon seals that fact in when he prods his tongue inside, toying with yours before retreating back, moaning into the kiss.

A kiss that was more than a kiss.

And you have to kiss him again when he takes a moment to breathe. You have to devour him, clasp your hand around his wet cock as you do so—and Namjoon has to push your head down, fucking your mouth until your tears freely escape from all directions. He grips your hair tight, holds you to him from the side, plunging in and out of your throat however he pleases, your gagging noises encouraging him to possess every inch of you. Your mascara zigzags down your face in clumps—and once Namjoon’s pity flickers in him all over again, he lifts you and kisses you so nastily that you fade into nothingness.

Then, you’re on your back and he pounds that nothingness. Uses your thighs as leverage as you’re just laying there, a hole and nothing else. Perhaps the cubicle changed your life to such an extent that you’ve become it. You shall never forget it—even now it is scattered all across your vision as you’re fucked into oblivion, the skin-slapping sounds and your pussy squelching around him accompanying your memory of the dark wood, the fairy lights, the restraints you never used.

The sex was too personal, too intimate for you to do so. Even before you discovered that Mr. Kim was Namjoon. Your body recognized his, your mind too blind, too preoccupied with your anger that is now healed.

As if Namjoon could read your thoughts, he pumps into you with a hard thrust, eternalizing it.

“Focus on me,” he growls and you squeak, hiccuping into every movement. It feels as though he’s blocking your throat with how deeply he’s ravaging you and you can only nod.

You can only moan his name.

“Namjoon. Yes, yes, yes—oh, Namjoon.”

He laughs, that articulation of his joy abating in your mouth as he bends to kiss you, fully buried in you. And then he pulls out, presses his heavy cock on your cunt, lifts your head by grabbing your hair, consuming your mouth as if you were everything he ever lacked in his life.

“Grind your pussy on it, it’s yours, my little beetle.”

You whine, pucker your mouth against his, spinning your hips in circles, his cock so wet and so sticky from your happy juices.

“Joonie, Joonie bug.”

He closes his eyes, moaning all in your face, the principle of you softening and connecting his persona to yours absolutely ruining him. He tightens his grip on your hair, sinks himself inside you with his other hand and then sticks those soaked fingers inside your mouth. All four of them, gagging you.

“Little beetle and big Joonie bug, hm. How do we taste?” His tone is so low that it penetrates your skin, paralyzing your senses until only one remains. Until all you know is the bitter-sweetness of his precum and the tanginess of your slick. And he doesn’t draw his fingers back, he continues to control your gags until he paints your face in another set of pretty black tears. “Tell me. How do we taste?”

You growl around him, the sound he knows, and he pounds you for it, a thrust that hurts but feels good at the same time. You suck on his fingers, a trail of your drool trickling down from your connection, and Namjoon grunts. Slides his fingers out of your mouth and places them right on your clit.

Rapid, rapid rubs. And equally rapid strokes.

“Come,” he orders, and it’s like he flicked his fingers and made your body come. You didn’t have to do a thing. “Good. Finally. It feels so good, doesn’t it? Coming around my cock after all this time. Joonie bug is right there with you. Just a little bit more.”

He’s given life to your orgasm by his words. A storm erupts, clearing out everything negative that was ever seeped throughout your soul. Your body quakes, submitted to him through and through, at his disposal to make himself come—until your orgasm is so milky that you can’t see. Your vision is dotted with white, with tiny glazing stars that must be hung up in the sky just like this bed. And Namjoon brings you to him, lips to lips, needing you as he fucks you through your mutual release, and those stars splotch him with their dust.

You squirt all over him, for the second time around. And you don’t stop, the twitching of his cock, the warmth of his cum as he keeps stuffing you full of it, the unfaltering hardness of his thick shaft roll in your tiny orgasms, those little fountains of boundless pleasure that drench him, give him the likeness of those stars. He’s turned on your squirting ability and there’s no way back. No, no way back.

Namjoon is exhausted as he pulls out—and you already feel so empty, so lonely. His cum streams out of you, staining the bed, and it saddens you so much that you reach into your heat to collect it, plunging your fingers into your mouth, eating him. And you moan, at his male taste, for the last time.

“Fuck, don’t do that. I can’t go again.” He wipes down his face, a gleaming man that has your entire identity woven into his veins that run all across his arms, and you love him. You love him so drastically that you can’t get on your feet on your own, can’t make a decision of your own, can’t live without him.

He fucked you so well that he attached you to himself.

A wave of strange emotions engulf you.

“Namjoon,” you whimper, tears burning each corner of your eyes, and you don’t know what to do, you don’t know what is happening. He lifts his head, round eyes blinking, and he’s so quick to cradle you into his arms, letting you cling to him, letting you wrap your legs around his torso like a baby. And that’s precisely how you feel—like a baby.

“Talk to me,” he encourages, caressing your back in circles, and you moor your face in his neck, inhaling his individual bodily scent. So masculine, so heady, so intoxicating. You sob, running your fingers through his misty, blond-streaked hair, needing to be even closer to him than is physically possible.

Namjoon shushes you, kissing your shoulder, giving you the strength to speak, giving you the identification of what you’re feeling.

“This was so intense,” you croak out and Namjoon hums, halting his touch to focus on you wholly. “Emotionally. I feel much closer to you. Too close.”

And he’s not running out of things to give you. He gives you kisses on your neck that bear no sexual context—romantic, reassuring kisses that ease up your muscles, that part the raging thunder of your emotions. And he gives you such comfort that you feel as though you’re floating upon an open body of water, as free as a human being can be.

“What we did was intense but it was right. What you’re feeling is normal. I’m feeling it, too. We’ve been hiding our feelings for so long and we let them out just now, so it’s overwhelming. It’s okay. You’re good. Such a good girl, my good little lady beetle, tiniest girl beetle in the whole universe. I will protect you from the other bugs. Let’s get this make-up off, hm?”

You nod, sob and laugh softly at that solace. Namjoon carries you into the shower. Lets the cold water streak down on you while you shield yourself from it, nearly slipping off his grasp. Namjoon chuckles, hoisting you higher, taking a step back to wash you completely clean. You scream and his chuckle deepens, getting you away from the iciness by pressing you against the tiles.

He truly won’t stop teasing you.

The water turns warm by the time he fetches the make-up remover. Pouring some on a large cotton pad, he cleanses the remnant of your sex tears, the physical memory of how good he fucked you and how he bound your soul to his. He’s careful around your eyes, focusing so intently that his lip is caged between his teeth. Once he’s finished, he kisses you—with Mr. Kim’s gentleness.

Washes you clean, especially thoroughly between your legs. Embraces you in the shower and lets you feel—creates a safe space for your feelings.

And then he’s dressing you in the clothes you came here in. A dark green dress that ends at your ankles. He makes sure to kiss your butterfly tattoo as he smooths down the skirt and you think you’re ready to marry him.

You want to meet his mother. Not now, not after what you’ve done together. But someday soon. And you want your mother to meet his.

“I need a cigarette,” you comment as he’s scrunching your hair with a towel. He himself has changed into a pair of clean black dress pants and a plain white shirt, almost oversized. An outfit that made your mouth water. “Like right now. And at least two.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You can smoke on the balcony. I’ll have one with you. Do you want a drink?”

Your eyes light up. Your whole body, too.

Placing a bathrobe around your shoulder, he gently slaps your butt and guides you forward to the balcony. He grabs that bottle of red wine you had opened and joins you.

Two chairs, one small round table in the middle. The view of the entire Seoul city and a fucking statue in the corner of the balcony.

A beautiful girl, half dressed. The fabric of her forever garment falls off her chest and you’ve never seen a more spectacular sculpture in your life. You enkindle your cigarette and touch her cool face, feel yourself immersed in her seductive beauty. One day you shall be just like her—once Namjoon comes to collect you. Not a doll, but a girl.

“Take a picture of me,” you say, getting into position, only to realize that Namjoon has been snapping pictures of you while you were acknowledging yourself with the statue. With a cigarette hanging limply in the corner of his mouth.

You can’t love him any deeper.

You pose with her. Mirror her body language, even shake off your bathrobe and let your straps fall off your body like her. Private pictures just for him and for you—a reminder for what awaits you.

A future full of pure possibilities. And sex, lots of and lots of sex.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild , @jjk7k , @parkinglot-nights , @bethvar , @Sexytholland , @yoongibaybee , @crystaleah ,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan , @euphoricmyth , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk .

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#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon x y/n #namjoon x oc #namjoon x you #btscreatorscorner #bts smut #bts imagine #namjoon imagine #namjoon scenarios #namjoon fluff #kpop smut #knj x reader #knj #kim namjoon #namjoon

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fanaticsnail · 6 months ago

Note

Hi! This is anon with the doctor oc.

I have not a request but just a thought. Imagine Doc revealing to the crew that flowers can be edible (I think it can be new info for most of them) just for it to backfire immediately because someone is trying to eat a poisonous flower the next minute

What Did You Eat, Bubblegum?

Hey Doc Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,600+

Synopsis: Sharing your passion has ended in un very foreseen circumstances, but leaving you a little upset regardless.

Themes: Platonic!Bubblegum x gn!reader, Platonic!Killer x gn!reader, softness, little bit of flirting, allergic reaction, poisoning, venting, swearing, medical practice, patient x doctor, terms of endearment, reader is referred to as "Doc" - the doctor of the Kid Pirates

Notes: As someone who has a basic guide for foraging on edible weeds and native plants in my home country, this is very dear to my heart. I use flowers in most of my cooking, especially as garnishes. Onion Weed (three corner leek) is my favorite edible flower. Screengrab from this clip.

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @sinning-23 @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @nerium-lil

“Oh, come on,” you whisper beneath your breath, hastily rolling back the sanitary lining sheet for your treatment cot to house its next victim.

“Hey Doc," the voice of the hulking first mate called over from the threshold of your office door, "Got another one for you.” Bubblegum was heaped over his shoulders, his face three-times what it ought to have been.

Bubblegum was hastily placed down in a heaping thud, his head immediately flopping backwards and his mouth hastily gasping and gulping for air. His skin was blotchy and donning the same vibrant hue of purple as his lengthy hair.

“What did you eat, Bubblegum?” you gently coax your sensitive crewmate, noticing the rise in welts and pus-filled boils forming beneath the surface of his skin. Bubblegum attempted to smile at you, his teeth drawing back to reveal a sheepish grimace.

“Wih wahs’ah fauwah,” he muffled past his abnormally puffy lips. Your puzzlement was depicted on your brow as you looked to Killer. He sighed, rotating his head on his shoulders and donning the 'hat' of 'muffle-translator.'

“It was a flower,” he nodded to you, gently walking to perch his hips against the back of your office chair.

“And where did you find it, sweety?” you asked Bubblegum as you donned your hands with latex gloves.

“Doun bai n’dah wayah n’ groien’ i’da reyds,” you nodded along to Bubblegum's muffled words before looking over to Killer.

“Down by the water and growing in the reeds,” Killer bobbed his mask along with each nonchalant explanation. You nodded, looking over to Bubblegum and readying an aloe-based balm for his itching skin.

“And what color was it?” you bit back your growing smile as you added, “Be as descriptive as you can, sweetheart. It helps with every detail to know how to treat you.” Killer rumbled a soft growl below his breath as Bubblegum began to explain himself.

“N’ah sem ehz woit n’dah pels ‘er ewow,” you sucked your entire bottom lip into your mouth as you turned away from both men, overcome with the ridiculousness of the encounter, and stifling a laugh with knowing Killer would have to translate for you. “N'ah miwow ehz weyd n’deyre wahz bwaek speirz grewin’ aouda n’dah senn’r. D’ehr wayah wah’z pewlin’ inah cwoiyew ahda boyum.”

Without missing a beat, you straightened your back and bore your eyes directly into Killer's mask and waited for his translation. He huffed back a guttural growl, inhaling deeply as he translated for you.

“The stem was white and the petals were yellow, the middle was red and there were black spikes growing out of the center,” he uttered concisely, “The water was pooling in a coil at the bottom.” You nodded, gently mincing up a remedy with your mortar and pestle and bringing up a drawstring bag.

“Mm-hmm,” you nodded along, placing down your mortar and pestle and removing a portion of the creamy aloe concoction and pasting it on his features, “And what did you learn?” Bubblegum’s face blushed a soft hue of pink as he widened his eyes to depict his innocence.

“Notta gow fowahjin’ ithow m’hawaht doktnar,” he uttered sorrowfully. You smiled down at him as Killer translated for you.

��Not to go foraging without the ship's doctor,” Killer uttered nonchalantly with a soft shrug.

“My hot doctor, you mean,” you nod back at him over your shoulder, finishing off with Bubblegum and giving his shoulder a soft squeeze. “Use this balm until the itching, swelling and bruising goes down. Okay, sweet pea?”

Bubblegum nodded along and gave you as much of a close-lipped smile as he could muster. The purple-haired crewman exited your office and closed the door behind him, prompting you to exhale while removing your latex gloves with a curt ‘snap.’

Just as you began to relax, two arms snaked around your waist and tugged you back into the wall of flesh and muscle behind you. You shrieked in response, your whole body growing tense with fright.

“You little shit,” a husky pur called down into your ear, forcing lighting to surge from your coccyx up to your cranium in a fizzling crackle, “You could understand Bubblegum the whole time, couldn't you?” A small squeak was pulled from your throat.

His arms felt like everything all at once, overwhelming your senses. Secure and welcoming, taunting and warning, strong and intimidating: all of the things you knew Massacre Soldier Killer to be. You lulled your head back on his chest, looking up at his mask adorned face and giving him a coy, pouty smile.

“I didn't want anything to get lost in translation,” you shrugged in his arms, clicking your tongue up at him with a mocking taunt painted on your lips, “Didn't want to miss an opportunity for you to use that pretty voice I love so much, big guy. It's always a joy to fuck with you a little bit.”

“Oh, you're a little bratty today,” he purred down at you, the hue of his icy blue orbs gazing dangerously down at you through the several holes in the mask, “What's got you in such a shit mood, hm? Wanna tell Daddy about it?” You refused to pay his comment any mind, instead shrugging out of his arms and tidying up your work bench.

“You know, if you keep using that one slip up against me, it's gonna lose its charm,” you scoffed at him, ridding the cot of the sanitary lining and throwing it into the trash compartment beside the bench. You spray down the leather lining to sanitize it, wiping it down and casting away the disposable material in the same trash compartment.

Killer continued to watch you, eying you off and reading your body language with ease.

“So you don't want to talk about it?” he offered you, spinning your desk chair around to watch it rotate with a soft squeak at the metal base, “Gonna do that thing you do and pretend you're fine until you explode?” You huff out a puff of exasperated air and turn back around to him.

“Look, I'm just a little pissed that my idea of fun turned around and detonated in my face, is all,” you pout at him, folding your arms and glaring at the trash compartment at the side of your bed. “When I borrowed that book on edible plants for remedial purposes from the Blackleg chef, I should've known it'd turn to shit. Sometimes I forget the crew I serve with, I should've known better.”

“You shouldn't feel apologetic for your enthusiasm,” his tone was solid and baring a hint of warning, “We love your enthusiasm. I-... I love your enthusiasm.” His stutter caught you off guard, prompting you to arch your brow at him.

“I'm fully aware of how much you all enjoy my enthusiasm,” you arch your neck and look down your nose at him, your pout still evident on your features, “I just wish you'd all check in with me before eating random shit you find on the side of the bay.”

Killer’s soft, high-pitched giggle prompted you to drop your pout and offer him a soft, half-smile. His laugh continued as you joined yours alongside his, softly reaching forward and placing your hand on his scarred, left forearm.

“Alright, alright,” you squeeze his arm and teeter off your joint laughter, “Let's get back to work, yeah? I've gotta do some paperwork correspondence with Trafalgar.”

“Trafalgar?” you could hear the audible arch in his brow, his disdain depicted in his tone, “Why?”

“He was asking about something, is all. Something to do with my dissertation paper back when I graduated,” you shrug, gently releasing his arm and turning back to your desk. “I don't get to geek out about my thesis often, and getting his questions via Den-Den made me feel passionate about my studies again.”

Killer nodded along with you, slowly returning your desk chair back towards your desk and gently coaxing you to sit down in it.

“Dinner’s in about about thirty to forty, if you're coming,” he uttered beneath his breath. As he turned away, he felt your hand clutch his wrist and hold him in place. He gently glanced down to look at you, your face not leaving your desk as you withheld your growing fluster.

“Thanks, Kil,” you continued to hold your eyes fixed on the desk in front of you, “For listening to me, I mean. It means-... It means a lot to me.”

He leaned down, his mask brushing it's brow gently against your temple.

“I'm happy to be on ‘Doc Diffusal Duty’ any time,” he whispered softly before pulling away, “You wanna talk, know I'm here, alright?”

“You're the best, big guy,” you give his wrist two rapid squeezes before letting go of it, returning back to your writing. Killer halted at your door, glancing back at you and watching as you returned to scratching and marking your journal and shifting through the papers.

“It's paella, by the way,” he called back over to you, “Just in case you were wondering.”

“I'll have an epinephrine on standby for Wire,” you called over your shoulder, “We both know there's no holding him back from your cooking.”

“Oh, Doc,” he clutched his heart in feigned dramatical emphasis, “You flatter me, but there's really no need.” You paused, cocking your head to the side and your brows knit in puzzlement. Killer giggled softly before his regular baritone cadence returned.

“I used chorizo as a substitute for shellfish, just to give you a bit of a break.”

Before you had the opportunity to turn the entire way around, you noticed Killer was already away from darkening the threshold of the doorway. Your bottom lip quivered at the thought that he changed the menu just to suit both Wire’s anaphylaxis, and to give you a break from playing disciplinary warden and watchdog.

You were definitely going to volunteer for washing up duty as payment for his thoughtfulness.

#one piece #x reader #hey doc #gn!reader #x gn!reader #kid pirates #bubblegum one piece #killer one piece #ask snail #snail answers #massacre soldier killer #killer x reader #bubblegum x reader

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happy-beeeps · 5 months ago

Text

Domesticity

Summary: a slice of life moment of a very anxious Gale, and a very relaxed reader!

Pairing: gale x drow!tav (gn i thiiiiiiiink?)

warnings: mention of alcohol, suggestive content but no smut

a/n: posting this in the airport I have no shame!!!! this is based on my current playthrough with my drow paladin. so there are some references to drow and tav finding a found family within Minthara, but it's not really a fleshed out oc!

Cooking doesn’t come quite as naturally to you as you’d hoped. It’s a complex balance of flavor—spice and savory and salty and sweet—that challenges the palate you’ve grown accustomed to in Menzobarrenzen and your time in exile. Still, you move slowly, carefully, over the faded recipe card, make precise cuts to the carrots in front of you.

There’s a movement in the counter, and your wine glass is moved closer to you. “One for the pot, one for the cook. Or so the saying goes.” Tara hums, curling up on the edge of the counter. You can’t imagine Gale would say anything, so you don’t bother asking her to move away from the cooking.

“If I want to have any hope of this turning out, I’m going to need to slow down.”

She tuts in response, kicking her legs out long and rolling onto her back.

“Why is this so hard?”

“What, cooking?”

“Yes!” You toss the carrots into the steaming pot, and move to toss in the onions and garlic nearby. “He makes everything look so effortless.”

“Funny enough, I seem to recall him saying something similar when he attempted to wield your greatsword.” She moves off the counter with ease, “perhaps that’s what makes the two of you work so well.”

You’re so wrapped up in your cooking that you don’t head the door open, and don’t sense the heavy weight moving across the wooden floor until his hands are on you, wrapping around your waist. You’re carefully moving the dish onto two plates, and nearly drop the spoon in surprise. “You should be grateful this isn’t a dagger,” you mumble against his neck as places his chin on your shoulder.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ve taken a calculated guess that you wouldn’t be wielding a weapon in our kitchen at this hour.”

“Then you don’t know me at all.”

“On the contrary, but perhaps we could get reacquainted.” He moves to pepper soft kisses along your jawline, but pauses at the realization of what’s in front of him. “Is that…”

“Your mother’s shepards pie?” You’re blushing now when he turns to you. “I wanted to surprise you, you’ve been so busy with grading.”

“Well, color me surprised.” He moves to grab both plates and begins setting your table. “Sit down, let me get your glass.”

“Only if you have one too.”

He smiles and grabs another glass, along with the bottle before settling in front of you. You try to contain your excitement when he moves to take his first bite, trying to nonchalantly watch him out of the corner of your eye. His eyes light up, and his gaze rockets to yours. “How did you get this? It’s perfect.”

“It’s not a far walk to your mothers,” you pause to take a sip of your wine, a delightful red decidedly nicer than the bottle you had been sipping from earlier. Sneaky. “I’ve been going by on my slower days for tea.”

“You’ve been spending time at my mother’s?” It’s not an accusatory question, on the contrary, his eyes glow with warmth at the thought.

“She’s sweet, and it’s nice to spend time with family, and I told her I wanted to surprise you.”

He’s quiet at first, simply smiling at his plate and eating. After a moment, he speaks up. “Family, yes?”

Your cheeks burn with color at your minor slip. “I mean, in a sense-“

“And in the literal skin enough.” He reaches across the table to gently graze the top of your hand, hesitating on the knuckle above your ring finger.

Dinner passes in relative simplicity afterwards, casual conversation about his classes, your work at the temple.

“While on the topic of families, I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you who I saw today.”

Your eyebrow quirks up in response, “Oh?”

“Your sister is in town.”

“Minthara?” Your brows furrow, “I didn’t know she was headed this way, are there cultists in Waterdeep?”

“Hardly, she’s heading back to Baldur’s Gate, something to do with Nine Fingers. I told her to tell you more tomorrow. She’s found company for the evening.”

“Sounds like Minty,” you smile at the thought of your pseudo-sister. “I’m happy to see her tomorrow, but I’m not heading to Baldur’s Gate with her.”

He blinks in surprise, “You’re not?”

“Do you want me to go?”

“I just assumed you’d be interested. It’s been quite a moment since you’ve done a daring rescue, some savvy swashbuckling.”

You snort at the word choice, “Swashbuckling is more Astarion’s style. Besides, I’m busy with my work here, and then we’d be apart. You can’t leave in the middle of the semester.”

“You bring up a valid roadblock, my love.” He smiles at the end of his thought, but there’s an uncertainty in his eyes that doesn’t miss you.

You’re on your back, clad in nothing but one of Gale’s impossible comfortable tunics. He’s beside you of course, reclining beside you on the plush blanket laid out on the terrace of his study. His hands twirl above you, and lights dance overhead. You’re mesmerized by him, by even the smallest of spells that hardly take any effort. You burrow deeper into his side, transfixed by the colors moving overhead.

He moves after a moment, propping himself on his elbow. “Can I confess something to you?”

“Of course,” you move to cradle his cheek in your hand, rolling on to your side to face him. “What is it?”

“I’ve been feeling… a flavor of insecurity as of late. At first, I couldn’t believe my good graces, to not only survive our encounter with the brain, but to bring you home to Waterdeep, to see you in my tower. It’s still surreal. A student, however, noticed you in the market recently, and asked what it was like to live with a great warrior like you, and I realized I’d neglected that. You are a great warrior, you’re an excellent paladin, I’ve watched you slay more enemies and heal me more times than I can count. And then I saw Minthara, all disheveled, hair messy, but happy. I’m worried I’m keeping you trapped in this tower, not unlike how I felt when I encountered my orb. You know you’re always free to go, frolick the sword coast and slay enemies the whole way down, correct?”

The honesty of his confession catches you by surprise for a moment. You haven’t the words to reassure him, you’re not sure you could string them together if you tried. Instead you kiss him, leaning forward and cupping his cheek. He leans in hungrily, interpreting your gesture as your answer. His lips are soft against yours, the taste of wine making you drunk with anticipation as you pull back.

“When I became a paladin, it was because I wanted my people, Seldarine, Lolth sworn, just drow in general to be respected by surface dwellers. I do too. My oath to bring balance and light, not to slaughter every prejudiced person on the sword coast. I can fulfill my oath with the work I do here, at the temple in Waterdeep, with you, and frankly, you’re selling yourself short as a wizard, you’re quite the catch,” his hand slides down your back and you feel yourself being tugged closer, “Where Minthara, gods bless her, needs blood and sex to satisfy her, I can get by with a good wine and a dinner with you.”

He kissed you again, quickly, and pulls his hand away to smooth your cheek, “Well, perhaps we don’t need to count out sex as satisfaction just yet,” his hand rubs slow circles along your back as he pulls you in closer, “after all, I am quite the accomplished wizard.”

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #gale x tav #gale x reader #bg3 gale x tav #bg3 gale x reader #bg3 fic

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queensharotto · 1 year ago

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Brittle Doughie’s Cookie Run x Reader Masterlist (Part 4: Mid 2023)

A masterlist of @brittle-doughie’s Cookie Run stories organized by month.

Genre Emojis

😞 is for angst, 🎃 is for Halloween, 🎄 is for Christmas, 🍪 is for Cannibalism, 💗 is for Yandere, 💝 is for Valentine’s, 👻 is for Horror, 🎂 is for Birthday, 💚 is for Yandere!White Lily Cookie

The Indents are related to the featured cookies. If there are numerous cookies (Over 10 Cookies Featured), I’ll make a note on that as well. Additionally, I’ll categorize various cookies if they’re associated with a specific hobby, location, food etc.

Also, the ⭐️ will indicate a story featuring one of Brittle’s OCs.

May 2023 💐

• “Y/N Cookie in Parfaedia”

Featuring: The Triple Cone Trio

• “The Y/N Cookie Shrine”

Featuring: Lotus Dragon Cookie and Hydrangea Cookie

• “Secret Sands Y/N Cookie: Rob the Merchant Son”

Featuring: Yogurt Cream Cookie, Centipede Cookie and Peppercorn Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie Not Sorted into a School”

Featuring: The headmasters and champions

• “Baby Pond Dino Dragon Cookie”

Featuring: Pond Dino Cookie, Longon Dragon Cookie and Lychee Dragon Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie in Legend of the Red Dragon”

Featuring: Hollyberry Cookie, Wildberry Cookie, Royal Margarine Cookie, and Tarte Tatin Cookie

• “Eggscellent Easter Short”

Featuring: Pancake Cookie, Onion Cookie, Bell Pepper Cookie, Walnut Cookie, Almond Cookie, Blackberry Cookie, Dr. Wasabi Cookie and Mustard Cookie

• “Grass is Greener: Part 1”

Featuring: Lilybell Cookie and Blue Lily Cookie

• “Royal Margarine Cookie Flirting with Y/N Cookie”

Featuring: Royal Margarine Cookie, Wildberry Cookie, Hollyberry Cookie and Pitaya Dragon Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie the Pikachu of CRK and the Cookies of Darkness: Team Rocket of CRK”

Featuring: Gingerbrave and the Cookies of Darkness

• “Coffee Candy Cookie and Y/N Cookie Scenario”

Featuring: Coffee Candy Cookie

• “Yandere Ice Juggler Cookie”

Featuring: Ice Juggler Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie ignoring 5 Yanderes”

Featuring: Kumiho Cookie, Pomegranate Cookie, Croissant Cookie, Lilac Cookie and White Lily Cookie

June 2023 ☀️

• “Peaches (White Lily Edition)” 💚

Featuring: White Lily Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie: 100% Adoration Rating”

Featuring: Pomegranate Cookie

• “Yandere White Lily Timeline” 💚

Featuring: White Lily Cookie

• “Showing Affection towards Snapdragon Cookie… in front of the other 5 Dragons”

Featuring: Snapdragon Cookie and the 5 Dragons

• “Y/N Cookie loves Licorice Cookie”

Featuring: Licorice Cookie

• “Advertising Rights: Shining Glitter Cookie vs. Shine Muscat Cookie”

Featuring: Shining Glitter Cookie and Shine Muscat Cookie

• “Affection from the Ancient Cookies and what gets under their skin”

Featuring: The Ancient Cookies

• “Y/N Cookie, Visitor of the Republic”

Featuring: Custard Cookie, Captain Caviar Cookie, Oyster Cookie, Wildberry Cookie and Crunchy Chip Cookie

• “The Heroic or The Meditated”

Featuring: Ninja Cookie and Hero Cookie

• “Envious Lime Cookie”

Featuring: Lime Cookie

• “Frost Cookie x Y/N Reader”

Featuring: Dr Frost Cookie

• “Seductive White Lily Cookie”

Featuring: White Lily Cookie

• “5 Ancient Heroes, 5 Love Languages”

Featuring: The Ancient Cookies

July 2023 🎆

• “Ancient Y/N Cookie tries the Grimace Shake”

Featuring: The Ancient Cookies (view the corresponding submission)

• “Announcement of the Summer Soda Rock Festa”

Featuring: Caramel Arrow Cookie, Rockstar Cookie, Black Lemonade Cookie and Shining Glitter Cookie

• “Cookies reactions to be being picked up by the Baker”

Featuring: Blueberry Pie Cookie, Latte Cookie, Strawberry Crepe Cookie, Poison Mushroom Cookie, Chili Pepper Cookie, Royal Margarine Cookie and Stardust Cookie

• “Abyss Monarch Cookie and Mocha Ray Cookie”

Featuring: Abyss Monarch Cookie and Mocha Ray Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie recapping their adventures to Black Lemonade Cookie”

Featuring: Numerous Cookies

• “Y/N Cookie Sleeping in Weird Spots”

Featuring: Carrot Cookie, Kumiho Cookie, Orange Cookie, Goblin Cookie, Coffee Candy Cookie and Moonlight Cookie

• “Welcome to the Cookie Kingdom, Snapdragon Cookie”

Featuring: Snapdragon Cookie and the Cookie Children

• “White Lily Cookie’s Obsession carries over as Dark Enchantress Cookie” 💚

Featuring: White Lily Cookie and Dark Enchantress Cookie

• “White Lily Cookie: Best Friend For Eternity…?” 💚

Featuring: White Lily Cookie

• “I Remember You”

Featuring: Lobster Cookie and Mocha Ray Cookie

• “The Ancient Cookies Won’t Tolerate Harassment of Y/N Cookie”

Featuring: The Ancient Cookies

• “Fire Spirit Cookie and/or Rockstar Cookie with Y/N Cookie’s lipstick”

Featuring: Fire Spirit Cookie and Rockstar Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie’s Panicking Manager” ⭐️

Featuring: Dumpling Cookie (view info)

• “Yandere Triple Cone Cup Champions” 💗

Featuring: The Triple Cone Trio

• “Tiny MerCookie with Girlfriend 4x their size”

Featuring: Black Pearl Cookie

• “Time Balance Department Scenario”

Featuring: The Time Balance Department

• “Roguefort Cookie’s Arrest”

Featuring: Roguefort Cookie

• “Stardust Cookie Scenario”

Featuring: Stardust Cookie

• “Pitaya Dragon Cookie Scenario”

Featuring: Pitaya Dragon Cookie

August 2023 🌅

• “Langue de Chat Cookie’s Parents”

Featuring: Langue de Chat Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie being Rougefort Cookie’s Jury”

Featuring: Rougefort Cookie

• “Evilglaze kidnaps Y/N Cookie”

Featuring: Dr. Evilglaze

• “Return to the Sea”

Featuring: Sea Fairy Cookie

• “Don’t Mess With Y/N Cookie Fans”

Featuring: Pomegranate Cookie, Peppercorn Cookie, Black Pearl Cookie, Stardust Cookie and Kumiho Cookie

• “Kidnapped by Abalone Cookie”

Featuring: Abalone Cookie and Black Pearl Cookie

• “Langue de Chat Cookie: Your Lawyer”

Featuring: Langue de Chat Cookie

• “Mermaid Y/N Cookie”

Featuring: White Pearl Cookie, Crimson Coral Cookie and Frilled Jellyfish Cookie

• “Is someone in my house?”

Featuring: Snakefruit Cookie, Pomegranate Cookie, Lilac Cookie, and Scorpion Cookie

• “White Pearl Cookie x Mermaid Y/N Cookie”

Featuring: White Pearl Cookie

• “White Pearl Cookie wanting a kiss”

Featuring: White Pearl Cookie

• “Brewed to Perfection”

Featuring: Espresso Cookie

• “Top 10 Most Obsessive/Possessive Cookies” 💗

Featuring: Numerous Cookies

• “Envy of the Gem Mermaid Family” 💗

Featuring: The Gem Mermaids and Frilled Jellyfish Cookie

• “Cappuccino Cookie x Y/N Cookie”

Featuring: Cappuccino Cookie

• “Which Car White Pearl Cookie Wants”

Featuring: White Pearl Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie‘s Combat Prowess in a Martial Arts Tournament”

Featuring: Hollyberry Cookie, Captain Caviar Cookie, Oyster Cookie, and the 5 Dragons

• “Schwarzwälder x Y/N Cookie”

Featuring: Schwarzwälder (aka Choco Werehound Brute)

• “White Lily Cookie’s Obsession” 💚

Featuring: White Lily Cookie

• “Muscular Y/N Cookie”

Featuring: Muscle Cookie, Carrot Cookie, Coffee Candy Cookie, Cotton Candy Cookie, Fire Spirit Cookie, Butter Pretzel Cookie, Kumiho Cookie, Almond Cookie and Shining Glitter Cookie

• “Y/N Cookie x Okchun Cookie”

Featuring: Okchun Cookie

• “Itsy Bitsy Y/N Cookie”

Featuring: No named Cookies present

• “Obsessive Fire Spirit Cookie”

Featuring: Fire Spirit Cookie

Divider Source l Next Masterlist l Previous Masterlist

#brittle doughie masterlists #cookie run kingdom #cookie run ovenbreak #yandere cookie run #cookie run angst #cookie run #cookie run x reader #cookie run x you #yandere cookie run kingdom #crk #crob

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hugemilkshake · 1 month ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/hugemilkshake/764816678039240704/day-2-of-oc-kissing-may-i-give-rex-cookie-some

That’s great, I’ve actually been thinking about the same thing as I go along with this! I’m really curious as to how your ocs would even react to receiving the kisses themselves!

Well here you go for that! (I’m not drawing their reactions-)

How my OCs would react to being kissed!

Starfruit Milkshake only wants kisses from Snake Tooth

Snake Tooth only wants kisses from Starfruit Milkshake

Bubbly Milkshake would cover her face since she would be blushing a lot

Burnt Caramel would probably purify himself but then give you a pat on the head

Rex Cookie would say thanks and not act like she’s happy but her tail would be wagging so she kinda gives herself away

Sugary Jello will be giggling a lot and asking how did she taste. Don’t worry she’s a bit of a freak at times

Cinnamon Spider is grinning like a idiot and will probably ignore any illegal stuff you do for a bit

Red Fruit will act confident but will internally be questing if your the one and wether or not he should introduce you to his grandma

Blackberry Shade is chuckling and then peppering your face with kisses, she has to one up you.

Powdered Basil is softy smiling and giving you a kiss in return… you don’t know how much that means to him

Simmering Onion won’t notice you kissed him until a few minutes later, after that he’ll be real embarrassed

Grilled Tomato is smiling and giving you a big old hug, you probably both fall after she tried to lift you up

Scorched Garlic will smile but kindly ask you to not do that again, not because it makes him uncomfortable but because he doesn’t feel like he deserves it…

Bubbling Oil smiles at you and will ask if she can kiss you back, if you say yes then she will kiss you back, leaving you with a warm and joyful feeling

Adele Penguin doesn’t like kisses but hugs are always appreciated since they’re are super cuddly!

Wild Basil is tricky, I mean if you kissed him I think he would be shocked and either A- keep you around at all times or B (and what most likely will happen) he will shove you away and run off.

Barbecue "Dragon" will try to not show he’s blushing by acting high and mighty and that he let you kiss him

Gran-Berry she will only accept either forehead or cheek kisses due to her age but she will be very happy

Minty Snail is stuttering a lot but will ultimately hug you

Dark Apple he will punch you if you kissed him. No kisses for him. But maybe a fist bump or a side hug will work

Tabby Cat gets no kisses, but they will sleep on your lap, not as a sign of affection but because they are very eppy

Pink Mantis will be giggling and writing you lots of love letters

Blushing Snail won’t accept kisses, they will basically shrink down into their cloak if you do

Emperor Caterpillar will give you a lazy grin and offer a date to you

Peach Novius will try to complement you but will be stuttering to much

Leaf Sheep Slug would be blushing if he didn’t have to worry about a crazy ex, so instead of being all giddy he’s going to probably protect you from Blazing Spice

Adenosine Cookie is certainly interesting. The fact you got close to them is crazy in the first place, and since their face is hidden it would be in their hand that got kisses, which is more impressive so honestly you’d probably get a compliment before they leave, they are the type to commit to stuff

Water Cookie is a minor so no kisses, but a hug would be good

Salt Water is a minor so no kisses but a high five will do

Sugar Water is a minor so no kisses and nothing else.

Snake Skin will chuckle and give you some stollen money after he quickly flirts with you

Weeping Begonia will flirt with you while sneakily stealing stuff from you. Him giving it back or not is the true question

Purple Mold will be a little confused but will ultimately be super chill with it

White Flower won’t have much of a reaction but hopefully you didn’t kiss her on the lips, she has a parasite that wouldn’t mind switching bodies

Blazing Spice would be flattered that you’d kiss him but unfortunately his heart belongs to another… which might be a good thing for you since he’s a bit crazy

#crk #cookie run #crk x reader #crk oc #crk ocs #cinnamon spider cookie

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fruitmilkshake · 5 months ago

Text

Situations/Headcanons that I scriped in my Supernatural Rd;

My native lenguage isn't English, so i'm sorry if i make a mistake at writing this.

Team free will 2.0 f.t Claire.

-Dean likes to play on the arcade machine games outside the convenience stores.

-Jack likes to chew ice.

-Castiel Dissociates himself with no warning sometimes.

-Sam was those kind of kids that were terrified by watching Courage the Cowardly Dog.

-Dean likes to call Edith (my oc) "Onion eyes", cuz she's always crying.

-Sam has nickname for Jack: "Jacko".

-Castiel likes to try and make pizza with Jack in special occasions.

-Edith's nose is always runny.

-Dean watches weird movies with Edith, like Coraline.

-Castiel smells like wet plants.

-Dean was scared of Toads as a kid.

-Sam likes to listen horror podcasts while he researchs for hunts.

-Edith cried watching; lion king.

-Claire's favorite band is; Kittie.

-Jack has allergies at Pollen.

-Sam smells like dust from old books.

-Edith can't taste the taste of tomates.

-Jack and Edith loves to go and pet stray cats.

-Sam has a box under his bed filled with fidget toys.

-Dean always laughs while watching the movie; Mean girls.

-Edith tried to get a Raccon and a Opossum inside the bunker once.

-Claire likes to sing on the shower.

-Jack's favorite animals are; turtles and monkeys.

-Dean smells like dry leaves and gasoline from baby.

-Claire likes to chew on mint Bubblegum.

-Edith has sensitive skin, so she's always covered in bruises by bumping against hard things.

-as much as he complains about it, Dean is Getting used to the music that Sam and Edith listen to(He'll always be a Metal/rock dude tho).

-Dean has problems remembering things (ADHD)

-Edith draws a lot of monsters on her sketchbook.

-Castiel likes popcorn.

-Dean argue with a waitress once because they mistook Edith for a boy.

-Claire hates the smell of fresh paint.

That's all! I have a lot of headcanons and situations that I want to write here, but i don't have the time or self explinatory to do it.

I Hope you enjoy reading this and this helps you in your supernatural Dr or other Drs.

#supernatural #what the hell is wrong with me #xd #castiel #sam winchester headcanons #dean winchester headcanon #Spotify #spn dr #spn oc #spn ocs #headcanons #claire novak #jack kline #sam winchester #dean winchester

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olistar255 · 1 year ago

Note

What do you think Leaflings are capable of? they seem to be fine if left underwater, would that be a gameplay thing, or could some perhaps have bits of Blue Pikmin in them? would that imply other hybrids are possible? wings? the White Sage was there for Ages apparently? wonder if they have an extended lifespan? also some have 4 eyes?

Thank you for the questions!! i always appreciate some Pikmin discussion

So… leaflings are a weird case in the Pikmin ecology. As far as i know, they are the only case where what the Onion absorbs directly influences what comes out (which was even already the case in Pikmin 1). We already know Onions' offsprings get influenced by environment and, through evolution, by the DNA of what it absorbs, but leaflings are unique in that Onions doesn't really decompose/recompose the creature, but rather simply attaches Pikmin attributes to the host, rejuvenating them and usually bringing them back from the brink of death.. which is very important.

I believe what sets the leafling apart is that all the people leafified weren't corpses yet, but either in deep sleep, comatose or about to die. Because the Onion may be too weak to decompose still-living creatures (hence why the Pikmin need to kill them first), it skips that phase but still implants the Pikmin seed/Hermikmin in them before spitting them out. I would even assume this was the same process that birthed Ice Pikmin, Rock Pikmin, and Bulbmins.

Now what does this mean for what leaflings are and are capable of? Well, the logical conclusion is that the leafified person gains Pikmin abilities along with the physical attributes; as seen ingame, the most important one being the ability to breathe PNF-404's air, and like you pointed out also being able to go underwater with no helmet (for the sake of discussion i'll just assume it's a real trait and not just the devs not caring about putting dandori challenges underwater :p)

The idea of leaflings receiving different attributes depending on which Onion transforms them is awesome (and would make for a ton of awesome OC concepts) but i do think those abilities would be limited because the Pikminification is limited. In my opinion, realistically the ability to breathe underwater would just be limited to the blue Hermikmin somewhat adapting the lungs of the host to underwater breathing (more on that later) while the leaves allow air breathing through their stomata. In a similar vein, i assume red leafification would allow for limited resistance to fire because the leaves would somewhat protect the skin, etc.

Not getting the full extent of the Pikmin abilities come with the perk of keeping most of your cognitive abilities (even if you do become dandori-obsessed) and the possibility of reversing the process with glow sap-based medicine.

Now i want to bring up the relationship between leaflings and time. We only have 2 samples of specimen who have been leafified for a while by the time we find them, Olimar and the Sage leaf, so the following more or less will be on the conjectural side.

First the most obvious part is how these two are much more coherent than recent leaflings; and while we don't have a ton of dialogue for the Sage leaf, we see how he's aware of concepts like pupils, leaving, the outside world, etc., while Olimar suppresses anything unrelated to dandori until we defeat him, so i think it's fair to assume a proportional correlation between time passing and the Pikminification brainrot ceasing.

Secondly - and this is harder to prove given the small sample size -, the older leaflings look closer to normal people than the recent ones, who all have the same body type with freaky eyes.

My theory is that because the Onion's attempt at turning a person fully into a Pikmin fails, those Pikminification effects (simple mindedness, modified organs like the eyes or the lungs) simply wither away with time, with only the beneficial effects sticking with the host: the leaves covering their body.

This is pretty much all i can think about when looking at the leaflings. In short they're a hybrid between a person and a Pikmin, down to how they think. I do wonder, though... Are they truly the result of the Onion failing to do its task completely, or is there some conscious decision behind them? Can the Onion choose to refuse to digest a creature, maybe even because they care about their wellbeing? or are the leaflings a result of strategic evolution? After all, their obsession with dandori is very beneficial for the Pikmin; what's the first rule of dandori any leafling will remind you of when you start a challenge? "Gather and make as many Pikmin as possible..."

#pikmin 4 #pikmin 4 spoilers #leafling #theory crafting

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sir-walton-goggins · 2 months ago

Text

The Golden Prison

2,885 words

Arthur Morgan x fem OC

Summary: Arthur and Kris are invited to the party at the Mayor's house, where she finds some interesting secrets about Bronte and his entourage...

Warnings: strong language

The smell of raw vegetables and the vapor from the boiling water prickled at Kris’s nose, her eyes burning and watering as she split another large onion in half. She wiped her eye on her sleeve and kept chopping diligently, turning it horizontally and dicing it into tiny cubes for Pearson’s stew.

She was so absorbed in her kitchen duties, she didn’t hear the heavy footsteps parting the grass behind her and jumped out of her skin as two large hands cupped her waist.

“A-Arthur!” she protested, turning around to see her husband’s usual self-satisfied grin.

He chuckled softly. “A bit jumpy today, are we?” he buried his face in the crook of his wife’s neck and planted a few soft kisses on her naked skin. It was so hot and humid in the swamps, Kris had taken to wearing just her night chemise and a pair of roughed-up jeans around camp, leaving most of her neck and shoulders exposed to the open air. Arthur was as drawn to them as a mosquito to its next, bloody meal, biting the soft flesh gently.

The outlaw awkwardly stepped away from her as he noticed Pearson poking out of the corner, a savvy smile under his long mustache. Arthur blushed and turned his head away, fidgeting with his gun belt.

“Ah, love” the cook sighed dreamily, taking Kris’s cutting board from under her hands and walking to the boiling pot. “You’re free to go, miss. Thanks for the help.” He winked at her, making her smile.

She took her embarrassed husband’s hand, guiding him under the porch of the large plantation house that shielded them from the cruel rays of the midday sun.

“Where were you yesterday? You came in pretty late,” Kris inquired, vaguely remembering Arthur slipping in bed with her as she was deep into her sleep, his reassuring embrace enveloping her as he spooned her, smelling of grass and wet dirt.

Arthur leaned on the outer wall. “I was helping this creepy feller in town build his strange machine” he recounted, mildly amused. Kris exhaled. Somehow this wasn’t the weirdest sentence out of her partner’s mouth. He was always meeting the weirdest people on his journeys.

“What kind of machine?” she wondered, curious to hear yet another one of Arthur’s wacky stories.

“I dunno, some kind of electric… thing” he shook his head. “It apparently requires a whole lot of moonshine” he told Kris about the coach he stole and drove back into Saint Denis to this peculiar inventor.

She didn’t even have the time to process the information, when Dutch marched out of the front door with the most annoying pep in his step. That was always a tell-tale sign there was a scheme afoot.

“Arthur!” he exclaimed theatrically, decisively ignoring Kris. Morgan sighed, already foreseeing the next tedious task he was gonna assign him. Hosea walked over to them, holding the newspaper.

“Folks, ready to mingle with high society?” the older man asked with a malicious smile. Kris and Arthur felt the blood drain from their veins.

“So we’re really doing this?” Arthur asked dejectedly.

“Of course we are!” Dutch ordered, adjusting the collar of his coat as to mimic a rich, wide-bellied oil magnate. “Bronte so kindly invited us, we can’t be impolite guests in his town!” the man highlighted the word “his” with the most contemptuous emphasis, dripping sarcasm from every pore.

“Right, this is a perfect opportunity for us” Hosea echoed, putting a hand on Kris’s shoulder. “You coming with us?

Kris glanced at Arthur to gauge his stance. Usually, he was never too happy to have her out on dangerous missions, but this one seemed tranquil enough. Her husband nodded slightly, a thinly veiled melancholy in his gaze revealing he’d rather do anything than to participate in the Mayor’s party.

“Yeah, why not” Kris locked in her final answer, prompting the two gang leaders to walk to the stagecoach.

“Let’s get you both into your gowns then, Cinderellas!” Dutch laughed, gesturing towards Lenny, who jumped up and on the driving seat of the vehicle. Arthur sighed loudly as he followed along.

Hours later they were bathed, perfumed and dressed to the nines, making their grand entrance at the Mayor’s garden ball. Kris waved at Lenny, who tipped his hat to her. She was already bothered by the many layers of her blue dress, rustling and crinkling loudly in her ears and largely limiting her movements to the point she almost face planted on the cobbled road getting out of the ride. She felt like a stuffed doll.

“Hey, I know you’re miserable” Arthur whispered in her ear, “but you look beautiful tonight”.

Kris smiled. She examined his suit, which was tailor-made just for the occasion and fit him perfectly. “You too. You clean up well, Morgan” she murmured in his direction. Arthur bowed his head, a coy smile on his lips. Kris walked towards him and straightened his tilted bow tie, stealing a quick kiss.

“Hey, lovebirds” Bill’s mocking tone put a huge damper on their mood, “get your asses over here”.

They scrambled to reach the others to the front entrance, where a man named Luca asked them to deposit their weapons. One after the other, the men handed in their guns, while Kris stared at the servant seraphically, envisioning the backup knife safely tucked in her garter, underneath her dress. When she had shown it to Arthur, he had almost passed out from sheer arousal. She felt safer with it.

Once inside the house, they all revised their plan for the night: no stealing nor scheming, just keeping their eyes peeled for new contacts and job opportunities.

The crowd spread out in front of them like a baroque bouquet of expensive, exotic flowers: the women’s elegant gowns sparkled under the fairy lights, bright and colorful and evenly distributed as the dames quietly chatted next to their male companions.

“Lots of chickens to pluck here,” Kris remarked, already overwhelmed. Her ears filled up with classical music as they walked around the musicians playing in the small gazebo, plucking at the cords of their instruments masterfully. Noticing her stress signals, Arthur offered Kris his arm, reminding her he was there for her. She took it and stroked his forearm, grateful, grounding herself in her husband’s warmth and by feeling the fabric of his suit under her fingertips. It was soft and velvety to the touch.

She hated crowds. And gatherings. But she loved her husband more. Besides, the crook was a fellow expatriate from the Mediterranean, so her knowledge of Italian might’ve come in handy.

A butler guided the group to meet Bronte upstairs. The married couple looked around the place in total awe: everywhere there were lush plants from all over the globe, with big, weird shaped flowers and stems, electrical lighting powering the wall sconces, interiors enriched with exquisite decor, arches, paintings and winding corridors all over. That mansion could fit a whole small town in it, with its absurdly tall ceilings and field-wide halls. A faint smell of greenery and perfume lingered in the seemingly empty stairway.

“There they are, the angry cowboys!” the Italian greeted the small group, gesturing at them enthusiastically. Kris cringed internally, her stomach tightening in front of his serpentine smile. He immediately turned to his henchmen and made a demeaning comment on them in Italian, giving Kris the feeling she did good to come along.

The men all shook Bronte’s hand. When it was her turn, Bronte bowed slightly and kissed the back of her hand, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

Kris did her best to appear flattered, but inside she was screaming her head off at the unpleasantness of that snake’s wet lips on her skin. Arthur stood behind her, clenching his fists and biting his lip so hard it almost started bleeding.

The men were each handed a fine cigar, and one of Angelo’s goons offered her one of his premiums cigarettes, which she promptly accepted, desperately needing something to take the edge off. She slipped the cig between her lips, waiting for the feller to light it up in complete silence. The last thing she wanted was to blow her cover by exposing her very Italian accent.

Kris stood in the back side of the balcony, smoking and paying close attention to how Bronte addressed her partners in crime. While the men were talking business, she kept tally of every micro expression, look, gesture and movement that could give her a hint about Bronte’s real intentions. She believed he gave up Jack way too easily and welcomed a gang of country outlaws with a bit more warmth than you would expect from a local boss. The whole affair seemed suspicious.

Kris listened to him insulting the rest of the guests, loudly wishing they would die as he spoke freely and confident that nobody else would understand him, except for his lackeys, who roared in laughter at his every provocation. But when he turned his thinly veiled insults to Dutch, Arthur, Hosea and Bill, every muscle in Kris’s body tensed up, the effort to resist clapping back unbearable. Who the fuck did he think he was?! A goddamned reptile in an Italian suit, that’s what he was.

“So, what was your plan here?” Bronte asked them, a dark cloud falling over his features. Every trace of irony had been wiped from his face. The sudden shift in tone made even the silver-tongued Van Der Linde hesitate.

‘He’s showing his true colors’ Kris noted, witnessing her enemy’s mask slip off momentarily as a cold chill climbed up her spine, making her tremble. Angelo Bronte was a scary man.

Dutch confessed they needed more money. Bronte magnanimously pointed them towards the trolley station, which he said stored ‘tons of money, just what you need’. Kris didn’t like the way a couple of his lapdogs snickered between themselves.

Completely absorbed in their conversation, Kris didn’t notice her cigarette burning out. She winced in pain as it stung her fingers, emitting a hissing sound which made a couple of heads turn towards her. She threw the cigarette butt to the side and acted innocently. Arthur approached her, gently guiding her inside with a hand on the small of her back as the rest of the gang followed. Mocking comments in Italian erupted from the balcony.

“Okay people, time for the mingling” Dutch whispered, giving directions and specific tasks to each and everyone of them, except for Kris. She scoffed as he ignored her for the second time that day, and begrudgingly proposed to guard the second floor and spy on Bronte and his men.

“Sure, it’ll be good to keep an eye on them” he remarked, uninterested, as Arthur brushed his lips on her cheek, telling her to be careful.

“Always” Kris reassured her beau, making her way upstairs as silently as she could with those pesky heels on, while the men scattered and blended into the crowd, each with his own fake name (Albert Danielson? Really, Bill?) and task (Arthur went to chat with Henri Lemieux).

By some divine luck, the second floor hall was still unguarded. Kris shuffled next to the glass door, her back to the wall, peeking outside carefully. Loud screaming and coarse laughter dampened by the reinforced glass: they were still out there.

“Ma li avete visti, quei quattro buffoni!1” a tall, dark skinned man readjusted the many rings on his fingers, all of them made of gold and gemstones. “Quegli zotici non riconoscerebbero le buone maniere se li colpissero in faccia2” followed another one, a bald man as pale as sheet of paper.

‘I’m lucky Italians are so damn loud, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hear anything through this glass’ Kris remarked, grateful that her evening was going according to plan.

“Bella trovata boss, quella di mandarli alla stazione del tram!3” one of Bronte’s personal guards sneered, patting him on the back. Kris’s heart skipped a beat and she froze against the wall.

Bronte shook his head, waving the comment off. “Ah, non ci vuole nulla con questi idioti. Ho preso in giro uomini ben più pericolosi…4 ” he snobbishly sipped his glass of red wine, unperturbed. He gestured for one of his lackeys to come closer and murmured something Kris couldn’t quite catch. She just about managed to make out “police” and “station”, but that was enough.

She needed to go downstairs. Now. Unfortunately, two sets of footsteps approached the glass door very fast and the staircase was way too far to make it.

‘Oh god, what do I do?’

The men entered the hall before she could finish the thought, footsteps booming in Kris’s ears to match her speeding heartbeat, a torturous cacophony of beating drums. She prayed to every god on earth that the curtain was covering her gown, or that they wouldn’t glance at it.

She peeked through the heavy, red fabric and when she saw the back of Bronte and his guard’s heads disappearing down the staircase, Kris exhaled in relief.

‘That was too damn close’ she reprimanded herself, trying to calm down. But it wasn’t over.

“Quella ragazza con loro… che ne pensate?5”

“Sembrava familiare, aveva tratti mediterranei...6”

Every muscle chained her into place and panic started seeping back into her soul.

Sounds of glasses clinking. Matches striking, cigars sizzling.

“Come mi piacerebbe farmela…7” said one of them who hadn’t spoken before, voice so putridly filled with lust it made Kris recoil in disgust. The remark was followed by a heap of obscene laughter.

“No davvero, secondo voi è italiana?8” asked baldy. A general buzz took ahold of the group.

“Diciamo a Bronte di rapirla? Potrebbe farci comodo una donna nella famiglia.9”

Horrified, Kris stumbled towards the stairs, tripping over her dress, losing her balance on the heels and almost falling over. God, why couldn’t she had worn a suit?

By some devilish misfortune, a guard was happening to come upstairs just as Kris was coming down, and he caught her right at the top of the stairs.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” the guard inquired, suspicious.

“I-I…” she stuttered, desperately thinking of a plan. She then loosened her legs and brought a hand to her forehead. “I’m not feeling well…” she mustered the weakest, girliest pitch of voice she could, and fell straight into the confused guard’s arms, pretending to faint.

The man called the servants, shouting for them to bring smelling salts and water as Kris bounced limply in his arms. She really hoped the gown hadn’t lifted to reveal her stashed knife, but her heart was completely stable, her pulse weak as a testament to what a good actress she was.

They laid her down on a sofa, putting a few cushions under her legs and the salts underneath her nose. She slowly opened her eyes, feigning disorientation.

“Oh, where am I?” she whined, touching her forehead.

“How are you feeling, ma’am?” the young girl servant asked her, scared beyond her mind and almost shaking. She must’ve been new there.

Kris slowly rose up, sitting on the fancy velvet couch, blinking lazily. “A bit better I think, thank you.”

“Marco went to fetch you some water, please stay seated, ma’am” she replied weakly, taking the pillows and scrambling back to the chambers.

As she waited for this Marco, the words she last heard the Bronte boys say made her head spin so violently, she thought she might faint for real this time. She had to warn Dutch and Arthur she could be in danger, and the gang was too. They had to act fast and, luckily, because of her, they now had the advantage.

“Here you go, ma’am” the guard handed her a glass of water. She thanked him warmly, and then threw the liquid behind the couch when he wasn’t looking. She wasn’t as stupid as to risk being drugged after what she had heard. Assuring Marco she was fine now, she marched outside searching for her companions.

She found them at the buffet table, quietly chatting about what they found. Arthur lit up when he saw her. Kris could see the worry in his eyes gradually dissipate as she came closer.

“Kris! We was about to start looking for you…” he hugged his wife tight, a weight lifted off his chest.

“You look so pale” he noticed, cupping her cheek and examining her from head to toe.

“I’m fine, Arthur” Kris brushed him off, still rattled by the last events. She turned towards Dutch:

“We need to talk.”

Dutch caught wind of the gravity in the young woman’s voice and nodded severely.

“We’re leaving, we’ll talk on the ride home.”

Notes (translation)

1 Get a load of those four buffoons!

2 Those oafs wouldn’t know good manners if they slapped them in the face.

3 Great idea boss, to send them over to the trolley station!

4 Ah, it’s too easy with these fools. I tricked much more dangerous men…

5 That girl with them… what do you think?

6 She looked familiar, she had Mediterranean traits…

7 How I would love to fuck her…

8 No really, do you think she’s Italian?

9 Should we ask Bronte to kidnap her? It could be useful to have a woman in our family.

#scroll down for the translations!#tumblr doesnt have the right format for notes so its a bit clunky i apologize #i just wanted to keep the phrases yk #makes it more immersive #hope you liked another installation of kris eheh #rdr2 fic #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x original female character #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2

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spacesquidlings · 11 months ago

Text

If You Need To, Darling, Lean Your Weight On Me: Succor

Summary: At Astarion's insistence, they find somewhere to stay to wait out the storm. Cold, tired, and covered in mud and rain, Aspen is still not entirely willing to let herself be tended to, not that he is having any of that.

Pairing: Astarion x Female Tav (OC Aspen)

Warnings: Suggestive comments

A request from the wonderful @spacebarbarianweird !!!!! Thank you so much for this request and your patience!!!!! <3

Table of Contents

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Much to Aspen’s surprise, there really was somewhere for them to stay in the middle of nowhere.

Astarion preened smugly as she gawked at the stout inn. A buttery golden glow spilled from the windows and the cracks around the door, plumes of grey smoke spilling from an old brick chimney. The smell of roasting meats and melting butter and herbs and onions and spices she couldn’t name wafted from the inn on the bruising wind, softening its cold sting.

Her stomach cramped, dull pain radiating through her belly. She’d been too cold and miserable to even notice how hungry she was, but as the savoury smells of whatever delicious things were being cooked found her, she felt a wave of pain wash over her. Not just from the cold, or the exhaustion, but from a hunger so deep she felt like someone had torn a hole through her body.

She whined, leaning against Astarion as they stumbled over the muddy ground, towards the start of the little cobbled path that led to the front of the inn.

“What’s wrong?” He arched one ivory brow, infuriatingly beautiful despite the downpour.

There was mud caked to his boots, his trousers. His cloak was limp, blades of grass and fallen leaves and clumps of mud clinging to the hem. Once a beautiful, deep vermillion, it now looked midnight dark from the renewed storm. And yet despite how bedraggled he ought to look, as she no doubt did, he looked nothing less than enchanting. Ethereal.

He looked like a forest nymph stepping out from a storybook. Like a fairy princeling in a song. His eyes were star-bright, his face stained with a delicate cherry-blossom flush from the cold. The raindrops that fell on him glittered like they were made of quicksilver moonbeams, and his ivory curls, although plastered to his brow, looked like they’d been styled that way by a god.

Even his mud-splattered clothes seemed refined. Although his boots were a mess, the intricate, gold embroidery that was stitched across his shirt and his trousers still shone. They were reminiscent of flashes of sunshine, of the veins of gold that glimmered from between the darkness of the clouds.

His brows rose, the perfect picture of regal bemusement. Had she any skill in drawing she could spend the rest of her years painting portraits of fairies and gods and princes in his likeness.

He chuckled at her poorly veiled wonder, slipping an arm around her waist, tucking her against his side. It was a cumbersome way to walk, and yet she felt grateful, in spite of the ire provoked by how effortlessly beautiful he always was, even after traipsing through the wild in a constant squall. His support was welcome, comforting, kindling a small ember of warmth in the soggy, cold depths of her heart.

“See?” He murmured, his smile devilish. “I’m right here, I’ll always be right here for you.”

“Whatever they’re making in there smells so good,” she whined, her cheek falling on his shoulder. “I’m so hungry my stomach hurts.”

“My poor darling,” he crooned, half dragging her now over the slick cobblestones that snaked up towards the door. “Just a little further now, and I’ll make sure we have the best room they have to offer.”

He was a balm to her aching skin, a lullaby to her tired mind. He was a kernel of warmth flaring bright in a pile of soggy kindling, catching fire against all odds.

When they reached the door he held her closer, ushering her through in front of him. In less than a moment she went from the frigid chill of the storm to a near blistering warmth that tangled around her like a blanket.

It was so sudden she coughed, choking on the heat, on the smell of sizzling foods, of the chatter in the simple room stretching before them. Water pooled at her feet, mud trailing behind her as she stumbled forward on weak legs, doing her best not to look like a lunatic as she breathed deeply, as her skin began to tingle and burn from the sudden warmth cascading over her cold, clammy skin.

She was standing in a tavern, lit by soft candlelight that flickered across the simple wooden tables that were scattered throughout the room. It was mostly empty, with only a handful of tables further to the back occupied by a few couples, a group of adventurers playing a card game, and one tired looking family with a squalling newborn. A woman with wispy brown hair was flitting between the tables, setting down steaming bowls of stew and heaping plates of meats and potatoes and sandwiches.

Another pang of hunger cut through Aspen’s belly, and she would have keeled over had Astarion not wrapped his arm around her waist once more.

“Easy now, darling,” he murmured, brushing his lips over where her ear was hidden beneath her cloak. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“Maybe I’m just swooning from your touch,” she muttered, peering up at him from underneath her hood. “You’re holding me so romantically.”

“Darling.” He sounded like he was humouring her, like she was being silly and naive. “When I’m touching you romantically, you’ll know.”

“Maybe I find everything you do romantic.”

He snorted. “I’m flattered, but if you swoon here, then how will you make it to our room?”

She shrugged, tugging her hood back to give him the prettiest smile she could muster, bedraggled and sodden though she was. “Perhaps I just want to be carried. After all there is nowhere I like being more than in your arms.”

Beneath the shadows of his hood she could see how his eyes darkened, how his canines caught the golden light as his lips spread wide in a devious smile. Their sharp tips gleamed wickedly, and it made her mouth go dry as her mind stumbled over all the memories of the times he’d teased her with those teeth, and all the times he’d plunged them into her skin.

But before Astarion could respond, a clear voice rang out, grabbing their attention. The woman set a tray of dirty glasses and plates on an empty table before hurrying towards them, her brow furrowed as she took them in.

“Look at the state of you two!” She cried, planting her hands on her hips as she looked them both up and down. Upon closer look, Aspen noted the soft curve of the woman’s ears, tapering off into delicate points. “You look like you’ve been lost in this storm all night!”

Aspen gave a small nod as Astarion pulled down his hood, rivulets of water slipping down his cheeks in streams of silver, liquid moonlight gilding his features. “We thought it would clear up earlier, but-”

The half-elven woman frowned, shaking her head. “It’s storm season. We’ve had rainstorms last for weeks before.”

Aspen cringed, covering her face. She really should have done more research on weather patterns before they’d begun this little escapade. Then they could have at least packed the appropriate gear.

“Well that sounds…” Astarion trailed off, and Aspen, face still hidden behind her hands, could imagine the little wrinkle to his nose, the creases around his mouth as his lips tilted into a frown. “Deeply annoying.”

“We’re used to it around her. Plus it gives us an excuse to break out all our nicest spices to warm everyone up.”

Astarion’s responding hum sounded amused, and Aspen peaked up to see his lips quirked into a smirk.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any rooms suitable for warming up guests available, would you?” He traced his fingers over her side where his hand still rested as he spoke, leaving the faintest impression of warmth in their wake. His words were smooth and sweet as honey, his lips twisting into a smirk as he tried charming the woman. “We’ve been travelling all night and I fear my lover is in danger of falling ill.”

Too tired to level a glower at him, Aspen merely closed her eyes, annoyance sparking and vanishing just as quickly. He hummed at her lackluster response, having hoped to stoke her ire, to garner a reaction from crooning that they were lovers to this stranger.

He wasn’t wrong, but he seemed particularly fond of ‘lover’ and all its implications, and the heat that scalded her cheeks whenever the word rolled from his lips.

The woman, for her part, only giggled. Aspen opened her eyes to see the woman cross her arms, a small smile on her face as she nodded. “I’m sure we have a room that can accommodate the two of you.”

“We would be most grateful.” Astarion bobbed his head as he spoke, his tone dulcet, warm. Her teeth ached from the sweetness she heard in his words, like they had been dipped in sugar.

Or maybe she was just tired, and her fatigue was making her vulnerable to his saccharine machinations.

Not that she’d ever been particularly resilient to them in the first place.

She trailed along beside Astarion, the arm still securely wrapped around her holding her fast to his side, as the woman gestured for them to follow her. She led them towards the back of the tavern, the delicious smells of melted butter and spices and something delicious and sugary growing stronger. The air seemed heavy with the smells, and Aspen felt like she could taste each dish on her tongue, her mouth watering as her mind conjured images of platters heavy with potatoes and stew and bread and every manner of dessert.

The tavern was much larger than she’d thought at first sigh, and it took a few moments for a simple bar to come into view, stretching across the length of the far wall. Behind it was a set of old double-doors, two windows glowing with firelight on either side. Sounds she hadn’t heard at first seemed to billow out from the windows along with the smell of melting butter and frying onions. The clang of metal against metal, the crackling of wood consumed by fire, the searing of vegetables in a skillet.

It was as painful as gums after a tooth had been torn free. She could not stop poking at it, could not stop focusing her attention on the smells, the sounds, even as pain from her empty stomach cut through her as easily as a knife through warm butter.

Through it all, the woman chattered, oblivious to Aspen’s discomfort, explaining to them that her name was Thistle, that she had inherited the inn from her parents, that she was the current innkeeper and could help them with anything for however long they stayed.

“You’ll have to forgive me for chatting,” she said, gesturing to two seats at the end of the bar. She rounded one side, ducking down behind the counter, her voice muffled as she continued speaking. “It’s the off-season, so we don’t usually get many visitors, aside from some of our regulars. And it’s always so fun to speak with newcomers. To learn about all the people passing through.”

She emerged a moment later, popping up like a children’s toy, startling Aspen so thoroughly that she nearly toppled from her seat. Had Astarion not caught her, looking like he was barely holding back a mocking comment, she would have most likely fallen on her face on the worn wooden floor.

Heedless of Aspen’s near-mishap, Thistle set a massive, cracking tome on the top of the bar, flipping idly through the pages.

“Let me see…” She hummed as she began running her fingers down lines that Aspen could not quite make out. “A room for two. Any particular amenities in mind?”

“A full bathroom,” Astarion said, keeping one hand on Aspen even as she fully settled in her seat. “With hot water, naturally.”

“Naturally,” she drawled, tapping her cheek.

“We’d like a small table to take our meals.” He smirked, leaning forward to speak in a conspiratorial whisper. “My beloved is a bit shy.”

Fatigued as she was, Aspen was never so fatigued she could not spare the energy to pinch him for saying something that silly. In response he merely pried her hand from his side, bringing it to his lips and pressing kisses to her fingertips.

“We would also appreciate some fresh linens, and dry clothes if you have any to spare,” he said, sparing Thistle a glance as he lowered Aspen’s hand. “And we’re not particular about any sort of view.”

“Not much to look at other than trees and rain anyways,” Thistle mused, drumming her fingers over the book. “I think I have the perfect room. Hold tight, and I’ll grab your keys.”

She ducked beneath the bar again, and Aspen had the foresight to clutch Astarion’s arm in anticipation of the jump-scare of the innkeeper bouncing up again with no warning.

He chuckled, trailing a finger over the back of her hand. “It seems like you’ve taken my words to heart.”

She frowned, although she did not loosen her hold. Her mind spun slowly, thoughts moving at a glacial pace as she struggled to figure out what he was talking about. “What?”

Another snort, the brush of his lips to her brow. “That you can rely on me to take care of you.”

“I’m just having a hard time sitting because my side is numb,” she grumbled. Her side wasn’t numb in the least, and even if it was she didn’t think that would lead to her needing to lean so heavily on Astarion.

Not that she was about to divulge those details to him.

He continued to sketch his finger over the back of her hand, his smile sly as he pressed chaste kisses to her cheek and her nose. “If you need support,” he murmured, with all the heat of a heady summer’s day. “You can sit on my lap. I’m sure I can-”

She was rescued from his teasing as Thistle popped up once more, beaming as she dangled an aging brass key before them. “Sorry, that took a minute! We’ve been doing some reorganizing and the room keys have all been moved.”

Astarion took the key before Aspen could even make one finger twitch, Thistle still chattering on, unaware of the mischief that had nearly transpired.

“You’ll be in room 29,” Thistle said. “Ninth room, second floor. There’s a set of stairs that will take you up to the guest rooms. It doesn’t have much of a view, but it’s one of our larger rooms, and it has everything you’re looking for.” She pulled a pen from one of the pockets in her apron, marking something off in the book. “And I’ll make sure to send someone up shortly with some fresh clothes. I think we should have a few things that fit the two of you until we can get your own clothes properly cleaned.”

Aspen started to protest, realizing not only were they being provided clothes, Thistle was also offering a cleaning service for them. She didn’t want to put her out, especially since they had barged in so suddenly, and the cost would certainly be exorbitant.

But Astarion cut her off before the words could even tumble from her mouth, a charming smile on his lips as he spun the key around his finger. “That all sounds wonderful, we’re much obliged.”

Thistle beamed all the brighter, shutting the heavy book with a dull thud. “It’s my pleasure. Now, would the two of you like something to eat?”

Astarion shot a glance at Aspen, his brows drawing together as he took her in. She must have looked utterly dishevelled, because he nodded sharply, covering the hand that was still clutching her arm. “If it’s not too much trouble, just something small and simple for now.”

“I’ll be right back!” And then Thistle was gone, swallowed by the golden light of the kitchens as she vanished behind the doors.

When Astarion turned to Aspen again all his mischief was gone. He looked strangely somber, his brow wrinkling in concern, his lips quirked to the side as he cupped her face, eyes searching hers.

“Darling, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” He pushed back a lock of hair that was stuck to her face, droplets of water sliding down her throat as he tucked it back behind her ear. “You look positively dreadful.”

She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a hiccup. “Strange. I was thinking how you looked like a prince in a storybook.”

He clicked his tongue, his lips curling up in a half-smile. “You’re sweet, but I’m sure the weather has absolutely ruined my hair.”

“No,” she shook her head, reaching a hand to his curls. They were wet, and yet they seemed to shine like ivory, like fresh snow before the heat of the day turned it all to slush. “You look like you belong in a painting. Something beautiful that people would travel from all over the world to see.”

He chuckled, stroking her cheek. “Thank you, my love, flattery from you is always the sweetest.” His smile fell a moment later, his eyes still searching hers. “But gods, you’re cold. You feel like death.”

“Not dead,” she said, covering his hand with hers. “Can’t you feel my heartbeat?”

A ghost of a smile hovered on his lips for the barest of moments before falling away. “I can, but I would rather you were warm, too. Even your heartbeat is too slow.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say to that, ducking her head. Surely she would be better once she ate something and changed out of her sodden clothes, wouldn’t she?

“I’m sorry.”

The apology made her head snap up; Astarion so rarely apologized that it took her by surprise to hear him utter one now.

“For what?”

His expression was as melancholy as the sky before the rain had begun, the touch of his fingertips to her skin delicate as a breeze. “I didn’t realize how poorly you were feeling. I-”

It took more effort than it should have, but Aspen managed to unclench her hand from his arm so she could cup his cheek. His eyes widened, and his sentence fell away before he could finish.

“I didn’t tell you,” she said, her words little more than a sigh. “So how could you know? You can’t read my mind.”

He frowned. “Sometimes I wish I could.”

“What? And ruin all my mysterious charm?”

A true smile arced across his lips, and he even went so far as to roll his eyes. “Darling, I’ve met open books more mysterious than you.”

She feigned a gasp. “Isn’t that what attracted you in the first place?”

He snorted. “I was more intrigued by your blatant foolishness. The last thing I would call you, my dear, is mysterious.”

“And what would you call me?” She stroked his cheek, ensnared by his eyes. The heat of the kitchens was beginning to thaw the ice from her veins, and she was starting to feel like she was alive again. Still cold, still wet, but no longer a walking corpse tossed like a leaf through the storm.

He hummed, pushing her hair back, wiping away stray drops of water with his knuckles. “I would call you a fool, I would call you utterly mad.” His eyes softened, the tenderness in his face making her knees weak, and she was very thankful that she was sitting. “And I would call you my lover, my beloved, my partner.”

“I like that a little more than utterly mad,” she said, her own lips twitching into a smile.

“I thought you might.”

Thistle returned, a paper-wrapped parcel of food in her hands. Something for the two of them, she’d promised, to bring up to their room, and if they were still hungry they could always come back down.

Astarion thanked her, and she quickly flitted away as some of the other patrons still in the tavern beckoned her over with requests for another plate of food, ale, some napkins to clean a spill.

“Shall we go?” He murmured, pressing his lips to her ear. “Unless of course, you would like me to carry you. Because I’m more than happy to oblige.”

She really did consider taking him up on that, but she feared they’d already made a big enough scene, bursting into the quiet tavern with the wind and rain lashing at their backs.

She could feel his smile against her even as she told him no, not this time. “That’s okay, darling. There will be plenty of time to hold you in my arms soon enough.”

She did, however, twine her hand with his, wanting just that little bit of touch. Needing that little bit of touch. It was a comfort, his presence beside her, and it gave her the last sliver of energy she needed to shuffle from the tavern, to climb the stairs to the second floor, to make it to the door of their room.

By the time the door had been unlocked, they’d made it into the room, and they’d lit the few candles in the room to banish the shadows, Aspen felt like she would keel over. She was still starving, but her legs were shaking, and she could hardly keep her eyes open.

Astarion quickly stripped away his cloak, balling it up and throwing it into a corner of the room before dumping his pack beside it. But Aspen could not even summon the energy she needed to do that. Instead all she could manage was slumping into the closest seat, her soaking clothes and pack weighing her down as surely as lead.

“None of that,” he chided, frowning as she wilted in the chair. “Come on, get up. You need to get out of those clothes and eat.”

She groaned, throwing her head back. “I’m tired.”

“I know, darling. But you really will get sick if you stay in those clothes much longer.”

She didn’t move, sliding down the chair. Her pack pressed into her spine, dull pain spreading from where the books and supplies she had shoved into the pack japped at her. She winced, but did not move, feeling like she might never be able to move again.

Astarion groaned, throwing his head back. “I have to do everything myself, it seems.”

Before she could process what he could possibly mean he was crouching in front of her, hands hovering over her mud-spattered boots.

“What are you doing?”

He arched a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “What does it look like I’m doing, darling? If you don’t have the strength to move, then I’ll help you.” His smirk widened, bordering on smug, and his voice turned so sugary her teeth ached. “I can take care of my sweet, delicate lover.”

“You’re teasing me,” she whined. “I’m cold and tired, and you’re teasing me!”

“Really darling, you should know me better by now.” He was scolding her, but he said it so softly it could have been lyrics in a lullaby.

“Of course I’m teasing you,” he continued, his elegant fingers deftly untying the laces of her boots and sliding them from her feet. “You can’t undress without my help even when you aren’t cold.”

She considered kicking him for that. “I just get nervous. And distracted.”

He hummed, his smile sharp as he tugged off her socks. “Oh I know you get distracted, darling. And I don’t blame you, not when I’m around. But what’s your excuse this time?”

“It’s not an excuse.” She really would have kicked him had he not grasped her legs, holding them still. “I told you, I’m cold.”

He clicked his tongue, delighting in this sweet little torment as he inched his hands up to the waistband of her trousers. “Do you know what I think?”

She shivered despite her best efforts, face burning as he undid the buttons and began sliding the fabric down. It was soaking wet, and clung to her skin, and for a moment his expression shifted to annoyance as he gave them a tug.

“I think-” He grunted as he finally managed to drag them from her body, letting the trousers fall to the floor in a sopping puddle. “I think you’re just needy.”

“Needy?” Heat crawled over her cheeks, making her skin prinkle.

“Yes, n-” He ground his teeth as he tossed her pack to the side unceremoniously and started on her cloak and her tunic. The cloak came away easily, but her tunic and undershirt were pasted to her skin just as surely as her trousers had been. “Darling, I know it’s easier to wear trousers when we’re travelling, but it’s so much easier to undress you when you wear dresses.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, amused. “I do so love making it easier for you to take my clothes off.”

“Well it is the least you can do,” he said, grinning as he finally removed her tunic, tossing it to the side, the material flopping against her pack. “Especially when I try so hard to make sure you feel the most pleasure.”

Her body continued to warm, the flush in her cheeks staining her arms, her chest. Astarion’s smile grew as he caught sight of it, of the the rose-petal red spreading over her exposed skin.

He brushed his lips to her cheeks, to the column of her throat, in the valley between her breasts. His hands caressed her sides, slipped over the flare of her hips. Fire trailed in the wake of his touch, embers of warmth blooming to life beneath her skin. She felt like she was becoming spring, cold as melting ice beneath the afternoon sun, warmth slowly creeping over her, colour and wildflowers blooming where the pearlescent white of snow had once been.

“As I was saying…” He murmured, his words reverberating through the hollows of her bones. She could feel the flutter of her pulse, pressing against her skin as her blood heated with every touch of his lips, every flick of his tongue.

She hummed, tangling a hand in his hair without thought. His curls were damp, cool, but she could smell the delicate scent of his favoured soaps, his perfumes that he always applied so religiously. “What were you saying?”

With her cold, soaking clothes removed, already she was feeling better. Still though she shivered, gooseflesh racing across her bared skin, but she did not feel as heavy as she had before. And better yet, Astarion was close, his breath ghosting across her, his smile pressed against her skin.

He chuckled, fingers toying with the edges of her undergarments. “I was saying, I think that you’re desperate. For me to touch you, for me to have you.”

“And if I am?” The words came out in a breathless rush, her heartbeat erratic as it stumbled over itself in its haste. “What would you do?”

He looked up then, pupils so dilated they seemed to swallow the dark vermillion of his eyes. His smile was slow, languid. It reminded her of a predator, as his fangs slowly peaked through his widening smile.

“I think the better question would be what wouldn’t I do,” he breathed. His voice was low, heady. It reached deep in her veins, sent sparks of heat arcing in her core. “Because, my love, I would do anything if that were true.”

When she shivered again it had nothing to do with the cold. “Anything?”

He dragged her underclothes down slowly, heat blooming deep in her belly as he held her gaze, smirking so terribly smugly. “Would you like a demonstration?”

She swallowed, her mouth dry. “Perhaps.”

He hummed, lowering his lips to the inside of her thigh, his words ghosting against her skin. “I suppose I could think of something-”

But before he could say anything more he was swearing, pulling away to frown at her.

“What is it?”

“Gods, you’re just so cold,” he muttered, rubbing his hands up and down her legs. “Your skin really does feel like death.”

“I feel a little like it too,” she said. Disappointment coiled with the fatigue in her belly as she teetered on the edge of the fuzzy warmth his touch had filled her with. Her mind was starting to clear, and as it did she began to shiver, began to register the heaviness of her body once more.

Astarion hummed at her response, drumming his fingers on her hip. “I can think of a few ways I could warm you up.”

Although her heart began to race, her mind was clear enough to know how what he was implying would undoubtedly be disastrous. Desire twisted in her belly, but her fatigue was stronger, and she knew she was too weak for much of anything besides sleep.

“I don’t know if that would be such a good idea,” she admitted, begrudgingly. She would have liked to learn what exactly he thought would help warm her. “I’m so tired and stiff, I doubt I’d be able to do much.”

He chuckled. “I can think of something else that’s stiff that wouldn’t mind.”

She gaped, making a half-hearted attempt to smack him. “Astarion!”

“Yes, my darling?” He caught her hand, bringing her palm to his lips.

“You’re such a villain,” she grumbled.

He pouted, kissing her palm again. “But earlier you said I was a prince.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

His eyes narrowed, and in one quick movement he yanked her from her chair, letting her topple into his lap.

“Astarion!”

“Hmmm?” His smirk was nothing short of shit-eating, villainous and self-satisfied and infuriating.

It was adorable too, if she were honest. But she wasn’t telling him that.

“What are you doing?” Venom was gentler than her tone, and yet he laughed, a hand snaking around her to press his palm against the small of her back.

“What does it look like?” His non-answer was infuriating, but the feeling quickly passed as he nuzzled her throat, teeth scraping over the flutter of her pulse.

“It looks like you dragged me, half-naked, into your lap.”

He snorted, taking a shuddering breath as he swiped his tongue over her pulse. “You’re completely naked, my love.”

“That’s worse!” There was no bite to her words now, the hand at her back sliding lower. Astarion had never been one to keep his hands still.

“You’re acting like I’ve never done this before, pet,” he said. His words lilted through the air, mirth making them bright. He was having far too much fun, and here she was cold and tired, completely at his mercy.

She gave a half-hearted pinch to his side. “You’re proving my point, lover.”

“That I’m your perfect storybook prince?”

She rolled her eyes. “What storybooks have you been reading?”

“Awful ones.” The suddenness of the pinch to her ass made her squeak, and she hardly heard his response, spoken low and breathy, like it was a secret he was only sharing with her.

Laughing, he smoothed his hand over the ache in her skin. “But they’re certainly much more fun.”

She could think of no proper response, still smarting from the sharp pinch, her mind trying to catch up.

He nipped at her throat, teeth pressing into her skin just shy of piercing into her veins. She felt dizzy, losing herself in such small touches from him. His body was no warmer than room temperature, and yet it was so much warmer than she was, and she felt like ice melting beneath the golden caress of the sun.

Astarion straightened, lips twisted in a smug smile. “I do so love having fun with you, my dear. And do you know what I think?”

She shuddered at the feeling of his hand tracing over her thigh. She could hardly think herself, so easily brought to incoherence by his lips, his lithe fingers. There was no way she could guess what was happening in his mind. “What are you thinking?”

His smile widened, his teeth bared for her. Sometimes she liked to press her fingers to their sharp points, enamoured by them. “That you love having fun with me.”

“If you’re trying to tease me, you’re not doing a very good job.” She did press her thumb to one of his fangs, and he nipped at her playfully, chuckling.

“Have you considered that I’m not teasing you? I’m just stating facts, love.”

She quirked a brow as she plucked at the ties of his shirt. “That I love having fun with you?”

He caught her hand, bringing it back to his lips. “Why else would you choose a villain for a prince?”

“You are teasing me!”

His teeth scraped over her palm, the reverberations of his laughter seeping into her veins, warm as spring. “Maybe.”

“Yes, you are!” She squirmed, but she was stuck, his arm wrapped securely around her waist.

Kisses fell on the heel of her hand, his lips soft and plush, sending fireflies of warmth and light flitting between her ribs, illuminating her veins, her heart, as its pulse quickened for him.

“And if I am?” He breathed, looking up at her from beneath his ivory lashes. “What would you do?”

“I would-” She didn’t know what she would do. What could she even do?

“Well? I’m waiting.”

“I…” She rolled the question around in her mind, coming up with less than nothing.

He lifted his brows. “You…?”

With a huff she leaned away, tipping her head back to peer down at him, feigning imperiousness. Pretending he wouldn’t immediately see through such a facade. “I would be very cross.”

“Oh my.” He couldn’t have sounded less bothered by her answer even if he’d tried.

“And…” She licked her lips. “I wouldn’t play with your hair. Or give you kisses goodnight.”

Her threats came off more childish than anything else, and they seemed to amuse him, his smile stretching wide.

“Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we, pet?” He tipped his head back too, the picture of aristocratic indolence. He really did look the picture of a prince, even if he was a particularly devilish one.

She huffed. “We would not.”

Despite all her posturing, all her feigned ire, she could not hold her facade for long. Astarion laughed, soft and warm, and it was easy to get lost in the sound of it. His voice was a melody, his laughter a song. There was no ballad that could compare, no bard with a voice as sweet. To hear such warmth, such delight, spinning in the air of the room.

The sound put her at ease, and she was so busy melting into the cadence of his voice that she nearly leapt out of her skin when he stood, bringing her with him.

“What are you doing?” It was an effort to stop herself from shrieking, the shock she felt still rattling through her bones.

He tsked, shaking his head. “Behave, darling.”

“Or what?”

His brow arched high, the corners of his lips trembling like he was on the verge of laughter all over again. And when he spoke, his words were all smouldering warmth, stoking embers in her core that flared to life. “Are you sure you want to find out?”

“That’s not an answer, Astarion.”

He brought his lips to her ear, his sultry tone making her shudder. “Keep being disobedient and you’ll find out.”

She was sorely tempted to push him, having an idea of what would be in store for her if she did. But she was tired, too, and she liked when he praised her, when he was gentle and loving.

He carried her into a room half cloaked in shadow. Squinting, she could make out that it was the bathroom, not particularly luxurious, but it suited their needs. A bathtub took up nearly half of the room, a toilet and sink squeezed into the far corner, the candlelight from the main room barely reaching them.

She assumed Astarion would set her down to light the candles, but he did not, only clutching her tighter as he struggled to light the few sconces on the wall.

“My love, you can put me down you know,” she murmured.

As the candles flared to life she could make out the lines of his face, the uncharacteristic solemnity that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

He tried flashing her a grin when he caught her staring, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Perhaps I’d prefer to hold you close.”

“Astarion.” She brushed back his curls, half-dried now that they were safe from the storm. “My love, tell me what’s on your mind.”

As she trailed her hands down to his cheeks he leaned into her touch, eyes half-lidded as he watched her. “The only thing on my mind, darling, is warming you up.”

“Is that not what you were doing before?” She stroked his cheek as he sighed, turning his head to nuzzle her palm. “Teasing me to warm me up.”

She could feel his smile against her skin, could feel the sharp prick of his fangs. “I only did that because I love to tease you, my dear.”

“No other reason?”

He nipped at her hand, all pleased smiles and mischief glinting in his eyes. “It’s one of my favourite pastimes, love. There is nothing I find more enjoyable than teasing you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now that can’t possibly be true.”

“And what else could you possibly be thinking of?” His voice reminded her of a purr, of syrupy sweetness hiding something else underneath. “That would be more pleasurable than this?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, heat rushing through her. His eyes were bright, sharp as starlight on a lake. The words would not come to her lips, her throat clogged so not even air could escape.

“Well?” He prodded, dragging his teeth over her palm again. Never hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make her skin tingle from the pressure. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

Aspen drew herself up as best as she could, peeling her hands away and crossing them over her chest. “Maybe I’m teasing you now.”

Clicking his tongue, he finally set her down. “That’s hardly fair. Here I am working so terribly hard and you have the gall to tease me.”

“And what exactly is it that you’re working so hard at?”

He pinched her waist, brow arching high. “You’re being such a brat.”

“Am not!”

He hummed, sliding his arm around her waist before she could move, drawing her close. Firelight flickered over him, limning his face in orange and gold. He looked sharper in the fluttering light, shadows rolling from him like a cloak, his eyes dark as an open wound. There was nothing but devilry in the crescent of his smile, in the creases at the corners of his eyes.

Sometimes she forgot that he was a predator, that he was dangerous. Stories and songs had been written about creatures like him, that lurked in the shadows, that stole away children and women who strayed too far from the light.

But she had leapt headfirst into his shadows, and she had found there was light there too. Softened moonlight, the quicksilver glimmer of stars. Gold and silver twining together, illuminating the tributaries of her veins, setting her heart alight with all the wondrous things she had felt since she had felt the kiss of his steel knife against her throat.

So even when he looked at her as a predator did prey, she could not find it within her to be afraid. There were no tendrils of fear, no blossoming anxieties. All she could think of was his tender smiles in the mornings, the puppy dog eyes he made when he wanted something, the petulant way he whined when things did not go his way, the mischievous little grin he wore whenever he said something that made her laugh.

It made her brave, foolishly so, and as he peered at her with such avarice she reached for him. She cupped his cheek in her palm, hovered her thumb over his lips, felt the warmth of his breath curling against her skin. She smiled, unafraid when she knew the soft, delicate core hidden behind his sharp smile.

“I love you so very much,” she said, practically the sing-song chirp of a songbird at dawn. “But I am not a brat.”

Astarion’s brow quirked, and his sharpness seemed to fade away. The candles fluttered, a phantom wind ghosting through the room, softening his features as the gold of the light washed over him once more. But soft as he looked now, even his eyes reminding her of summer-fresh cherries, his smile still remained.

“It’s a little too late to change your tune now, my dear.” He patted the hand pressed to his cheek as though he were consoling her.

“I’m not changing any tune!” Perhaps if she kept her voice sweet as sugar he would not attempt to retaliate. “I’m just saying that I love you.”

Another hum, his fingers curling loosely around her wrist. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“And you’re saying you’re not a brat.”

“I am.”

For a moment she thought she had succeeded, for a moment she was certain he would move on to whatever else was churning in his mind, whatever reason he’d dragged her into the bathroom.

But Astarion had two hands, and she was only paying attention to one. Another pinch to her side had her squealing, yanking her hand from his face and clutching it to her chest like a wounded animal.

He tsked, leaning close until she could nearly feel his smile against her own lips. “Yet you’ve been fighting me since the moment we got to this room.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve been fighting you…” She muttered, trailing off. He’d been teasing her mercilessly, and she figured she ought to put up at least a slight resistance.

Another click of his tongue, another pinch that had her backing away quickly. “Stop that!”

“What else am I supposed to do when you won’t do what I want?” He laughed, giving chase.

Too late Aspen realized she had nowhere to go as her back hit the rough wooden panels of the wall. “You don’t have to keep pinching me!”

She was trapped. His hands settled on her hips, fingers pressing into her skin. He sighed, watching her quietly for a moment, firelight flickering across his face. “But I do so love to see your flustered expressions when I do.”

“It’s mean.” Her retort came out smaller than she had intended, sounding childish.

It garnered nothing but soft laughter as Astarion dragged her closer to him, as he pressed his face against her throat, muffling the sounds.

“Maybe if you listened more, I wouldn’t have to be so mean.” He was still laughing, the reverberations of his voice running across her nerves, spiderwebbing across her skin in warm tingles that made her knees weaken.

The touch of his lips to her skin made her feel dizzy, senseless. She’d been trying to escape his teasing, but instead she’d only been ensnared further. She wished he was closer, wished he would discard his own sopping wet clothing, if only to feel the slow tempo of his heart, sluggishly pushing blood through his veins.

She tangled her fingers in his hair, swallowing a whine as he scraped his teeth above her fluttering pulse. “You could just not be mean ever.”

He sighed, nipping her once more before drawing back, meeting her eyes. “You’re not giving me a lot of credit, you know.”

Now it was her turn to quirk a brow. “Pardon?”

“I’m very nice. And sweet, and generous,” he preened, looking equal parts mischievous and earnest. “You’re just not giving me a reason to be nice.”

“Isn’t being your lover reason enough?” She pouted, giving him her best puppy-dog eyes.

His mouth opened, closed again. She was almost certain colour crept into his cheeks as he swallowed, looking entirely, for a moment, at a loss.

“Well yes of course, darling…” he finally said, words popping like joints loose from sockets. Gone was the charming, teasing tone as his rhythm was thrown off, his careful verbal dance reduced to the uncoordinated stumbling of a toddler.

“Of course being your lover is reason enough?” She finished the sentence for him, although that was certainly not how he would have finished it. But she had to take advantage, tongue-tied as he was. It wasn’t very often her silver-tongued lover tripped finding his words. “Reason to be nice? To not tease me so?”

She pressed her hands to his chest, slid them down until they found the clasps of his shirt. She plucked at them, not quite undoing them and freeing him from his clothes. She gave him the prettiest smile she could, leaned forward and pressed her cheek to his shoulder, looking sweet and innocent and docile. Someone he couldn’t not be kind to.

He scowled, sensing her ploy, but it was dull as a wooden sword; no real edge to cut her with. Already the lines of his annoyance were fading, softening like shadows beneath morning light. “You’re distracting me.”

She batted her lashes, peering up at him with wide, doe eyes. “Distracting you from what?”

He groaned, brow twitching, yet the corners of his lips quivered, like he was fighting a losing battle against his smile. “This is one of the reasons I’m not always nice.”

She pouted, tipping her head to the side. “You don’t like this? You don’t want me to be close to you?”

Astarion’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments, and then he snorted, caressing her cheek. “You know, I think you might be the villain, love.”

“Well, I did learn from the best.”

His eyes glittered with starlight, his chest puffing out from the compliment. “I am the best, aren’t I?”

“You are.” She agreed wholeheartedly, and not just because she was trying to tease him. She adored him, cherished every part of him. “You’re the best, most important person in my life.”

Astarion smirked, clearly catching onto her ruse. Yet he did not chide her for it, instead only tapping her nose affectionately. “You really must stop distracting me, my dear. I have a task to accomplish.”

“What sort of task could be more important than me?”

He ran his hands down her sides, cushioning his chin on the top of her head. “Warming you up, darling. You’re still cold as death.”

He was right, and pressing herself against his rain-drenched clothes was not helping that. But joking with him was a welcome distraction, keeping her mind away from the painful numbness that had overtaken her feet and her hands, from the prickling tingles of ice shards melting beneath her skin.

She supposed that would be quite important. She wasn’t exactly keen on staying cold.

“What did you have in mind?” She mumbled, some of her sugary veneer melting away. She’d been able to ignore the chill clinging to her as surely as a second skin, but now it was rushing back. The burn of her hands, the throb of her skin as if it would crawl from her body at any moment.

Astarion’s arms looped around her waist, holding her close. He was only marginally warmer than her, although how she wasn’t entirely sure. But it was a comfort all the same, whatever heat he harboured leaching into her bare skin.

“I was going to draw you a bath,” he murmured, a balm that eased some of her chills, a lullaby for cold nights.

“A bath?” Perhaps the storm and her fatigue had made her simple, slow.

“Yes.” He sounded amused, delight a bright flame to gathered kindling. “We’ve been trekking through the forest all night, and no offense, darling, but you’ve looked better.”

She glared at him, scrunching up her nose until a sharp flick to her side snapped the glower from her face.

“You’re still beautiful,” he continued, smoothing his hand over where he’d flicked her side. “You’re always beautiful to me, my love. But you do look like you’ve rolled in mud.”

He smirked, plucking something from her hair and tickling it against her nose. She snatched it from his hand, glaring at a leaf, floppy and damp from the deluge they had travelled through.

She flicked the leaf to the side, letting it careen to the floor. “Fine. Point taken.”

“And,” Astarion continued, taking her chin and tilting it up, so she had no choice but to meet his eyes. “It should chase away the last of that chill.”

Caught in his grasp as surely as a fly in spider’s silk, she could do nothing but nod. His hold was firm, his eyes bright as glee danced in them. She could not wrestle herself free, not that she particularly wanted to. He was the moon, and she was the ocean’s waves, ebbing and flowing at his whim. If he thought this was a good idea, then she was not about to argue.

A pleased smile curved across his lips like sunlight peeking from behind storm-clouds. He pressed a kiss to her brow, sighing. “Good girl. Now stay there.”

In an instant he was gone, returning only to press the paper-wrapped package Thistle had given them earlier into her hand.

It was a sandwich, the bread toasted and warm, crust crumbling in her fingers as she unwrapped it. It was made of nothing more than lettuce and cheese and tomatoes and crispy meat, a yet it smelled heavenly. Her stomach ached just looking at it.

“To give you a little more strength,” was his answer to her unasked question. When she hesitated to take a bite he lifted her hands to her mouth, his tone brooking no argument. “Eat. It will take me a few minutes here to get everything ready anyways.”

She did not have to be told twice, spilling crumbs as she took ravenous bites all while Astarion busied himself with filling the tub. She watched as steam rose from the water, as he moved around the room, sniffing at the little bottles lined up on a ledge behind the tub. He grimaced, vanishing from the bathroom, the sound of bottles clicking and clothes and books being tossed to the sound coming from deeper in the rooms.

Astarion returned as she was licking crumbs and sauce from her fingers, her hunger only marginally sated. Firelight flickered silver over the bottles in his hands, and she looked up to see their own personal stash of favoured soaps and oils in hand. He added a generous amount of oils and perfumes, and quickly the room was enveloped in a floral-scented fog. She could smell rose and lavender and violets, the faintest touch of vanilla and cinnamon.

She bounced on the balls of her feet, a scrap of her energy restored, shivering even as the temperature in the bathroom rose. Astarion had moved away from her, and without him close by she felt all too vulnerable, and the cold that still clung to the air managed to find her, burrowed itself into the hollows of her bones until they were covered in frost.

It was another while before Astarion was satisfied, as he sniffed at the air, dipped his hands into the water, added something new, and repeated the process all over again.

Centuries might have passed before he finally gave a pleased nod. He turned back to her, grinning widely, proud of himself already. He held out his hand, beckoning her over. “Come here, my love.”

The room was small, and she was beside him in a moment, her fingers threading between his. He drew her closer still, until her chest was pressed to his, until her chin was perched on his shoulder.

“Astarion?” He ran his hands down her sides, dancing over the tips of her thighs before sliding up once more. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, to her cheek, to her thrumming pulse. It was sweet and strange all at once, and she giggled as she said his name, again and again, as his kisses quickened, as his hands moved with a new fervor.

The ground fell out from under her suddenly, Astarion scooping her into his arms. A gasp fell from her lips, but the only sign that he noticed at all was the curve of his lips against her throat as he kissed her again.

He lowered her slowly into the tub, warm water swaddling her like a blanket. It burned at first, but it quickly turned to a soothing ache, and then nothing but a balm that eased the pain and cold from her bones.

“What was that for?” She asked, tipping her head back to follow him as he straightened, no longer showering her in affections.

Astarion only shrugged, nimble fingers making quick work of his shirt and his trousers. “I thought it might help to warm you up.”

She arched a brow. “Really? And it has nothing to do with you wanting to do any of that?”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “I was only acting out of the goodness of my heart, my darling. You’re so cold, and need to do everything I can to warm you up.”

“I hope that’s not the only thing you’re planning to do.” The heat from the water made her feel renewed, alive once more. And she did not want to sit in the tub alone, not when it was certainly large enough for both her and her beloved partner.

“You don’t need to fret, my love,” he crooned, discarding the last of his clothes. “I have plenty of ways I can warm you up.”

The surface of the bath rippled, gleaming pearlescence borne from the perfumes and oils that suffused the water and the air. Astarion settled behind her near soundlessly, and had it not been for the sturdiness of the legs that bracketed her sides and the gentle undulation of the water, she would have thought him a phantom. A silent spectre keeping watch.

His hands paused at her hips while he shifted, slowly inching across her belly until he had his arms wrapped fully around her, his chest flush with her back, sighing as though he was finally content.

“This is quite nice,” he mused, flicking iridescent water idly. “We should get a tub like this. I’ve grown so weary of bathing in little more than buckets.”

“And yet with all this space you’re still clinging to me,” she quipped, scooping water into her palms and watching as it slipped between her fingers. “You have all this space and you’re still stuck to my back.”

He chuckled, bringing his lips to the back of her neck. “You’re just going to have to get used to that, darling. I promised you I’d always be with you, didn’t I?”

She craned her neck around as far as she could go, just barely finding his eyes from the corners of hers. “And that means you’re always going to be practically stuck to me?”

He shrugged, smirking. “It’s hardly my fault you’re so captivating.”

Sighing, Astarion perched his chin on her shoulder, breathing his next words into her ear. “I could live a million lifetimes more, and I would still never have enough of you.”

Aspen shivered, all thoughts fleeing her mind, vanishing like deserters in battle.

Astarion did not give her a chance to concoct a proper response, or any response at all. He tapped his fingers against her skin, his arms loosening their hold. “But if you don’t want me to, I can always leave you to your own devices.”

He began to pull away, chest peeling from her back, leaving nothing but air and water and a sudden bone-deep ache that splintered her heart like cracked glass.

“I wouldn’t want to linger where I’m not wanted.” He didn’t sound particularly morose, although his face was pulled into an expression of mock misery.

Her hand snapped out before he could pull away entirely, her heart in her throat. “Wait, don’t go.”

She twisted further around, clutching at his arms. The thought of him leaving her, even if it was just to step into a different room, filled her with such abject sadness she would surely drown in the ocean of it. She was a pebble, weather-worn and smooth, caught in the force of his riptide. She did not want to be set free, lost to the waters of the sea. She wanted to dissolve entirely, wanted to flow along with his current.

Astarion’s brows shot up, but his eyes remained steady, not surprised in the least. “What’s wrong, my love?”

“I don’t want you to go,” she whined, heedless of the fact that she was almost certainly falling right into his trap.

“Is that so?” A dangerous glint came into his eyes, a sharp slice of his lips ticking up. “Are you sure? You made it seem like you didn’t want me very close at all.”

“I was only teasing.” She was already very nearly in his lap, and she wiggled closer still, much to his delight. She could tell from how his eyes lit up, how his smile grew wider, more smug. “I want you to stay.”

“Oh darling,” he ran the back of his knuckles over her cheek, caressing her gently. “You’re adorable. Even in hysterics you’re adorable.”

She sat up a little straighter, shoulders feeling a little looser. “So you’ll stay?”

He tipped his head to the side, his smirk infuriating. “Well I don’t know about that. You know you’ve hurt my feelings terribly, even if you were just teasing.”

Brows drawing together, Aspen frowned. She curled herself against his chest, looked up at him as sweetly as she could. She willed herself to be sugar, to be flavoured syrup in a sweetened drink. His fangs should ache, he should taste candy on his tongue.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, sliding her hands down his arms, twining her fingers with his. He seemed amused, letting her draw his hands to her chest, to her lips, letting her murmur her apologies against his knuckles. “I’m so so sorry, Astarion.”

His eyes narrowed, his smirk sharp enough to draw blood. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

He tugged one of his hands from her grip, taking hold of her chin. The pad of his thumb ran across her bottom lip as he hummed, a tuneless melody she couldn’t place.

“What can I do so you believe me?” She still held one of his hands, and he seemed content to let her scatter kisses on his palm, his other hand now sliding down the column of her neck.

His thumb paused over her throat, stroking little circles against her windpipe. “Say please.”

“Please, will you believe me?” She arched her neck, just a little, giving him her biggest doe eyes.

He hummed, adding more pressure as he continued to press circles into her throat. His smile said he wasn’t ready to let this go just yet. “And who are you talking to, my dear?”

“Please, Astarion?”

His grip tightened, almost imperceptibly, as he frowned. Evidently, he was displeased.

She chewed on the corner of her lip, remembering something he’d said earlier. “Please, my love?”

The arch of one of his brows and the quiver of the corners of his lips told her she was on the right track.

“Please, my sweet? My beloved, won’t you please believe me?” She would have pressed her cheek to his shoulder, would have kissed him gently, were it not for the hand at her throat. Instead, she settled for kissing his palm again, and he smiled, seeming satisfied.

“Alright, alright.” He drew both hands away, settling them on her shoulders and gently pulling her away. “I’ve had my fun, but I really did have a plan here.”

“Was it to tease me?” She tried pinching his hands, but he batted her away with a snort. “Because if so, mission accomplished.”

He rolled his eyes. “Darling, I never plan to tease you. You make it so easy, I can do it whenever I want.”

“Hey!”

His smile was far too innocent to be believed. “Now let me clean you up before you pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass out.” She felt strangely peevish, bristling at the suggestion she had a poor constitution. “I ate that sandwich and everything.”

His brows drew together, his tone strangely soothing, like he was trying to placate a child on the verge of a tantrum. “Darling, have you taken a look at yourself lately?”

“You know I haven’t.”

His lips twitched. “You’ve looked like you’re going to collapse for ages now. You’re paler than me.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “Well I haven’t seen the sun in what feels like years now with this storm.”

Another twitch of his lips that he had to fight to get under control. It was clear he was trying to appear serious, and he was having a very difficult time with it. “Love, I had to carry you to the bathroom. I nearly had to carry you up the stairs.”

“I could have walked by myself,” she grumbled. At his arched brow she raised her shoulders, wrinkling her nose. “You were the one who decided you wanted to carry me.”

The way his brow creased and his eyes narrowed told her how much he believed that.

“Darling.” He sounded hesitant, tired. “My love, I really was worried. I thought you were going to pass out.”

Aspen stilled, whatever fight had been in her fizzling away like cheap sparklers bought at a market stall. Brilliant and bright and gone in an instant, leaving her devoid of even enough energy to lift her arms.

She slumped against him, sighing morosely. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my love.”

“It’s alright now,” he murmured, water trickling down her face as he stroked her hair. “You haven’t passed out yet, and even if you do, I’m here, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She closed her eyes, the feel of his fingers in her hair as good as a lullaby. “Thank goodness I don’t have to worry about drowning in this bath.”

He snorted, tugging gently at her hair as his fingers were caught in snarls and knots left there by the raging wind. “Thank goodness I’m here to have drawn this bath, so that you can get cleaned up.”

“That too.”

“Alright.” He chuckled, patting her side lightly. “Open your eyes for me, pet. I do want to clean you up before the water goes cold.”

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut tighter.

“As adorable as you are pretending to sleep,” he crooned, a finger dragging over her cheek. “I am not above using less savoury methods of rousing you. Tired or no.”

She cracked an eye open, contemplating whether she wanted to learn exactly what unsavoury methods he had in mind.

But then she flicked her eyes up to find his, and although there was always that spark of mischief in his eyes, as surely as the stars were always glittering beyond the gold sheen of the sun, there was a tender warmth as well. The warmth of a crackling fire stoked in the midst of a winter storm, the warmth of a favoured blanket shared between two bodies, the warmth of a warm drink cradled in her palms.

She did not wish to invoke a response that would take that softness and bring it to a whetstone, filing it away until only diamond-sharpness remained. She craved his gentle moments, his kindhearted touch. Her hunger for his affection was ravenous, an empty pit in her chest that only felt sated when he looked at her like this, when he brushed his fingers over her cheeks, when he so idly toyed with her hair as she drifted off to sleep.

So Aspen sat up as best she could, letting him direct her until he was satisfied with how she sat. He asked her which of their soaps she wanted to use, humming as she picked her favourite botanical scents, running his fingers down her spine and bringing his lips to the nape of her neck to murmur praises when he liked certain smells best.

The heat of the water began to work its way between her frozen, knotted muscles as surely as Astarion’s fingers worked through the knots in her hair. He instructed her to lean back, to let him scoop the scented water into his palms and pour it over her scalp until her hair was soaked through, clinging to her cheeks and the back of her neck as she sat up again.

She felt loose, felt like she might melt into nothing, as though her bones had simply vanished, and she needed Astarion to ease her back into a sitting position, the warm tenor of his laughter making her dizzy.

“Stay with me, darling,” he murmured, lithe fingers gathering her hair from her cheeks and brushing it back. “I need you to stay awake.”

“I’m awake,” she muttered, although it was only partially true. She felt half unconscious already, gripped by the fatigue she’d been pretending not to feel for most of the night. It was an anchor tied to her feet, dragging her beneath the rolling waves of oblivion, and there was absolutely nothing in the candle-lit bathroom that was helping her to remain awake.

For all his teasing, Astarion’s gentle ministrations were making her sleepy, would have made her sleepy even if they had not traipsed overnight in a violent storm. He had unearthed a comb from one of their packs, and he worked it through the knots in her hair, applying a sweet-smelling conditioner as he went, softly cursing the winds and the gods for letting her hair get mangled so terribly.

Such gentleness felt almost foreign to her; as a child her mother had yanked brushes through her hair when it was knotted before tying it back in braids so tight it brought tears to her eyes. As she grew older she had not shown herself any kindness either, grabbing fistfuls of her hair away from her scalp so it did not hurt quite so terribly as she pulled her brush through her knots.

And when she’d grown old enough to control how long her hair could be, she’d had it cut short, grazing just below her chin, to make it all the easier to manage. She had thought it cute, and it meant she did not have to enact violence against her hair every morning when she prepared to greet the day.

But travelling as she did now, adventuring through parts of the world she had never once thought she would visit, her hair had grown longer, and the wispy strands were prone to tangles and knots that frustrated her to no end.

Yet Astarion’s touch remained gentle, almost reverent, as he worked through the snarls in her hair, combing them away until he could run his fingers through it with ease.

It made her eyes burn, and she quickly blinked away the tears, hoping he did not notice the few that managed to slide down her cheeks, drip into the bath. To be so cherished, to be seen as someone so precious that he would take his time with something so mundane. She did not have the words, did not know anything but the ache in her chest as her heart pressed against the cage of her ribs, yearning for him, to wrap her arms around him and hold him close until she had memorized every flutter of breath, every line and wrinkle, every flex of a muscle.

When he was satisfied with her hair he brought his lips to the spot just behind her ear, his kiss reverent as that of a worshipper, devoted to their god.

“How do you feel?” He murmured the words against her skin, vibrations sending tingles over her shoulders, down her arms. His hands slid down her back, his thumbs pressing down on either side of her spine until he reached her waist and they slipped to the side, resting at the flare of her hips.

Aspen hummed, her mind a cloud of steam that smelled like spring, lost to the feeling of the pads of his fingers running down her back, of his breath curling against her ear.

His chuckle sent a shower of light fizzing in her chest, like embers thrown to the night’s sky, like the golden bubbles of champagne as they danced their secret ballet in crystal glasses.

“Are you at least still awake, darling?” His voice was practically a purr, a soft susurrus to her ear as his hands moved up her back once more.

His thumbs pressed small circles into either side of her spine at the nape of her neck, his fingers splaying around the sides of her throat. The pads of his fingers pressed into her skin as he applied gentle pressure, delicately massaging as he brushed his lips against her ear.

“Maybe.” Her answer was a sigh as her eyelids drooped. It would be so easy to fall asleep, to lose herself in his arms and the heat leaching into her skin.

“Hmmm.” She smiled as the reverberations of his voice echoed through her, a pleasant buzz resounding in her bones.

He brought his lips to the nape of her neck, the prick of his teeth making her gasp, eyes fluttering open wider.

He continued to hum, trailing kisses down her spine as he slid his hands over her shoulders, continuing to massage away the ice that had frozen her muscles. “There we go. Can’t have you falling asleep just yet, darling.”

The sound she made was dangerously close to a whimper, but Astarion did nothing but smile against her skin as kissed her lazily. “And why not?”

“I’m not done bathing you, for starters,” he did not pull away to respond, instead murmuring the words into her skin. She did not hear his answer so much as feel it in the movement of his lips, in the dips of his tone as his voice gave form to his words. “And you still have to eat more after this. That sandwich was hardly enough.”

The empty pangs in her belly could be entirely ignored, if she were honest. She would most certainly regret it when she awoke, but right now all she wanted to do was fade away, to let herself be swathed in her dreams.

“That can wait,” she whined, not caring how petulant she sounded. “Astarion, I’m so tired.”

His answer was an acquiescence, yet it was not permission, either. “I know,” he said, acknowledging that she was tired, that she was exhausted. “I know you are, my dear.” But he would not allow her to fall asleep, not until he was done.

After her hair came the rest of her body, and Astarion was as thorough as he had been with her hair.

Her back was first, and he alternated between tracking kisses over her and massaging her favourite soaps into her skin. He would rinse away suds only to cover her in sweetened kisses, sharp teeth pricking her flushed skin to keep her from succumbing to the temptation of oblivion that danced at the corners of her mind.

He dug his fingers into her muscles, dull pain radiating out from knots she hadn’t known she’d had, from ice that had frozen her muscles until they’d turned rigid and brittle. Her body needed warmth and movement to be coaxed back into them, but it still hurt, as though she was being slowly returned to life.

She hissed each time his clever fingers found a new ache, and he worked languorously, adoringly, smoothing his hands over the places that hurt most, gentle kisses decorating her skin as he slid his hands away. She felt like she was stone, and he was a sculptor, fashioning a masterpiece from the unyielding cold of her muscles and bones.

By the time he was satisfied with his work, hands fluttering over her sides as he gently crooned in her ear about how good she was being, finally, she felt like she had been unspooled. Perhaps she had been something whole once, but the delicate framework of her stitching had been undone beneath his hands. She had been pulled apart at the very seams, and now she waited to be knit together again, to be whole once more.

“I feel so sleepy, like I’m going to fall apart.” Her muttered whinging was met with laughter, and Astarion took great pains to gently take her chin, twisting her around to capture her lips.

“Finally, some honesty,” he groaned against her lips, smirking. “I knew you were tired.”

Aspen pried herself away from him, and although she did her best to glower at him, her body fought against her, and she ended up sinking into his arms as he watched her with amusement.

“So what if I’m tired?” She grumbled, focusing intently on the shadows flitting across the ceiling.

“I’m just delighted you’re opening up to me,” he said, voice lilting through a teasing melody. “That you feel comfortable being so honest with me, darling. That’s very important for any relationship.”

She rolled her eyes, halfheartedly splashing him. “I am honest with you.”

A click of his tongue told her how much he bought that story. “And that’s why you kept denying you were cold and tired? For hours? That’s why you kept pretending? Even now?”

“Well I-”

“And what about the time when you pretended you weren’t sick and then collapsed.” He splashed her back, floral water catching in her hair and her lashes. “Or the time when you waited hours to tell me you sprained your ankle.”

“I do tell you…” She trailed off, chewing on the corner of her lip. She felt reticent, certain that responding would only dig her grave further. “Just not always right away.”

“Mmm.” His touch was delicate as he brushed the water from her cheeks. “Well I want you to tell me right away.”

“But I don’t want to be a burden, and I don’t want to annoy you.”

A frown bloomed then, as hurricanes did over the ocean. She felt like a wildflower, wilting beneath the summer-sun strength of his withering glare. Such a look could surely shrivel ancient trees, could turn fields of lush grass and glades of bushes and flowers and shrubs to little more than ash.

“Say you’re a burden one more time,” he breathed, his smirk cold as the barren winter. “I dare you.”

Aspen shuddered, icy wind curling down her spine like ivy. The bath was still so hot her skin was flushed, but she felt a cold deep in her bones all the same.

“You don’t really make it sound enticing,” she managed, her voice a squeak as Astarion’s brows arched high. “I don’t think I want to know what the consequence will be.”

Like brutal summer heat giving way beneath the cool evening breeze, Astarion softened. His smile was no longer knife-sharp, his eyes no longer shards of ruby glass.

“A smart choice,” was his answer, cradling her face in his palms. “I would rather you tell me every thought in your mind, no matter how annoying, than say such a thing again.”

Her mouth twitched. “Are you saying I can be annoying?”

“That is not what I’m saying, you-” He pinched her cheek, rolling his eyes. “You cheeky little thing. You know that is not what I’m saying.”

“Well you’ve teased me so much,” she admitted. “I just wanted to return the favour.”

A groan. “Perhaps not when I’m trying to be terribly sweet and earnest, though?”

“You’re right,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “That was mean of me. I’m sorry, love.”

He hummed, sounding unconvinced. Their noses bumped together as he drew his face closer to hers, whispering furtively as though he were prying into a secret. “Are you sure you’re sorry?”

Aspen giggled despite herself, everything but the deep crimson of Astarion’s eyes and flickers of silver from where his curls fell into the corners of her vision.

“You don’t sound particularly sorry, darling,” he mused, laughter lacing his dulcet tones.

“I am a little,” she giggled again as she spoke, belying her words. Yet Astarion did not seem to mind, as he laughed too, soft and warm as a caress, his breath ghosting against her lips, reminding her of his kisses.

“Alright, I am choosing to believe you this time,” he teased, rolling his eyes as he pulled away. “Although you have given me no reason to trust you today.”

“I did say I was tired, didn’t I?”

He flicked water into her face, snorting as she shrieked. “You’re lucky I find you so exceedingly adorable. Now if you’re quite done, I’d like to finish up here before the water gets cold.”

“As you wish, my love.”

That earned her another splash of water in her face, although she could not figure out why. Perhaps it had something to do with her dry tone, or the smirk on her face.

She wiped away the water, and although it did little to wash away her smirk, it did soften as Astarion once more took up the little bottle of soap. He grumbled under his breath about his little liar, gently taking her arm and beginning the process all over again.

He worked slowly, diligently, digging his thumbs into her frozen skin, her blood warming like water spilling from a hot spring. Yet he did not move quite as languidly, sensing the shift in the water’s temperature already, wanting to finish up before the bath turned chilly.

Not that Aspen noticed it right away, half-asleep as he poured water over her arms, as he skillfully cleaned away the dirt and rainwater clinging to her body. Flickers of heat like stars blooming in the night sky spread through her as he pressed his lips to her skin, leaving chaste kisses that left behind tingles as he drew away.

It was all so gentle and affectionate it felt like a dream. The water began to cool enough that she noticed, but it did little to rouse her. She grew sleepier by the moment, and it would have been so easy to curl up and float away. Her eyelids were leaden, and the velvet darkness beneath them was welcome, swathing her mind in its soothing warmth as Astarion poured all his affection into each touch of his hand and his lips.

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