#perhaps not my best work but jesus.

[kongatom]

[ch-4-eri]

Slut — Abby Anderson.

Best friend!Abby X fem!Reader.

I need help, perhaps. Smut under the cut.

You and your best friend Abby were having a girls night of some sort, she often came by because her dorm is packed and she’d say it’s uncomfortable or whatever.

Accepting any excuse she had you’d allow her to stay over, sharing the bed with her almost every night.

You liked having her around, she was fun and your friendship was the most invasive one there is, at least in your own opinion, you both knew too much about each other.

But would never judge the other.

Especially with Abby being on top of you as you got so needy one night, her fingers pumping in and out of you, your moans echoing in the bedroom, you’d begged her to relieve the tension between your legs.

It’s always when you’re ovulating, it gets bad enough you’re humping every pillow, your fingers, but nothing was ever enough.

And as Abby came over that night, desperate for a place to sleep where it’s comfortable, you were too busy in your own head to just let this one go, her hands were perfect, you couldn’t stop looking at them as you were finally honest about your feelings, desperately wanting something to feed the hunger inside of you.

Abby fucking loved it, she’s always thought you were beautiful, sure she’s straight but it wouldn’t hurt to help a best friend out.

Her fingers deliciously massaged your g spot as you were seeing stars, your mouth hung open as moans escaped your throat without you trying to help it, it’s Abby after all. “Oh sweetheart..” Abby chuckled, allowing you to ride her fingers out, circling your needy hole with her thick fingers, your legs spread against your mattress.

Abby dragged multiple orgasms out of you that night, she refused to stop unless you wanted her to, she went all the way with your time of need, knowing you were too damn shy to go out on a date and get a guy to rearrange your guts, but allowing your girl best friend to do so.

You didn’t get enough, you still wanted so much more and Abby could never be able to say no to you, her mouth was enveloping your cunt as she ate you out, riding her face as her nose hit that one spot that had you screaming and cumming down on her tongue.

Still was not enough, Abby was surprised you could take so much. She always assumed you’d get tired from one go, but oh boy was she wrong.

You’d ride her thigh, her hands on your hips guiding you through the fifth orgasm for the night, your crying and whining was like music to her ears, surely best friends wouldn’t act this way but your friendship was else. And Abby is way too busy shoving her knee into your cunt as you rode her out once again to think about it, your moans were louder than ever.

“Jesus, bunny.. you fucking slut.” Abby mocked you, laughing into your neck breathlessly as your hips rolled once again to fuck into her thigh.

She grabbed the back of your neck to look into your eyes. “Can’t get enough huh? Makes me wish I had a dick so I can go all the way.” She mumbled, kissing the side of your neck as it turned you into a puddle of cum. “Abby..” you moaned, your cunt dragging up and down her toned thigh.

“Sit on my face huh?” Abby suggested, the thought of her tongue inside of you again was blinding and you nodded eagerly. “Yes please, oh god please.” You whined, your whimpers were turning her on so bad, she came twice just by pleasuring you.

Abby lied down on your bed, quickly crawling to sit on her face, the feeling of her nose was too good, you were a shuddering mess, finally feeling that sensitivity that would get you to stop and take a breath, but one last time, you needed this, needed her.

Her tongue was working wonders on your sensitive bundle of nerves, making your moans more strained, closing your thighs in on her head. “Fuck.. Abby..” you cried, rolling your hips to ride her face. “Fuck uh..” you moaned again as Abby flicked her tongue against your clit and it made you grab her hair and ride her face harder. Soft uh uh uh uh’s echoing in the bedroom.

Gushing all you had down Abby’s face, your cum dripping down her cheeks and her nose, as soon as you pulled away from her face Abby just laughed, mostly surprised her best friend was that much of a freak.

She knew certain stuff about you, but never like this, and getting proof? Abby was ecstatic, she’s never going to live this one down.

You finally caught your breath and looked at her next to you, she was wiping her face with her hands, licking what’s left off her lips. “Stop laughing.” You warned, closing your legs as the amount of friction was catching up in no time.

“My goodness you’re a freak!” Abby laughed some more, copying the way you were moaning as you smacked her arm. “Stop!”

“Who fucking knew! Bunny, I never imagined you’re that loud.” Abby laughed some more, standing up, fixing her trousers, she was definitely affected by this but oh how she loves teasing you, now she has a better reason.

You sat up on your elbow and huffed. “I was pent up okay?” You said defensively. “For a year?” Abby jokes, letting out another hearty laugh.

“Oh fuck you.” You say and smack her with a pillow, her face a little shiny from your cum, the reality of what just happened was making you a bit shy but again it was Abby, so much history and stuff worse than cumming on her face occurring.

She helped you clean up as you both laughed at what just happened, your friendship is indeed else.

[s0dium]

I wanna ride

Geto x F!Reader

A/n: This is part of my 'Sex' event and collab with other writers!! Please check out the other amazing works here

Synopsis: You think that the best part of your day is getting to ride Geto Suguru

Warnings: Riding, manhandling, cream pie, dirty talk

~

Here, in this moment, you understood what beauty meant. It was underneath you, in the form of a black long haired man. Geto's head was thrown back against the back of the sofa. His mouth was slightly open, pink tongue occasionally darting across his lips to wet them, black hair sticking to the sides of his sweaty face. Silent groans fall from his lips mixed in with gasps of air. The sight of him made your walls clench around his dick, inadvertently sending more bolts of searing of pleasure through your body. You feel a big hand on your hips, guiding them to grind and languidly bounce on Geto's dick.

"Hah~ your amazing baby, we always have so much fun together~"

Geto groans, hazel eyes peeking out from his black eyelashes to watch as your tits move. Perhaps it was just the position, the way your straddled on his lap, but his dick seemed to hit every inch of the deepest part of you. You could feel it digging against your g-spot making your walls spasm sporadically. "Hey baby, look at me." Your are almost too lost in the pleasure to render Geto's words or notice the devious smile on face. Before you can utter a word, he pushes your face into his, soft lips encapsulating yours. His kiss is greedy, his tongue intertwining with yours. When your mouths part, a string of saliva connects your two lips. Without warning and in a great display of strength, Geto lifts you up from his cock so his tip barely leaves your dripping entrance, and slams you down. The sudden pressure on your cervix makes you choke on air. The way he filled every inch of your cunt made the pit in your lower stomach tighten and pulse, shocks of warm mind-numbing pleasure dance on your skin.

You cant even get a word in because he's already using your cunt like a fleshlight; lifting you up and down with such incredible vigor that your legs start to shake. The pleasure was overwhelming and all you could do is bite down and bury your hands in his long black hair to keep yourself grounded.

“Nghhh so good!!!,” you keep crying out, words slurring from the pleasure of it all. It was as if you were made for each other, your cunt sucking him in with each push and shove that hit at just the right spots.

“Yeah, you feel good baby?,” Geto hums, his thumbs rubbing circles into your hips. You start to keep up with his rythm, alternating between bouncing up and down and grinding on him. He angles his hips just right, driving more firmly against that perfect spot each time you rode his cock.

A mixture of pre cum and your juices accumulates at the base of his dick and every vein on his cock dragged against your velvety walls, catching on your entrance as you pulled back before falling back on to him.

“C’mon, cum baby,” he purrs, biting at your ear. “I know you just feel so good right now."

The words have you tightening around Geto's length, as you continued to lift your self faster up and down his dick. The soft groans he gives, the whines give too, mix and mingle in the sex-steamed air. Your head started to feel fuzzy and your skin jumped with sensitivity.

“fuck, it’s so deep suguru... gonna cummmm” You whine as you wrapped your arms around his neck, and he leaned down to suck on the skin of your neck; licking and nipping at the bruised skin.

“let it go baby...” he growled, watching your hips rock against him.

Feverishly, your pussy tightens around his cock, your mouth opens but no sounds come out of it. Your orgasm runs though your body like a lighting, igniting every single nerve just to come crashing into you in a wave of relief.

"Hah~ yeah that feels good, almost there with ya baby." Geto groans, taking ahold on your hips and moving your overstimulated body up and down.

“Jesus....y/n,” he breathed out, a shiver crawling up his back at the vice grip your walls had around his cock. “shit…” his hips start to stutter and he harshly pulls you down, burying himself deep into your creamy pussy, relishing in the warm feeling, before pumping a heavy load of warm cum into your tummy.

[milktiicup]

need more of ur scarletella dear lord…. i love how u write mc too <3 could i perhaps request some fluff w our dear mr scarletella? maybe him teaching u words and like. making u say ‘me like you’ or smth HAHAH i feel like he would

probably not the best teacher...!

He places his hand over his heart and says, “Me like you.” You blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Wait, hold on- are you just sneaking in compliments now?”

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🌊 ⋅ ˚✮ probably not my best work ;;w;; sorry about that

warnings. nooooone at all!

You furrow your brows, and point to the chair. “Table,” you grumble. Mr. Scarletella stares, and stares, and stares. Your mouth tugs into a frown. “Chair…?”

He smiles. You breathe a sigh through your nose. This language learning business was hard… considering it wasn’t even a human language, you’d think you’re doing at least a little okay. 

Probably a little below average, realistically. 

Mr. Scarletella tilts his head, his dull eyes hinting at the amusement he feels. You scowl. He steps closer, umbrella hanging loosely in one hand, the other gesturing toward the chair. “Chair,” he repeats slowly, his voice deep and deliberate, as if coaxing a child.

You sigh, crossing your arms. “That’s what I said! Chair.”

“Not ‘table.’”

Your frown deepens, and you can feel the embarrassment heat up your neck. “I know, I know! It’s just- you could cut me some slack, you know. Your language isn’t exactly easy.”

Mr. Scarletella crouches slightly, bringing himself eye level with you, his expression softening as his gaze lingers into yours. It took all of your will to not look away. What an intense gaze. Jesus… “You try,” he says simply, the words low and soothing. “Good.”

Your frustration melts, and your shoulders untense. You exhale through your nose- what were you even so worked up for? Mr. Scarletella is the most patient person- monster?- you know at the moment, but he isn’t exactly the best teacher… Mr. Silvair was probably better, and yet, Mr. Scarletella insisted he teach you instead.

And by insisted, he just appeared before any time you were walking into Mr. Silvair’s room and whisked you away. Maybe teleported is a better word.

“Let’s try again,” you decide. You point. “Chair. Table. Wall. Ceiling. Floor… Uhm… lamp? Light…” You frown, but Mr. Scarletella doesn’t interrupt you. You suppose they mean the same thing. You’re not too fussed about that. 

Your teacher points to himself. “Me,” he says. He points again. “You.”

You huff. “Me. You. I know that already… Do you think I’m that stupid, huh?”  

He hums thoughtfully, a sound that resonates in his chest more than his throat. Mr. Scarletella stands to his full height, looking down upon you with those dull eyes, then with a deliberate slowness, he points to his chest once more. “Me.”

“Yes, I know, ‘me,’” you repeat, mimicking his motion half-heartedly.

He moves his hand, hovering just shy of your chest. “You.”

“Yeah, I get it- ‘you.’ This is basic stuff.” You cross your arms. “What’s the point of this?”

He places his hand over his heart and says, “Me like you.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Wait, hold on- are you just sneaking in compliments now?” Mr. Scarletella is silent, and points to you again, as if silently saying ‘Your turn.’ You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “This feels so weird,” you mumble. You mirror him, pointing to your chest awkwardly. “Me…”

He nods approvingly, his umbrella twitching slightly almost as if he can’t possibly wait for those words to come out of your mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek. “…like you,” you finish, the words feeling clunky on your tongue.

Mr. Scarletella’s smiles, his features softening in a way you rarely see. It isn’t one of those creepy smiles that you’re used to seeing- it’s a small smile, a soft one. It’s subtle but unmistakable- an expression of quiet pride. He leans forward slightly, his umbrella tilting to rest against your shoulder and covering you, as if he was caging you in, as if he wouldn’t possibly let you away from this moment. His unblinking gaze meets yours once again.

“Good,” he says, voice as steady and low as ever, but there’s an unspoken warmth in it. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t break the intensity of his focus. If you weren’t in some different world right now, this would totally be the type of moment where people would kiss.

You swallow. Your heart is thudding almost uncomfortably in your chest. “We’re supposed to be practising your language,” you grumble. 

“Practice good,” he counters.

You roll your eyes, though it’s mostly to distract yourself from the way your stomach twists at his words. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

His umbrella is back over his head again. He steps closer again, waaaay to close in your personal space- but you don’t think you’re complaining about that, not right now, anyway… Mr. Scarletella’s hand hovers near your cheek, but never quite touching. You can feel how cold his skin is, even without the skin-to-skin contact. “Again,” he says.

“Again?” you reply, feigning cluelessness. The way his lips tug up at the corner makes it clear he knows you’re just stalling.

“Me,” he begins, his hand briefly pressing to his chest before extending toward you, “like you.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re relentless.”

“Say,” he insists softly, his voice coaxing.

Your breath catches. It’s hard to say no when he looks at you like that- calm and unwavering, with just enough patience to make you feel like maybe this whole thing isn’t as ridiculous as it seems. You sigh, your resolve crumbling. “Me… like you,” you mutter again, the words barely above a whisper.

Mr. Scarletella’s reaction is immediate. His dark eyes light up in a way that’s barely perceptible but undeniably there. He steps even closer, his hand finally brushing against your cheek, the coolness of his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

“Good,” he says simply, the word carrying more weight than it should.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your ears. “Okay, so we’ve established that I like you and you like me. Can we move on now?”

His thumb grazes your cheek, the faintest of movements. “Not move,” he replies. “Stay.”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-annoyed, half-flustered. “Stay where?”

“Here. With me.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, turning away to hide your face. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mr. Scarletella hums a noise in agreement, completely unbothered. Before you can respond, he takes your hand gently, his grip firm, and tugs you toward him. You stumble slightly, but he steadies you with an ease that makes your heart skip.

“Again,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a tone so soft it feels almost intimate. “Want again.”

You look up at him, and the sincerity in his gaze makes it impossible to argue. With a resigned sigh, you let your hand rest against your chest and repeat, “Me… like you.”

“Good,” he says again, pulling you just a little closer. “Now… stay.”

[lovelaetter]

i need your thoughts on chaewon with a biker!gf PLEASE

i imagine the gf being a lot taller with big veiny hands perhaps g!p if you don't think that's too much...

as a chaewon size kink enjoyer, all i can say is: big YES. this girl, she gets so giggly around you, since always, all she can do is “oh i’m so small and tiny and defenseless i wish i had a strong tall big gf to protect me ooh” kinda pick me? yes but it’s not her fault you need to understand she is thinking with her pussy, okay? and it worked because look, you’re dating !!

very proud of you with the whole biker thing. she doesn’t know much about the mechanics but she learns a lot with you, listens carefully to everything you say, loves to see you so excited about it. i will have to go for the cliche leather jacket biker here just to say she steals yours a lot to the point you just bought her one and she keeps stealing yours because “it’s comfier”, also, because of that and because of how easy it is to find her around town carrying her helmet under her arm or just hanging around your bike at the parking lot people often think it’s hers and jesus christ you don’t wanna be one of the poor unfortunate souls that ask her something about it because she will open this smile and start “actually, i’m glad you asked, my girlfriend-” like her annoying ass can’t stop yapping about you… unless it’s a weird man then she will sense that from far away and just pick her phone and text you “babe, are gonna be mad if i get some blood on the helmet? there’s this guy…” but its not like she will need to do it because she got the strong big tall gf she wanted so she can play the defenseless princess all the time around you.

overall, big turn on for her, she’s all for the aesthetic too, loves to sneak a few pics of you and you both together all the time on her insta, her mind 100% like “hehe the tiktok girlies will love this one”, she’s so silly. not to mention how she loves to go on late night rides on a highway with you where she can do nothing but wrap her arms around you and rest her face on your back, feeling the wind hit her body, she will never say no to this, in fact will beg to go with you. and you make a stop at this spot that is so beautiful during nighttime, just you two, hugging her from behind, talking nonsense, laughing… everything is romantic, babe. but let’s not pretend she isn’t the one to ruin said moments by asking suddenly to go home, looking up and blinking her adorable eyes at you just because she got too horny to handle it, like yeah, who would thought the bike’s vibrations would go straight to her pussy haha who would imagine that don’t even accuse her of such thing. horny gremlin chaewon.

now let me me talk about size a bit because i want to and i can this is my blog. she loves how you tower over her easily, no she’s not making fuck me eyes, she simply has to look up at you like that! still on the late night rides things, loves when you are just as horny as her and can’t even wait to get inside her apartment, will press your body against hers right there at the garage of her building, shushing her cries with kisses as your fingers find their way inside her with no care if someone walks in or about the cameras, it’s okay, it’s dark and no one can see her there, you cover her up just fine and all she has to do is be quiet.

obsessed with your hands, she totally compares hands sizes, all the time, it makes her knees weak how easy it is for you wrap her waist with them and do so many things with her body, throw her around and in the way you like best, bounce her up and down your cock, she doesn’t have to do a thing but be there like a toy and it’s so good, everything she ever wanted.

[cuubism]

i went to physical therapy for my stupid broken arm so as is my legal obligation i HAD to make ship content about it. everything is ship content that's how it is

cw injury, referenced abusive relationships

--

Hob's had plenty of clients come to physical therapy who clearly don't want to be there. Plenty of others who are reasonably frustrated by the work and time involved in regaining functioning after an injury. But this is the first time he's just had someone be... quiet. Resigned.

Dream sits with his hand cradled to his chest, barely speaking, only answering when Hob asks a direct question. He's reluctant to give Hob his hand when Hob asks if he can look at it, like he thinks Hob's grip is a bear trap that will snap down and crush the bones like whatever had done so the first time. Hob still doesn't know what that was. All he knows is the bones have been realigned and healed over but the dexterity in his hand still isn't right. That was what Dream had said, in the first spark of passion Hob had heard from him. It's not right.

But he does eventually give his hand over. His bones are so fine and delicate, and each movement hesitant. Cautious. Hob tests the flexibility. The strength. Dream is right, it's not where it should be. He still doesn't know what happened.

"I won't make you tell me if you really don't want to," Hob says gently. "But it is important to know how it happened to make sure we rehab it the right way. Did you get it caught in something? I've seen guys come in with machine injuries like that."

Nothing about Dream suggests "person who works with heavy machinery." But who knows. Hob will try not to stereotype.

"No," Dream says quietly, looking down and away from his hand like he can't bear to see it. "I. I am an artist. My ex... he felt that I cared more about my art than about him. Perhaps I did. And he was... frustrated. I suppose."

Hob can put the rest of the pieces together in his mind. "Jesus," he breathes, and Dream flinches.

"I have an unfortunate ability to involve myself with such people," he says.

"No, it's not your fault," Hob says automatically.

Dream narrows his eyes. "You presume to know that?"

Hob raises his hands in surrender. "Never mind. I won't pry." He's not Dream's therapist. His job is to help him with his hand, not... whatever else is going on in his life.

He takes Dream's hand carefully between both of his own again. Presses down lightly on his knuckles. "So. Crushed. Like that?"

Dream nods. Hob still doesn't know all the details, but he's imagining a boot going down hard on the top of Dream's hand. The thought is sickening.

"Can you fix it?" Dream asks, like he doesn't dare to hope.

"Well, you already had it repaired surgically, yeah?" Hob says. This strikes him as a bit of good luck--hand fractures are not simple--but he doesn't want to undercut Dream's confidence even further by saying so. He's usually pretty good at reading his clients, and he's already sensing that Dream is holding onto his determination to be here at all by the barest thread. Best to build him up as much as possible. "So it's just a matter of strengthening the muscles again."

He's fairly confident he can get him back to a usual level of functioning with it. The question is whether he can return him to the specific level of dexterity he needs for his art. He doesn't say that. Not yet.

Finally, he gets the tiniest of smiles out of Dream. He's really lovely when he smiles.

(He's pretty when he doesn't smile, too. Hob would have to be blind not to notice it.)

"So," Hob says. "Let's look at the current range of motion, yeah?"

Dream tilts his head. "Did you not already do so?"

"For regular motion, yeah. But I want to see where it's impacting your drawing."

Dream draws his hand back, looking uncertain.

"Come on." Hob hands him a pen and paper. "Show me. I promise I know nothing about art. If it's not up to your usual standards, I'm not going to be able to tell."

Finally, Dream takes the pen, and starts sketching.

Hob watches, noting the way his hand trembles, his uneven grip on the pen. Notes how quickly he gets demoralized when it doesn't turn out the way he wants. Hob can make out what he's written and drawn, but it's clear from Dream's expression that it's far from how it's supposed to be.

"This is just a starting point," Hob reminds him. He has a feeling he's going to be doing a lot of those sorts of reminders with Dream; he does not seem to find optimism easy.

Then again, if someone who supposedly loved him had hurt him like that, Hob would probably find optimism a bit difficult, too.

Finally, Dream drops the pen, clearly frustrated. "I have tried to paint at home, too. It has not turned out any better. You should throw those away." He gestures to the sketches. "They are terrible."

"Nah, I'm gonna keep them," Hob says, and puts them in his folder. "For comparison later." It could also partially be because he finds Dream's drawings of cats, imperfect as they are, charming. Sue him.

"As you insist," Dream says.

Hob gives him documentation on some other exercises he can do at home. Tries to think through what might make him feel better with his art. It feels, somehow, so important to make him feel better.

"At home, go easy on trying to use a pen, or paintbrush or whatever, it's hard on your hand," he finally says. "But you probably want to get back to your art, so-- okay, don't make fun of me if this is stupid."

Dream just raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Maybe Hob should try to learn more about art before he gives advice. Nevertheless, he forges on. "Holding a pen is tough, but if you wanted to like, finger paint or something? That would probably be fine. Might be good for flexibility, even."

"Finger paint," Dream repeats, enunciating each word.

"I told you not to make fun of me if it was stupid."

Dream smiles, just a small thing, like he finds Hob ridiculous but in a charming way. Good enough, Hob figures.

"Very well," Dream says at last. "I will take your advice."

Dream simply walking out had felt like a distinct possibility, so Hob will take this as a win.

"Hey," he says later, catching Dream for a moment as he's checking him out. "It's going to get better, yeah? Trust me. Don't worry too hard, just give it time."

He really shouldn't make promises like that. But he can't seem to help it, with Dream.

Dream considers, then says. "I do trust you."

Hob finds that it means a lot. Now he's just going to have to earn it.

[natalievoncatte]

2. Courage

Her breath came in fits and starts as Kara knelt on the floor of her apartment. She told herself it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t permanent, that Mxyzptlk was creating illusions, but it felt real. It felt more real than the wood beneath her palms. She still gasped as if cold hard fingers closed around her throat and another woman’s broken heart bathed her in a murdering light. She was sure that if she looked over at the stand up mirror she’d see sickly green lines slicing through her skin, but when she looked that was nothing.

“Well,” said Mxyzptlk, “that was a close scrape, then. Shall we have another go? Perhaps a bit more carefully worded this time.”

Kara looked up, red sun fury boiling in her eyes.

“Get out.”

“Kara, perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be.”

“Get out,” Kara snarled, her voice chasing dust from the ceiling thin streamers. “Your gifts are poison. And stay away from Lena, do you hear me?”

He threw up his hands. “Fine then, fine then, I’ll go, but if you ever need me… I still owe you a favor.”

“Out!” Kara raged.

After he vanished, Alex stumbled back into the room, looking at Kara with shock and alarm. She glanced at J’onn, who formed a fight frown and said, “Kara, when you’re ready, if you want to talk, we can talk.”

Kara nodded with a dismissive wave. The door closed a moment later and Kara glanced over to see Alex still standing there.

“Sis?” she asked, her voice small.

Kara swallowed.

“What did he do?”

“He cheated,” Kara snapped. “He twisted things. He said he would help me fix things with Lena but made sure it wouldn’t work. He… it was hell, Alex, he showed me hell. Everyone kept dying. You, my friends, her. Every choice I made set off some… some dick genie bullshit that made all my wishes go wrong. The last one almost got me killed. For real. I was so stupid.”

“What did you ask for?”

“I asked him to make so we never met so she could be happy without me, and instead she died in the helicopter attack and her mother brought her back as Metallo to kill me.”

Alex blinked. “Jesus,” she whispered.

Kara began to shake, hugging herself. As the righteous fury faded, the towering grief swept in to take its place, a freezing wind following the setting of a tyrant sun. She crumpled, falling back into the couch.

Alex was there in an instant, wrapping Kara in a protective hug as she began to sob.

“What did he want to show me? That it wasn’t going to ever work? That we were just doomed from the start?”

Alex tensed, sucking in a sharp breath.

“He came to you and said he’d fix your friendship?”

“No, he said he’s grant me one gift, and that’s what I asked for.”

Alex went slack for a brief moment. When Kara turned to look at her, there was an expression of absolute shock on her face.

“You… you didn’t ask for your parents. Or to save Krypton. You asked for Lena.”

“Yeah,” Kara sniffed, “why?”

Alex looked thunderstruck. Kara had seen this expression before, when her sister had grasped something difficult or complex. It was the look of an epiphany, a realization.

“I don’t think he was trying to tell you there was never a chance,” Alex said, softly. “Maybe he wasn’t trying to tell you anything at all. Maybe the only thing that matters is what you took from it.”

“All it took from it is that it’s over,” Kara whimpered. “It’s all over. I never had a chance.”

Alex rubbed her back for a while. She seemed conflicted, opening her mouth to speak several times before closing it again.

“Why Lena? Why does she matter so much to you?”

Kara choked back and swallowed, hard. “She was my best friend before I ruined us. She made me feel like a whole person, and she loved me, she loved Kara in a way that nobody ever has. I felt this peace with her, and she made me so happy and contented when I was with her protected her. I just want another five minutes of that feeling.”

Alex was quiet again.

“You could have had Krypton back, or your parents, or… or Jeremiah… and you picked Lena.”

Kara heard the way her voice hitched and tensed, a cold knife running down her spine.

“Alex I’m sorry, I didn’t think, I was so stupid…”

“No,” Alex smoothed her hair, “no, kiddo. Shhh, it’s okay. I understand.”

There was an unspoken even if you don’t.

“What are you trying to say?”

Alex swallowed hard, tensing.

“I think you need to hear this, Kara, and you might have to hear it from me. Buying CatCo was not a friendly gesture. One does not drop almost a billion dollars to chitchat and gossip with a buddy. Filling your office with flowers was not a simple thank you, and Lena did not take learning about your identity the way a close friend would. At all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do, you just don’t want to see it because of what it means.”

“What?”

“Kara,” said Alex, “one does not burn their one wish on another person’s happiness unless they deeply care about that person. I don’t think I would have made a wish like that for Maggie.”

Kara’s head snapped up, almost dangerously fast. She stared straight ahead, past Alex, an electric fusion of terror and elation smashing together inside her like water on rocks. How could she be so blind?

“You think I’m in love with Lena.”

Alex nodded.

“Don’t think…”

“Office full of flowers,” said Alex.

Kara bolted to her feet, gently disentangling from her sister, and headed for the door.

“Kara?!” Alex demanded. “Please don’t do something you’ll regret.”

Kara paused at the door.

“I already did.”

When she touched down on the balcony, Lena was at her table in her kitchen, staring at a glass of scotch. The change in her heart rate and slight shift in her posture told Kara that she knew she was there.

Kara waited.

Lena rose, swallowed the last of her drink in a dramatic flourish, and stalked to the door. She swept it open and stood on the threshold, leaning against the frame to bar Kara’s way.

“Make it quick, I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m sorry,” Kara began.

“Not this again,” Lena sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Listen to me, God damn it,” Kara snapped.

Lena’s eyes widened at the profanity, and she didn’t move. She didn’t let Kara in.

She didn’t close the door, either.

“I’m listening.”

Kara swept her hands through her hair. She didn’t know where to start, so she just blurted it out.

“A fifth dimensional imp just gave me a chance to change history any way I wanted. Any way I wanted.”

“And this was the best that you could do?” Lena said, arching her eyebrow. She seemed so sharp and yet so lost and tired, the freighted eyes of a lonely girl hiding within her austere, cold beauty.

Eyes that Kara saw as a mirror of her own.

“All of the things I tried turned into monkey’s paw bullshit,” said Kara. “It was never going to work because getting a do-over was the coward’s way out. I can’t fix this unless I admit what I’ve done.”

“Oh, here we go,” said Lena. “Not the ‘I was only trying to protect you’, speech again.”

“You killed your brother for me and I was too cowardly to tell you my real name,” said Kara.

Lena’s face fell.

“I was too cowardly to tell you the truth. I was too scared that I might lose you. That wasn’t the worst part. I didn’t give you the faith that you put in me. I told myself over and over that you were the most important person in my life, and you know what? You are. I had a chance at anything, and I didn’t pick my birth family or my foster father or my culture or my entire planet. I picked you.”

Lena stared at her, visibly stunned.

“You matter more to me than anyone. If it was you or the chemicals I would have saved you and fuck the reservoir. If it was you or the city it would be you. If it was anyone or anything it would be you. Always you. But I didn’t treat you like that. I treated you like a threat, like spending to be scared of, and I took from you without giving, and I’m sorry.”

Standing up, Lena hugged herself, gaze locked with Kara’s.

“What do you want?”

“I want to fix it.”

“How?”

“We can fix it, together. I know you want to. You have a good heart, full of kindness. I just want to hold it in my palms and shelter and protect it and care for you always. I want it more than I want air to breath. If you want to fix and I want to fix it we can find a way. Not right now, not in five minutes, maybe not for years, but I will do anything to bring you back, and I don’t care what you do, I will never treat you like a villain.”

Lena licked her lips and looked away. Hot tears glittered on her cheeks as she pressed her eyelids shut and Kara ached with the pain of her revelation.

“If you don’t want to fix things with me, it’s okay. Just don’t do what you’re planning to do. Don’t hurt anyone, even with good intentions. Don’t let yourself become something you’re not because I didn’t have the courage to help you be all that you are.”

“Get off my balcony,” Lena choked out. “Go. Now, get away!”

Kara stumbled back as if struck, the force of those words crashing into her chest like a hammer, and she didn’t breath as she took off, careful to ascend slowly until she gained enough height.

Then she went hypersonic, her speed dragging out her shriek of rage and anguish behind her, Kara outrunning it even as she couldn’t outrun the fury and grief choking her chest. She flew and flew, past the clouds, flew as the air thinned, blasted into the very embrace of space until the air was gone and no one would ever hear her scream again.

She could hold her breath, she thought. Hold it for hours until she passed out and by the time her orbit decayed she’d be gone and her empty shell could tumble somewhere into the ocean and be forgotten.

A tiny voice whispered, you must live, Kara, so that we are not forgotten.

Kara let herself fall. She tumbled through the air, burning a crimson wake as she made reentry, slowing somewhere over the Pacific.

There was no hurry to get home. When she descended from her roof and walked down the stairs to her loft, she stumbled. There was not one heartbeat in her home, but two.

In a daze, she stumbled through the door and froze. Lena was sitting across from Alex, and for a wonder, Alex wasn’t trying to arrest or shoot her. They both had a beer in front of them and looked to be in mid conversation when Kara walked in.

On the table between them was Myriad. It looked so small, so inconsequential, this ultimate weapon built by her people to enslave their subjects.

Alex rose swiftly. “I’m going to get going. You two clearly have a lot to discuss.” She turned to Lena. “Hurt my sister like that again and next time I’ll fire the orbital fusion cannon at you.”

Lena glared, but said nothing.

Kara slowly pulled out a chair and sat down. Tentatively , she reached across and placed her hand on it, to pull it in. She froze as Lena’s hand settled on hers, fingers curling around Kara’s wrist.

“I’m sorry, too,” Lena offered, in a harsh whisper. “I’m sorry, Kara. I want to try, too.”

For the first time that night, Kara smiled.

It was not an easy or quick thing. A monument is not built in a day and things that last a lifetime are not easily forged. It took months, then years, for the trust to be rebuilt, its foundations made of bricks like lunches and sister night invitations, quiet shared meals and tentative questions that had already been answered, but in the end a wall rose, taller and stronger than ever before. Not a barrier that stood between them but a fortress that encircled and endured, made of stolen kisses and frantic nights and a pair of matching bracelets.

[borninwinter81]

William Blake - an introduction for Good Omens fans

I have sent @neil-gaiman an ask regarding his feelings toward the poet/artist William Blake a couple of times, but no doubt due to the size of the poor man's inbox I haven't received a response. So I did a Google search to see if he's spoken about Blake before, and it did indeed come up with a fair few hits. I think you might enjoy seeing this Twitter post if you haven't already, the painting is from William Blake's illustrations to Paradise Lost.

It's not surprising that an author like Neil Gaiman might have an interest in Blake. A visionary from a young age, his imagination was such that he was surrounded by angels made visible in his mind's eye, and he interpreted these visions through poetry, painting and engraving, and self-printed and published many of his own works. This gave him complete freedom to say exactly what he wanted.

Though he had a passionate faith in God, he also had a deep distrust of the church as an institution, and disliked the use of religion as a means of control. This poem from "Songs of Experience" perhaps summarises his feelings best:

"I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;

So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,

That so many sweet flowers bore. 

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tomb-stones where flowers should be:

And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars, my joys & desires."

In his poetry there is often an incongruity with the generally accepted religious ideas of what is good and evil, Angel and Demon. In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (there's a title that should make any GO fan sit up and pay attention) he tells us that "in the book of Job, Milton's Messiah is called Satan", signifying that he feels it is Lucifer/the devil who is the true Messiah of Paradise Lost.

He gives us The Voice of the Devil and Proverbs of Hell, and has Angels being transformed into Demons through enlightenment. He tells us that Jesus broke all of the 10 commandments, yet was still virtuous because he acted according to his own morality rather than rules.

The god-figure of his later works, Urizen, generally comes across as malevolent, seeking to bind and control, whilst Los, the Satan/Messiah figure represents freedom, imagination and creativity.

"Restraining desire" and acting contrary to your own nature seem to be the only real evils for Blake.

He expressed his faith through a love of the world and the beauty in it, summed up in this quote:

"When the Sun rises do you not see a round Disk of fire somewhat like a Guinea? O no no I see an innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying Holy Holy Holy is the Lord God Almighty".

He saw "God" in everything, in all the wonders we have around us, and considered writers/poets and religious prophets as essentially the same, since they both have a connection to the divine, and express it through stories.

It's quite ironic that probably his most famous poem, Jerusalem (the one that starts "and did those feet in ancient times walk upon England's mountains green"), was made into a very popular church hymn, yet it is supposed to be satirical in nature. The poem recounts the myth that Jesus may have visited England in his boyhood, and Blake is expressing his disbelief at that notion and the unworthiness of England.

Did I have a point to all this? Mostly to show my hand as a massive Blake nerd, but also to hopefully demonstrate that there's a lot of common ground between his ideas and those expressed in a show/book like Good Omens, and hopefully to inspire some of you who may not be familiar with Blake to seek him out. In particular I'd recommend The Marriage of Heaven and Hell to any and all.

EDIT: I should have thought to include this, here's Michael Sheen reading a Blake poem. I have the CD this is from, he reads several by Blake, as well as other poets I love ❤️ 😍

[hugsandharrystyles]

The Chase

WORD COUNT: 1.2k

SUMMARY: Harry is obsessed with you (or your pussy).

Harry Styles would not stop following you.

You both had hooked up at a frat party two weeks ago in a dingy bathroom, and ever since, he's been searching for you everywhere.

Somehow, he's outside of all your classes, waiting for you so that he could try and woo you. His persuasions were overlooked because you were not in the mood for anything any college frat boy was trying to pull.

You had only come to this party because your friend had dragged you along with the promise of alcohol.

You seriously needed to get wasted and perhaps make out with a cute boy, but it was proving hard to do because of the chase you were involved in. As soon as you had walked in the door, you were on the run from Harry.

Right now, you were in the crowded kitchen, the room was glowing red from the solo cups taped on the lights, and it was definitely setting the mood for the horny college students.

You were filling your cup when you felt two strong arms wrap around your waist in a secure hold.

"Baby, please," You heard begging in your ear, and then his crotch was grinding into your ass.

"Harry-" You begin, but you were cut off by the rolling of his hips again. "You realize how pathetic you are?" You said while laughing. He whined in your ear and squeezed you harder.

"Stop running from me," He counters. "Just come with me outside for bit, hm?" He asks.

"Harry-"

"Please," He begs.

"Fine," You huff and grab his hand to start walking outside. Harry has a shy, yet smug smile on his face as you drag him out of the house. People look and furrow their eyebrows at the two of you, but Harry does not care. He's whipped, and he knows it.

"Over here," He says and points to a lounge chair close to the bonfire. There's a decent amount of people around but not nearly as bad as inside. He sits down first and drags you to sit on his lap.

"Harry- Jesus," You sigh and adjust yourself. He buries his face in your neck and inhales you in.

"I've missed you," He breathes.

"Harry, we had one mediocre hook-up in a trashy frat bathroom," You remind him.

"Mediocre?!" That had gotten his attention. He adjusts you to where he can see your face better. "That was the best sex of my life," He tells you.

"Well, that's sad," You inform him, and he has to physically stop his jaw from dropping.

"What in the hell are you talking about? I made you cum," He reminds you, but your face sours. "Didn't I?" You shake your head and suppress the smile that wants to appear on your face from this boy getting humbled. "But- But you told me you came," He questions you.

"Yeah, so I could get out of there," You couldn't hold back the small chuckle that escapes you that time. "Harry, don't get me wrong, you aren't bad and definitely are the biggest I've ever been with, but maybe you need to work on your stamina," You explain and run your fingers through his hair because of his pitiful face.

"Well, it's not my fault you have this magical pussy!" He says a bit too loud. Some people look over with incredulous looks on their faces, and you punch his shoulder. "Couldn't help it when you're so wet, tight, and fucking warm- Oh, God," He groans as if remembering. His nose is back in your neck and arms around your body, squeezing once again. "Smell so good and so soft too," He says as he squeezes the extra plush on your body, something you're usually insecure about but feel super confident with the way this boy is drooling for you.

"You've gone mad," You resort to.

"I don't care," He rebuts. You roll your eyes and pat his back.

"Ay, Styles! Look at you fuckin' whipped," You hear one of his annoying frat brothers call out to the two of you.

"And fucking what about it?" He snaps back, and you see the arrogant meathead cower down in his seat.

"Harry, maybe we should-"

"Go to my room, so I can actually take care of you?" He offers.

"I'll give you one more shot," You sigh, and his head perks up like he didn't expect you to say that.

"Actually?" He says and is about to jump to his feet.

"My clock is ticking," You sigh, and suddenly, you're being thrown over his shoulder, and he's running into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom. Hoots, hollers, and whistles are thrown to both of you, but neither of you are paying attention to it. You're immediately thrown on the bed when you get into his room. Harry had locked the door, so no one will be interrupting the two of you.

"I'm going to eat you out," he says breathlessly. "Should punish me for how rude I was to you last time. Didn't eat you out or make you cum- fuck, I'm sorry," He pants and rips your skirt and shoes off your body. His mouth is about to press against your puffy pussy through your underwear when you stop him.

"Wait," you say and hold his hair to stop him.

"What?" He whines and dramatically drops his face into the bed.

"You're right," you tell him and yank on his hair to get his attention.

"About what, baby?" He whines in impatience.

"You should be punished," You agree and sit up, pulling your body away from him. His jaw drops and his face is like you've just stabbed him.

"Are you- are you serious?" He asks and starts to inch his way closer to you.

"I mean, you're the one who said it. I'll be nice and still have sex with you, but I have one rule," you tell him and press your foot against his chest to keep him away.

"Anything. Anything at all- I swear," He assures you, and you smile.

"You're not allowed to touch me," you say, and he scoffs.

"You can't be serious," He pants.

"It's this or nothing," you say and start to get up from the bed.

"No, no, please, I'll do it. I'll do it," He promises.

"You're pathetic," you laugh, and he glares at you. "Wipe that look off your face," You scold him, voice surprisingly dominating, and he immediately does. It's hilarious the power you seem to have over this arrogant frat boy. "Sit against the headboard," you tell him, and he doesn't think twice before doing what you say. You get up and start rummaging through his closet.

"What- what are you doing?" He asks, trying to stay still in his spot, but his curiosity is getting the best of him. Once you have what you were looking for, you turn and approach him, your hands hiding the object behind your back.

"Get up," You command, and he jumps off the bed. "Take your clothes off," you say further. He rips everything off besides his boxers. "I didn't say stop, big boy," you tell him, and he blushes. He sheepishly pulls down his underwear and fights the urge to cover himself. Your smirk deepens as you gaze over his body. "On the bed," You command, and as he leans himself against the headboard, you rid yourself of the rest of your own clothes. Harry's eyes cloud over as his eyes take you in. You're truly the most enthralling woman he's ever met.

"Thank you," He whispers as you straddle his lap, his hands gently rest on your plushy thighs. You almost feel bad for what you are about to do, but your horniness brings you out of it.

"Very sweet," you say and place a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He moans lightly and tries to turn his head to fully capture your lips, but you move away at the perfect time. You take his hands in yours and tie them together with the tie you found in his closet. His eyes widen and his cheeks flush even deeper. "This okay?" You ask and run your fingers through his hair.

"Y-Yes. Never done something like this before, but it's v-very okay," He assures you and tips his head back when you start kissing at the skin on his neck. His hands that are tied together twitch on his stomach and reach to where his dick lays, playing with himself for some much-needed stimulation. His moans get louder, and he feels cum drip from his thick pink tip.

"The fuck are you doing?" You suddenly ask, straightening yourself in time to see Harry playing with himself.

"I'm- I'm sorry. It's just- I'm really fucking horny, and it hurts," He tries to explain but you roll your eyes and scoff.

"You know, this is why I haven't let you fuck me again. Fuckin' selfish," You mock, and he shakes his head.

"No- No, I'm not. Please," He whines, his hand straining against the tie. "Don't go, please," He begs. You stare down at him intensely, and he has no choice but to cower under your glare. Out of nowhere, you suddenly drop yourself down onto his length, rubbing and sliding against where it lays against his stomach. "Oh!" He gasps as he feels your hot wet pussy slide over him.

"I'm going to take what I want from you," You decide and place your hands against his chest to get a better form. Your tight hole begins to catch itself on his tip when you push down on him, and you see Harry biting his lip so hard you think it might bleed. You continue sliding your pussy over him until his dick is twitching and leaking with cum.

"You got to stop if you don't want me to cum," he says, his voice strained and tight.

"You need to work on your stamina," you remind him and grab his cock, positioning him with your tight entrance.

"Oh, God- Oh, God," He chants as you slide his tip in. His hips stagger, making him slide in a bit deeper, so you press on his stomach to keep him down.

"Easy," You command, and he looks as if he could cry. You fuck yourself on the tip of his cock, getting your entrance to spread, but he's just so fucking big. You look down at him, and he has that same fucked out expression on his face. "Don't you fucking dare," you say and begin to insert more of him into you.

"Then fucking stop!" He whines. He almost cries when he feels your fingers squish into his cheeks, making him look into your eyes.

"You're not making the fucking rules here, frat boy. I told you if I was going to do this again, it was going to be by my terms, not yours, so shut the fuck up and stay still," You command, and you see tears gather in his eyes. You roll your eyes and slide down on him even further, about halfway in now. He chokes on a sob of pleasure and strains his fists in his lap.

"I'm sorry," he says before you feel his hips buck up into yours and his heavy load spurting into your pussy. The sensation almost makes you cum, but you push it away so you can see his pretty face as he orgasms. His body is trembling, and it feels like his high lasts forever. He feels you untie his wrists, and he subconsciously flexes them out of their stiff position. His breathing is rapid as he comes down, and a smile is graced across his lips until he feels you start bouncing on his sensitive cock again. "Oh, fuck! What are you doing-"

"I didn't come, asshole," You spit and grind yourself on his hardening dick.

"I'm too s-sensitive," He slurs, his hips tensing away and his hands coming up to grab your plushy hips. His mouth his dropped, and his head falls back. "I might be in love with you," He gasps, and you laugh.

"Shut up," You giggle, but you are cut off when his hips thrust up into you and his fingers come down to play with your clit. "Fuck, your dick is too good," You moan and don't have time to react before you're shoved onto your back, Harry above you. His hands push your thighs to your chest, and his hips piston into your squelching cunt. "Oh!" You gasp and suddenly feel your own orgasm starting to arrive.

"Cum for me, please cum on my dick," He begs and brings one hand to your mouth to pry it open before spitting directly into your mouth. "Swallow," He whispers. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he pounds into your pussy like an animal.

"I'm gonna fucking cum," You almost scream and start to shake.

"I'm filling your pussy again," Harry moans and grounds himself into you, basically sitting on you and filling you with all of his fat cock. Your hand instinctually reaches out and pushes at his toned stomach, but the weight of him, and the feeling of him deep inside your body only makes your orgasm so much better.

"So deep," You whisper and squirm.

"Take it, take it," he almost begs as he cums, his own orgasm shooting inside of you and sticking you two together. You're both shaking at the intensity of your orgasms.

Sounds of panting fill the room as you both settle. Harry flops down onto your chest, and you reach around to rub at his back, very well-aware of his half-hard dick still deep inside you.

"You're hard already?" You ask.

"Wanna go again?"

[cosmicdahlias]

I Hate Everything About You

a ford x reader fic

MINORS DNI

You’re a student at the same college as Stanford. You hate his guts for being a successful arrogant bastard, but secretly have a crush on him.

warnings: slut-shaming, slapping, oral, rough sex, choking, breeding, drugs (weed)

this is my first stab at an enemies to lovers fic. i’ve always loved the trope, so this was a lot of fun. i also definitely didn’t include them smorkig weed because i’m like missing it and living vicariously through my writing or anything. 👀💦

You sat in your dorm finishing your homework. You were in your junior year at Backupsmore University with a major in theoretical physics, winter break was two weeks away. Tonight you were on edge, dreading a knock on the door. The reason? You had been assigned to write a research paper with Stanford fucking Pines.

Oh my god how you hated him. Success and praise flocked to him. You were the only feminine presenting person in your major, and thus had to fight tooth and nail to be seen as even half as good as your male classmates.

It drove you mad how professors just seemed to naturally love him, whereas they never showed you the time of day. And worst of all? He was arrogant and self-absorbed. He thought himself so much better than the other- in his words- “troglodytes” around him.

But what you hated the most was how attracted to him you were. How could you want to fuck someone so badly when you hated their guts? You always tried to repress your feelings, but some nights you still shamefully found yourself with your hand between your legs, thoughts running wild of Stanford using you like a sex toy.

You quietly seethed over your homework when you heard knocking at your door. You sighed heavily and pushed your chair back, savoring your last Stanford free moments.

You swung the door open and there stood the man that you despised more than everything.

“Stanford.” You said coldly.

“Y/n.” He responded, not even entertaining the idea of making eye contact with you, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

-

Barely an hour had passed before you two found yourselves locked in a heated argument. A simple disagreement over formatting had boiled over.

“Jesus christ, Stanford why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?”

“I’M making things difficult? I’m not the one who’s been shooting daggers all night, barely responding to my questions because apparently talking to me is like pulling teeth. What the hell did I ever do to make you hate me this much?”

“Oh you really wanna know why I hate you? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that professors fawn over you for the most menial effort, meanwhile I’ve had to work myself to the bone, slaving away just to earn half the recognition you barely have to lift a finger for.” You spat.

“Well maybe if you kept your legs closed every now and then this wouldn’t be nearly as hard as you make it.”

Hot tears formed in your eyes, you quickly raised a hand and brought it down hard on his face. He stumbled back, his cheeks turning bright red and not from the slap. You looked down, a bulge clearly forming in his pants.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” You thought, quickly growing angrier that he had managed to turn you on like this.

“For fuck’s sake Stanford, are you serious?” You said through gritted teeth.

“I- well I- it’s not like I can help it. I’ve never been slapped before.”

You stared at each other for a moment, the sexual tension building.

“Look,” he pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation “it’s clear we both have some underlying feelings for each other, perhaps it would be for the best if we-“

“Whoa whoa whoa,” you said, cutting him off “maybe you do, but I certainly don’t.”

“Oh please, don’t lie to yourself. I catch you staring at me during lectures all the time, undressing me with your eyes, nothing anywhere like the malice you so pretended to demonstrate tonight. Admit it, you like me. Despite aaaaaall of your personal hangups about my successes, you genuinely have feelings for me.” He said, crossing his arms.

He let his words hang in the air, a smirk creasing his lips. God, he was such a dick.

“Now,” he continued “I was going to say I think it would be best if we just put this to bed, literally.”

“Stanford, no I-“ the blush on your cheeks betrayed you.

He chuckled, tilting your chin up. “I knew it, you want this.”

He pressed a firm kiss to your lips. He was right, you did want this. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t imagined him between your thighs during class. You reached a hand down, fondling his cock over his pants.

“Mmm, fuck.” He groaned into your mouth.

You both began removing each other’s clothes desperately. He looked down at your naked body, his breath shaking. He took your breast in his hand, stroking your nipple with his thumb.

“Do you know the things those brutes in class say about you, about your body? When you walk into the room every man fucks you with their eyes, but you like it that way, don’t you?”

You took his thick cock in your hand and stroked it, he moaned and buried his head in the crook of your neck. He pulled himself away then pointed to the floor. You sank to your knees in front of him and wrapped your fingers around his cock again, pumping the near 8.5 inches in your hand. He tilted his head back, groaning and cursing.

“Put my cock in your mouth, baby.”

You went to slowly take his head in your mouth, but he seized a fistful of your hair and shoved the full length down your throat. You choked and gagged.

“You know I was thinking of being nice, but honestly I think you deserve to be brutally fucked after the way you’ve been acting. How does that sound, princess?”

You nodded with his cock buried in your mouth.

“Good, although honestly I was planning on doing it regardless.”

He gritted his teeth and resumed bucking furiously into your mouth. You to whimpered and gagged around him, tears streaming down your face.

“You’re my little slut now, you understand?”

You let out a muffled “Mhmf.”

“Look at you, letting me fuck your mouth like this. Do you let anyone else do this to you?”

He pulled out to let you answer. “No.”

He shoved his cock back in your mouth. “Let’s keep it that way. I’m not big on- mmf, sharing. I always figured the rumors of you being the campus whore weren’t true. You have too much self respect for that, but I bet you’re so dirty when you’re alone. Picturing me fucking you in every position, touching yourself and cumming with my name on your lips.”

He quickened pace, fucking your mouth rapidly in pure aggression. He growled and his hips stuttered, he was going to cum in your mouth if he kept going like this. He pulled you back by your hair and you took in a gasping breath. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe before picking you up and throwing you facedown on the bed.

He knelt behind you, slapping your ass hard a few times. “There, now I think we’re even.”

His hands pinned your wrists to the bed and he teased your entrance for barely even a second before slamming every inch inside you. You struggled to hold back a loud moan, trying to not let the whole floor know that you were getting absolutely wrecked.

He growled and moved his hands to your hips, fucking you so hard that it felt like his cock was going to split you in half.

“I have a confession to make, y/n.” He breathed between violent thrusts into you. “I saw you, two weeks ago, in the library. You didn’t see me, you leaned down to select a book off the lowest shelf and I could see your panties under your skirt. Pink with black lace. God I- I couldn’t resist, not after watching you eye me up in class. I found a quiet part of the library and stroked my cock to the thought of you.”

He picked up his pace, the slaps of his hips meeting your ass only aroused you more. “When our professor announced the assignment I knew I had to have you. I went and spoke to him after class and convinced him to pair you up with me. And now look at you, taking my cock like the whore you are, just like I knew you would.”

You gripped the sheets in your fingers as he pounded you into the mattress. Jesus fucking christ the idea of him getting worked up because of you was enough to fuel your masturbation fantasies for months. The thought of him stroking himself- in public no less- just because he saw your panties, good god you were going to savor that image in your mind forever.

He flipped you over on your back, kissing you deeply. His hands found your hips and pulled you onto his cock, resuming his aggressive rhythm.

“I love the feeling of fucking you from behind, but I need to see those eyes.”

He slid his hand to your throat, gripping it tightly. You choked out a weak moan and the corners of your vision started to turn to black static.

“God you’re gonna make me fucking cum. I want you to look in my eyes as I breed you, princess.”

He pounded faster and faster, savoring every moan and whimper that passed your lips. You dug your nails into his back causing his cock to twitch and throb, edging him closer by the second to cumming inside you.

“Look into my eyes, look into my eyes as I cum in you.” He demanded.

The sight of your doe eyes looking back at him was what did it. His brutally fast pace faltered and his breathing hitched and as he felt himself release deep in you, his hot cum coating your walls. He moaned your name loudly.

He panted, exhausted and collapsed beside you, trying to catch his breath. You were about to kiss him when he started making his way down your body.

“Stanford what are you-“

“Finishing the job, I’m not about to leave you unsatisfied like some kind of neanderthal would, I’m better than that.” He muttered.

You rolled your eyes, there he goes being arrogant as usual.

He took your clit in his mouth, you reached a hand down and buried it in his hair. He hummed against you, tongue lapping at your delicate nub.

“So desperate for me, aren’t you?” He teased.

“Nnnngh, Stanford.”

He looked up at you and chuckled. “Please, call me Ford.”

He slipped two fingers inside you, curling them against your g-spot. You arched your back instinctively and he held you in place by your hips.

“Getting close already are we?”

“Mmh, I can’t help it, you’re too good at this.”

“Surprisingly research goes a long way. It’s amazing what certain books can teach you.” He said with a devilish smile.

“You fucking nerd, I didn’t say you could stop.” You tightened your grip on his hair and pushed him against your clit, he let out a little “hmf”.

You rocked your hips against his tongue, feeling yourself tip over the edge.

“Ahh hah, oh Ford.”

Your orgasm shook you, hitting you hard. All you could do was focus on your breathing. Ford watched you intently, god you looked so perfect when you came.

He moved himself up on the bed, coming behind you and wrapping an arm around your waist, spooning you.

Goddammit, you really thought you were going to just bottle up your feelings for Ford until the day you died, but here you were in post coital bliss with him pressed against you.

-

The conflicting feelings of fucking the classmate you thought you despised moments ago started to weigh on you, you needed to take the edge off. You rolled out of Ford’s arms and off the bed, his eyes following you. You dug around in your bedside drawer pulling out a small baggie and a glass pipe.

You packed the bowl and flicked the lighter, taking in a long drag. You let out a cloud of smoke and sighed heavily before laying back down next to Ford, who was still watching you. You raised an eyebrow.

“What is it six fingers?”

“Nothing, I just-“

“Lemme guess, those anti drug psa’s really got to you as a kid.”

He looked away, embarrassed.

You rolled your eyes again. “Jesus, you really are a fucking nerd. Here.”

You handed the pipe to him, he took it in his hand, studying it for a second before flicking the lighter taking a deep inhale, you watched him hold his breath and couldn’t help but laugh.

“Dude, holding it doesn’t do anything, breathe.” You snorted.

He took gasping breath and let out a hacking cough, smoke coming out of his nose.

“That’s what they- ack- always do in the movies.” He wheezed.

“For the love of god, you really need to get out more.”

You passed the pipe back and forth for a good while, talking about random shit. By the end of it you were both sufficiently stoned.

You quickly learned that Ford was very affectionate when he was high, he pulled you close against him, nuzzling the back of your neck, peppering your skin with kisses. He traced the curves of your body with his fingers.

“You know, I was starting to think you genuinely hated me.” He murmured into your neck.

You let out a long sigh. “Ford don’t think I ever actually hated you, I envy you. Everything seems to come so easy to you, almost naturally. Your professors love you and- I don’t know- it was just hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy. Like this college wasn’t even my first choice, everywhere else rejected me and I still have to bust my ass just to be seen as being worth anyone’s time.”

Ford took a breath and exhaled deeply. “BMU wasn’t exactly what I had planned on either, I mean, remember what they said at orientation? This is no one’s first choice. My dream school was West Coast Tech, but things… fell through.”

He paused, you could tell there was weight to that last part, memories too painful to say aloud. You didn’t pry.

“Y/n, I want you to understand it hasn’t been easy for me either. I’ve had to work twice as hard just to make something of myself at a school with nonexistent educational standards.”

You felt a pang of guilt for ever assuming this was in any way easy for him. You turned to him, holding his face in your hands and kissing him deeply.

He broke away. “You know I was thinking we could grab coffee in the morning before heading to the library to work on our paper together. I- if you want, that is.” He looked away, nervous.

You smiled and kissed him again. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You laid your head on his chest and he wrapped his arms around you, kissing your forehead. His breathing deepened as he began to fall asleep. You soon felt your eyelids grow heavy, following Ford into slumber.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

THE SOUND OF SILENT GRAVES (X)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER XI

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 15.5k

WARNINGS: Angst, threats, exploitation, stalking behavior, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations, body issues, scar descriptions, mentions of past intimacy, broody/stubborn Nikto, brief smut, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your mind doesn’t remember the first time you looked in the mirror and saw the beginnings of the flaws. Perhaps your nose was a bit too strange—lips a bit too…there the second you turned thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Fifteen. You know it started slow, like all poison does; the point to where you actually begin to pay attention to the chains around your neck. 

Your eyes hadn’t left where Nikto’s sweatpants sat so well over your hips for at least five minutes. Usually, you’d pick at those flaws here, on the cold bathroom tile with the black and white wash of nothingness. But this is distraction enough to block it out, at least for now. 

You smell like him. 

You’d noticed after you had woken up for the second time and had found Nikto gone—his thigh no longer the firm pillow to your skull. It startled you, admittingly, and you thought it was unlike him, but then your ears had picked up on the barked Russian sentences outside the bedroom door, drifting in from under the wood as your haze cleared. Best guess? He was on the phone with someone while you kept getting the rest he said you needed; you could only speculate how he got out from under you without making your eyes snap open. But, yes, it was undeniable that every ounce of your skin was bathed in his scent; marked, branded as if a sheep. 

Rotting wood coated in gunpowder, and gnawing metal that peels back flesh. 

It’s stuck in your nostrils as you itch at the side of your nose, blinking away from your reflected visage as if it’s on fire. 

Focus, you plead, and you don’t even know to whom. 

So much had happened, that the thought of your brain calming down was impossible. Nikto knew. He knew about the purpose of the parties, he knew about your doubts and fears, he knew your body. 

As you exit the bathroom, your mind slips into a dark thought—maybe learning to care about someone turns you into a bit of a stalker of your own. No one else could say they knew you as well as Nikto now does: your fears and your hopes. Not even Alyona, you flatten your lips at the realization, and you consider her your best friend. 

“Jesus,” you groan quietly after a moment, pushing your palms into your eyes with a heavy sigh. 

It can’t be past noon now, and you can’t run from this forever. 

The phone on your nightstand is taken up, and, sitting back on the bed, your eyes dart and skate past the tossed party dress on the floor, wishing someone would go out and burn it already. As the visible tear in the lace catches your attention, along with the slashed corset, there’s an unmistakable twitch at your lips, that only makes your chest tighten immediately after.

Clearing your throat, you turn back on the device and try to give it your undivided, though anxious, attention. The sound of sharp Russian beyond the door gives a sliver of comfort. 

But still…why hadn’t he woken you up? There’s a sliver of confusion that takes place in your mind, but you push it back softly.

The first wave of notifications is expected, and exactly the same as it had been before breakfast. 

Kliment Fedorov, Alyona, your Mom, even the investigators—texts and calls, ranging from clipped sentences to long paragraphs. Thumb hovering over the screen, you raise your opposite hand and rub at the base of your skull, a low sound in the back of your throat. There was so much, you didn’t even know where to begin. You should be worrying about the stalker, not your job. 

But…when had you not been worried about your job?

Just another thing to make me lose my mind faster, you think. God, this is getting to a point where I’m starting to not care if they get rid of me—at least then I’d be able to make my own decisions. You start with Aly, and you quickly slap the call icon just to ease your shaky fingers of the stuttered typing they would have had to do otherwise. Phone to ear, the ringing only persists for two seconds before there’s the hurried panic of static and a frantic voice. 

“Seraph!” 

“Aly—” You try to quickly calm her down, mouth open with the half-formation of speech.

“Bastard! Why did you not call me?!” The woman snaps, and your ears twitch, your body flinching at the guilt that grows. “I have been up all night and worried most of the morning—damn you. Everyone at AMA is silent and Fedorov won’t let me into his office.” 

That’s right, you had told her you’d call her after the party—when you’d talked to her after seeing Nikto’s back tattoo. 

After you’d touched his ravaged flesh. 

Your face heats slowly, head tilting to the floor as you clear your throat. It was all wrapped in tissue paper, those memories. The storage room, the way those pale eyes had dug into your form in that damned dress, wanting to try and compliment you in his own strange way but being unable when you degraded yourself so consistently—unsure of himself. It was addictive seeing such a frenzied and numb man walking on cracking ice.

But that doesn’t make you any more sure of yourself.

“I meant to,” you hurry into your explanation, waving a hand even if she can’t see it. “You know I wouldn’t leave you wondering unless I had a good reason.” 

Alyona huffs over the line, silence falling as her anger tapers into a line. “...I need to put a bell on you, Солнышко.”

You close your eyes and sigh, fingers moving to push into your nose bridge. 

“Yeah,” your mouth utters. “Honestly, it’s not a bad idea, Aly.” 

It isn’t long before there’s the low plea—that heavy insinuation. You know she’s still now, waiting for you to begin. “Tell me, then.”

Face tightening, you pause and listen for Nikto. You still hear the muted conversation, and occasionally, the stomp of heavy boots along the floors. He’s pacing. 

What’s going on out there? Who was he talking to? You wonder silently, perplexed. Nikto had made many phone calls before, and while he preferred to be in a nearby area and speak in his mother tongue, they hadn’t been as long as this—nor as snappy. Shaking your head, you suppose it’s a problem for later, and in the back of your mind, every word that he’d ever spoken to you rattles like rocks. 

You were nervous around Nikto now, and that doesn’t make any sense to you.

Doesn’t the nervous part come before getting touched in the back of some dark storage room? 

You grunt under your breath, clenching your jaw; becoming more and more like Nikto as the days pass, it seemed. 

“I didn’t sleep with Tarkovsky,” your words are breathy and low. Trying to hide. “...Nikto stopped it.” The heavy pause is enough to make your palms sweat. “Aly?”

“Perhaps I judged the beast of man too early.” You blink, tilting your head as your eyebrows draw in. “Christ, Seraph. I’m relieved, of course I am, but what will Fedorov do once he finds out?”

“He already knows,” you relay. “Nikto wasn’t…subtle about his refusal to let me go.”

“Blood?” Aly asks.

“And bone,” you sigh. 

“Shit,” the woman over the line grumbles. “Do you…” she trails off slowly. “Do you think AMA will keep you on?”

“This hasn’t happened before,” you shrug to yourself, hearing Nikto speaking louder. Your eyes dart to the door, and as you blink, your fingers run your thigh in a self-soothing motion. “I don’t know. Right now I’m debating if it’s even worth it.” A painful chuckle. “Any advice?”

“Keep the bastard around long enough to break someone else's bones.” Aly’s laugh is sharp and smooth. “Show them what happens when they do anything he doesn’t like.”

“The night wasn’t all bad,” you try to defend his personality a smidge. “He’s not some monster, Aly.”

“I wasn’t implying that,” there’s the sound of moving fabric from over the call, and Alyona is most likely in a fitting room herself, taking up your call as she rushed out of a photographer’s shoot at light speed. “...You like him, then? Truly? Or are you just enamored by his capacity for violence?”

Your body slows at the obvious jest, taking it seriously. Face stilling, you blink at the wall across from you. Everything else blurs for a moment, memories slashing to every opened car door and meal made with expert hands. Organized magazines on your tables and cleaned dishes. There was something funny about the way you enjoyed the stretch of his sin coating you like blood over the visible flesh of a masked face.

Nikto wasn’t a good person. You knew that.

“Yes,” you whisper regardless, feet shifting below you. “How can I spend so much time with someone and not like them?” Your words try to reason.

“Very easily,” the Russian woman scoffs, not wasting time. “You know what I mean, Little Seraph. Don’t try to push me off like I am stupid.” A low hum. “When you talk about him, your breath goes light.”

“It does not,” your voice tightens. 

“Denial,” Aly sighs. “The first sign.”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” you groan, standing up and beginning to walk the room casually. You enjoyed the banter—the teasing: you two were good at that. 

As soft chuckles waft around, your lips twitch into a smile. “He’s not horrible. That’s all I’ll say.” 

“No beast?”

“No, no beast. A stubborn brute of a dogish ex-soldier?” You roll your eyes, and the commotion outside of the door takes on a different tone. You pay it no mind. “One hundred percent.”

“You like strays, yes, Seraph?” Alyona’s line crackles.

“I was burdened with a good heart,” you joke with a chuckle, nodding. As the second of silence draws, you reluctantly push out, “I need to check in with everything else.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” is the easy reply. The next sentence is troubled. “...If you’re kept, will you have to go to the rest of the parties?”

You don’t get to reply, because there isn’t a moment to think above the sinking in your gut and the sudden shove of the door. Head snapping up, the phone is tilted from your face as your eyes bug wildly. 

Iakov makes it three steps into the room, searching for you, before a growled shout and a ruthless hand connected with his suit’s collar. Watching wide-eyed, you see the way the pale-haired man is dragged out with a loud call of alarm.

Mouth agape, all you utter is a quick, “I’ll call you later,” before rapidly hanging up and moving as fast as you can to the door.

Shoulder hitting the frame, you stutter as you right yourself swiftly. “Nikto?”

“Go back to bed,” the black void grunts, gloved hand releasing Iakov with a violent shove. The two men are in the living room, your guard glaring with venom at your media coordinator as he stumbles back, nearly falling to the floor. 

“She can’t!” Iakov meets that fire with fire, strengthening himself. His face is a tone darker—eyes sharply snapping. “Fedorov has been waiting all day to have a meeting, and I won’t have my job on the line because of some entitled bra—!”

Nikto’s hand re-wraps itself around the man’s collar, jerking the fabric, and in turn, the smaller body forward until the rough fabric of the lower half of his mask is nearly brushing Iakov’s nose.

“I will cut out your tongue,” Nikto eases out far smoother than you’d heard thus far in your many days together. 

Your heart skips a beat.

“...Okay,” you say under your breath, face on fire as your coordinator freezes like a bird under a cat, a flash of rage simmering in his expression. The tension was palpable.

Truth be told, you’d never seen Iakov so unmanaged before—hair this way and that, suit ruffled not only from Nikto but from the apparent running of hands. He was always so put together. You swallow down your shaky worry. 

You’d never known him to be anything but respectful. It was like a knife to the chest to see such a rabid switch of emotions—of personality. Christ, it was damn near wrong.

“Nikto,” you say quickly, and the brute only tilts his head your way, not looking at you as his fingers tighten. Your tongue darts to wet your lips. “Please.”

Iakov is pushed back once more, and your guard grunts, light gaze unwavering as he backs up only a half-step nearer to you, widening his shoulders as the trunks of his arms cross his chest. Suddenly, thoughts of sex, power, and a stalker boil down to the sight in front of you instead, and the great confusion gets larger still.

Nikto is back in full gear, and here you are in sweatpants and an oversized shirt. When had your Russian bear managed to change? Had he left the bedroom far sooner than you’d thought? And…why? Keeping the Russian in the side of your narrowed eye, you take a breath and quickly address the greater problem. 

I thought Nikto was only on a phone call.

“How did you get in here?” Your voice is low, riddled with exasperation and a tinge of stiffness. Would Nikto even have let someone in without talking to you first? It seemed unlikely.

Iakov sneers, clenching his jaw—the void beside you is silent. 

“Key.” Long fingers disappear into his suit, peeling out the gray face of a hotel room key and holding it between two fingers. Eyes pierce you, narrowed with a wave of horrible anger and swirling contempt that makes your breath hitch as if under the scrutiny of a wolf.

Your lungs hold themselves in your ribs like prisoners at the confession; eyes widening. 

Key?

Nikto levels out slowly, shifting with canid-like movements. “Walked in when we were speaking to the investigators over call.” He breathes out a rumble. “Nearly shot his head off.”

“You would have had a harder time than that, Хуй,” Iakov barks, dress shoes clicking as he slaps a foot forward. 

Heart hammering, your anxiety dances—questions muddling. Paranoia. Why would Iakov be allowed to have a key to your room? Had he always had one when you were sent out to parties?

What if he’d walked in before….?

Shaking your head at the implication, you step in before Nikto has a chance to jump the man, snapping out in a fashion that was unlike you, but came from both a place of desperation and nervousness. Your face pulls into a sharp display of panicked anger.

“Both of you shut up and listen!” Nikto freezes, eyes flashing instantly to shock. After a moment, any discernible emotion vanishes from his pale eyes, and he blinks down to you; shoulders lowering as if a display of submission.

While you can’t see it, Nikto’s heart sputters. He hadn’t expected that from you. 

Even back in Yekaterinburg, you were more prone to letting the course go calm—letting others lay themselves over you to avoid confrontation. You were still like that, of course; that was plainly seen in your unwillingness to explain before the party what was going on, but an outburst like that Nikto had never seen before. 

He watches you closely but remains mute even if his throat cages in a grunt of surprise.

Iakov freezes as well, neck snapping over like a fish on a hook. He was rageful and arrogant, you could now see it plainly. Even if he was always composed, you weren’t blind to the looks he would give you when he passed you in AMA—the discreet touches to the back of your shoulders or arms when you’d be given schedules face-to-face. 

You were stuck in a circle of distrust and lustful eyes, and the only reprieve was a man with more blood on his hands than a butcher holding a pig’s heart. 

Trying to calm yourself, you shake your head softly.

“Iakov,” you utter at the glaring face, hate and disgust stuck behind pupils. “Explain it to me.”

“You fucked it all up,” he growls, and Nikto’s gaze snaps to return to a pale face. Yet he still doesn’t interfere, hanging around like a puppy lacking his needle teeth. Muzzled. It doesn’t stop his eyes from sparking, however. “There is no deal with Tarkovsky! You know what that means, Seraph?” His hair is flattened down by a fast hand, tongue licking at his lips. “No money. Fedorov is wringing my neck! Why have you not answered the phone?!” 

“I was resting,” you mutter stiffly, face a tension-ridden mess. Glancing at Nikto and his tight pupils, the Russian doesn’t look over, only his hips moving in a small shuffle. You clear your throat with a small ache starting to form at the base of your skull. “Just got up.”

“It is past noon,” the shorter man barks. “This is absurd!” 

“Lower your tone,” Nikto utters. 

“I will speak what I will,” Iakov’s expression is like a knife as you stuff your shaky hands into your pockets. “Seraph needs to listen to what I tell her to do before—”

“Before what,” your guard interrupts, tilting his head. Around him is a false calm that somehow seems more violent than if he was yowling like a mutt. Your lips thin into a line. “Hm? Speak. You were doing it not a second ago.” 

Your coordinator stills and he wisely keeps his tongue from flapping.

“We will say it only once more,” you watch Nikto from the corner of your eye, breath trapped in your throat as his hips tighten and arms slip to hang by them; gloved hand flexing where the lack of a digit is glaring at you. “Watch your tongue.”

“I’ll call him,” you comply to Iakov’s complaints after a moment of heavy silence, face on fire and your chest being hit by every palpitation of your heart. Your mind is airy, and that scent of rotten wood is back as your legs push in on themselves. “I’ll explain what I can and—”

“Too late,” is the hissed answer. “He already gave me my workload. You’re going out tonight if you still want your job.” Your spine goes rail-straight. “This is the last chance, Seraph,” the pale-haired man spits. “This is it—you’ll put on what I have for you to wear, you’ll give yourself to the man who wants to invest into AMA, and you’ll keep doing what I tell you to. Your dog,” Iakov stares at Nikto for a long while, opening and closing his hands like he wants to say more, but only growls, “will do as he is ordered.” 

Nikto is about to punch him, you can tell by the roll and shake of his wrist. In an instant, you have your hand grabbing at his bicep, barely applying pressure beyond the initial grasp and yank. It does the trick though. 

Nikto’s body halts.

“Give me the key and get out,” you say in a monotone to the raging coordinator. 

Iakov looks like he’s going to fight on that, and your unease at his presence gets larger. The knowledge that he had access to your hotel room the entire time makes your muscles writhe with something dangerous—alarm bells. But the stalker isn’t here with you, is he? He’s back in Yekaterinburg unless there’s something you don’t know about.

Before you can pull on your guard’s arm again, Nikto pounces and slaps the key to the floor, which skids along the white tile as you gasp softly. Great hand connecting with a shouting Iakov’s collar, Nikto doesn’t let go as he begins dragging the man away like a toddler with ease, dress shoes scuffing the floor. 

Face loose, your eyes follow as the Russian grasps the door handle, yanks the barrier open, and tosses the coordinator out with a snarl. 

“You need to obey what I tell you—!” The scream is cut off as the door is slammed shut in Iakov’s face ruthlessly. A lock clicks in place, and that’s the end of it. 

Nikto stays to stare through the peephole, eyes beady and chest heaving with heavy breaths. Under the mask, his skin is taut with feral tension. 

In his youth, the Russian had been unswayable in his anger—a fact that resulted in many a school fight and bloodied faces, usually not only his own. It’s what brought him to the military, to be completely honest with himself. A lust for something he could control like a pocket knife in his hand, but bigger than two teenagers wailing on each other in some field while a gaggle cheered them on. Split knuckles and cut lips. One thing never got any easier, though. 

That damn spark of animalistic loyalty.

He’d formed some bond with you, that was certain. Mutual gain? Who knows. Bodily need? Maybe. Actual care? …Curse him, but perhaps. Yet, hold his toes over a fire if he didn’t feel a horrific rage at some man he could break over his thigh speaking to you like that. 

He feels your gaze on the back of his head even now, as he watches that media coordinator scurry off like a rat, and he flashes to the ongoing gag the two of you had formed. 

Looks like a Shrew. Little rodent.

Nikto sighs under his breath, fingers coming up to rub at his covered chin, scraping gloves against the thick canvas. He backs up with a scoff and stalks away. 

“The man is weak,” Nikto says to you, keeping a tight side-eye. “Get a better one before we dispose of him.”

You strangle down a quick laugh, mouth slowly opening as you think over your words. The comment, said in that rough and sandpaper-like accent, flows through you like water. You should be put off by it, you think to yourself in the back of your brain, especially after the explosion in the bakery and the death of your three previous guards; of Yefim.

Yet…

Your throat tightens. “You think he was being serious?” You ask. “About the party tonight? My job?”

“You are not going.” It’s immediate. 

“Nikto,” you frown, stepping forward as he brushes past you to grab his phone that was sitting on the coffee table. “There are parts that I won’t be a part of again, but I know that you know, that I need to keep my position at AMA. With any hope, showing up will be enough—I can speak, persuade, the person who—”

“Why?” he spits, shoving the device away as his pale eyes glare, head tilting. 

If you knew any better, you’d compare this to a boy pouting. Just perhaps a bit more serious. 

“Oh,” you vaguely motion with a hand, sarcastically uttering as your heart slows now that it’s only the two of you. “I don’t know—food, rent, the ability to live comfortably. You know, the usual.”

Nikto huffs, taking out his baretta and placing it on the table before the cleaning rag is slipped from his belt. He sits down near the neatly folded blanket and perfect pillows, silent. You’d have to keep this conversation going later, there was a low curiosity in your stomach. His phone—the speaking you’d heard from the bedroom. 

“Who were you talking to before I came out?” Walking forward, you listen to the click of dark metal as Nikto takes apart his gun piece by piece, setting them all down in a well-thought-out order. He glances up, and you see his lashes dip in a blink. As usual, his expression is unreadable while behind that mask. You almost missed the balaclava—at least you could see the outline of his lips that way.

“Anything important?”

“Investigators,” Nikto grumbles. “They have taken Sergi into custody, but can get nothing out of him,” he pauses, troubled though you can’t see it as your eyes widen, body going to sit beside his own before intently listening. 

“That’s perfect!” You speak, a smile overtaking your lips. “Maybe that’s why I haven’t gotten any more texts from the stalker. Do you think that they’ll keep him there?”

“No,” you still, smile freezing. “They cannot.” Pale eyes stare into your own smoothly before they break away. Nikto clears his throat, fingers twitching as more bits and bobs are polished. “DNA does not match those found on the letters from your lockbox. It is illegal to falsely detain someone for over forty-eight hours. He will be released unless further evidence is discovered.” 

It’s a slow moment before you swallow down the sharp disappointment in your gut, attention darting from the silent Russian to the table. 

“Oh.”

Nikto’s muscles tense the longer this silence permeates, eyes unconsciously darting back from his gun to you. After a long while, he sighs aggressively, dropping the rag and the slide he had been polishing without thought as it thumps to the table.

“Птичка,” he turns, and you blink back to him just to notice the instant tension as your eyes lock. 

Such grays and blacks make up his being, that you wonder if color even mattered when it came to him—you already know those shades of in-between things, and Nikto could certainly be described as in-between. The activities of the storage room flash behind your vision, and your lips part softly. 

But something isn’t right. 

You’d thought that maybe Nikto would always be something of a blank slate to you—obviously, you could tell when he was frustrated and such, but anything beyond that was still up to your imagination. But it’s especially telling when you can understand the way he hesitates to touch you when his hand rises. 

The limb moves to your bicep before the Russian drops it back down, turning back to his rag, and gets back to work with the lines beside his eyes visible as if grimacing. Beyond the anxiety, and the paranoia, you find the hurt burns sharper than those two ever could.

Not to mention the uncertainty. 

You stare openly for upwards of three minutes, hesitant with the white noise in your brain overtaking your thoughts. 

Nikto’s head is thumping—attacking every ounce of common sense to be found. The picture on his phone; the implications. The stalker wasn’t Sergi, because Sergi was at this very moment still detained and had been since last night…how could he tell you that? A man who was already horrible with words, so used to barking out his true feelings to soldiers and civilians alike. He can’t be that with you. Not anymore. He doesn’t want to be. But he’s stubborn—he’s prideful. Arrogant. It’s easier for him to figure it out himself than burden you, and in many ways, you were the same beast.

Mutt, mutt, mutt. Golden chains around supple flesh.

Nikto opens and closes his mouth many times, not knowing how your heart is cracking piece by piece; so averse to speaking about yourself. He’d left while you were still asleep to make the phone call himself to your investigators, not able to stare at your face any longer or feel your flesh. It had made his attention slip, and his focus fail. 

The lack of control where he already had so little. He couldn’t take it, and in that, he felt dirty. Tainted. 

The knowledge that someone had a picture of you in perhaps the most vulnerable moment he’d ever seen you in was worse, still. Like the blood on his hands was smearing itself over you, dipping along your waist and hips; sinking its dripping knuckles into the tight clutch of your welcoming walls. Fingerprint marks over your navel, clawing. 

Nikto flinches subtly in his seat, a low sound echoing in the back of his throat. He wishes he’d never known the color of blood if only to not be able to imagine it along your pretty skin. 

The Russian had only been thinking about it when you were sleeping, a slow infection seeping in as it always did—the stalker had been just behind him and he hadn’t heard a thing. The thought was enough to nearly make him vomit.

It was an utter disgrace to his skills. 

He can’t be distracted anymore; not now. Not when he feels the fingers digging into his scars, the cuts, the drags of knives, and the burn of fire. He needs that control back. Some semblance of stability. 

You try not to show how much you’re taken aback—how much Nikto’s sudden distance is a physical pain to you. The dead air settles, and you feel your pulse through your skin like a wound. 

“...Anything else, Nikto?” Your voice is deathly still. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you had pushed something too far. 

“...Нет.” The Russian’s fingers are hovering over the pieces of his gun, dismantled and laid bare to the overhead light of the blinding hotel. This place is cold; sterile. You’d said it before and you’d say it again—this was not a place you’d want to live. Now…even less so. Nikto clears his throat as you stand jerkily, sending a glance that lands on your throat and not your eyes. “There is nothing.”

You nod quickly. 

“Good. I’m, uh,” your tongue wets your lips, and pale eyes try not to follow the motion even as he finds it like a siren call. Control. “I’m glad. I’ll figure out the details about the party tonight and get back to you.” 

Nikto’s shoulders froze, but by the time his damaged brain had caught up with his mouth, you were already back in the bedroom and shutting the door with a soft hand. 

A blue gaze sticks to the barrier, but not a single sound creates so much of an echo as the seconds draw into minutes. 

“Enough,” Nikto orders himself, turning back to the table. Lips shifting into a deep frown, there’s little in the way of understanding his own actions, but wasn’t that the norm? Distance lets him think—thinking means solutions. Solutions for you; solutions for him. 

But the feeling of your warm flesh is addictive, and there are moments in between the flashes of bloodshed that circulate when your brushing fingertips scrape down his back—a bear to a deer, but now he’s not too sure which is which. There’s a need to consume and eat down sustenance until his face is bloody and raw again, that half of a Glasgow smile ripped open and hanging, brutality ingrained into his psyche by way of pain and pleasure. 

You touching him was both.

Being near you was both.

Knowing about that picture he’d been sent was worse than the former.

Nikto had thought to tell you, he’d been getting better with that, but then he’d truly thought it over and in his own way wanted you to be safe from just one more violation. It was how he was—a silent, brutish, mutt-like hired gun. He was smart, though. 

And, damn him, he liked it when you smiled. 

“Focus on the task,” he grunts, his knuckles under his gloves surely white from how hard he handles the metal of his beretta, stress cleaning even if he doesn’t know it—doesn’t acknowledge it.

His tight-pupiled eyes keep dragging themselves back to the door.

—

The hotel stayed in a suffocating silence even as the stylists came and went. They didn’t say a word as the hours lengthened—nervous, if you had to guess. The story of ‘the guard who snapped a man’s wrist in one motion’ had made its rounds quickly; gossip always on loose tongues. 

You’d had a call with Fedorov. You think you had only gotten through it because you’d dug your nails so hard into your hand, that the initial scrape of cartilage had distracted you from the threat of being fired. The beady-eyed CEO had been less than pleased, and that was all you wanted to comment on; to even think about.

“I’ve heard troubling things, Seraph. Very troubling. What is this about your guard? I had thought we had come to an understanding about it. Tight leash, yes?” 

Your fingers skate the smooth front of the newest dress you’ve been given, and you play with the dangle of cold metal around your fingers. Rings. You don’t know if they’re gold or silver, nor the gems set into them, but you know they’re elegant—just as the fabric you wear is.

There’s no great slit here, not in this form-fitting sleeve of white. Two pieces of fabric move up to cover your breasts and meet at a collar around your neck of the same silk, the train extending from the back of that collar that trails the ground. Lace, of course. Your shoulders are bare, just as a good ninety percent of your back is; only stopping at the small of your back where the fabric is once more tight to you. Pearls and feathers create a beaded version of a corset, tantalizingly caressing your bare flesh. 

Your first thought is that you’ll freeze in this, but the second is how you’re going to walk in the heels—a silk strap looping your ankle before a big bow meets your eyes.

And the third is even worse.

“I think I’m losing my job tonight,” you whisper, blank-faced and knowledgeable of Nikto once more waiting where he had been before. A vicious repeat, a hopeless deja vu. 

A pawn in someone else's game.

Your fingers tap your abdomen in broken intervals. There had to be a way out of this, you try to tell yourself. 

Think. 

But your mind always drifts back to the damn ex-soldier that’s in the living room. His attitude today—his distance from you was like taking a bullet to the gut. You should be celebrating the detainment of Sergi, of possible breakthroughs even if the DNA didn’t match. 

The baker’s boy knew something, that was a fact. 

But nothing. No joy—no jokes or sarcasm. 

As you look at yourself now, you can only now recognize the expression of utter defeat you wear so plainly like a burial shroud. This was a cruel game. But there was something truly frightening about how close you and Nikto had become in such a relatively short period. Akin to soulmates finding one another, except for the simple fact you didn’t believe that was what the two of you were anymore. 

It had been a brief hope, truly. But one that you’d wanted more than anything, and you don’t know why. You don’t know why you let him touch you; let him be so near—it runs around your brain to speak itself in tongues just like the rest. Problem after problem. 

One at a time, you turn and exit the room, not looking at yourself longer than you have to. 

Nikto stands stiff by the door, already in his suit and balaclava—M13 and Beretta back where they belong respectively. The knife, you have no clue, though you know it’s somewhere. 

There are no compliments from the two of you. No speaking. So quickly something flipped on its head. Pale eyes dart, but when they meet yours, drip and drag away to the coat rack as you grab for your jacket. As your attention tries not to linger, you see him momentarily peel back his eyelids at the sight of your elegant dress but say nothing beyond a garbled sigh.

The air was so thick, that it was nearly enough to display how idiotic and childish the two of you were for acting like this.

You open your mouth and push out, “Ready to go?” 

In the hours you’d taken to get ready, the Russian had come up with a plan. 

He nods to you now and opens the door, allowing you out as he stays behind, making sure the lock clicks as you glance over your shoulder. Beginning to walk with him just a foot away, Nikto runs over his idea once more. 

With any hope, the stalker now had a personal vendetta against him for getting physically involved with you—he’d been looking up studies in his spare time while you were getting dressed; tapping his fingers along his phone stiffly. 

Only one sentence stood out to him, and it still stands out now as you go to wait in the elevator ahead of his looming form, eyes to the ground and hand massaging the back of your head. 

‘Stalkers like to get their target isolated; they’re selfish. They want the person all to themselves and dislike anyone who can possibly get in the way of that. Whether it’s a romantic partner, family, or friends, if they pose a roadblock for the stalker it can result in added stress or an urgency to act.’

Nikto moves to stand beside you, shoving a firm finger to the ground floor button and glaring at the wall, lips stiff from under fabric. 

If the man would come after him, then it would get you out of the spotlight at least for a short amount of time—perhaps it would even be enough to catch him. 

Maybe tonight, Nikto wonders silently, eyes narrowing as his feet settle. He will be there. We need to be ready. 

Your lungs breathe down a slow breath, taking in oxygen until your chest rises with the swell like a bag in the wind. This feeling is something you don’t know if you’ve experienced before beyond the sensation of having to relearn your limbs after your accident; an expectation and a draw, something just there but out of sight. 

Inebriating instability. 

Instead of your hands being shaky, now your mind was. 

Nikto is so close—so there beside you. You wanted to reach out to him, to hang off of his arm. To be something. It was pathetic of you, especially after he’d already assured you that you both would deal with the uncomfortableness of your prior affair. 

Was this his way of dealing with it? Avoidance? He didn’t seem the type, and you’d already known that he wasn’t. 

So it’s bigger, your face pulls in. But what? Why this…hesitation?

Your eyes spark. 

Hesitation, no. In the elevator, your arms tense as the small sound of the metal box meeting the ground floor echoes; Nikto also darts his head up, deep in his thoughts. You both share an unexpected side-eye, before the doors open and you hurry out on unstable feet as your face burns. This is fear. 

“What are you afraid of?” You whisper to yourself, hearing those boots behind you. 

At the Russian’s unease, you find your own doubling just as simply. 

Who could make a bear afraid of the forest?

—

As you enter the party, you go about business and try not to stay on the fact that you have just gone through one of the most uncomfortable car rides you’ve ever experienced.

Passing off your jacket and hearing the doors close behind you, your curated smile dims to an imitation of happiness, shoulders drooping. 

Nikto had only touched your arm to guide you along the sidewalk to this more humble residence—not at all like the previous party you’d been to. Every step and click off your heels had welcomed the same nervousness, however. 

You still didn’t know what you were going to do, but right now, it was more important to just calm yourself to a state of taking it moment by moment. If it all came down to it, would you need Nikto to guard you again? Order him to break more bones? Welcome the spray of black fluid and gray meat? 

“Nikto,” you address the Russian as he blinks over, fixing his hold on his M13. He doesn’t like this either—he doesn’t understand why you don’t listen to him and go to events like this. Nonetheless, he’ll follow and steer you clear of any situations you shouldn’t be in. It was his job to watch you, not force your hand.

Pale eyes level with you before they go to survey the foyer. “What is it?” 

“When all of this is over,” you utter, walking forward. “What will you do?”

The Russian pauses, heart stuttering. What would he do? That wasn’t the question he thought you were going to ask, but it’s a welcome distraction from the mess of his head. 

“Go back to KorTac,” he breathes, elbow brushing yours with his voice like rocks. “The contract will be over. I will not be needed anymore, да?”

You tilt your head, licking at the corner of your lips to push back the bead of fear that had settled into your stomach. “That makes sense,” your mind pulls a flat-falling tease. “But who will tell me what color of the paintings on the wall?”

Nikto’s hidden face is a stiff reflection of your own, scars tight. It’s a strange thing, he understands, the pressure on his chest that grows stronger. He’s so used to keeping secrets…why was this so hard for him?

“The blonde woman will be at your side, no doubt,” he grumbles, looking away from the image of your beauty and the silk of your dress. “She will tell you. I am not the only one able to understand the need for it.” Those feathers and pearls make a strung corset of utter angelic purity. 

Blood on my hands. 

He’d already tainted you enough, hadn’t he? When did sex suddenly become important to him? Weighted with…with care. There were so many times he could carelessly get his fill and leave with nothing mattering to him—just another way to get off and forget the formalities of waking up next to someone and making breakfast. 

But wasn’t that exactly what Nikto had willingly done with you? Willingly sat near you for breakfast, willingly allowed you to coax him into bed to be a pillow, willingly touched you? Like a loyal beast, he had. He had. 

You were a horrible creature. A beautiful, lovely, creature. Disgusting. Awe-inducing. As holy and as blasphemous as all of the monsters that sit on his shoulders; the ones he cannot name.

Nikto’s fingers pull into soft fists, and his gloves stretch. He grunts as your face falls a bit at his reply, your head nodding as he clenches his jaw until his molars scream. 

You were messing with his head again. It wasn’t like he wanted you to not understand his motives—he needed to focus. 

“I didn’t think Iakov was like that,” you change the subject as you both awkwardly move into the party, voices moving along the airwaves as you enter the large living room. “I’ve never seen him so angry.”

“Men like that care about money and power,” Nikto answers, keeping your body nearest to the wall as he sticks to your right. “He will never forgive you for letting him lose it.” Pale eyes jump from one set of curious gazes to another. “It is not in his nature. Waste of skill.”

“Isn’t money what everyone wants?” You mutter, staying close to him and nodding politely at those who look your way with digging gazes. “That's why I’m here.”

“You are not the same,” is the swift answer, shifting vision stilling on a man with blond hair that moves through the crowd, camera sitting around his neck as dark eyes meet Nikto’s own. The guard blinks, and the individual is lost to the crowd.

Looking at you, the Russian’s eyes narrow. “You are not selfish, did we not explain ourselves enough earlier?” 

“You said I was good,” you explain slowly. Not good enough to keep?

“I did,” Nikto grunts. “I say what I mean. We do not lie.”

“Too prideful for that,” your mouth pulls into a smile. “Aren’t you, Big Guy?”

His eyes swirl, low amusements littering the pale orbs like a sly cat. “Да, вот именно.” 

You huff, not understanding the words, but knowing they’re agreeing with you. It’s as if a glass wall is dissecting the space between your bodies. You can see Nikto—hear him and feel his presence, but you can’t touch him; can’t get the smudges off without a rag. A blurry mess of black and white, not a slash of color to be understood. 

This separation was thin but still there.

“What aren’t you telling me?” You have to finally push as you stop near the back of the room, as far away from anyone as possible, but it isn’t at all private. Eyes turn and fingers shift over wine glasses. It was quieter here, too. Not so blatant in its display of choking wealth, but still rich if decor was anything to go off of. 

Nikto’s amusement vanishes instantly, and he’s back to a careful blankness.

Stopping as well, he only waits a second before uttering, “I do not tell you many things, Seraph.” 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” you bounce off of him, hands moving up to motion softly as your face twists. Shame hits you in the chest, and you take a shaking breath. “...I knew it would end up being like this if you found out about all of it. All your job stated was a simple protection contract, not some—”

You stop yourself. 

Pale eyes don’t blink once as they keep themselves tight to you. Nikto lets his mind calm before he speaks. “Why are we here?” 

Your brows shift, and you open and close your mouth. “I don’t know. I’m hoping my boss might give me some credit for just showing up and not—”

“Then we are going now,” he growls, attention flying from one prying person to the next. There are too many eyes here—too many ears. Nikto knows who might be lurking. 

“Why,” you lightly push back, chuckling sarcastically. “I’m not in any danger, Nikto. At every turn, there aren’t any stop signs at the side of the road—at least here I have a grab at good wine and company that doesn’t hide the truth from me.”

Pale eyes flare. People start to turn your way. There’s a pause as if there’s something the Russian wants to state, but it fails on lips that you barely see rise from under his balaclava.

“I told you I do not lie, woman,” Nikto grunts, stature ridgid from where it spreads like a steady corruption; a shadow lengthening. 

You had always avoided confrontation—always. You hated it, and, currently, you hated this as well. But the stress was getting to you, the threat of losing everything on top of your own life. Nikto had become a lifeline, and now he was trying to pull back. 

Why?

Your face turns, and you stalk away. “Then do me a favor and stop telling me half-truths.”

—

If steam were able to come out of your ears, you would have filled the room with that heavy layer of your anger. Nikto was still stapled to you—unable to leave after what he now understood might come to fruition at these events if he did. 

So, you both stood. 

Silent.

Stoic.

Unsatisfied.

A dog without a bone left longingly glancing as if its eyes could speak all the words that needed to be explained on a human tongue. 

Your hands push at the base of your skull, massaging the forming headache that had grown from when Iakov had let himself into your hotel. You can’t wait until these parties are over—until you can get another call from the investigators saying that your stalker has been apprehended with Sergi’s statements. There needed to be a happy ending to this; needed. 

This can’t be all your life is meant to be. 

You didn’t come here thinking that you would be sleeping with someone. Currently, as you’re sipping down the second glass of wine brought to you, you can see the head of the man you’re supposed to be attending to. 

Borya Belov, or something close to that. Your coordinator had sent a text, but you’d barely looked at it and the picture attached. Large and middle-aged, he was up and coming in the city, generating impressive amounts of money and influence through his iron and steel plants. He knew your CEO, too—old family friends. 

Your eyes tear themselves away before he can look in your direction, frowning heavily. A rock and a hard place. 

You were foolish if you thought that by you being here it would allow you to keep your job without handing yourself over. It seems you’ve been foolish a lot lately. Your gaze sneaks to look at Nikto and only finds a rigid pole in his place. No under-the-breath jokes or knowing glances. No indecipherable emotions. It was just blank.

Shaking your head lightly, you bring the wine glass to your lips and take a large sip, letting the swell of it fill your mouth before it slips into your throat; tasting the bitter edge. With all of the blatant mess of emotions, it wasn’t any wonder why anyone hadn’t come over to talk to you. 

“All of these things are the same,” you speak to yourself quietly, trying not to sweat as Nikto’s body shifts closer when Iakov walks past the two of you stiffly. The pale-haired man sends you a dark look and you bite your tongue, eyelids narrowing with unease. 

Get dressed, speak gossip, get used, repeat. 

Already the trap had settled, routine following like a pet. 

Your fingers run over the glass in your hand, nails dragging as Nikto’s eyes stare from the side, thighs tightening before he rips his attention back to the party. He grunts and tilts his head, shoulders rolling. 

Focus.

It’s in the atmosphere of a taut rope that you hear the thin conversation from not that far away. 

“Look at him.”

Your ears quirk, but you don’t think of it much as you drink down the last dredges of your wine, licking at the corner of your mouth—careful of the lipstick. It was a group of women all turned into one another, muttering quickly and giggling even more so. 

“Which one?”

“The big bastard, obviously. How much do you think he eats, hm? I’m betting an entire kitchens worth a day.”

Pausing, your spine slowly begins to straighten up, face stuck staring into the wall far across the room. 

“I bet he’s hideous under all of that. Look at the mask—see?”

The round of muffled laughter behind silken gloves makes your heart jerk inside of your ribs as one of the photographers passes by Nikto and you, fiddling with his camera in his hands.

Beside you, the Russian either hears what’s going on and ignores it, or can’t and is simply not moving because he found someone in the crowd to pay attention to. 

Looking over now, you’d place your bet on the first. 

Nikto’s eyes are void, tiny pupils stuck in on themselves as he stares at nothing—his M13 is strangled under the grip of black gloves, and that little sliver of skin you see from his wrist has visible tension in it. He cracks his neck silently, sets his feet, and pretends.

Watching as he’s so apt to do to you, your anger-ridden face steadily freezes the longer your ears strain themselves to hear above the clink of glasses and useless chatter. Work and pleasure are zapped from your mind.

“You think so?”

“I am willing to bet on it—a thing like that is hiding its face because it has to. No soulmate, either. Go up and speak to him; I want to see.”

“But…what if he does have a soulmate? That woman beside him, isn’t that the one from Yekaterinburg? They could be—”

Nikto’s fingers twitch, eyes flashing. 

“If I had a soulmate that had to hide his face from me, I would think he was a beast. No one would want to be within five feet of that.”

Few things made you angry. 

Liars, cruelty, and the rest of the normal points that were on the list everyone keeps. But there was something particularly special about how you hated someone talking about Nikto like that. Forget him hiding something from you, forget his distance and his inability to speak about his emotions—you still cared about him deeply. The words he’d said to you, how he carries himself; his blunt honesty. 

Your heels are hitting the ground before you can remember you’re here to not make a scene.

“Excuse me,” you say, slipping into an easy smile as you nearly trip over your own feet as you settle near the group. All of their eyes widen, some turning around to lock gazes with the sudden arrival. “Could you repeat yourself for me?” You chuckle without humor. “I swear I had thought I heard you talking about my guard over here.”

Your chin moves to allow your eyes to settle over your shoulder, looking back at Nikto who had walked two steps after you initially before seeing where it was you were stomping to. His wide eyelids are snapped back like book covers, darting from you to the women as if utterly confused.

“That one,” you point casually before turning back. “The, uh,” your body leans a bit closer, hand coming up to your grinning mouth, “beast.” 

The gray shade on some of their faces darkened, a few stuttering through a Russian and English jumble of words. 

You blink at them as a familiar shadow begins to sit over you, heavy boots connecting to the floor. Your face burns, but there’s truth in your words—in your conviction. 

“Seraph,” Nikto says quietly in warning. 

“One moment,” is the response he gets. Pale eyes are stuck to the back of your head. He doesn’t know what to do, but in his throat, there’s an airy feeling stuck there that he can’t describe. It swells in his chest first, spreading through his veins.

Nikto was always used to being the one to stand in front of you. 

His heart is pounding, and he doesn’t know how to tell you to stop—that it doesn’t matter. The bigger question he should be asking is if he wants you to. The man wasn’t unused to comments. He can take it. But that fire behind your eyes rendered him speechless.

“His name is Nikto,” you say firmly. “Not that I expect you to remember it,” you tilt your head, looking them up and down. “In fact, I think it would be better if you didn’t.”

Huffing, you’re acutely aware of everyone watching, and your previous anxiety over your work is null. Disgust breeds like death flies. 

None of this was worth it. 

“Nikto,” you utter purposefully, setting your glass down on a side table and stepping behind. One of the Russian’s hands hovers over your back, the weapon resting on his chest clicking as it shifts. “We’re leaving. I don’t know why we came in the first place. There are more important things to worry about.”

“...Understood,” he levels, voice deep. Nikto blinks a few times, face under his mask layered with heat. There was no focusing when it came to you—his iron will was being smoothed down like a rock in water. 

You push past Borya Belov without a glance, looking to the side to see a shock-stricken Iakov burning you with his orbs. There was nothing for you here. 

Heels clicking over the floor, your dress ripples out behind you, unable to think beyond the deep insult you had taken on Nikto’s behalf. What gave those women the right to say anything? Especially about his appearance. 

When physical looks meant so much to you, you dreaded that being placed on someone else as well. Even if it was apparently obvious that Nikto suffered just as you did.

“You did not have to do that, Птичка.” A hand grasps your upper arm and guides you away from the table you were about to run into as you both enter the hallway stiffly. “It does not affect us. Useless opinions—they do not reflect my character.” Jumping only slightly from being ripped from your thoughts, your head darts over. 

You frown into a hidden face, Nikto stuck on the site of your pulled expression. 

Cute, he silently thinks in that jumbled mess of a brain before his memories flash to the sight of that picture on his phone. The hand leaves you in an instant, moving back to his M13.

“I know I didn’t,” you breathe sharply, shaking your head. Closing your eyes, your shoes halt as you stop.

Nikto follows suit, pausing before turning back with a furrow of his brows.

It’s a special thing, the way your desperation bleeds into your sentence. “Will you tell me what’s going on with you, or not?”

He stares, body pausing under your attention. 

“Nikto,” you breathe, far enough away from the main living room to indulge in a bit of horrific truth. “I like being with you,” your words slip. “I mean with you, with you. Y’know? I like you near me—watching over me. I don’t want this to become something that jeopardizes what we’ve built up. I’m not asking for a relationship, or even for you to tell me that you care about me, I just…” you fail to finish, eyes breaking off to glare at the floor; fighting against the sting. “You’re making my head spin,” your words dip lower, and Nikto flinches. “Just…tell me what’s wrong. You’re not acting right, and you’re worrying me.”

You don’t think you’ve been looked at this intently before now. Not by boyfriends, not by flings, or crushes. It’s a bare thing, Nikto’s eyes. A landscape of pale gray tundras and white snow—you don’t know what he’s thinking as he stands there like some Greek statue; Aries personified and dropped right in front of you.

You want that blood of his, that malice and incurable damage. Not to fix it—not to change what’s already scored into flesh—but just to see those eyes soften as they had a handful of times before.  

A war god and a white bird. 

Nikto’s throat bobs in a slow swallow as you finish, pulse hammering as his gloves suddenly constrict his hands far too much. He doesn’t want to tell you. He doesn’t want to explain why his distance is more for his benefit than yours. 

You push once more.

“What are you so afraid of?” 

“You.” He grunts stoic-like, and all of it falls into a swift silence thereafter. Your breath is taken on one great rapturous theft. Nikto stares as your jaw slackens, mind going blank. 

He darts his eyes away and tilts his head. 

“...Come. We do not want to be here any longer.” The Russian’s body is next to yours and in a fast movement, you find yourself being gently prodded along to the front door, jacket grabbed from the side of it and settled over your shoulders. 

Grasping at the corners, this moment is verging on irreparable—you’ve never found yourself so thrown off course besides when the inevitable advances from the stalker had come to you. 

Your hands shake in unsteady intervals as you blankly stare ahead. 

Me? 

The car is cold when you get into it, pulling your jacket closer as you slip across the seat—Nikto grabbing the long trail of your dress and making sure it stays inside. The man sits next to you, grabbing and slamming the door with a fist thumping the window twice. 

Under you both, the engine starts up and the tires push against the concrete. 

Your eyes ogle Nikto, and not once do they leave them even as the Russian pointedly ignores you by keeping his head locked forward. His body moves to the turning of the car, and your phone in your jacket pocket is going wild with call after call as his feet shift to steady himself unconsciously. It’s all a blur of needless sound and emotion. 

“Me?” Your voice finally finds itself; breathless. 

Nikto doesn’t react, spine so straight, the seats of the vehicle don’t touch anything. His fingers over his gun twitch before he grasps the cold metal harder to stop them. 

The Russian tries to halt the way his eyes want to gravitate to meet yours, trying to think over every face from the party and who had made any attempts to get near to you; just in case something pops up tonight. Yet, the hitting pain in his ribs is akin to something ripping them open with a fork, mutilating an entrance to his heart just to take and grasp it in soft hands.

He was never taught gentle love. Nikto was taught to grab and rip at it, to claw into it with fangs until there was blood on his face, seeping down his throat to settle in his stomach—hoping it might find a way to spread to his soul. 

Iakov had a key, the man catalogs, trying to fight his quivering fingers as you just can’t seem to look away from him with those eyes of yours. Does he have motive? Perhaps. We need to add him to the list regardless. I did not see any repeating faces from last night here unless they were in another room or waiting outside. 

Pale attention briefly pauses to the driver of the car, strong jaw clenching.

Drivers? Stylists? Who else could be here and not be noticed even by me? 

Eyes flash to the previous party again, back to the crunch of bone under his grip. Hands trailing flesh, ripped lace, and silk that pools at his dress shoes. The feral rubbing of a gun between two panting bodies. It should have been enough stress relief for the both of you—Nikto wasn’t lying when he equated the affair to something he could look past. He wasn’t new to flings; he considered himself a master of them in his youth. It wouldn’t have made him think any differently about the job, except for that one pin-pointed problem:

He was right behind us. 

Nikto’s mouth goes dry, anger brewing. He blinks to stare out the window, and your gaze is still present as if a knife to his throat.

It doesn’t leave once.

—

The hotel room is seeped in an eerie level of silence. 

You’d long since called Iakov—said a firm and swift answer of, “I’m done with the parties,” and hung up before the yelling could start again. 

You’re not even sure if you still have your job at AMA, but that’s for a later date, it seems. Not having an income was worse than the emotional turmoil that had settled right on your chest.

Leaning in the window seat of the bedroom, you keep your legs tucked in close to you with the curtain stuck at your back, head resting against the glass. White lights twinkle, but the places that aren’t illuminated are too dark to focus on—an amalgamation of shadows like a veil. The night was always difficult for you and your sight, but right now you think it’s best to just sit here and stare, even if it’s at nothing. 

Your eyes drag slowly along the thin view of the street below, feeling the cold seep in through the glass, softly easing the headache that pulses at your temple. 

“He’s…afraid of me?” The door to the room is slightly ajar, a sliver of light from the living room making its way in. Your face twists. “What does that mean?” 

You pose no threat to him without something like a gun, so it couldn’t be that. And what had changed since this morning? He’d let you lay next to him—see a part of his face. You’d traced his tattoo with willing fingers; Nikto hadn’t pushed you away then. 

What had happened? 

There’s a small squeak of the metal hinges of the bedroom door, and your head rises quickly. 

Nikto stands there, in only a white button-down shirt and his dress pants; normal mask re-stiuated. Blinking gently, a thick pause emanates before you glance down at his hands and see a soft display of an olive branch. 

The gruff hired gun holds a tiny, white, tea-cup. 

“Magnolia,” he huffs, not moving an inch as he motions with his hand, the ceramic material clinking. 

You stare, oversized shirt all to cover you besides your undergarments. You’d long since lost the sense of embarrassment of bare skin—particularly yours. 

Pale eyes slip to caress the image of your flesh bathed in the sliver of warm light, your curious eyes stuck on him as his feet re-situated themselves. 

“You remembered?” You ask, trying to sound casual beyond the surprise. 

Nikto blinks, voice muffled. “I do not forget when it comes to you,” he hums, accent thick. “Drink.”

Softly standing, your bare feet hit the coldness of the floor, yet you feel it little. Walking over to stand in front of him, your hand reaches only to bounce off the small tea plate instead, fingers flinching back lightly from the miscalculation. Your face heats, and you’re about to utter a quick apology before Nikto’s hand captures yours. 

Gasping under your breath, the warmth that seeps through his glove goes bone-deep as he manually wraps your digits around the handle. Nikto grunts in satisfaction and lets you take it to you, keeping the plate which he lowers his hand with.

After a moment, you clear your throat and say while staring down at the liquid, “Where did you get this?”

“Bag.” Your brows tighten.

He sighs gently. “We packed it. You forgot, yes?” 

“Oh,” you nod. “Yeah, I didn’t even realize I had left it behind. Thank you, Nikto.”

The Russian nods once, and then pivots to walk back to the living room, leaving you standing there as the sound of rummaging items in the kitchen echoes. Holding the mug, the tea rippling under your unsteady grasp, your head shakes itself in slow exasperation. The man wouldn’t talk about this unless you pushed him…but would that break the unsteady relationship you’d been trying to build?

“All of this is so confusing,” your lips mutter before your body follows after Nikto, slipping out into the light of the room as you blink rapidly in response. 

Locking sights on Nikto as he cleans up the counter, your form is wracked with an impending sense of nervousness. Damn him and his mask—you didn’t have something you could hide your emotions behind. 

It was times like these when you wished your mother was warm enough to ask advice from, that your father wasn’t back in the USA with limited involvement due to the peaceful contact order. You were alone here, except for Aly. But this was something that only a parent could help you with, and you were fresh out of those. You doubted that your mom knew everything going on—you weren’t about to tell her you’d allowed a ruthless killer to get you off in a storage room after you’d seen him snap a man's wrist back. 

Nor that you enjoyed it. 

It falls on me, your breath is thin as you breathe it down, steadily moving to set the teacup to one of the many tables holding useless decorations. You scowl at the boring interior design unconsciously before your focus locks in. 

What you had to do was bring up your points clearly and smoothly—

“Why are you standing there doing nothing,” your eyes widen as Nikto fluidly turns to look over his shoulder directly at you. His gaze narrows behind Kevlar and canvas. “If you want to say something, speak.”

“I want you to tell me what’s gotten you acting like a constipated bear,” you blurt out. 

It’s almost funny the way his eyes flinch. 

Nitko grinds out, “We do not understand.”

“You do,” you huff, crossing your arms as your voice bounces off the walls. “I don’t have infinite patience, believe it or not.” Inside of your sockets, you feel your gaze soften; voice lowering to the level you’d raised it. “I think I’ve been honest with you, Nikto. I’m not trying to push you into a corner. You know that. I need an explanation,” you take a breath, “and you’re going to give it to me.” 

Pale eyes move to the side, and you visibly see the large Russian’s body fighting itself both internally and externally. You had noticed a few things from the time you’d come under his protection, some obvious—Nikto valued cooking and a clean place to rest; he liked reading, and a silence built on mutual respect. Nikto’s fingers twitched when he was either nervous or trying to focus. He tilted his head when he needed to think. 

You liked to think that you knew him quite well, despite it all. You especially knew his fraying patience. 

Nikto’s shoulders roll, bones cracking from under the button-up. His masked face is the only thing he feels gives him protection. A cover. 

“It is not something,” the man begins slowly, trying to convince you, “that you need to concern yourself with.” 

Your lips thin out, feet taking you forward as you shiver from the cold of the hotel. 

“Nikto,” you utter again, softly knocking your side into the counter before you can stand in front of him yourself. He looks down at you, chest moving up and down in slow breaths. 

You know the horrors that live under that fabric. The great scars—the burns that had slipped into your dreams as you’d laid on his thigh like a child afraid of the dark. You can remember the dips of them under your fingertips; the trauma that bleeds still. 

You’d called him beautiful, and of course you had, but the very base of it still left you cold with a betraying sense of sickness. Same with the lower half of his face, which you’d only chosen to see a glance of. It was a deep rolling of your stomach. You cared more for the marks he had put on, willingly, himself; the tattoos. Dark ink.

But that didn’t stop you from reaching out to him—responding to that addictive pull that had always seemed to be there from the moment you’d first met him in the Consulate Building. 

Your fingers hover over Nikto’s pec, right above his heart as you swallow saliva and stare with parted lips. Piercing eyes give way to nothing, but there’s a knowledge in the heart that beats above your waiting touch. 

You tilt your head and wait silently.

Nikto’s pulse moves his flesh, and he can feel every drop of blood under his skin. 

“It does not need to be explained to you,” he tries again, his firm words now only comparable to the sensation of rocks thrown along the sand. Salt-stained throat raw as your fingers brush his shirt. “Seraph,” Nikto attempts a tone of authority.

“Call me by the other one,” you mutter, and it’s pathetic the way he responds to your request in that hotel kitchen. Like a soldier following an order. A whining little dog beholden to a white-lace collar.

“Птичка.”

Your smile makes him want to rip himself away from you and take a cold shower, maybe stare at his scars; even break his mind again before it slips away to thoughts of your curling lips and your shining eyes. 

“That’s it,” you whisper, and your hand flattens over his heart as his gaze breaks away to the simple contact, blinking in confusion as his flesh pulls tight. “That’s the one.” 

But he was more surprised when he didn’t flinch rather than when he shivered. 

It’s only after a small moment of nothing that he lets himself bathe in the warmth of your skin and the scent of your perfume as it slips under his mask. A mask that has seen far too much death for you to bear. Then he’d want you to bear.

Your words make his bones ache.

“Tell me,” you urge, as perfect as a bird’s dew-coated feathers.

Nikto’s vision is stuck only to you, and his greatest fear is that this is all it will ever be bound to—not by honor, the man had no such thing, but by utter devotion. There was no lying about it now as his lips parted, those cut and torn-up things like a ragged jigsaw puzzle of pain. He cares not about soulmates or brain trauma. Blood or bile.

He cares about the sound a silent grave will make when his bones are the ones that chain themselves to rest beside yours. 

Mutt.

Now that, maybe, would seem an honor-coated title to carve into his corpse, but only if it was in reference to his affection for you.

“Picture,” Nikto grinds out, fighting to step closer to the addictive sensation of your touch. The warmth. The pound of blood. You listen silently, and not once do those eyes separate.

“Sent to my phone.” He pauses, and suddenly his voice is very low—you can feel it in your chest as it rumbles the walls, the floors; the bedroom door. It’s difficult to say how you feel when he explains it to you, there’s something relieving in knowing, though. Yet, it still makes your throat close in on itself. “Of us.”

“From the stalker?” You ask, already knowing the answer but hoping it might have just been a fluke. 

Pale eyes don’t blink.

“Да. From him.”

You take a large breath, nodding as your fingers quiver over Nikto’s dress shirt, creasing the fabric slightly. He takes a quick glance down at them again, and his own twitch at his sides.

“...Don’t tell me the details?”

“Never,” the Russian sighs, clenching his jaw. “Я бы этого не сделал. We did not want to explain, regardless.” 

You shrug as well as you’re able, hand beginning to slowly slide off of him. “Still,” your lips pull into a steady smirk, though it lacks enough amusement to make it convincing. “I’m glad you told me—I was getting worried that it might have been by fault you were acting strange.” 

“My emotions are,” Nikto struggles for the correct word in English, grunting as his mouth closes under his mask. He glares at the wall behind you as if a toddler without a snack.

You tilt your skull, tiny chuckles wafting out of your mouth. 

“Stuck, Big Guy?”

“Enough,” he grumbles, feet re-situating themselves from under him. 

Your hand is only a millimeter away from his flesh before his grip finds your wrist and brings it back, digits caressing to press into your pulse. You blink quickly, air getting stalled in your nose. 

Nikto’s eyes slowly dip to stare at your hand, and you notice the shades even more clearly now that you’re so close to him—though they’d always just be pale gray to you, there were moments when you wondered the true color. A silly dream, seeing as you wouldn’t know how that color would look anyway, but, still. 

The Russian’s large fingers turn your wrist. 

“Your heart is racing,” he mutters. If having your bodyguard check your pulse was something that you found attractive, now was only the realization of it. 

Your face suddenly feels like you’re walking on the sun, and a small noise in the back of your throat makes Nikto’s attention leave the fast thump of your blood.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Your breathless question eases out past your lips like a soft flutter of wings. 

“Hm,” Nikto hums, and you can also see his throat bobbing. His hold squeezes, his face looming just the tiniest bit closer to yours. 

The Russian takes a chest-rising inhale and speaks.

“I am not good,” he mutters, eyes moving the dips and drags of your face—it feels like his gaze is touching you when he stares like that; studying your visage as if he’d be tested on it. “We are not…” He blinks, and his pupils are small voids of inky corruption. “Perfect.” 

You wonder how often he’d found you in his mind, and feel both foolish and hopelessly lost in his shadow.

“I never said you were,” you murmur back, seeing the wickedness in his heart. Painted on his skin. “I think it’s lovely.” 

Here is where this should end—you’d both had your fun previously. You’d been sipping your sugar water like a little hummingbird; reveling in the intimacy of that storage room. You should be thinking about the stalker, about your job, about what will happen tomorrow when you open your eyelids to light through the curtains. 

Not about how Nikto’s fingers would feel digging into your hips. Not the panting of fast breaths. Not how the color of his eyes would be, perhaps, the most beautiful shade you could ever hope to imagine in your damaged brain. 

“Nikto,” you breathe, body light. He’s as still as a statue above you, not saying a thing. “What color are your eyes?”

“Blue.”

And then you’re being picked up as if a doll by the back of your thighs and hefted up with a throaty huff akin to a boar. Your forehead connects with his, and your arms wrap his neck to hang off with crossed wrists. 

“Blue?” Your legs tighten around his waist, squeezing as the man’s nose pushes into yours. Breath bounces off the mask, your eyes flutter at the firm press of fabric prodding at your underwear. You fight a small whine, bodies tight to one another. “Your hair?”

“Brown,” is the puff from under the mask, and tiny pupils dilate the longer you hold eye contact.

Your hips roll, and Nikto’s strained grunt reverberates against your chest. “Tell me it in Russian.”

“Карие.” He growls, fingertips digging into your flesh like the teeth of a bear trap. Nikto thumps past the place where you’d set your tea, completely forgotten by everyone just like the previous tension was. 

When the two of you were together, things managed to get out of hand quickly—at least, emotionally-wise. You both were utterly hopeless, just as the room was now far from the cold monochrome wash of white. It was bathed in spraying sparks lit behind your eyes when one of Nikto’s hands staples itself to the base of your back, just above the curve of your tailbone, and angles your core further into the growing prod of his erection. 

You gasp as your pelvis jerks, face twisting up with your pulse impossibly increasing. 

“You are curious,” Nikto pants, pushing past the bedroom door with a shoulder as the handle smashes into the wall. Not that you care. “You push me, Woman. Leave my head loose and my body aching.” You feel the way your core burns, aches, nearly, as your underwear gets wet with the anticipation of flesh. 

Your lips sear Nikto’s soul when they push to the canvas of his mask—just as they had in the storage room though now it’s harder to feel. 

“Don’t act like you don’t like it, Big Guy,” you whisper, tongue darting out to lick at your lips, eyes half-lidded. 

That pull between the two of you only seems to increase as you’re dropped back to the bed, head pointedly planned to slap a pillow as you involuntarily gasp. Your shirt is ruffled up to your breasts, and the sheets are around you like a cocoon of expensive finery—eyes darting to Nikto, you find his gaze easily standing beside the bed. 

He stares at you like you’re the greatest meal ever placed in front of him. Forget the items he cooks, forget the things he’d eaten, even forget the way it satisfies him; nothing could compare to even the thought of what he now has. 

You’re staring at a man with blood on his hands and wishing he would spread you open already. 

Nikto’s chest bounces with a pleased noise, gaze shifting to study your bare legs and arms—the stain that coats your underwear, spreading by the second as your thighs tighten in on themselves to trap the chill. Your face is on fire, and your lungs heave.

His ravaged hand grasps at your knee, coaxing them back open as he says a simple order with a raw voice, “Keep them open.” 

You’re not embarrassed with how you listen, letting the limbs be forced back to display your instinctual need to the large Russian. Your thin whine is choked back as his fingers run up and down your clothed core, teasing. 

Nikto chuckles, and you shiver. 

“We do like it,” he breathes out in response to your previous comment. Pale eyes dart to find and lock with yours—not leaving as his index and middle finger find your clit, pressing firmly and lightly rocking up and down. Your hips jerk as you bite on a shocked moan, relishing in the sudden ricochets of electricity that run your bones. 

Head tilting back, you bite your lip and pant out, “Nikto, yes.”

His fingers leave just as quickly as the words do you, and your desperate eyes move with near pain until your hand darts to grapple onto Nikto’s wrist like a cat. He lets you try and guide him back firmly, to no avail, before you grit your teeth and glare at him, opening your mouth.

Yet, the Russian’s hidden face finds your ear with no trouble and leaves your upcoming words frozen.

“But we like it better when you are too choked on pleasure to think at all.” 

Nikto moves back, taking his other hand and making yours release him before he steps away. He blinks, watching your aroused state as you stutter over your sentence; smirking to himself and tilting his head as if you’re an exhibit in a museum. The man grunts, now free grip able to slide to his belt slowly and fiddle with the buckle.

“Y-you’re horrible,” you grumble, eyes unable to stay on the image for long before you have to slash it away so you can breathe. The clinking of metal

“We did warn you,” Nikto pauses, his voice so laced with smugness that it seemed an insult. “Птичка.” 

Your lower body shifts, trying to satiate the urge for stimulation. 

Breathing heavily, you raise your forearm and put it over your eyes, expression tight as you try and focus. Your ears twitch to Nikto’s steady undressing, hearing the pull of dress pants and the unclipping of a thigh holster. Each sound sends a pulse directly to your weeping slit, and it becomes so strong that Nikto can only watch as your other hand slips under the elastic of your panties. 

He stops himself instantly, his eyes pulling back as he pauses. Slipped out of everything besides his shirt, boxers, and obviously his mask, Nikto’s shoulders tense wildly at the sight in front of him.

Your body is tight as you begin to breathe heavier, lips slightly open as your fingers idly roll your bundle of nerves a bit harder. Hips jerking every so often, your fingers stretch the fabric of your garment as your toes curl. 

“Fuck,” you breathe, jaw clenching and eyes closed from under your forearm. 

Nikto is firmly planted, the firmness in his boxers now seemingly to a point of no return—his fingers twitched to dig into your skin, his eyes stuck to how you were playing with yourself. Clothed in only a large shirt that was bunching up further to allow a glimpse of your breasts and hearing those tiny little noises escape your mouth…

“Harder,” Nikto grunts, his own hand slipping into his boxers as he hisses in pleasure at the state of himself. Firm in his grip as he wraps his fingers around the hot pulse of his cock, groaning when his thumb slips along his tip to collect the beads of pre-cum.

Your breath hitches and through your soft pants, you sigh as your arm slides, “I think I know how to—”

Your fingers twitch harshly as your eyes flutter open to lock onto the scene in front of you, causing you to moan before it strangles off with a quick noise in your throat. Eyes wide, you watch Nikto begin jerking himself off one slow stroke at a time, his thighs tense as his other hand moves to unbutton his shirt one at a time.

There was something so inherently intimate about seeing the other in the throws of self-pleasure, half-clothed and desperate for something that can’t be named. The chain of events was building, and some concerns needed to be addressed, but it isn’t fair to have to put your life on hold for them—necessary, yes, eventually. But Nikto’s eyes were so hellishly pale, and your hands were shaking, and the scent of sex was permeating inside of your nose. It’s different than the storage room, it’s hinged on the knowledge that this bear of a man is afraid of you, which in and of itself is unfathomable, and that he was in such a sour mood simply because he had been trying, once more, to spare you from the unseen threat. 

He had done it with the birds in the box, he’d done it when you’d gotten the first pictures sent to you, and he did it every time he let you hang off of his arm. 

You push your digits across your clit harder and whine out as Nikto’s open dress shirt slips to his waist, the cuffs rolled up as bare skin meets the darkness of the room. That sliver of light from the door was all that was needed, the barrier having slowly crawled its way back from where the Russian had shoved it, to witness the bulge and dip of scar tissue—the shades of hyperpigmentation. 

And you wanted to drag your nails along all of them.

“Смотреть на себя,” Nikto’s chest heaves, the bulk of his frame just the same as when you’d touched along his back. His hand inside of his boxers stutters, and his eyes flinch closed for a moment, masked face tilted. “Хорошим слушателем. Good for us, hm?”

“Touch me,” you ask, unconsciously mirroring Nikto’s pace as the sensitivity of your core heightens, leaking out to stain your underwear to the point it’s no use to keep them after this. Your spine is tight—begging to be arched just as your cunt begs to be filled. It tightens over nothing, and you whimper with a push of thin breath. “Please, Nikto, you filled me so well last time.”

His eyes glint, that Russian pride bleeding to fill the cup in his abdomen. Nikto smirks, but you can’t see it above the large hand that goes to grip your face, angling it to him as his other hand continues with the wet slapping of his cock. You want to see it—you want to watch it. Damn him he’s making this into a game of cat and mouse.

“What is that? You like when we fill your tight cunt, Птичка?”

Your face burns, and your eyes study his own as your pace below increases—rotting wood taking root beside sweat and pheromones. 

Nikto’s grip squeezes and you hear the rutting of flooded skin more clearly as he looms over your body, both fucking yourselves for no other reason than liking the sight and the sounds of the other.

“Answer.”

“Yes,” you stutter, unable to stop the thin noises from your mouth that follow—the cord in your abdomen pulling until taunt. “God, yes.”

“Not God,” the Russian chuckles before he groans, forehead connecting with yours as it rocks to the rabid abuse of his own hand, trying to imagine the sensation of your walls against them instead of his calloused fist. Your flesh would be softer than his ever could be, and the knowledge of that is enough to reduce him to a mindless beast. His breath hitches tightly, his hand moving rapidly, unconcerned about how fast his release is finding him just by hearing your little pleas. “No, Seraph, there is no God in this room.”

When he drinks down the sounds you give him he feels your body tense one final time, your lips flattening as your eyes flutter—only seconds away from your orgasm, perhaps. 

Nikto’s hands leave your face, and so does his forehead. You barely notice, truth be told until it’s not a second later that fingers are gripping the hand down your panties and dragging it out just as your hips begin rising off the bed. 

“No!” Your desperate keen echoes off the walls, eyes snapping open to rip your head down to the scene. Nikto was lacking his shirt, boxers are gone, and as he staples your arm beside your head, his body drags itself atop yours until his weight is as firm as stone. “Nikto, why did you—?”

“Hush,” he utters, knocking your leg up over his hip in a swift thrust that leaves the leaking tip of his dick prodding against your sopping cunt. Your eyelids flutter at the sensation, painting only to have your breasts shove into a sweaty chest.

“So close,” you beg, the feeling of your release draining away, leaving you irritated and unsatisfied. 

Your hips roll in a play to find friction, and the feeling of Nikto’s happy trail seems promising as you grind up into it, but there’s only so much you can do when the man’s other hand snags your waist and pushes you down.

You glare heatedly up into blown and smug eyes. 

You know better than to ask him to remove the mask, and now that you look at it, maybe that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. There was something alluring in those eyes, set into the dark void around them, deadly and numb, yet showing more emotions than anyone else would be able to tell besides you. 

“Let us help,” Nikto pushes himself up, grinding into your core as your glare breaks away into blown need. “I have something better than fingers. Show you how good it can be, yes? Show how you are supposed to be treated, Little Bird.”

Your hands slide up to his shoulder blades and he groans under his breath, taking in the sensation of nails along flesh, catching on the scars until they settle. Had he not imagined this before? Had he not fantasized? Desired? Sinful, yes, but he’d do it again if he could still feel the wet fluids of your arousal coating his abdomen. If this was the outcome of Nikto becoming locked in his own stoic emotions, there was a part of him that was greedy because of it.

There was no possible way that this was going to continue…right? 

His ears twitch to your voice as your legs shift to wrap the top of his hips, dragging his pelvis ever closer until he’s fighting the wave of agony by not having your cunt pulse around him. 

On your part, there wasn’t an ounce of hesitation.

“Then show me.”

It’s easy to slip the tip of himself inside of you—there’s enough fluid to render even the thought of dry friction impossible. Nikto's body shudders at the sensation, though it’s only a small portion of what you both need.

Your head rocks back, fingertips digging into the Russian’s shoulders as you both curse at the stretch of your folds. You hadn’t been able to gawk at the build of the man tonight—both too desperate for release—but thinking about how he gives small thrusts to help himself along, his eyes not moving from you unless to blink, you’d safely say he was well-endowed.

“Fuck,” your lips quiver, sweat at your brow. Through the whimper, you moan, a large thumb finding your clit and rolling as the sound of squelching echoes between the groans and whines. You’re both nothing but damn animals. “Could have,” you gasp, and Nikto stops before you shake your head and pull him closer. “Could have given a girl a warning, Big Guy.”

His strained chuckle only makes your core welcome him more, and the feeling of textured veins and warm flesh steadily driving itself home was addicting. Sex had never felt as fun as this. As safe.

Nikto made it safe.

“Apologies,” he grunts out, great form above you before you feel the nested base of his pelvis connect with yours. 

You both shake and your face is open with a pleasure-driven emotion as the Russian slides his head to your shoulder, his breath echoing from under his mask into your ear. He licks his lips, grip on your waist and arm pulsing with steady intervals of—tense, release, tense, release…

“Are you—”

“Fucking hell, please start moving,” you gasp out, grinding into him as the string on Nikto’s caution flees like a loose animal. 

His hand travels back from your waist to your hip, the other to the back of your neck, and as he staples his forehead to yours, he grinds out a quiet, “да,” and moves himself out of you nearly all the way as your eyes roll to the feeling. 

When the bed starts knocking the wall, there’s little to the imagination as to what’s taking place, and the steadily rising sounds mean nothing as sheets rustle and skin slaps faster, both sensitive from such near releases earlier. There are mutters in Russian, fast, harsh things that hold no venom—slow mutters that make your legs go numb long after both of you had finished. 

Nikto was right: for such a brute, he did know how to treat a woman. Well, maybe he just knew how to treat you right. 

Multiple times.

TAGS:

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[durrtydawg]

Look, Don't Touch.

(Sam Drake x F!Reader smut) 3rd person

CW: It's smut, it's sex polleny, and it's got a big, fat, dubcon warning. Also a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, internal conflict, etc etc. For detailed tags, please check out ao3, as funnily enough, I literally cannot add any more text into this post 😛

Masterlist

This is long. Horrendously long. Like... *18,000 words* or so, so I don't want to hear any yapping if you click 'read more' and don't actually want to read. Dare I say, quantity over quality? Sorry to those that wanted this split into parts, but honestly... I couldn't make it work, so here we are. Regardless, I hope someone out there enjoys this!! It's been my baby for a while, and whilst not the best thing I've written, I need to let it go before I, too, become a reprobate by force x

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“In the wake of the Second World War, the elusive Polish alchemist Dariusz Cassimir left behind a legacy shrouded… ooo… in mystery. Hmm. Shrouded is a fun word.”

“Big door. Ominous etchings. Doesn’t get more ‘shrouded in mystery’ than that. This has gotta be it.”

“O-kay… But how do we get in?”

She shrugs, turning back to him with a raised brow. “Oh, I don’t know, Sam, maybe the huge lever right next to said mysterious door?” She purposely targets her flashlight at his face, making her way over to the lever. He swats her with the notes in his hand.

“Okay,” Sam sniffs, striding ahead with a crack of the knuckles after he fixes his own torch to his belt, “‘Cause of the attitude, I get to open it.” He grins sarcastically, making sure to gently nudge her shoulder as he passes, thrusting the papers he was reading from into her hands.

Her eyes roll, but she finds the cockiness endearing- and he knows it.

“Known for his work in chemical weapon and explosives development throughout the Great War, and the start of the Second, Cassimir's true genius lay in the shadows, where he conducted secretive experiments with potions, remedies, and poisons, yada yada… yeah, right.��

She continues reading out from where he left off as Sam checks around the lever for any dodgy set-ups that might send the two of them plummeting into an inescapable pit, falling victim to some sort of horrific creature ready to maul the two of them to death, or perhaps crushed by a flurry of falling boulders, etcetera, etcetera. No death trap is too garish in this line of work.

“Oh. Listen to this. Ahem. Despising intrusion into his work, Cassimir was rumoured to eliminate those who stumbled upon these experiments without permission.” She hums. “So, not only was this guy insane, but he was a murderer too- hey, be careful with that lever, please... I don’t want a repeat of the Tuscan trap door incident.” She sighs, fingernails trepidatiously digging into the straps on her backpack as he braces his hands against the lever.

“Still not over that, huh?” Sam snorts, turning back to her with an arrogance-tinged smirk as she grimaces, folding the paper and stuffing it into her jacket pocket.

“My ankle isn't.”

He scoffs. “Every possible trap we’ve come across today has either rotted itself out of action or has been destroyed by some other poor bastard that got here before us. Besides,” He stamps a boot against the ground to prove his point, “It’s a dense stone floor. I don’t think trap doors are a cause for concern here.”

“Famous last words.” She murmurs as he pulls on the lever, a soft grunt signalling that it takes more effort than initially predicted. “You sure you don't want to find another way in before you start fiddling with- nope? Okay.”

“What’s…the worst…” he pauses, re-positioning himself to give a little more force to the lever, “that could- Ow, Jesus!” He cuts himself off with a hiss of pain as the lever finally gives and he stumbles upright, wincing.

“Aw. Too much strain on your big, strong, man muscles?” She questions teasingly as Sam glares at his hand, flexing his fingers with a frown.

“The damn thing pricked me.”

A sudden deep rumble through the ground prevents her from quipping back as both of their attention is now taken by the stone wall in front of them slowly sliding to the side with a wince-worthy scrape.

“It’s always fascinating how something so archaic can still be so…mobile.” Sam says inquisitively, causing her to snort.

“Talking about you, or the door?”

He offers her no more than an unimpressed glare, lips pursed and eyes heavy-lidded, still scrunching and un-scrunching his hand.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, ya know.” He grumbles, watching a cheeky pout form on her lips.

“Thank you. Anyway, it's probably not that old. Cassimir used this place as his base between the first and second world wars, which, in the grand scheme of things, isn't that long ago. I’m guessing, with all the influence he had-”

“-He spruced up the place. New doors. Lick of paint. Few booby traps for good measure. The usual stuff.” He concludes for her with a slow nod, eyes narrowed at the lever, attention diverting back from the door to his palm.

She snickers.

Her smile deepens into a grin as he bares his teeth in irritation at his tiny little injury.

He grumbles, thumb rubbing small circles on his palm.

She steps forwards, “C’mon, grump. Serves you right for touching things you shouldn't.”

“Well, thank you for exhibiting the utmost care and patience.” He responds, brows knitted together as he continues to scrutinise his hand.

“Don't guilt-trip me.” She turns back and holds onto his wrist gently to inspect the palm of his hand. A little more than a pin-prick sits in the centre; a fresh bead of blood oozing to the surface each time he wipes one away. 

She pouts as she examines it, then offers a quick glance to the lever to see…nothing interesting at surface level. She turned to him with a moue. “What is it? A splinter?”

“Don’t think so.” He mutters, wiping the speckles of blood onto his jeans, nose scrunched into an expression of disapproval.

“Well…You’ve gone through far worse. C’mon.”

He hums in amusement at her dismissal of interest before the two of them begin to walk down the newly revealed corridor.

As she disappears off into the distance, Sam takes a glance at his assailant, cringing as he notes a tiny divot in the centre of the smooth, varnished wood of the lever- furthermore, two engraved letters beneath it. ‘I D’.

“The hell does i-d mean?” He mutters, glancing at his hand again and wiping it on his jeans for the second time with an irked grunt. Strange.

“Noooo!” Her voice echoes from around the corner, attracting his attention back to the task at hand. Or… away from hand, rather.

He turns in her direction, approaching from behind as she grumbles at yet another obstacle. She frowns down at a dormant stone pressure plate on the floor.

“Guess old Cassimir really doesn’t want us getting in there, huh?” Sam mutters, making his way beside her as they both look at yet another enormous door blocking them from proceeding any further.

“Yeah. What an asshole.” She turns to Sam, tongue swirling contemplatively around a molar as he looks down at her with narrowed eyes. “Any lever this time? Stupid thing won’t do anything.” A tut from her makes him chuckle, watching her impatiently scuff the toe of her boot against the plate as if it’ll make it do something other than sink into the ground a little.

He shakes his head, hands on his hips as he ponders their next move. After a moment, he pouts.

“You… think you can squeeze through there?” Sam questions, eye-line fixing onto the discoloured stained glass of a small window framed by stone above the door.

Her cheeks puff up as she assesses the window held ajar by some sort of rusted hinge. A slow exhale deflates said cheeks before she shrugs.

“You severely underestimate the size of my ass, but yes. If you can get me up there, I can certainly try to ‘squeeze through’.”

“Hmm.”

He leans back, making a show of inspecting her rear with exaggerated intrigue.

“Oh, y- yeah, you might be right.”

She flashes a middle finger. “He's here all week!”

“You'd love that, huh.”

“Stop flirting for a sec and help me up.” She teases, feeding his ego slightly.

Ready to crack on, Sam crouches a little, a small grin pinned to his face at her quip. He puts his arms out as she takes a few steps back.

"M'lady."

"Alright, Patrick Swayze." She chuckles, diluted sarcasm in her tone. “Watch those hands.”

He scoffs in response, patting his thigh as if to non-verbally tell her to shut up and get on with it.

After a little run up, the pair manage to execute a relatively successful boost manoeuvre, resulting in boots scuffing against the stone wall as she scrambles the remainder of the way up to the window.

“Nobody puts Baby in a fuckin’ corner.” he commends her dexterity from the ground, his continuation of her reference sending a grin creeping onto her face as she pushes the window further open, wriggling her way through the gap.

“Damn right.” She replies, eventually disappearing out of his sight. She slides down the wall, dust and flecks of rubble curling off of the surface as she approaches the ground.

Dusting her gravelly hands off on her leggings and adjusting the torch clipped to her backpack strap, she begins to look around.

“Shit.” is all she can muster.

Sam glances up at the stained glass, thumb rubbing at the sting in his palm, eyes focusing on coloured Latin lettering separated by intricately crafted lead framing.

Firmitudo Intus Aequilibrio

“You okay?” He pushes, his voice muffled from behind the wall, head tilted to the side in thought as he reads the stained glass. The cogs turn, congruous smirk etching its way onto his lips- his knowledge of Latin permits a little smugness, or so he tells himself.

She nods slowly, before realising that Sam can’t actually see her, almost too distracted by her new surroundings to offer a verbal response.

“Y-yeah, I’m all good.” She clears her throat, turning off her torch. “This place just… you ever seen Shrek 2?”

The stone walls, worn and weathered, stand sentinel, bearing witness to the passage of time. They’re tall. Imposing. But there’s a beauty to their eeriness, aided by the soft, colourful glow from the bottles that haven't succumbed to time.

"Sure. Great hangover movie."

Dust particles dance in the air, caught in the soft rays of crisp winter moonlight filtering through thick tree roots that make up the ceiling, casting ethereal streaks around the room.

"Well, picture the shelves in the dinky potion room."

The shelves, carved untidily into the walls, cradle a trove of relics from bygone eras. Flasks, vials, and jars, now cloaked in the patina of age, their contents long untouched- some clearly from medieval times; when the crypt was first used as an underground apothecary, to more contemporary receptacles used by Casimir himself to store whatever insane concoctions he experimented with; early 20th century brand logos indented into glass, less worn and more transparent than others.

"The one that cat gets the potion stuck in?"

"That's the one." She titters. Sam hums in understanding. "Ha. 'That cat'."

The lair’s height is imposing, a testament to the grandeur of Casimir’s forgotten pursuits. Yet, amidst the stone walls, pockets of soft, colourful radiance emanate from a select few frosty flasks perched high on the shelves. These remaining potions, survivors of the relentless march of time, cast speckled, saturated glows of purples, pinks, and blues around the plethora of other vials and tubes that have greyed and muddied over the years.

It’s all quite something.

She steps back, lips parted as she takes in her surroundings, fingers wrapped around the straps of her backpack. Her breath catches as she feels sudden give in the ground beneath her, calming when she realises she’s trodden on another pressure plate, though this time it doesn’t remain unresponsive.

As the door behind her rumbles and begins to grate upwards, she turns as her heart rate spikes in shock. Sam, still standing on the corresponding slab, watches in intrigue as the room she’s in reveals itself to him. He smiles when he sees her, the mechanism suddenly making sense.

Wagging a finger up to the latin-scribed stained glass window, he chuckles knowingly.

“Balance.” He says, winking at her as she tilts her head cluelessly.

“What?” She asks as he saunters into the room, shining his torch around.

“Latin. See, I’m the brains of this whole operation.”

“Hm.” She huffs. “Thought you were the beauty.”

He scoffs in response to her attempt at sarcasm, walking past her to the heart of the room as the door scrapes shut again. “Hey, you said it.” He smirks over his shoulder at her as she shakes her head.

A stone slab serves as what Sam presumes was once Casimir's makeshift desk, worn and weathered and mossy like the walls that surround it. On its surface, an array of flasks and mixing bowls, each bearing the damage of countless failed experiments, sitting in a dusty mosaic of scientific chaos.

“Spooky.” She mutters, crouching to inspect some brittle bird bones sprawled out on the stone surface. Aged twigs and fibres, remnants of ingredients that probably pulsed with life once upon a time, now lie in withered repose, their potency surrendered to decay. Sam huffs.

“Oof. It is stuffy as balls in here.” He mumbles, hands skimming through parchment laid on the surface.

The room's cold dampness has left its mark on scrawled notes and papers, ink faded, edges curled, bearing witness to the crypt’s neglect.

“Cold as balls.” she contradicts with a punctuating shiver.

Sam gawks at her as if she’s just said something completely insane, but she’s too busy plinking flasks around to notice. It's goddamn roasting.

That, and her idiom makes no sense whatsoever. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so preoccupied with how antsy he feels.

He rolls his neck, an uncomfortable crack making him huff again, yet as his head hangs sideways, he catches a glimpse of something a little more substantial than a few sheets of faded parchment.

Nestled within the clutter, a chunky, leather-bound notebook sits, worn from use, but still relatively intact. “Hell-o.” He purrs, pushing aside some of the papers to grab it.

“What’cha got?” she chirps, still facing one of the many shelves, crystalline clinks reverbing off of the walls as she continues imbibing in her own curiosity.

“I think,” Sam's fingers delicately trace the timeworn pages of the notebook, each page imbued with the secrets of Casimir’s elixir recipes and incantations, “we have got our hands on Mr. Magic Man’s recipe book.”

“Ooo. Anything juicy?”

He leans a hip against the stone, cupping the book in one hand whilst the other tugs at the sherpa collar rubbing against the back of his neck. It is stuffy.

"Uh, yeah, there's... there's definitely some interesting stuff in here," He replies vaguely, his mind preoccupied with the subtle shifts in his body's temperature.

“Spill.” She says, finally diverting her attention from the shelves, a frosty puff of air billowing from her lips as she speaks.

As his eyes scan the complex instructions and cryptic symbols, a particular recipe catches his attention, intrigue somewhat subding his discomfort. "Here's somethin’," he murmurs, his voice just managing to keep his uncertainty under wraps. “'Whisperwind Tonic,’” Sam scrunches his face up, his brow furrowing in concentration as he reads the intricate script.

“Grants the drinker the ability to move unseen and unheard for a short period of time.” He scoffs at the page, subconsciously rubbing his injured hand against the corner of the notebook in an attempt to relieve the subtle ache that’s beginning to radiate from the centre of his palm. 

“Bullshit.” She snorts, putting a bottle back to its rightful place on the shelf in front of her.

“Right.” He clears his throat as he continues to peruse the notebook's contents. Did he eat something funny?

“Keep going. I’m intrigued.” She turns around, making her way towards him to take a peek at the book herself.

His eyes narrow as he faces her, her proximity suddenly more pronounced, the surrounding heat sending him into a slightly dizzying haze. He shakes off the feeling, rolling his shoulders before reading again.

"There’s... potions to manipulate memories... truth elixirs. Nonsense. All this stuff for people who can’t get laid. Probably just a bottle of rohypnol, right? I mean, how else can someone make a ‘passion elix--”

He coughs suddenly, choking on his words before looking at her with some sort of incredulous bewilderment that makes her stop in her tracks.

“What?”

“Jesus, girl. You got enough perfume on?”

“I don’t- what do you mean?”

He scoffs, grimacing. “Whatever you’ve got on? Ease up on it, next time, huh?”

She grumbles, hopping up onto the table beside him, pulling the collar of her jacket up to her nose. She sniffs. It smells like nothing. Just… her. Not good, not bad. She kicks his shin playfully.

“If you think I smell like shit, just say. It’s been a long day.”

“Nah, you don't…” He scratches his palm again, a faint frown creasing his brow as he notices a faint discolouration at the centre. He rolls his wrist to determine whether or not it was just a trick of the light. “You smell really good, actually.” He speaks, though it’s like he’s unaware he’s said anything.

She does. Good enough to eat, in fact, and as she leans in, resting her chin on his shoulder with an amused smirk on her face, Sam's line of sight is dragged from his hand to her eyes, narrowed slightly by her bemused smile. His vision blurs slightly and his brows furrow as he struggles to refocus.

She inquisitively tilts her head, and slowly, he finds his eyesight refocusing on the part of her neck left exposed between her hair and the collar of her jacket. It looks soft. Smooth.

Inviting.

The gentle glow of colour coming from the shelves behind them, reflecting off of her skin mesmerises him, and he finds himself wondering what it would be like to bury his face in the curve of her neck, to dig his fingers into its nape, and let his teeth leave small, speckled bruises behind, to hold her in place and breathe the sweetness in as her breath cools his skin. It's an urge, almost. Raw and overwhelming.

One that he quickly snaps out of.

His cheeks flush as he realises the deviance of his own thoughts, the suddenness of it all leaving him... reeling, to say the least.

“Okay, Romeo.” She teases. “Sometimes I think we’re lucky that this line of work doesn’t have an HR department.” Her voice feels like a hug and a punch to the jaw at the same time, nonetheless, her giggle pulls him back to reality, his attention snapped back to his aching palm.

He frowns deeper, a faint purplish hue beginning to emerge at its centre, subtle discolouration spreading slowly like tendrils of ink on cotton, becoming more pronounced by the second.

He swallows hard, the thickness of the scent oozing down his throat still, leaving him momentarily breathless.

"I, uh..." he stammers, his mind racing to find an explanation for the sudden onslaught of whatever-the-fuck-just-happened, whilst all the layers on him begin to feel like cling film. It’s irritating. It hurts, even.

Her smile falters a little. “I’m… just kidding- hey, you good?” She reaches for his wrist to see what keeps grabbing his attention.

“It’s nothin’, forget it," he stammers, voice a little strained as he closes his sore hand into a fist. He shakes her off of him with an unconvincing snort in a poor attempt to save face.

His attempt at self-preservation only causes her to mirror his embarrassment, and as Sam feels the scent dissipate slightly, an uncomfortable tension takes its place.

He watches her eyes narrow in the corner of his vision, suspicion flickering in their depths as she studies her companion's sudden unsettled demeanour. 

“Right.” she mumbles, slapping her thighs awkwardly. “Well… I’m not one to waste perfume on a job. Especially with you for company, so…” her voice trails off, waiting for what she thinks is an inevitable clapback. It doesn’t come. Her face reddens as her eyes move around awkwardly, though fortunately, he’s too focused on turning the pages of the book to notice.

”Hey.” She says, prodding his temple with her forefinger. “You… sure you’re okay?”

Sam flinches at her touch, a jolt shooting through him as he sniffs to maintain his composure, standing up to distance himself.

“Mhm,” he replies hastily, his gaze darting away from hers as his mind races to find a plausible reason behind the overwhelming sensation. “Yeah, yeah, fine…just- think I ate…” God it’s hot. “-Damn jacket.” He grunts, putting the book down to tug the denim off of an arm, shaking it off of the rest of him impatiently.

She hops off of the stone and backs away, a perplexed laugh escaping her.

“Don’t be evasive!”

“What? It’s…I’m hot. Shit.” Sam mutters, his irritation mounting as he tries to regain control of the situation. He scratches the palm of his hand, and, with a sigh, moves further away from the stone counter, throwing off another layer.

Left in his t-shirt, she gawks at him as he preoccupies himself by looking at his hand once more.

“Samuel, It’s like… sub-zero in-”

“Look. It is warm. I am warm.” He scrunches up his hand with a sigh, frustration progressing strangely fast as he cuts her off. “So, I’ve taken my jacket off. That a problem?”

Her grin falters. She awkwardly teeters from side to side as she decides to keep quiet.

“I could smell… somethin’, thought it might’ve been you, now it’s gone. Just…” He trails off, taking a deep breath as he tries to steady himself. Tilting his head up to the ceiling, he basks in the brief recess from the sweltering heat clinging onto his body, “Just…park it. Please.”

She frowns, her gaze lingering on Sam for a moment longer before she holds her hands up defensively, dismissing the strange encounter with a slow nod as she turns her head back to the shelves.

“Parked. Dick.” she retorts, a façade of amusement decorating her tone in an attempt to lighten the mood, covering the awkward swallow and slight flush in her cheeks one might get after being scolded by a teacher in front of their class. Meanwhile, Sam fixates his attention back onto the notebook in his hands.

As he continues to flip through the brittle parchment, a developing sense of unease begins to tighten his chest. From the corner of his eye, he watches her hop off of the table, tightening her ponytail as she ambles awkwardly back over to the shelves. He parts his lips to apologise, but a painful pulse coming from his hand re-diverts his attention.

He squints between his hand and the intricate symbols and arcane diagrams, words written in faded text, but just as he begins to take it in, he feels himself struggling to focus.

That same sickening sweetness from moments ago slowly assaults his senses again; it’s like a thick, unshakable mist, seeping into his nose, clinging to his throat and settling heavily in his lungs.

Attempting to clear his throat without drawing her attention, Sam shakes his head, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he does so. The back of his hand instinctively rests against his nose, as if warding off the unexplained, worsening discomfort. 

"You…” he swallows, the room seemingly closing in on the tension his outburst had created, “Y’sure you're not wearing perfume or something? Jeez, it’s givin’ me a headache," he mutters with a meekness that she finds irksome.

She scoffs in irritation. "Oh my God, no! What are you talking about?" she retorts, pointing emphatically toward the shelf of vials, her impatience palpable as his attention remains surgically attached to the notebook. “Will you focus?” She looks back at the shelf.

Five of the vials remain untouched, surrounded by that same soft glow he was fixated on moments ago. 

“We need those ones, right?”

Sam, however, remains frozen, his eyes now locked onto a specific page.

“Id. The word- it wasn’t a… damn abbreviation.” Freud's structural model of the goddamn psyche.

“Huh?” She prods, arms folded, brows arched.

“Freud…Id and ego.” Unable to detach his attention from the inked pages, he ignores her as his lips move silently, mimicking the phonetics of the symptoms written on the frail parchment.

The pinprick- sore, burning now, in fact- has become the centre point of a spider's web of dark hairline veins, matching the worrying description in front of him. His gaze shifts between the book and his own hand, a growing realisation drilling into his brain as he watches the deep colour reach his wrist. This is when he remembers the engraving on the lever. Id. the insatiable id, the book says. He scoffs at the audacity of it all. Wonderful!

His own blood flow pulses through his ears, clouding him with more anxiety and indignation, and dread pitches in his gut-

"Sam!"

"What?" He snaps, abruptly smacked back to reality as her irked voice pierces through his fearful focus.

As her gaze settles on him, flustered, brows knitted together in vexed concern, she momentarily holds back her annoyance, her brows furrowing as he blinks, attempting not to entertain the gravity of the situation unfurling in front of him.

 “Jesus, are you PMSing or something?” Her sarcasm goes hand in hand with her raised brow, smirk combo, amused disbelief taking her over. Yet, her own annoyance gives way slightly to genuine worry as she observes the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his expression. "What’s in that stupid book that’s got you so worked up?"

She looks… good. When she's flustered. Annoyed. The flyaway hairs and the frown. He supposes she thinks she looks intimidating. It's having the opposite effect- nope. No. That's enough. 

"I’m not-'' he fumbles an attempt at trying to reassure both himself and her. "Just…” he clears his throat again, the musky sweetness still violating his respiratory system as his eyes twinge with guilt at his sudden attitude change. “Nope. Doesn’t matter." Quickly closing the notebook, Sam clutches it under his arm, straightening his posture, and offering a nod and an awkward smile. “I, uh, didn’t mean’ta…” He trails off, a soft haze forming over his vision. 

She's not stupid. She sees the growing urgency in his eyes that hints at a deeper worry, and it makes her huff. Why can’t he ever just say what he’s thinking? Or, perhaps better, apologise properly?

She sighs and shakes her head. She spends far too much of her energy stressing about him and his wellbeing, when he probably couldn't give a shit about her outside of a job. Enough self sabotage.

“Whatever…can you… get me up to those shelves? Place is starting to give me the creeps.”

Should he show her the book? He looks back to the dark colour continuing to weave through the veins in his palm.

He considers the danger he’s in- that she’s in, if this isn’t, in fact, total bullshit. His blood flow picks up the pace, and he gets hotter. His mouth feels tight. Wet and dry at the same time. God, he feels sick-

“Oh my God, Sam, snap out of it!” She steps closer to him, making him stiffen in apprehension. “I need to get on your shoulders. Focus, please.”

Please. Please please please- the rasped desperation lodged at the back of her throat makes him shudder. He wants to hear her say it again and again and again-

“Do I need to smack you?” The thought of her palm thwacking against his cheek slices through his thoughts, her voice low, bordering irate. He swallows again.

A strained shake of the head is all he can manage in response, and the urgency of their situation propels him into action- if they could just get out of here, he can distance himself. Fresh air cures all ailments, no?

"Alright, just-" he mutters, voice tight as he takes a hesitant step closer, throwing the book to the ground and kicking it aside. His stare flickers briefly to the discoloured veins now reaching his fingertips, and he swallows in silent acknowledgment of the dangerous path he seems to be treading. Still, with a deep breath, Sam carefully lowers himself to a knee, jaw clenched, skin clammy as he beckons her over.

Oblivious to the tumult going on inside him, she moves, adjusting her stance over him. His hands find support on her hips as she sits on his shoulders, but as their skin brushes directly for no more than half a second, his breath catches and he almost chokes.

“You okay?” She asks out of obligation, looking down at him warily.

Sam inhales deeply, nodding in response, jaw clenched, desperately trying to ease up his heart rate as he pushes himself up, raising her to the height she needs.

He tries to steady himself, but as every sense intensifies to an unfathomable degree, he has no choice but to close his eyes to try shutting them out.

Sam can feel the rhythmic rush of her pulse resonating through him, every beat amplifying that strange suffocating sweetness that continues to overwhelm his senses whenever he’s close to her.

“Hurry it up.” He winces.

“Pot, kettle, black.” She retorts, leaning forwards, backpack unzipped as she reaches for the first vial, and as the softness of her voice reverberates through him, his spine is graced with a shiver.

As she reaches up, her body shifts slightly, and he tightens his grip to keep her steady. He can’t help but notice the way her breath hitches, just for a second. It’s a small sound, almost imperceptible, but it makes his chest tighten with a fierce, protective… is it desire?

"Almost there," she says, her voice a little breathless from the fear of falling off of him. "Just...keep still."

"Doin’ my best," he murmurs, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. He wonders if she can feel it too—the electric current. A persistent, dull thrum tugging and squeezing and pulling at every cell and synapse in his body.

Her thighs tighten around him ever so slightly as she reaches for a further vial; the fabric covering them brushes against his ears, the sensation overwhelming enough to make him grunt and dig his fingers even deeper into the flesh of her hips.

As he does so, the details of her body become vividly apparent beneath his fingertips– every fibrous contour of muscle, the softness of fat, the rush of blood beneath her lycra-clad skin– his senses are heightened to an almost unbearable degree, and his head turns sideways as he tries to steady his shaky breathing- the dichotomy of duty and… maybe temptation… playing out in a near-excruciating loop in his mind.

He feels a pull. His nose- his mouth, are lured towards her inner thigh. He swears his stomach growls at the scent of her. If only he could taste her. Drink her down- devour her until he drowns- Shit. No. No-- they need to wrap this the fuck up. Get the hell out of here.

“C’mon.” he grits- whether it was more to her, or his way of trying to pull himself together, he doesn’t know. He lays his head against her thigh, willing for it all to be over.

He wants to yell at her- tell her to stop being so inquisitive-- to stop finding the need to read the labels on the fucking vials she’s still gathering, but if she speaks back to him again his knees might just give.

You're going to be fine, he unconvincingly tells himself. That's what you do. Deal with things. More importantly, she’s going to be fine. Fresh air, he thinks again, they’ll be out of here soon.

Sam’s eyes begin to glaze over again, fingers pressing ever-so-slightly deeper into her as he tries to keep his vision focused.

He’d be able to control himself, he’s sure of it. He’d stare down at the floor as they both retrace their steps out of the crypt, in his head repeating the notion that whatever’s affecting him will just… go away- it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it, it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it-- diminishing any thoughts of how easy it would be to grab her whilst she walks just ahead of him, blissfully unaware of what he wants to do to her.

Oh. What he wants… to do to her.

Pinning her against the wall. Tearing through that perfectly stitched seam on her leggings right between her thighs before even giving her a chance to react, or, God forbid, to protest before he breaks her in.

He absentmindedly licks his lips.

Thoughts of the financial reward, the glory of finding this place- fulfilling their client’s desires, blah, blah, fucking blah, fade into the background as a primal spark flickers deep. The awareness of the perilous temptation turns into some sort of hypnotic drumbeat in his head, rational thoughts singed at the edges, slowly burning into ash and flaking away into thin air.

As his nose and mouth press against her inner thigh, the tension peaks and he becomes overwhelmed by her; Sam's breath quickens, and a possessive hunger simmers behind his eyelids.

His lips part, brushing against her, teeth grazing against fabric- an exploration that hovers on the edge of giving in to something far removed from sanity.

Feeling a warm tickle, she diverts her attention from the shelves in front of her to Sam’s head between her legs.

She swallows, a fleeting pull in her core as she takes in the sight of his fingers dug deep into her hips, but quickly shrugs it off in favour of understanding why the hell he’s breathing so heavily against her, and why on earth his mouth is pressed against her leg.

Sam inhales, opening his mouth wider, taking shallow breaths.

Then, he bites. 

It’s a feral snap into temptation he was trying so hard to fight against.

As his teeth clamp down into the meat of her thigh, she squeals, wobbling, then falling back and off of his shoulders, her skin grazing harshly, simultaneously snapping him out of whatever sick trance he'd fallen into.

“Fuck!” She shouts as her body thuds against the ground. She painfully drags herself into a sitting position, face contorted into an expression of complete disarray as he gawks at her, horrified.

“Shit- are you-” Sam rushes over to see if she’s hurt, but as his hand brushes against her shoulder, he has to fight against himself in order to suppress a groan. It’s too much. He painfully wrenches his hand away, subduing his own body's desire to keep it there. He cowers back. “Oh, God.”

One hand cradling the back of her head whilst the other pulls at the fabric of her leggings, she frowns, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders uncomfortably as she leans herself away from him.

Wide-eyed frown fixed to her face, she checks her hands for blood. Nothing, thank God, other than a dull ache that sears through her upper thigh.

“Did… did you just fucking bite me?!” She asks, voice quiet, dipped in anger.

Sam doesn’t reply. He’s shaking, hand clasped to his forehead as he glares at the floor, unable to bring himself to look at her. His hand obscures his vision and he breathes heavily at the sight; the purple steadily darkening into the veins in his wrist, fading into his forearm. The book is right. And he’s absolutely fucked.

Meanwhile, she double takes. Sam, leggings, Sam, leggings. There’s a slight fray in the fabric.

She pulls herself to her feet, wincing at the all-round ache in her body, astounded.

“What the hell is up with you?!” She hisses at him, taking a step closer before he holds a hand out defensively.

“I- I’m- no, stay over there, I… I don’t know. I don’t-” He splutters, doubling over as if he’s been punched in the gut as she gets closer. He stumbles backwards, back smacking against the stone table with a force that makes him grunt. “Somethin’- something’s happening t’me.” He rasps, wide eyes glued to the palm of his hand.

“Yeah, no shit.” She spits, looking at her leg again. “You broke the fucking skin- how-” Her voice is tinged with exasperated irritation… that quickly morphs into extreme concern when she finally takes in his appearance. “Jesus. W-what is going on with you?”

Sam’s sweating, despite it being cold enough to see their own breath, his sleeves clinging to his arms, fabric glued to his torso as his chest heaves unsteadily. His eyes are wide, and as they traverse away from his palm, down his body, it’s clear that they’re wide in realisation. 

“You-” He’s fucked. Which means she’s fucked. How on earth is he supposed to explain what’s going on here? “You’ve gotta go.”

She huffs, ignoring his plea. “Do you need… water, or something? Painkillers?” She asks, panic creeping into her voice, dropping to her knees as she throws her backpack to the ground. She holds it open, hands ferreting around for her water bottle, clattering around the vials that miraculously remain intact, whilst Sam’s eyelids grow heavy.

“N-no.” He shakes his head, turning back to her to make sure she’s unharmed, but as soon as he looks at her, he’s unable to avert his gaze from the fullness of her thighs as she kneels. “God.” He mumbles, salivating.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s losing himself.

He musters the strength to force his eyes shut, and it hurts. Every part of his body wants her. To look at her, to touch her, to… taste her, even- but the slither that remains of his weakened mind can't allow it.

Shaking her head, she retrieves her flask. “Here. You’re sweating.” She says, walking over to him. “It’ll cool you down.”

Sam swallows a whine, and lowers himself fully down to the ground with a self-loathing groan, hunched over, eyes squeezed shut as he attempts to drive out all sorts of depraved, wanton thoughts that keep flitting in and out of his head unprompted.

“N-no. Don’t come near me.” his hushed murmur comes out gravelly as she wearily dips her head down to meet his eye line, concerned at how he’s lowered himself to the ground. She takes a nervous breath, kneeling to his level as he lets out a defeated sigh.

He keeps his view of her hidden by his arm as she extends her own, ignoring his plea to instead tilt his chin up and hold the flask up to his lips. He shudders, his whole body trembling as his eyes unwillingly fix on hers, cursing under his breath at the touch of her cool hand on his skin. His gaze draws lower to her waist, her hips, her soft stomach- his hands clenched tight into his jeans as he fights against the impulse to lunge at her.

She tilts the flask and upwards and watches his throat bob as he swallows. She swallows too, almost choking on her dry throat. The longer she looks at him, the more the chill in her bones dissipates- the more she feels warmth seep into her bloodstream.

Her skin against his feels like molten metal, and he shakes with the ever-growing impulse to grab hold of her. To touch, and to be touched. He pushes the flask away in a brash attempt to get her away from him, then holds his breath as he tries to focus on the small bit of reprieve the cool water has granted him, even if it is no better than a bucket thrown over a forest fire.

“Any better?” No answer. She huffs, screwing the lid back on before backing up a little. “Can I trust you to get me back to the window so we can get out of here, or are you gonna bite my other leg, too?”

“Can’t-” Sam blurts panicked, eyes wide as his head darts in her direction.

“Oh my-” She laughs mirthlessly, strenuously rubbing her face before eyeing the room to see what else she can come up with. “Where’s that book?”

No. He’s going to throw up. He can’t let her find out. If he just waits it out, everything will be fine. His gaze moves to where he’d kicked the notebook- just under a shelf. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“Jesus chr- where’s the notebook, Sam! The one you were reading!”

Unfortunately, her eyes follow suit, and as she catches a glimpse of the frayed leather binding, she crawls towards it.

He watches in a sort of trance-like state as she flattens herself against the ground, moving her torch around underneath the dusty shelves in search of the book he’d kicked under them minutes ago. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll look for answers myself.”

This is perfect. He could go for her right this second. Pinning her down would be easy- she's so small compared to him. So weak. A pretty little lamb, all ready for him to slaughter. He suppresses a moan at the thought.

“Got it.” She jumps up, fragile book in hand, and he smacks himself in the face with a grunt.

Revolting. Selfish.

She starts flicking through the pages, face riddled with ire as Sam's breath hitches. “No. Don’t- don’t look in th-” He lets out a panicked whimper as his body reacts to the feeling of his shirt peeling on and off his skin; he starts to hyperventilate. Clasping his hand over his mouth as he strains painfully against his jeans, he winces. “Shit.” He swallows, covering his face with his hands as he leans back against the stone. 

She watches his Adam's apple bob as he quietly gulps down air in an attempt to calm himself down.

“You’re hardly in any position to tell me what to do.” She reads; pages upon pages of notes and diagrams elude her as she takes cautious steps towards him, but as his hands shoot out to stop her coming closer, she stills, and takes him in.

She notes the uneasy tremble, the sheen of sweat, flushed cheeks, and the uncharacteristic panic. Perhaps even more alarming than the complete absence of his calm and collected nature is the wispy nebula of blackcurrant-purple bleeding outwards from the more concentrated black in the centre of his palm, up into the veins leading towards his elbow.

She steps closer.

"Don't." He snarls, flecks of frightened spittle coming through his teeth. And this time, she does as she’s told.

She exhales shakily, eyes fixed on the sight of his hand- she swears she sees the dark wisps expanding.

"I- I need to find out what that… purple shit is."

She keeps flicking through, rubbing at her thigh as it twinges with discomfort.

"Yeah, well," He mumbles through gritted teeth, shoulders heaving as if he's fighting the most ferocious of fevers. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

"Ignorance is only making things worse." She snaps, fingers desperately frittering between pages of Casimir's stupid fucking disintegrating notebook. "Why don’t you just tell me what’s happening?" She laughs- no mirth in sight, eyes watering as her head throbs and her insides churn with dread. “Tell me what’s going on. I bet I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix- Shit, there’s that goddamn smell again.” He laughs ironically, before hissing in discomfort and writhing slightly.

She rests the book on the stone desk with a frustrated grunt, holding it open with one hand whilst the other arm wrestles off her jacket absentmindedly, sighing in relief as the cool air ventilates under her t-shirt. She shakes her head in disbelief before flicking to the next page.

She looks at Sam dead in the eyes, trying to steady her own heart rate as she does so in hopes he’ll pass her red cheeks off as some sort of side effect of the cold. Cold. It was cold a second ago, wasn’t it? 

As soon as she looks back at him, a stifling humidity continues to build. It must be the intensity and the… abruptness of the situation. She goes to remove her jacket, until she realises it’s already off. She feels like she’s wrapped in a layer of plastic- hot, flustered, and her leg fucking kills- This is the last time she lets herself get so… pent up over him.

“You’ve- gotta go.”

“Go?” She huffs, annoyance permeating her tone. She shudders, her face running even hotter, his voice alone enough to render her knees weak, and her throat tight. “You'd love that, wouldn't you? Ever the hero. Asshole.”

“No, I- Fuuuck!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling. Admittedly, it unnerves her, so she turns her attention back to the book, fingers scrambling from dog-eared page to dog-eared page.

“So, you’d rather I let your stubborn ass stay here, suffering from- who knows what- ow, my God.” She hisses, the urgency and irritation in her voice making a return as a dull ache throbs through her thigh. 

“You can’t be near me.” He mutters into his hands as he doubles over, just loud enough for her to hear.

Inhaling sharply, a brief but intense pang of emotion stirs within her, an ache born not only from the profound lack of understanding of what’s transpiring, but also, admittedly, the slight sting of… is it some sort of infantilization? She thought they were over that! They’ve been partners for months now, and he still doesn’t trust her? Why is he trying so hard not to let her know what the problem is?

And then there's the rejection, of course. That hurts almost as much as her developing headache.

“Well, unfortunately, I have to be near you. I can’t get out.” She points to the stained glass window. “I need you to get me up there-” He cuts her off abruptly with an irritated grunt, jaw clenched in warning.

“I can’t!” He shouts.

“Why?” She shouts louder, stepping closer again.

“Stop-”

“Don’t tell me to stop-'' She follows his eyeline, landing on the writing on the window that he’s transfixed on again. “Firmitudo Intus- what?” The script grates clumsily out of her throat as she rubs feverishly at her sore leg. “Tell me what it means! What’s wrong with you?!”

“S-stability in- in balance. How- ughh, shit- how the pressure plates worked.” Sam huffs, words punctuated with a flurry of uncomfortable grunts. “Why can’t you-- ah, God dammit- just take a hint!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling.

“Take a hint?!” She spits, voice wavering. “Screw you! Just tell me what's going on- or, or better off- tell me the fact that you can't stand the sight of me."

“No, no, no- stay there— It's not like that, I- you don't get it, it's —”

“Spell it out for me then! Stop being so fucking secreti-”

“I’m going to fucking jump you.” He bellows, his face twitching as a wave of blistering, blistering heat courses through him. His fingertips dig painfully into the stone behind him, finding leverage.

She ogles him, bewildered.

Then, after a moment, she guffaws, her fear momentarily usurped by such a ridiculous statement.

In that moment, as she mocks him, Sam feels a surge of strength shoot through him, perhaps a side effect of his desperation not to face further humiliation. It's as if some dormant force within him has been nudged awake, overpowering his rational mind, and with a grunt, he drags himself upright against the table; movements fluid. Predatory.

“You’re going… to jump me?” She sneers, her voice low, teeth bared in a sour smile as she turns to the window, momentarily considering how to get up there herself. “Hah! Of course you are. Any threat to avoid telling me what’s happening, huh? You're such a-”

Her insults die in her throat as she’s shoved harshly into the wall. The fragile book slips from her fingers, thudding onto the floor.

She stares up at Sam, wide-eyed and startled. His painful grip on her wrist, the back of her head pulsating after colliding with so many hard surfaces- it’s all making her ears ring. His grip is firm and bruising as he pushes himself onto her, his stare intense. Unrelenting.

“What are you doing?" she stammers, her voice trembling, brows furrowed in frightened confusion.

But Sam doesn't answer. Instead, he leans in closer, his breath hot against her skin, eyes locked onto hers with an unsettling intensity that makes her stomach flutter. She can feel his heart pounding against her chest as he presses into her, matching the now frantic rhythm of her own as heat radiates off of him.

Sam's certain he can hear her blood flow as he holds her gaze, his senses heightened to the point of overload. The warmth emanating from her skin, the rapid rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips, and the heady, sickly sweet scent of her- it’s all driving him to the brink of madness.

“What… the hell are you doing, Sam? Let go.” she whispers, her other hand tentatively going for him in an attempt to wrench herself free, though, with an instinctive speed, he captures her other wrist, pinning it on the other side of her head as a startled gasp leaves her lips. She struggles against his grasp with an anxious whimper, but he only tightens his hold, his wild expression a frightening mix of confusion and horror. Yet his grip on her remains tight. 

"Make it stop-," he stammers through his tightened jaw, his voice trembling with remorse. "I don't know what… I didn't mean to- I need-” A wave of dizziness washes over him as he speaks, a growing tightness in his chest, threatening to send him spiralling into oblivion- he feels like he’s going into cardiac arrest.

Her eyes are wet with anxiety as he cages her in, brows wavering as if she’s attempting to prevent herself from tearing up.

But he’s frozen. Mind rapidly toing and froing between wanting to let her go, and wanting to see her cry. What he’d give to see her eyes brimming with tears, his fingers tight against her scalp while her lips grow swollen, drenched by her own drool as he rams himself down her throat. “I can’t- I can’t stop thinkin’ about… Jesus, the things I wanna do to you.”

His fingers tighten their grip further, pushing himself harder against her, keeping her painfully upright against the stone. Their eyes meet once more as her own chest starts to heave. God. The way he’s looking at her. It’s… carnal.

Amongst this sudden yo-yoing of fear and confusion, she feels herself heat up more, a cramping feeling tugging at her abdomen as he stares at her, breathing deeply- slowly.

“What?” She just about manages to rasp, lips parted, wrists aching, head pounding. “What are you talking about?”

She knows exactly what he's talking about. She can feel him pressing against her.

“You s- sound like a mouse.” He mumbles as if inebriated, one side of his mouth twisted into an almost malevolent grin that makes her stomach drop as he presses his forehead against hers, rendering her virtually immobile. “So small. So scared.” He mocks with a pout as she shudders. “But you’re not just scared, are you?” He speaks through his teeth, eyes trailing down to watch himself push his hips against her with a deep groan.

The sudden friction sends an embarrassingly high-pitched gasp spilling out from her mouth before her teeth have a chance to trap it. Fuck.

His eyes go back to hers, darkened, pupils blown. “Thought so.” He smirks. “I can pretty much taste you from-” a grunt permeates the end of his sentence as his darkened resolve wavers.

He shakes his head, a sudden maelstrom of panic and culpability in his chest making his eyes water. 

“Not- me. I didn’t mean-” She remains glued to the wall, wide-eyed and disoriented, as he stumbles over his words, her heart racing as she watches him lose balance and fall into her, palms braced at either side of her waist as the vice-like grip on her wrists finally relents. “I’m s-” he hisses, his body burning as if demanding him to succumb to what it wants.

Much to her own dismay, she doesn’t move her freed hands- there’s no attempt to push him away again. She’s so caught up in the shock of how good that felt and all of the confusion and guilt that are beginning to plague her head. She must've hit it hard.

Sam’s hand digs into the small of her back, his shoulders slumping as his fingers slip just beneath the hem of her shirt. His grip is tight and desperate as he drops his head against her chest, leaning into her for support as he whimpers, gasping for air. “I can't help it- I want- to stop, but-” 

She takes in a shaky breath, momentarily paralysed, as if her body and vocal chords are in combat against her brain. There's something hypnotic about the way he's looking at her, something frightening about the desperation and the spontaneous Jekyll-and-Hyde-ness of it all, yes, but equally… satiating… as if this is something her body's been vying for for ages.

She swallows hard at the feeling of his skin on hers, and the soft, needy sounds coming out of him- at his weight keeping her firmly pressed against the wall, and the smell of his sweat, cheap detergent, the gift set aftershave he feels obligated to use that’s making her heart thump even harder.

All such normal things- usually so unnoticeable. But it’s a sudden assault on her senses that she can’t shake off- it clings to her, burning her eyes, creeping up her nose, down her throat, settling in her stomach. It’s grounding. Exhilarating, to the point where she wants to tug him closer and inhale him to the point of suffocation.

And she’s baffled by this revelation. Nauseated, almost. She should be angry with him. Furious. How dare he manhandle, bite, bruise and then withhold an explanation from her. Instead, she can’t help but feel an intrinsic need to keep him as close to her as possible. To see, smell, hear, taste him.

Why is her body reacting in such a way? Why is she soaking wet? 

Sam’s terrified. The thoughts he’s had in the past few minutes have been depraved. Actions violent, and he would rather die than cause her harm, so he’s trying with all his might not to let himself give in. Even if he wants nothing more.

From day dot, she’s been off limits. And he's always stuck to that.

He's aware of how she reacts every time he's pushed their banter a bit too far, leaving her flustered. Every hint of jealousy she's let slip when he's talked about his ‘dating’ life. He knows about her ‘crush’– cute, he thought, but inevitably fleeting, surely. Unlike his own feelings- oh no! They’ve fused to every fibre of his being like hot glue.

This whole situation is nothing but a cruel joke. Like fate has conspired to mock him- to force him into getting his way via a horrible, depraved, manipulative circumstance since he's been too much of a pussy to act upon it otherwise. She’s right. He is stubborn. He should’ve let her pull the damn lever. At least that way, she wouldn't be a victim. Or... perhaps less of one.

His stomach lurches and he slumps to his knees, hands maintaining an unstable hold on her hips. He feels pathetic. “Makeitstop.” He heaves again.

He tries to speak again, but as he bucks his hips again, completely against his own will, the blazing friction against his own jeans causes him to hiss, his forehead collapsing against her thigh, eyes wide as he pants for air. “Holy shit.”

She looks down helplessly, shaken and clueless. She watches his hand dig into her thigh, holding it in place as he burrows his face into it.

“You smell so fucking good, I-” He cuts himself off with a groan, shaking his head and pursing his lips. His voice comes out rough again. Dark. Crumbled asphalt, absinthe poured straight down her throat, settling into her bloodstream. “No, no, no…” He just about pulls away to give himself air, eyes flitting up to her, warring between despair and yearning.

The sight of it makes her… warmer still. Hot, even. The bite on her thigh burns as his proximity agitates it. “What should I do?” She rasps, fingers anxiously pulling at the curls by the nape of her neck as if she’s trying to withhold from touching him. “I don’t know what’s… happening.” She whispers, vision losing focus for just a moment.

"I need..." he grunts, struggling to find the words. He weakly tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, but his strength is failing him. "I need you to... take it off... please," he begs, his voice barely more than a desperate whisper.

He looks so pretty like this. On his knees… whining softly, cheeks flushed, his hands grasping at her. It’s so unlike him. Samuel Casanova Drake- reduced to this. The flirtation. The teasing. Getting her all worked up on purpose, only to be reminded that she’s nothing special- that that’s just the way he is. All bark, no bite. Is he being taught a lesson?

She swallows thickly.

She thinks about how it felt when he grinded himself onto her and forcibly suppresses a moan as a pleasurable jolt shoots up her spine, setting her hairs on end. Her head is swimming. This is all so… artificial. So odd. She’s always been attracted to him, but fuck, this is wrong.

She hesitates, her heart pounding in her chest as a wave of guilt-ridden nausea rushes through her. Is- is she taking advantage of him?

“Please.” He repeats, his plea punctuated with a desperate whimper. She blinks, nodding, and with trembling hands, she crouches and reaches for the hem of his shirt, her fingers brushing against his heated skin. Gently, she lifts the shirt over his head, her touch lingering on his arms as she pulls it free.

Sam gasps as the cool air hits his bare skin, a momentary relief from the feverish heat consuming him. He leans heavily against her, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. "Thanks," he murmurs, his eyes closing briefly as he savours the sensation.

She swallows hard, feeling a strange mix of fear and sickening lust fester in her bloodstream. Her hands remain on his arms, steadying the both of them.

"What now?" she asks, her voice barely audible.

Her eyes are drawn to the sheen of sweat covering his body; the way dark hairs lay matted on his chest, softly trailing down his stomach, past fading ink and mottled scars, beyond where his belt keeps his jeans smouldering against his skin.

She watches her own hand rest under his chin, tilting him up to her. It’s like she’s watching it unfold through a TV screen.

Delicate wisps of condensation coming from his parted lips makes her mind wander; What would they taste like? How would the roughness of his stubble feel against her? Her mouth, her neck, her bare stomach, down down down- she's had these thoughts before; fingers delved between her thighs as she stares breathlessly up at the ceiling.

Saliva pools under her tongue as she imagines rutting against his pretty nose and open mouth like a bitch in fucking heat- oh god- her teeth graze her lower lip as her thoughts begin to spiral further than usual- why are they spiralling like this?

She’s sweating.

There’s so much desire- so much insatiable hunger in his eyes alone as he looks at her that it makes her thighs tense together. As she does so, she’s reminded of the bite again. It fucking hurts, snapping her out of her depraved trance; her eyelids flutter unsteadily as she regains focus, her cheeks burning.

His pulse thuds frantically against her thumb, and her nails stroke gently at his skin as his shoulders rise and fall harder, amplifying his restraint which is growing more and more painful by the second. 

“You…” he pauses and grunts, fighting himself as his eyes remain shut. “Don’t… know what to... ugh- hurts. It’s too- too much." Every tiny little touch feels like he’s being swallowed whole. It’s like a cold spring and a flow of lava all at once, and he wants to scream. 

She pulls her hands away, looking at them as though she’s the cause of the problem. Hoping to herself that her sick mind will sort itself out if she distances herself from him.

He shakes, sweat beading off of his chest, blood pumping through him at a dizzying pace as his eyes pine for her.

“N-no.” He’s craving- starving. A trembling hand raises to her wrist, and he winces as his fingers wrap around her. As his fingertips dig into her forearm, the thought of sudden absence of her touch feels like a death sentence. “Don’t.”

He swallows audibly as his body jolts again at the touch. The contact hurts him. Arouses him to such a painful degree, but he’s not letting her get away. He can’t- he doesn’t want to. He’s too far gone.

Sam’s eyes squeeze shut and he screws up his face in some sort of pained internal conflict. He grabs her wrist tighter and she winces, but as he drags her hand back to his face, her eyes follow.

“Help.” he blurts, finally deciding it’s time to bite the proverbial bullet as he sits fully and leans back against the stone table, accidentally pulling her with him. “I need- need you- your help. The last pages- another way to-” He eyeballs the notebook. “Make it stop. Before I hurt you again.”

She picks up the book and kneels. Her thumb swipes across his cheekbone as his hand rests over hers. Her hands on his bare skin are fucking excruciating; he can feel every single ridge of her fingerprints despite her stillness, like thousands of knife edges grazing his skin all at once.

“Okay- I- I’m looking.” She says, and oh, she sounds like velvet. Liquid gold that he just wants to swallow forever and ever and ever. He’s transfixed by her lips as she speaks, absentmindedly snaking his other hand up the nape of her neck and into her hair.

His fingers tighten their grip, gently pulling her head backwards, and with watery eyes he nuzzles into her neck, breathing deeply- slowly. “Hmmm, God.”

His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips grazing over her neck make her swallow hard. She doesn’t need to read the book to know what’s going on. He whispers breathless apologies, guilt making his heart ache whilst he loses control of the rest of his body.

Her eyes continue to flit around the pages nervously, no longer to read, but to hide. This is ridiculous. Her skin hasn’t felt this sensitive before.

Her eyes fall over a likely explanation; a sketch of a lever mechanism, an embedded sharp needle, designed to assault the user of the lever- the intruder, all annotated in scrawled purple ink.

This artifice serves twofold: first, as a deterrent to the audacious; and second, as a penance, a punishment to those who dare disrupt the harmony of my sacred space. May they find the scales tipped; themselves lost within the labyrinth of their own psyche, ensnared by the very primal urges that govern the basest instincts.

She looks at his hand again, and takes in the details written on the page. Primal urge. Base instinct. Her cheeks flush as she converts the words into layman's terms, confirming her theory.

“It’s an… aphrodisiac.” She affirms.

As the wayward thief succumbs, such symptoms shall manifest: The skin shall burn, the point of breach becoming the source of a webbed discolouration as dark as ones fevered desire, and the pulse shall quicken with an infernal craving, subjugating the relentless pursuit of knowledge with the all-consuming tug of the insatiable id. The mind, entangled in the labyrinth of unbridled lust, shall forsake rationality. The thief shall be led astray from their pursuits, ensnared by their own voracious yearnings, knowledge plundered.

Sam hears the uncertainty in her voice as she grapples with the implications of the infection. Their eyes meet for a split second, and he feels a surge of humiliation that’s so unfamiliar to him he’d probably wretch if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied.

She takes in a shaky breath returning to the page again as the pieces begin to fit together.

“S’there another way?” he murmurs into her, the low vibrations of his voice making her close her eyes for a moment. She grunts to herself, forcing her eyes back to the page.

In the safety of companionship, the afflicted may find respite. Should the infection remain unchecked, the heart will strain beyond its limits, ultimately succumbing to the weight of its own longing.

The ‘cure’  is plain and simple. Two people. Balance. Or, by the sound of it, death.

She shakes her head.

The thought of said cure makes her shiver, tongue rolling over her bottom lip.

A coil begins to tighten in her abdomen as he groans into her skin. His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips on her neck make her exhale harshly.

She looks at her leggings as another sore, shooting pain emanates from the bite mark, Sam’s wandering hands peeling apart the small tear in the fabric as his teeth graze against her throat.

Realisation fills her lungs, a bubble forming by her tonsils; the disorienting mix of undeniable, rising pleasure and panic creeping into the forefront of her mind.

Her skin looks mottled, veins deep purple.

Just like his.

The telltale discolouration, mirroring the ominous staining making its way up Sam's arm sends a shiver through her as she comprehends it all. As she watches his brows waver in internal dispute, her own contort in… concern, yes. But also a sense of desperation, wanting to feel more as Sam drags himself more upright with a cracked groan that makes her lips part and her throat seize when she’s pushed harder against him. More importantly, perhaps, the relief from knowing that neither of them can help it. That, for what it’s worth, is a mutual need.

She takes a gamble, grappling with the part-insidious, part-alleviating truth as she looks back to him, legs parting to straddle him properly.

Her chest heaves; the air feels thick, and there’s a strong pulsing ache between her thighs every time her nipples rise and fall, sore and tender underneath her tight sports bra. All of her clothes feel tight, creating tangible friction all over; her whole body, her face, her skin- is clammy and sticky and so fucking overwhelmingly hot.

A small part of Sam is still trying to stop, to control himself, but as he drags himself away from her neck to look at her, it’s clear that this prolonged contact has its consequences; his psyche swells with a sudden growth in appetite as she settles over him, and suddenly, he barely registers that he’s doing anything at all.

Moving his hand to the back of her head, he pulls her closer in a sudden move that draws a gasp from her as her hands brace themselves on his chest- the sudden harshness of his desperate fingers tugging at the roots of her hair is unexpected. The strength coming from this movement alone renders her unable to pull away- even if she wanted to.

He pants harder, unable to let her go, but so afraid of causing her harm all the same. His fingers impulsively flex at her scalp, and she gulps down a whine at the sensation as her eyes squeeze shut.

“I’m- I’m s- I can’t stop. I’m sorry-”

A hand moves from his chest to the back of his neck. With a gentle pull, she guides his gaze downward, her fingers pulling apart the material to trace the mottled purple that’s started snaking across her skin.

Sam's heart lurches in his chest, an undercurrent of panic rising up his throat like bile.

"No, no- what did i do? I-“

“Sam.” She hushes, pressing her forehead onto his, forcing him to stay still- to focus. She silently implores him to find solace in her. “It’s... we’ve just gotta...” Her eyes non-verbally tell whatever flecks of her Sam that’s still in there that she’s here for as long as he needs her to be. That she wants this. She's wanted this. That she’s willing- God, she’s willing.

This is where he feels himself begin to dissolve away completely. Prolonged closeness. Her voice. The heat rising throughout her pretty little face, the growing heaviness of her eyelids, her freckles subdued by an involuntary heat spreading through her cheeks.

And, he can feel the warmth pooling between her legs.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that this kind of reaction from her is fuelling him. He needs more of it. Craves more of it.

He’s slipping just beneath the surface, but he’s too tired to drag himself up for air. He supposes he doesn’t really need to, now. He could drown in her and die happy.

She’s starting to feel it worsen, too. The ache. The coercion of mind from body.

Her lips brushing against his feels like molten sugar; a searing heat that’s so sickly sweet he can’t pull away despite the blistering heat that’s destined to leave a nasty burn.

“We’ve just… gotta…” she repeats slowly, voice low and speech slurred. She can’t finish her sentence- every part of her is swarmed by the need to close the gap. She has no idea how he’s managed to hold out for so long.

With a shaky exhale, he nods, releasing the tension he's been painfully holding onto, allowing himself to surrender to the overwhelming heat pulsing through him. He finally allows himself to sink under as she plants a tentative kiss on his lips. A kiss which he only returns, though much more urgent- more voracious; it’s like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of the desert- it’s his first sip of fresh water in days, and it makes her eyes widen.

She brings a hand round to the back of his neck, clinging to him eagerly, her thighs spreading further- non-verbal consent, a silent plea for more as she begins to feel the simmering deep in her belly hurriedly rise to a boil.

He grinds himself upwards without a thought, and she whimpers into his mouth. The friction, the sweet, fucking friction has him press back into her desperately, wanting more, sending a groan up from deep in his chest.

He’s gone. Rationality dwindled entirely as the slightest bit of pressure is applied, steadily being replaced with a frightening strength and burning need to have his way no matter the consequences.

She feels her heart rate quicken as she takes in the sight of his pupils. They’re fucking blown out. The pretty specks of amber that normally contrast the darker brown in his irises have been eclipsed by a deep amethyst.

“… want...fu-” Sam’s voice becomes lower still, grating through gnarled teeth, and as his fingertips dig into her back, keeping her in place, he shifts again- he’s so hard, so perfectly angled underneath her- she salivates as she chokes out. “Want to f- fill you up.”

Hey eyes gloss over and her brain numbs. She nods frantically. Heat floods between her thighs with a vengeance, rationality waning as a shockwave shoots through her arched spine. She wants everything to be touched by him.

The third time comes quicker; more brutal, more needy, taking advantage of her lack of composure as she succumbs to his grip, his mouth hungrily taking a dive for her neck again, except this time there’s less restraint. None, even.

“Oh-- sh-mmf-” Her body shudders as she slurs her words, and as his teeth pull harshly at her skin, she cries out into her hand.

Her legs tremble, knees aching as the stone beneath them digs in, breath pitching in her throat as she’s hit with a shamefully sudden climax.

Her wide eyes water as her hand remains clasped around her mouth, chest heaving as she struggles to register how little action it took for her to come, waiting for the pressure to abate and the fog to clear.

Instead, as she feels his hands roam, and watches his frantic eyes fail to decide what to settle on, the fog only thickens, overruling any semblance of critical thinking.

It hits her like a fucking tidal wave, in fact; she can’t fathom anything other than the fact that she needs more.

And in that split second, she surrenders to the pull, inhibitions fizzling away as she leans in, closing the distance between them again with a fierce determination. A surge of adrenaline tips her over the edge and she takes control, seizing him hungrily, fingertips digging harshly into his scalp to bring him back up to her. He protests, growling, biting harder until he feels himself pried away by force, her nails pressing into his jaw, leaving crescents as she gets him where she wants him, lips crashing together again in a tumultuous collision of lust and fervour.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She wants everything off- to feel her skin pressed up against his, but the time it would take to unbutton and unzip is a repulsive notion that ignites an almost animalistic frustration within her. The thought of it drives her insane- feverish fingers move from his hair and chin, and instead scramble for his belt buckle, clumsily tugging it apart as his teeth mirror the action at her bottom lip.

The messy exchange of teeth, tongue, and spit takes precedence over Sam’s brain, and he feels himself fall into her, torsos glued desperately together as the heat in his belly burns stronger. Hot blood pumps rapidly to his cock as her choked mewls drag him perilously close to the edge after no more than some mere friction.

His mouth traverses down her chin to her throat, ravenous groans muffled against her skin as he grips onto her for dear life, beginning to feel some give in the confinement of his jeans as she unzips them. She doesn’t even try to pull him away this time- her objective has changed.

He’d swear if he could, but his brain can’t even conjure up letters any more.

His teeth pierce the delicate skin of her neck, and a startled cry escapes her lips as she loses balance and tumbles backwards onto the unforgiving stone beneath them.

Sam looms over her, his weight pressing down until she feels almost crushed beneath him. Only his hand, gripping the back of her head with a fierce intensity that verges on violence, prevents her skull from meeting the ground with bone-shattering force.

His weight bears down on her, the back of one hand planted firmly against the ground underneath her head, while the other moves to maintain its bruising hold on her jaw, thumb hooking around her bottom teeth.

Every nerve in her body seems to betray any remnant of morality as she keens, her thighs tightening around him, trapping him in place as grinds himself against her. He selfishly draws tiny pinpricks of blood from her neck, and she claws at his arm, holding it against him as she bites and sucks what he gives her- almost every inch of her has become an unforgiving erogenous zone; it's all too much but not enough. It’s not enough. Teeth piercing her skin, tongue lapping up the mess- It’s an exquisite sort of agony, and she wants- needs- 

“More.” She murmurs around his thumb- or is it his finger now?

His teeth leave a trail of fire along her collarbone, her jawline, finally settling on her pulse point as it throbs beneath his lips. He grunts in response. There, he bites down harder, eliciting a guttural sound from deep within her throat as she struggles to catch her breath beneath him. Every break of the skin permits small bleeds of that relentless purple colour, rendering her virtually feral as she grows increasingly more overruled by the substance.

Rough hands roam beneath her t-shirt, sending goosebumps rising over heated skin as speckled blood bruises settle around her neck wherever his teeth have failed to puncture. To find some semblance of control amongst the chaotic frenzy, her trembling fingers pull at the waistband of her leggings, her urgency matching his own.

Fumbling clumsily, he joins her, his fingers tugging at the fabric with an urgency nigh on feral as his other hand harshly kneads at her waist. God, he wants to dig his fingers into her flesh, to break the skin, tear her apart, and fucking consume her from the inside out.

Before the waistband can even reach her thighs, she’s reaching down, pulling him out, drawing him towards her as a dribble of precum trickles over her fingertips, and he pushes up his torso to watch.

He’s sensitive. So, so, sensitive. In her desperation to pull him closer, she squeezes her palm around his shaft, and he chokes on his sudden gasp, hands smacking hard against the floor to hold himself up. 

Fuck. She wants to hear him do that again.

She grips him harder, stroking up and down with a cruelly tight fist. He’s all breathless whimpers and fluttering eyelids, allowing her to revel in the sounds as he drinks in the sight of her hand wrapped around him.

He shudders, undone, from virtually nothing, shaking violently and audibly moaning behind pursed lips. He can’t even think to muster up a verbal warning before he comes, pearly hot liquid spurting over her hand, dripping down onto her stomach. Yet, similarly to her, there’s no comedown. No time for shame about such a short build up. He’s still hard, red hot and weeping, body vying for more as his eyes glue themselves to the mess he’s made on her t-shirt, seeping through to her skin- Christ, her skin-

He’s hooked; her plushness, every recess and every convex curve, how her t-shirt clings to her stomach, made tacky by him. If it were possible, he’d cover her in him just so he could spend minutes watching it drip and bead and roll across and in-between her soft, smooth, warm skin. Sam’s so mesmerised that he barely even takes in the fact that he’s pushed her t-shirt up, his tongue and teeth licking and pulling at her stomach until his hips buck harshly at the saltiness of her sweat mixing with the flavour of his own stickiness. He shudders.

Her hands slide and scramble, clumsily unhooking her bra, scraping her knuckles on the floor beneath her before pulling it all off, over her head; all just in time for his mouth to open and cram as much of her left tit inside as he can. Sam sucks with a ferocity that’d be frightening if this wasn’t a shared affliction, rutting his hips sporadically against the bunched up fabric of her leggings rolled down to her thigh.

Her nipples are hard, sore, aching, and the pressure of his teeth rabidly biting and pulling, contradicting the soothing warmth of his tongue rolling in tandem, make her jaw go slack and her brows knit tightly together as she tries to navigate the fluctuating sensations.

Her hands slide over the back of Sam’s neck and down his shoulder blades, to his waist, his hips, sticky fingers stretching, running over hairs and scars and flexing abdominal muscle as they reach for his cock, slick, swollen, and heated as it meets her palm. Squeezing him closer to her, Sam groans, mouth pausing its assault on her chest, face falling flat into it, bucking harshly as she impatiently pulls him close, close, closer, writhing restlessly ’til her leggings are low enough for her thighs to part enough to let him in.

Incoherent, mumbled moans are hummed and panted into her tender chest, hands digging into the flesh of her waist as his shaft is squeezed and dragged against her sopping cunt. She moans, a languid, filthy thing as he meets her swollen, sensitive clit, the sodden cotton of her underwear brushing tortuously against it as she brashly pulls them aside.

His impatience builds, fingers digging into her deeper and deeper until they become restless and tug fiercely at her leggings. She hisses sharply as her naked back scrapes suddenly against the floor, her body shunted downwards til one of her legs are fully exposed to air, allowing Sam to hook his knee under hers, pushing up harshly and pinning her thighs apart- access that they’re both burning for. She urges him on with a whine as he pushes down on top of her, words lost to the both of them, communication reduced to vying grunts and desperate writhing.

His pupils dilate enough to make him look feral, purple-flecked irises madly dancing left, right, up, down, as if committing the sight of her, greedy and parched, to memory, before he finally complies, long groan grating out of him as his tip breaches her slightly. He can’t hesitate any longer. His lips part as his thick cock sinks into her inexorably, leaving her completely pliant beneath him. Despite how impossibly wet she is, the stretch is still so intense- she feels like she’s being split in two; it’s both the best and worst thing she’s ever felt, but something she never wants to end.

“S-ss…” She hisses, screwing her face up in frustration as she tries and fails to say his name, nails digging into him more. “Pl-P…” She grunts again, frustrated with her inability to conjure words. Her thighs tremble, the sharp, tight warmth in her stomach tugging and pulling and obliterating every sense as she tightens around him, eyes flickering, rolling back almost painfully as he fills her deep, retracts, and fills again, each time not stopping until he’s buried to the hilt.

For a moment, head spinning, he stares down at the way her head falls back, eyes squeezing shut, arms flopping, knuckles smacking against the ground as she traps a warbled cry behind her teeth, greedily sucking him into her. He grunts, brows drawn together, and thinks he’ll never be sated again like this. It's perfect. If only it weren't manufactured.

Heat sears him apart from the inside out, savage gluttony evident in the way he gasps and he groans when his hips slam forward, over and over, pressed so tightly against her that each movement reverberates astoundingly against her clit. She’s so tight, so perfect, so wet, around him as she whines and bucks up into him.

Sam holds her down; hand pinning forearm, fingers digging deeply into stomach and waist, knee prying thigh from purple-stained thigh, pumping into her at a relentless pace; She groans as he harshly works her open, arching into him as her stomach tightens— tighter, tighter, tighter, until she’s screaming, unpinned arm smacking into his back, nails clawing crescents into his sweat-slicked skin as another wave of arousal floods every sense of her being.

She can’t breathe- she doesn’t want to- the energy needed to do so would take away from the white hot pleasure coursing through every inch of her. Liquid gushes, her cunt clamping down hot around him and squeezing, milking him so tight it makes him choke on his own sharp inhale, so good it burns- it’s almost excruciating. He shudders as he breaks, palm slamming against the floor to hold himself up when he comes, too.

She groans at the fullness and the warmth of him spilling inside her, breath coming out in messy, uneven bursts as she feels herself suck in every drop.

For a moment, she watches him come down from his peak, heavy-lidded eyes grazing over the vulnerable crease in his brow, the way his cheeks flush as he catches his breath above her, and his parted lips- she wants to kiss him. Sweetly. She wants him to let her show him she's not a ‘kid’. She wants to feel what it's like to be wanted by him. She's strong, capable, undeniably and irrevocably attracted to him, and… God… She still feels hot. Despite coming twice- or is it three times, now- the need for more is already becoming unbearable, and she fails to decipher if these thoughts are coming from the chemical festering in her veins, or if they're being made apparent due to its diminishing strength. She stings. Oh, she's a mess.

He’s still hard inside her, twitching, demanding still. The question gnaws at her, but her body burns for more, more, more. He slows above her, the lack of physical stimulation, and the completely deriding overstimulation of her mental state making her eyes water. She wriggles slightly, an impatient grunt echoing around the small room as she tries to roll her hips under him. The stillness of his cock inside her has her mewling, still spasming softly around him.

“S- Sam-” She sputters, eyes widening in realisation of her somewhat rehabilitated ability to speak.

For just a few seconds his mind’s feverish occupation dilutes, replaced with a glimpse of a soft, sated afterglow… he falters, his mouth hanging open like there’s something he wants to say. 

“Mm…more. Need more.” She beats him to it, murmuring between shallow breaths, feeling the rising ache cloud her mind already.

His heart thuds so fast it’s a surprise it’s not sat in his throat- is it gratitude he’s trying to muster? Or, an admission perhaps? “I-” Just like her, the words are fighting to get out of him, but just as he strings a sentence together in his head, he starts to tense again. “Gotta… I- I’m-”

For a second, she feels sympathetic as she watches him war with himself. But her body doesn’t let the sympathy hang about for long, and she finds herself making his mind up for him, tugging him down by the back of the neck, tongue meeting tongue as she ferociously bucks up, calf hooking around thigh to pull him tight against her, giving her leverage to twist her hips and roll them both around.

It burns, the white hot anticipation, and he can barely move. His brain has been dumbed down; near-irrevocably stuck between wanting to split her open again, to keep biting and bruising and claiming, or to actually feel- to savour her in her entirety. His indecisive stupor makes him ache even more, brows knitting together tightly as his mind tries and fails to establish where to go next.

Sam can barely process anything outside of the softness of her sticky palm on his chest, the ridges of her fingerprints and the gentle sharpness each time her nails brush against his skin as she pushes him against the ground. She rolls her hips, soft curses spilling out of her lips as she feels his hands clumsily dig into her ass. He shuts his eyes, head lulling sideways as he swallows hard, choosing to feel.

Grip loosening momentarily, his eyes open at the feeling of her fingers branching up, wrapping themselves around his throat; loose, but just enough pressure that he can feel his own pulse reverberate against her thumb. She squeezes harder, turning him to face her, his head numbing with a pleasurable fizz as his vision transfixes on her.

He's too tired to fight against her- truth be told, he probably wouldn't try if he did have the strength. Jesus, she's so pretty, he thinks. Well that makes a change. Significantly less violent than the thoughts circulating his head earlier. She could squeeze tighter and tighter if she wanted, and he still wouldn't protest if it meant he could watch her, like this, from underneath her. Especially when she comes again, back arching as she moans like a fucking animal- and still she doesn't stop.

“So- you’re-” Between the pressure on his throat, her relentless pace, and his own spasmodic panting, he can barely string a sentence together, “s-damn tight- so good- fuck.”

He finds himself completely and utterly caught up in how tight she still feels around him- how fucking gorgeous she looks with her eyebrows drawn tightly together, eyelids heavy as she ferociously rocks her hips, stomach flexing, tits bouncing- the speckled bruises and drying blood stippled across her neck and collarbones- and then there's a hard pang of guilt; he did that to her- made her bleed- infected her- it's his fault that she's being made to give him this-- exactly… what he's wanted…for months.

He expects the thrumming ache to cloud him over again, but it never comes. Instead, a strange clarity claws its way through the haze of his mind. This is what he has longed for for months, but now that it's here, the moment is tainted by anguish. It took this entire horrible ordeal to force him to act upon his feelings, and he mourns the likelihood that this will be the one and only time he gets to be this close to her.

And then, beneath the sorrow and the dread, there lies a deeper, more corrosive guilt. It gnaws at him, a conscience-grating burden that leaves him nauseous. Despite the mental torment, despite everything, his body betrays him, running rife with boiling hot pleasure. The contradiction tears at him, a cruel reminder of his own skewed morality and the complex, painful nature of his...is it his love for her?

The obscene squelching sounds and the wetness leaking out of her and down her inner thighs, forming small puddles on his skin, and the floor, and, fuck, as she murmurs an exhausted plea, the taste he's getting of being wanted- needed- used by her- it all sends him over the edge.

She whimpers and falls into him, moaning incoherently into the crook of his neck as her fingers tighten, nails scraping against stubble, and-- jesus, he's coming again.

His hands meet her upper back, holding her down as he fills her once more, rasped groans and a string of murmured curses vibrate against her skin as he swallows against her hand. He holds onto her selfishly, savouring the feeling of her weight on top of his- bare skin on bare skin, the way she seeks comfort in him- he's thought about this countless times… and he hates how much he's enjoying the consent-less reality of it.

Her movements slow, becoming sloppier, lazier, her energy dwindling as she tries to chase the release she desperately needs. She whimpers, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes, dampening Sam's shoulder as they fall, and she finds her swollen, sensitive clit with one hand while the other moves from his throat to his hair.

He continues to hold her as his sensitive cock twitches inside her, nose nuzzling into her hair as he whispers; "Did you...?"

She shakes her head, a soft whimper coming out of her as she tries to push herself into another orgasm. The sound of his voice. Raw, raspy, quiet in her ears makes her tear up even more, and all of a sudden, her body's pursuit of pleasure has become torturous. She looks at Sam, his eyes clearer, amber flecks of colour visible again, his expression one of concern and exhaustion. Guilt churns in her stomach, sharp and nauseating, as the fog in her mind grows lighter by the second- the physical pain persists.

Her body, still wracked by the effects of the drug, betrays her with every shiver, flush of heat, and every desperate circle of her fingertips. She feels humiliated, the intense need now a source of shame, tucking her head back into his shoulder as she arches her back despite herself. Tears well up in her eyes, and she can’t meet Sam's eyes. "I... I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I still need to-" she sniffs, "I can't- hurts."

Sam’s heart aches at the sight of her distress, and he nods, one hand smoothing down to her soft hip as the other stays on her back. He breathes in the scent of her hair, wanting to savour the moment- hell, he probably won't see her again if this is how she's reacting before she's fully recovered.

He wants more of her, he knows he does. But he's sensitive… and the clarity is still there. The clarity. The stabbing, blunt, serrated knife sawing in and out of his gut that makes him realise that he's never going to have this again. And that none of it was real anyway. But she sobs, and the sting in his chest wanes from his pain to hers. For now, curing hers takes precedence. 

Gently, he pushes against her, and exhausted, she complies, rolling back round to her back, eyes closed, borderline hyperventilating. He pulls her hand from between her legs and she huffs out a shaky breath.

“Sorry…hgnn- I'm sorry.” She whispers, her chest tightening.

He watches her try to cover her face with her forearm, and as he slides out of her, she sobs quietly, tensing her thighs together and rocking her hips softly to try and give her clit the friction it needs as she's left empty.

He rubs the palm of her hand with his thumb, gently lacing his fingers between hers, eyes glued to the way their skin glistens with their mixed arousal. “None’a that.” He says, squeezing her hand as he gently pries her thighs apart. “Not your fault.”

She whimpers up to the ceiling.

“God, it really hurts, Sam.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He holds himself up on an elbow and exhales. His free hand traverses down her torso, giving her waist a reassuring squeeze before reaching between her thighs.

She keens at the nickname, making a shuddered whimper as his fore and middle fingers gather some of the copious amount of shared arousal, rubbing against her carefully.

“This okay?”

Her chin trembles as she nods. “I need more.” She whispers, and almost immediately he pushes two fingers knuckle-deep into her aching cunt, pearlescent slick oozing out onto the palm of his hand down to his wrist. She squeezes his hand instinctively, a groan bubbling out of her throat.

His eyes follow the trail as his fingers stroke her from the inside and his thumb flicks softly at her clit, her soft moans permeating his mind. He's hard again; the thick liquid warms his wrist as it trickles down further, up to where the veins in his forearm meet the inside of his elbow- the veins that were deep purple not too long ago. He looks at his hand, then her thigh; still a small webbing of colour coming from the bite mark, whilst nowhere to be seen on him.

He swallows. There's a soft haze over his brain again, but it's gentle this time. Normal, even, bar the bittersweetness of it all. There's no burn. No malicious desire eating away at him… He just wants to savour her; to soothe, to make her feel better. She looks so ashamed. He wants to take that away from her.

Sam glances back up at her, eyes shut and arm crossed to cover her chest and it feels like a kick in the stomach. He purposely slows his hand, and her eyes open.

Before she can choke out another plea, he leans over her again, pressing his lips to hers gently, slowly building up his hand’s pace as he feels her sigh heavily. His chest thuds as he takes the time to memorise the softness of her lips, acknowledging that this might be the only time he gets to be so soft with her. It breaks his heart- another unforseen circumstance.

Her stomach flutters as he kisses her, the unexpected softness of it making more tears prick at her eyes as he works her closer to her peak. She moves her arm from her chest back to his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

After a moment, he moves from her lips, gently licking and pecking at each bruise and break in her delicate skin, relieved that there's no more purple, but unable to shake the guilt as he mutters apologies interspersed with each break for breath.

She squeezes his hand back, her whole body tensing.

His mouth traverses lower; down her sternum, all the way to her lower abdomen, until he reaches the tops of her thighs, where tacky quickly turns to wet as he moves lower still. Her breath catches as his eyes lock onto hers, and her lips part slightly, a subtle invitation, or perhaps merely surprise, but it's enough to keep him rooted, suspended between action and restraint as he feels himself salivate. In that silence, he waits, desperately vying for the smallest sign of consent.

She winces, her body aching as it waits for release, but she doesn't break eye contact. Instead, she takes a deep breath, and her fingers, trembling, unhook from his and reach out to rest on his jaw, her thumb brushing lightly against his lower lip. It's so brief and gentle it almost feels imagined. Yet, it's there— an undeniable gesture that heats his blood- organically, this time; He tastes them both on her skin and fuck, it's nothing short of heavenly. 

He swallows, eyes flitting around, learning the sight of her by heart before looking back up at her. He licks again and his cock twitches.

With a mixture of reverence and hunger, he closes the distance between them, movements measured and purposeful, each stroke of his tongue filled with a tenderness that belies all of the turmoil eating away inside him.

Her grip on his hair tightens as she sighs up to the ceiling. He loses a little restraint as she breathes out his name, begging him for more, and small, neat licks turn more rabid when his hand wraps around his shaft. He pumps himself with the same intensity as his tongue as it works in and out of her, his soft groans making her hips buck into his mouth as her breaths become more shallow.

She moans- cracked and raspy with exhaustion- at the feel of his lips, his nose, his tongue licking and sucking and savouring the satiating nectar dripping from between her trembling legs. His tongue broadens to gather and swallow before alternating to target her clit with the tip, wet and hot as he laps and swirls and buries in and around her. He tightens his fist around his cock, causing her stomach to roll as he moans into her- it's sloppy and messy and downright vulgar, but there's something so enamouring about his enthusiasm. His forearm wraps under her thigh, pulling her tight against his mouth as he grows closer to another climax of his own, and she gasps and arches even closer.

"Fuck, Sam-I, I'm-" she can feel him looking up at her as she struggles to string a sentence together, using the sight of her to coax his own pain-numbing, breathtaking orgasm. He moans, stimulating her tenfold as he releases warm ropes onto himself, his eyes rolling back as he near-suffocates against her.

He keeps going, and going, even when he lets go of himself to grip her stomach and pin her down- and she almost chokes, unable to breathe as she's utterly overwhelmed by the pleasure and the raw, visceral feelings for him that stabs relentlessly into her heart. She feels the pain raking its way through her body dissipate with each second that goes by.

He's so good. So fucking handsome.

She finally comes, a warbled cry trapped behind her teeth as her eyes squeeze shut and a rapturous wave of coolness floods her body. It's overwhelming- asphyxiating, even; tears streaming, fingers knotting rougher into his curls as he holds her tightly in place, devouring her through and past her climax. He takes and takes and takes-- shit, he loves this.

"S-sam,"

He loves this.

"Agh- Sam, pl- stop-"

He loves this. He fucking loves this- her. He- he loves-

She yanks hard enough on his hair that he's forced away from her with a pained hiss, gasping heavily like he hasn't taken a proper breath in minutes, his entire face from the bridge of his nose down glazed and glistening. He looks so pretty. She aches.

His eyes traverse, conflicted and somewhat melancholic from her thighs, up to her face, and she sees that he's... crying too. It's alien to her. What has she done to him?

She holds his gaze, her own eyes red-rimmed and tear-filled. The regret feels like a physical ache in her chest, mingling with the remnants of aftershock and the soreness between her legs and all over her broken skin across her thigh and décolletage. Despite the excruciating shame, she wants to reach out, to tell him that it's okay, that they had both been caught in the same storm. But the words don't come.

Instead, she sits up ever so slightly, wincing as she scoots closer, their bodies brushing as she nervously pulls his head to her shoulder; a tentative, fragile gesture, but she hopes it speaks volumes nonetheless. He stiffens at first, but eventually relaxes, his arm scooping beneath her to hold onto her gently.

She cradles his head against her, staring at the ceiling with tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. The physical pain was dulled now, but the emotional ache was fierce. She had never fantasised it being like this, tainted by necessity and confusion, and she doesn't know what to do. It's suffocating.

For a moment, they both just breathe, soaking in the sickly, unfiltered aftermath of the whole ordeal.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours—they've lost all sense of time in this weird fucking space where the boundaries have been irreparably corroded. They're cold. Exhausted. Emotionally bare. And now he feels like a damn coward, letting her stroke his hair and cradle him against her chest, after all he's put her through. He grits his teeth in an attempt to keep his watery eyes from spilling over.

But the attempt fails, and he hates how uncharacteristic this is. Screw this place. Screw Cassimir. Screw their client, screw his own greed that brought them here in the first place, and screw- fucking screw her for taking away his ability to remain a husk- and for letting him hurt her.

Finally, she pulls back as she feels her skin dampen and his shoulders jolt ever so slightly, her hand forcing his chin up. Her eyes search for him, and in that moment, she fully takes it in, and sees what she hopes to be the same fear, the same shame, and yet, the same insane level of care that has gnawed at her heart for so long.

Sam opens his mouth to speak as her brows furrow, but no words form, let alone come out, aside from a pathetic, choked sigh that hints at the tumult of emotions stirring inside him. His tongue rolls over his lip, and the lingering taste of them has him shudder and shut his eyes.

He can’t bring himself to look at her, the shame too sickening, too palpable. But then, as he pulls away, getting up to his knees as he fumbles with his jeans, he feels her hand on his arm, steadying him. He looks down, and in her eyes, he doesn't see pity, or accusation, but- and for a second he considers pinching himself- understanding, a non-verbal acknowledgment of his vulnerability.

Delicate and trembling, her fingers reach up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw as if to reassure herself that he is real, that this moment, however fleeting and fraught with confusion, was real. At least she'd have it stapled to her memory. Sam closes his eyes at her touch, a self deprecating huff leaving his lips. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm; a silent apology and a desperate plea for reassurance that she's actually thinking what he hopes she is. He even hazards a look to her thigh for any sign of coercion from the drug still coursing through her, but there's no purple in sight.

She reaches one of her arms above her head, just about reaching her shirt. She grunts in disgust, the material sodden, and she drops it back down with a shaky huff, the room's frigid temperature finally having an effect once more.

Sam pushes himself up again, rubbing his damp cheeks with the back of his hand as a sense of normalcy seeps back into his senses. And with that normalcy, grief.

He finds his t-shirt, quickly sliding it over his head despite the excess of sweat and bodily fluid covering both his skin and the material. He grimaces as it clings to him, and she watches on with a poignant shiver, pulling her knees to her chest after adjusting her soaked-through underwear, her boots scraping against the ground as she does so.

He clears his throat, picking up his plaid overshirt from where he'd discarded it earlier before looking over his shoulder at her as he pulls the sleeves through the right way. 

Someone has to speak sooner or later, she thinks, but can't bring herself to. Her nails scratch nervously at her skin as she weighs up what to do, trying not to cry at the prospect of Sam's walls being rebuilt so fast after pouring everything- mind, body, soul- into her moments ago. She feels so naive- so fucking silly-

“What was it you said earlier?”

Her head shoots up as he speaks, caught off guard by how much he sounds like his usual self. Charming, cocky, collected.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyebrows drawing together and her eyes narrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity. Her lips part just enough to show she's on the verge of speaking, but she holds back, waiting for his next words to clarify the moment.

He extends his shirt out to her, lips quirking into a soft, somewhat reassuring smile. She looks at him for a moment, taking the shirt and putting it on.

“Somethin’ about an HR department?”

She looks at him, a soft laugh fluttering to the surface. It's a quiet sound, tinged with shyness and still wrapped in the lingering sadness of their shared ordeal. Her eyes lower for a moment, the weight of everything that happened settling in.

Seeing her reaction, Sam gets up and moves to where her water flask lies discarded. He unscrews the cap and pours some onto a clean part of his t-shirt. She begins to button her shirt, but he stops her, silently asking for a moment longer.

“Can I?”

She lets go of the shirt, and with gentle, still slightly shaky hands, he dabs the wet cotton softly over her wound-ridden skin.

She watches him, the sadness in her eyes gradually giving way to something softer, his tenderness speaking volumes. As he continues to tend to her wounds, his mouth twists in thought, like there's something he wants to say. So he does.

“I'm sorry.”

He's not the type to apologise, so eye contact is impossible.

“What?”

He continues dabbing at her skin in silence.

“Sam.”

She covers his hand, stopping him from finding any other distraction.

“You didn't ask for this."

He frowns. “I- I just put you through… somethin’ not far off of assault, and your response is-”

“No. Not one part of that was assault-”

“She says, as I wipe up blood from bites I gave her.”

“Yeah, with the mouth that's covered in my cum.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but he can't find anything to say. His cheeks redden.

She sighs again. They're going in circles and she wants to put an end to it all- she's tired. Filthy. Possibly concussed. Which she uses to excuse what she does next.

“Can I try something?” she asks. Fuck it.

“Try what?"

Without another word, she steps closer, her eyes searching for any sign of protest. When she finds none, she leans in and kisses him, her lips soft and warm against his, holding none of the desperation or haze of their previous encounter, completely free from the influence of any perverted pill or potion.

What's she got to lose?

Sam is shocked at first, his body tensing. He instinctively pulls her off, his eyes flitting around her face as his jaw loosens and tightens in search of something to say.

Her heart sinks and she steps back, “Thought so,” she smiles sadly, backing away, knowing it was a mistake to try. "Can we... can we get out of here?"

He should hate himself, right? He's gone against everything he's ever stood for- let every non-committal brick he's built since teenagehood crumble to dust. He's gone soft. Sentimental. By force, to begin with, yet he still hasn't stopped himself. It's… Pleasant. Is this the balance Cassimir fetishised over?

Screw it, he decides, Because if he has to stand by and watch her grow apart from him when she's just shown the same as- if not more vulnerability than him, what use are a few walls?

He pulls her back, his lips finding hers again. This time, it's different- there’s no urgency, no magical compulsion, but rather something deep- genuine. The kiss is tender, filled with all the emotions they’ve been too afraid to voice, and he feels years worth of tension escape him. His sore muscles loosen, hands cupping her face softly, and she melts into him.

When they finally pull apart, their foreheads rest together, and this alone feels infinitely more intimate than anything that had transpired beforehand.

"So... is it safe to assume that we're both on the same page, or...?" She swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper, but her usual playfulness breaks through, and it makes him smile.

"What, that we're both in dire need of some good laundry detergent and a shower? Or was there somethin' else on your mind?"

She snorts, gently kicking his shin, the enormity of months worth of repressed feelings finally worn on the proverbial sleeve. She takes a deep breath, the worry in her eyes softening as she looks at him.

"We have a lot to figure out."

He chews the inside of his lip contemplatively, still not entirely sure there’s any reason why she’s being so gracious. So calm, despite it all, like he deserves any of it.

There’s a beat.

And then he nods. Because that’s why she makes his entire psyche shift off-kilter- makes him notice his bad habits.

"We'd… uh, better cash those vials in."

She sees a million-and-one thoughts behind his eyes, but he needs to rest. So she waits, head tilted, suspecting he's got something else to add. 

"How else am I supposed to afford a five-star first date?"

The other million thoughts can wait.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

I promise to write something short and funny next time x

[satoruhour]

a/n: fluff today! about 1k <3 domestic mornings (afternoons) with satoru always my fav to write about. pls support this as much as my smut works ty 💟 !! / @crysugu @hyomagiri @satohruu @shotorus @greycaelum

by now, it’s late in the afternoon so much so that you’re sure the blinds are hot to the touch from the harsh rays of Amaterasu and her blessings of another bright, hot day. it’s normal in tokyo to wake up to warm sheets and a throat desperate for some water but you’ve learned to avoid it by setting an earlier alarm — take a morning shower, make some tea and grab a book.

satoru, not so much.

he likes to whine a lot when he first stirs, a plethora of sounds that leave him at how he can’t feel your warmth in his arms (“you’d be complaining even more about the heat if i was, you idiot.”), sometimes about the morning being too bright (“mister, it is twelve thirty-four right now.”) and mostly about sweat. today he decides to do all three.

gojo mumbles something incoherent when you accidentally nudge your legs into his, a childish whine how he missed you. “baby, i’m right h—”

“yeah, but . . oh, jesus christ,” his voice is awfully loud when he complains about the rays. “why is it so bright?”

“sun—”

and like always, in classic gojo satoru fashion, he never really lets you finish.

“oh eeewwugh . . i’m so sweaty,” your boyfriend has reached full consciousness by now and if it wasn’t the morning perhaps you’d think he was drunk from how dramatic he was being.

“you literally live in a penthouse, stupid, just go take a shower in one of your bathrooms.” and you go right back to your story. at the corner of your eye you can hear him pouting, crawling up to you and resting his chin on your thighs as he reads the synopsis of your book. satoru blows a raspberry, which you can feel on your hand and the spittle from his mouth makes you sigh; you think it’s due time to give your boyfriend some attention.

“story sounds boring,” you roll your eyes and put it to the side and the reveal of his stupidly cute face almost makes you cave. there’s a deep frown on his face because you’re insulting him so early in the morning and thinking your book is better than him, when really you’re just trying your best to reach your quota before book club saturday. eventually, you do give in after reading the starting sentences of chapter 18 over and over again and frankly digesting nothing, thinking only now of his body wash on your body.

it hasn’t exactly sunk in how you manage to be dating the gojo satoru, with all his cheeky smiles and inappropriate jokes (and timing too), that you are the only one to see him like this in the morning: all not what people says he is and yet he doesn’t hide it one bit from you. why is there any need to?

it’s you.

“don’t frown, ’toru,” you mumble, fingers that were previously turning pieces of paper now smoothen out the furrow of his eyebrows and the tautness of his expression. they’re soft against his skin, and while he’d like to commend it to the body wash he uses he thinks it’s just because it’s you. every inch of you is soft but not without good measure. you still stand up for yourself and sometimes your feet walk a little too much and he can feel the callouses on the balls of your feet when you accidently shock him under the duvet.

you are soft in the way you feel against him, whether it’s when you ask meekly for a kiss and when you hum under the scorching shower water as he lathers your body. you are soft when you laugh loudly and you have to squeeze his hand as you slap his back with the other, and other times soft as you chastise him for buying yet another big stock of your favourite strawberries.

soft is strong, attractive in satoru’s book, because even when your love resembles the first breath of hypnos, it still pulls and tugs and yanks at his heart to drown in you like a siren luring a sailor; right into the depths of the darkening sea where he’d let you take him anywhere even if it meant travelling blind.

“done sulking?” you asked as a mutter, hands now cupping his cheeks that possibly hold all of gojo’s cracks and insecurities and feelings together. they bring him up gently, sweaty back now quelled momentarily with a strong draft from the windows and it’s like his soul reaches the highest point of existence like he did eleven years ago.

you kiss him gently, lips moving in tandem with his as your hands lose themselves over his body and you huff in surprise when he straddles you. long body hunching over yours as you chase his lips like riko after stingrays and you both after suguru and him after a reformed jujutsu society and—

“whew.” is all he says when he pulls away and you’re equally out of breath and gojo swiftly switches your positions. there’s a big grin on his face from the attention you finally give him, “you love me, huh?”

you roll your eyes again at the stupid, harmless comment, shutting him up effectively when you lean down again and kiss him rougher this time, feeling his wet palms span the expanse of your back and up your shirt. gojo sits up and you follow like choreography, moaning softly when he tugs you closer and suddenly you think you should’ve made yourself a cup of cold tea instead.

“i love you,” it’s a whisper against your lips and you have influenced so much of satoru that he is also soft, “i love you so goddamn much.” you nod back, pulling away lightly and you swear you see okinawa again in his irises. they look just as beautiful as the day he lost his youth and gained wisdom and you still love him the same.

“i love you more than my book, promise.” you quip, forehead against his and eyes mapping out each lagoon to pond to sea in the multiplying blues of his eyes — they seem only to do that when he’s with you.

“you better!” he laughs softly into your mouth and he can taste the tiramisu from yesterday on your lips, and you can taste his intoxicating smile. the absence of you, the sunlight and the heat doesn’t matter much to satoru now, and will settle for being soft in the sheets of cloud nine. satoru will make you forget about the tea you’ve woken up early to make and all the nuances of the characters of your book and maybe the slowly rotting strawberries (you might still eat them).

“you better . .” it’s like a plea the way he repeats it but his doubts are silenced once you mumble i do against his skin like a promise, a vow, and satoru then decides he cannot wait to see you from across an aisle.

yeah, soft laced white would look terribly beautiful on you.

♡

[starstruckmoony]

Hello! May I request a muggle AU with Theodore, with this meet-cute prompt: "they're on opposite sides of a wedding party to the bride and groom" (prompt is from @/thewritersafterglow on Instagram). Thank you! I know this request is in good hands :)

aaaaaa thank you anon! <3 this is the first request i've got in a while (again tysm it made me very very happy <3<3) and i had lots of fun writing it so i hope it meets your expectations!

can't help falling in love.

masterlist , requests

pairing - theodore nott x reader

trope/tags - muggle!au, strangers to lovers-ish, fluff (side note - this isn't particularly realistic because i don't really know how weddings work in different parts of the world, so i kind of just went by how they function in my country and some bits and pieces i've managed to pick up from movies and such. i know it probably won't be accurate for everybody but i tried my best LMAO)

word count - 3k

warnings - language, drinking, smoking, cheesy at the end

when you recieved an envelope in your mail one fine morning in late may, you never would have expected it to be an invitation to your primary school classmate's wedding in the english countryside. you could still recall the wonderful memory of choking on your coffee and scaring the life out of your poor cat when you saw her name plastered in big letters in the center of the paper, right below a picture of her and her fiancé. it was a miracle how she remembered you existed. to be frank, you were kind of honoured, and you made sure to confirm your arrival almost immediately. hell yeah, you were coming. free food and alcohol? who in the right mind would pass on that?

so about three months later, sometime in mid-august, you found yourself inside of a crowded venue, sweating buckets in your silky green dress, without a fan, or anybody to keep you company. a few of your old classmates were there too, but not a single one of them bothered to offer you a greeting. what a bunch of arseholes.

you stood leaned against the wall in the very back where there were fewer people, attempting to cool yourself down by fanning the air around you with your hands as you waited for the godforsaken ceremony to finally start. to nobody's surprise, the bride was a little late, and the groom's family was in a mild state of disarray. it was kind of funny, but not as funny as it would have been if you weren't feeling so bloody hot. do they not have air conditioning in here? how do people get married in these conditions? and why does the best man look more terrified than the groom?

the loud sound of somebody's shoes scraping against the tiles right next to you shook you right out of your train of thought, and you placed your hand against your chest in horror, "jesus christ." you muttered under your breath, the unfamiliar man attempting to catch his breath scared the life out of you.

he glanced at you for a split second, appearing rather exhausted (aftermath of sleeping through five alarms and having to run to the venue because his friends were too lazy to wait for him), "sorry." he offered you an apology breathlessly, leaning back against the wall to steady himself. you thought that you were being overdramatic when it came to the heat and the current atmosphere of the wedding, but this man seemed to have surpassed you. he was rather handsome though, despite being drenched in sweat from what you assumed was running, also paired with the humid air inside. his eyes were strangely captivating, and he looked a little too good in that suit of his for it to be considereded legal. were you staring? you were probably staring. you trailed your eyes away, pretending to be entertained by the groom's father who was attempting to explain the situation to the guests. you cursed inwardly, realising that you'd be stuck in there for a long time.

you turned to the pretty guy again, deciding that you should, perhaps, talk to him, "you don't look like you wanna be here." fantastic start. those probably weren't the words he wished to hear in those circumstances, but your observations didn't seem to annoy him at all. he actually chuckled instead, "am i that transparent?"

"quite." you responded a little too nonchalantly than intended, taking a quick glance at the door in hopes that you'll see the bride come in. nope. you returned to your original position. how wonderful that was, more waiting.

"do you have any water in there?" the man spoke again, pointing at the purse you had tucked under your arm.

you took it in your hands and peeked inside, knowing that you most likely wouldn't have what he was asking for, "no," you shook your head, but continued rummaging through it, "i have this, though." you pulled out a tiny bottle of liquor and shrugged before shoving it into his face.

he didn't hesitate to grab it, he would have taken anything that was liquid enough. he drank it all, not that there was much, before handing the bottle back to you with a scowl. he coughed a little as the alcohol burned his throat, and you couldn't help but snort. 

"i don't know how smart that was." it wasn't, really, since it would only dehydrate him more, but it worked for the time being. he coughed again, falling back against the wall, finally able to breathe somewhat normally.

"you'll find out in a few hours," you didn't miss the smile that painted his features, and it encouraged you to carry on, "how do you know the bride... or the groom?" you questioned, wanting to keep the conversation going to kill at least some of the remaining time you had. you were bored out of your mind.

"the groom," he nodded briefly, "we went to college together, funny bloke, he invited me and my two other friends who are... somewhere in here," he stretched his neck as his eyes scanned the crowd for a short moment, "eh, whatever." he shrugged, and then reached into his pocket, but quickly retrieved his hand. it was still empty. you had assumed he reached for a cigarette before he was able to remember where he was.

"you won't go looking for them?" you queried, finding his neutrality over the whole situation slightly bemusing. it wasn't every day that a hot guy like him ditched his friends for you, and it was rather pleasant to think about. he was hoping he wasn't being so obvious about it, but you read him a little too easily.

"what, bored of me already?" he questioned, a hint of playfulness in his tone.

"i might be, now that you said that." you scowled in pretend disgust, drawing a breathless laugh from him. you shortly sunk into a not overly uncomfortable silence, both internally debating with yourselves about whether you should keep it going or not. you were kind of drawn to each other, after all. the consequence of attending a wedding without a date must have had an influence on it, you told yourself. he mustered a similar, lame explanation.

"i'm theodore, by the way." he decided to break the ice after a while, and you almost sighed in relief, "y/n." you shook his hand politely.

"nice wedding." he added, his face scrunching at the sight before him. the sarcasm in his tone was obvious.

"delightful, isn't it?" you offered the older lady that passed by you a forced smile, and then eyed her giant pink hat judgementally. you and theodore resembled a mean high school couple who had an opinion on absolutely anyone and everything, just standing there, laughing amongst yourselves and making fun of all the other guests and their stupid pastel outfits. it made sense why your classmates hadn't approached you, but you didn't let them occupy your mind any longer. you found yourself a like-minded companion for the night, one that was ten times funnier, and the prime example of eye-candy.

"imagine she never shows up." theodore said after you shamelessly fed one another with some interesting past gossip about the bride and the groom. judging by what he had told you, those two were a match made in heaven. and you could say that with your whole chest.

"god, don't plant that idea into my head. i spent my last three paychecks on this bloody dress." you snorted, dusting it off when you noticed that it had got a bit dirty.

"it looks perfect on you, though." theodore's little compliment took you off guard, and he must have noticed judging by the way he grinned.

"thanks." you felt yourself blush a little at his comment, and just as you were about to open your mouth to speak again, the bride's mother burst through the door, announcing that her daughter would be there shortly. you exchanged a relieved glance with theodore, fucking finally.

despite the long wait, the ceremony played out quite beautifully. the couple exchanged their vows, humourous and tear-jerking all at once. people laughed, people cried, somebody's baby did both. the best man hadn't forgotten to bring the rings, and the maid of honour looked happier for the bride than the bride. nobody backed out last moment, and nobody objected after the infamous "speak now or forever hold your peace". you left the venue with a smile on your face, pleasantly surprised.

theodore and his friends offered to give you a ride to an even larger venue where the reception was being held after you told them that you had arrived with a cab, and you happily accepted their offer. the two idiots he came with were just as unserious as he was, and you had soon found out that they all attended the wedding with the same intentions as you. eat food, get drunk (and then sleep in the car because mattheo wants to get wasted but doesn't want to run them off the road and kill somebody in the process).

the reception, thankfully, moved a lot faster than the ceremony. by some sheer dumb luck, you had been instructed to sit at the same table as theodore, lorenzo and mattheo. your shitty classmates were there too, so you assumed that the table was designed specifically for that - old friends from school that the newly weds didn't talk to very much, but still liked them enough to invite them.

so, after the grand entrance, loud clapping and cheering, a cute speech from the bride, more clapping and cheering, the best dinner you had had in a while, a few more emotional speeches, and even more clapping and cheering (hollering this time, too), the dj finally showed up. it was the part of the night you had been the most excited for. the first dance was absolutely beautiful and even brought a few tears to your eyes, but god, the moment you heard an onset of lower-than-nightclub-quality music blast from the speakers, your hopes had all gone down the drain.

the dance floor filled up in a matter of seconds, and you had never been more appreciative of the existence of wine. not a single song that was played in the span of fourty-five minutes was your cup of tea. and as different people's requests kept incoming, it only got worse.

theodore seemed to be having the same problem. mattheo too, considering he had about five shots in less than half an hour. lorenzo wasn't doing much better either. he was entertaining himself by making paper planes out of tissue paper and leaving them on the table like a strange art project.

"this music is terrible." theodore's voice was completely drowned out by the godawful sounds coming from the speakers, you couldn't hear a thing he was saying.

"what?!" you shifted a bit closer to him, covering one of your ears with your palm to subdue at least some of the noise.

"i said that this music was terrible!" he tried not to shout, but it would have been impossible for you to comprehend whatever he had said if he hadn't done so. yes, it was fucking awful. many people would disagree, considering how many of them were still on the dance floor, either fully wasted already or slowly getting there. at least the newly weds were having a good time, both slightly tipsy too.

"tell me about it!" you yelled back, rolling your eyes. you considered asking him to accompany you outside, for a smoke or something, though you didn't really need an excuse. anywhere would have been better than in there. but you chickened out before you were able to speak, continuing to sip on your wine in silence. silence, that was funny, mostly because of how unbearably bloody loud the music was.

lorenzo suddenly stood up, and he yelled something into mattheo's ear. the other stared at him in confusion, and then burst out laughing into his face. he turned to you instead, and you saw his lips move, but didn't understand a thing he was saying.

"huh?!" you and theo yelled out in unison, and lorenzo waved his hands dismissively at you, defeated. he pushed his way through the crowd on the dance floor and shuffled over to the dj. he threw an arm around the man, probably trying to make some friendly conversation. they seemed to be getting along.

perfect. you reached for the wine bottle, refilling your glass and taking large gulp. you were hoping that lorenzo had enough charm to sway the dj into playing something else. it took about twenty minutes of insignficant chit-chat for the man to finally nod and give him a thumbs up, and that's then the beginning of dancing queen blessed your tortured ears.

you gasped in shock, immediately getting up onto your feet and latching onto theodore's arm. he didn't really protest when you tugged at his sleeve and pulled him to the dance floor which got even more crowded than it was before. mattheo managed to fall out of his chair, but he followed the two of you and joined you in the mass of people.

"thank me later!" lorenzo yelled your way before a pretty girl grabbed his attention. the night got so much better from then on. the dj appeared to have whipped up a large playlist of abba's work, since the songs were playing one after another, each one bringing your mood up. you had completely blocked out anything that had happened before you heard the tune of the first song, and you had only returned to the table with theodore to refill your glasses before running back to the dance floor.

you couldn't recall the last time you had that much fun, singing your heart out, jumping up and down, showing off some ridiculous moves, letting theodore hold your hand and spin you around. the dj stuck to the same genre for a while, playing old pop songs, keeping everybody on their feet. some of them you didn't know, but you weren't about to sit back down after doing so for almost two hours, so you danced to them too nevertheless.

that is, until your legs started hurting a little too much for it to be tolerable and your throat had got a bit sore from belting several songs with the bride. your head was spinning too, courtesy of having so much wine. theodore took the opportunity to ask you to accompany him outside (because he really needed a cigarette) after some slow tune neither of you were familiar with had been put on.

you nodded your head took a hold of his hand as he led you out the door. you clumsily made your way down the stairs, laughing as you did so. the effects of alcohol were beginning to show themselves.

as fun as it was, getting out of there for a short while was a need. you slumped down onto one of the stone benches placed outside the venue, sighing comfortably as the chilly breeze of the night cooled you down.

you immersed yourself into another casual discussion, not a very significant one, as neither of you could even stand properly for too long without stumbling, but it was nice breather from the wild atmosphere inside. you liked talking to theodore, and even with your clouded thoughts, you knew you'd want to see him again after this. there wasn't a doubt in your mind.

"i thought i'd have to leave early." theodore laughed to himself as he took the last drag from his cigarette, and then tossed the burnt out stub onto the concrete.

"and make me stay here all alone?" you teased, although you probably would have left too if it wasn't for lorenzo and his skillful flirtation tactics or whatever the hell that was.

"who said i wouldn't bring you along?" his response made heat rush to your cheeks, and you put your head down with a breathless chuckle. you were quiet for a moment, trying to recollect your thoughts.

"you know, this might sound a little weird, but," you chewed on the inside of your cheek, not really able to think straight. you were tipsy, after all, "i'm glad i met you today," you tilted your head to the side, drunkenly observing him, "you're nicer than i anticipated." as backhanded as it sounded, that was the best you could do.

it was theodore's turn to blush after you said the words, and it didn't manage to go past you, despite him trying his hardest to hide it.

"yeah, i mean no– it's not weird, i'm uh," he trailed off, contemplating whatever it was that he wanted to say next. honestly speaking, he didn't know how to put it into words, "i'm glad we met too, you're–"

one thing that theodore hated was tripping over his words and not being able to be blunt with somebody he took a liking to, which is why he was so, very grateful to hear elvis' can't help falling in love coming from the inside of the venue.

you looked up at him when you realised which song it was, waiting to see if he'll ask you to dance. and he did, but he didn't lead you back in through the door like you thought he might. you stayed outside in the light wind, slowly swaying to the music, his hands on your waist and your arms around his neck.

you liked it better that way, just the two of you in your own little world with nobody else to disrupt you. you let your head rest on his shoulder, and his grip on your waist tightened just a little bit, like he was making sure you won't leave him. you smiled to yourself, god, that was the last thing you were planning on doing.

[becca-e-barnes]

The Bad Day at Work

I'd been thinking about The Video earlier and I thought this might make an awfully sexy short part 2. In my head, the two pieces are set a couple of months apart. If you didn't already think I have a God complex, you'll think that by the time you're finished reading this 🙃

Pairing: Pornstar!Dad's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1.4K

Summary: Bucky has a tough day on set

Warnings: Age gap (Bucky is in his late 40's, reader is in her mid 20's), masturbation, unprotected sex, cream pie, praise kink, mentions of pornography

Minors, do not interact

You were beyond glad that your parents weren't home when the front clicked shut.

You were even more glad to be home alone when you felt a pair of warm lips on your neck, restless hands on your waist and the slight scruff of Bucky's stubble scratching your skin.

"Hello, you." You couldn't help but smile, partly because you didn't expect to see him today but mostly because he was so fucking eager.

You felt him hum his response more than you heard it. His mouth was occupied after all. His fingers flexed and tightened their grip on your waist, pulling you as close as he could manage.

"Good day at work?" You teased, arching your back slightly to press your ass against him. No matter how many he sees in his line of work, Bucky is absolutely an ass man.

"Are you joking?" He groans, sounding frustrated. "I don't think I've ever had a worse day on set."

He's piqued your interest, that's for sure. By all accounts, he's usually very happy with his job but that's to be somewhat expected when you're one of the most popular male pornstars in the industry.

Your phone lies long forgotten on the marble countertop and you do your best to loosen his grip enough to allow you to turn to face him.

"What happened?" You don't even sound incredibly sure of yourself. He might not want to talk about it and if that's the case, you don't want to press him.

"I couldn't finish." His cheeks are burning pink like someone has slapped both of them; frustration and shame blazing under his skin. "I tried everything. Thank God I had a condom on so I could fake it."

Your heart rate speeds up because you don't have a clue how to fix this. How do you make him feel better? What could you say that won't make him feel worse?

It's fine, it happens to everyone! Perhaps not.

I'm so sorry you couldn't finish for some other woman. Nope, not awfully sincere.

Maybe you're just getting to that age? No, definitely not.

"Well, what did you try? You've never had that problem when we're together." Your fingers drift through his dark hair and you can smell the fragrance of his shampoo so strongly, you know he's had a shower before he came over. He always does. It's just nice to be reminded though.

"Everything I usually do. I tried talking dirty, I tried changing positions. Nothing worked for me. She was a lovely woman, don't get me wrong." He's never sounded less sure of himself and it's actually a little heartbreaking. "I think you've broken me."

You can't help but laugh. You've broken him. As if he doesn't consistently leave your legs shaking. As if he didn't introduce you to pleasure that even your favourite vibrators can't compare to.

"It's true! I swear. The only time I even got close was when I closed my eyes and thought of you. But Jesus, that felt so wrong. I couldn't do that." He didn't think he'd admit that to you but in the moment, it was hard to keep it in.

That's a compliment though, right? It's a little weird but he meant well.

You didn't expect any of this when he walked through the door and you feel yourself racing to keep up, trying to find something to say to fill the silence.

"Nothing feels as good as you do." Thankfully he's still functioning, pent up frustration simmering over and his lips make their way back to your neck. "Nothing fucking compares to you." His hands slip under the hem of your thin top and you don't make any attempt to stop them.

Heat blossoms low in your tummy, creeping its way into your chest while the praise keeps coming.

"No one moans as pretty as you do. No one touches me like you do. No one makes me as filthy-minded as you do." He punctuates his sentences with squeezes to your breasts and bites to your skin and the combination is magical.

"Oh yeah? Are you sure? Because I'm going to be really disappointed if you can't cum for me either." You're only teasing him and he knows it but with his injured pride, he's already far too keen to prove himself.

"We both know I don't have that problem with you, honey. Hell, if anything, I struggle to last." He's inflating your ego and you're not sure if he knows it.

You don't really know which of you are more keen as you begin your ascent to your bedroom, trying to shed your clothes on the way. It's a relief to see the smile on his face and for a second, you just have to stop in the hallway to kiss him because he's too damn cute.

Neither of you have it in you to wait. With the state you're in, any more foreplay might just leave you trembling and despite the fact he likes to be courteous, he doesn't have the patience to drag this out either.

You lay on your back on the bed, watching him kiss up the insides of your thighs while stroking his own erection and you struggle to remember a time you felt this overwhelmed with excitement. Eventually, you feel his hot breath on your slick cunt but for once, he doesn't dwell there too long. There's a desperation to the way he's stroking himself now and you entirely understand, despite how mesmerising it is to watch him touch himself.

"Fuck, look at you." He moans, his thumb pressed to the top side of his length while he slides himself against your wet folds. "You're so perfect. All over." He grants himself a couple more indulgent, slow glides over your sex before he cups your face in one hand.

The blunt tip of his dick presses against your entrance, sliding into your body and you resist the urge to close your eyes and enjoy the feeling in favour of keeping your eyes fixed on his, drinking in how his expression reflects the pleasure he feels.

It's not hard to tell that the very first stroke has you both feeling the same. It's more than just feeling full, in a way it's almost closer to feeling complete.

"Sweetheart, you're gonna have to touch yourself." His cheeks are just as flushed as they were when he came in earlier but now he's embarrassed for entirely the opposite reason.

"You've barely started, don't tell me you're going to cum already." You can't help but laugh, taking his advice regardless. Your fingers are well versed in self pleasure, your hand slipping down between your bodies until you're able to rub your own clit in tight circles.

"I can't help it." His voice comes out closer to an elated giggle than you expected. "You've ruined me. Fuck, I'm yours."

The fingers of your free hand curl in the short hair above the back of his neck while he continues to fuck himself stupid into you. He's hardly even thinking now, letting each little confession tumble from his lips before he can even think about them.

"You've broken me. God, you feel so fucking perfect. You own me. Your cunt owns me. Holy shit." He sounds wrecked, clearly already trying to hold off his orgasm while you chase yours and you're beyond thankful it's not too far away. How could it be with confessions like that?

You feel your body fluttering around his cock, euphoria washing over you in waves that you couldn't surface from if you tried. It's an all consuming, frantic kind of pleasure. Each thrust from your partner only drags you in deeper and it's truly heavenly.

"Cum for me, Buck." You don't have to encourage him too many times. He's more than happy to give in, his arms shaking, proudly finishing inside you with a groan so beautiful that it makes you wonder if you could cum again.

He's entirely spent, for now anyway. You hear him chuckle, relief making him giddy because so long as he's still able to cum for you, you haven't completely broken him.

"Well." You smile, kissing his head before getting up to head to the bathroom. "At least I know you didn't fake that."

[guess-my-next-obsession]

Hi Kat! I’m in loooove with Elementary. Do you think perhaps you could write about Sarah/ reader bonding where reader helps her with periods, or something like that, where Joel maybe feels a little out of depth (he’d try his best, i think)? I’m sorry if i’m overstepping!! It’s just a thought I had, feel free to disregard, obviously. Love all of your work!

Out of My Depth

pairing: pre-outbreak!joel miller x sarah’s teacher!reader

rating: M (talks of periods, joel being a clueless man who means well, fluff city basically)

wc: 1.8k

series masterlist

“Hey, is everything okay?” You met Joel at the front door of his home, a frantic look of concern on your face as you searched his. He’d called you up just a little bit ago and asked you to come over because there was an emergency with Sarah, and without asking any questions, you got in your car and drove over. “Where’s Sarah? Is she—“

“Calm down, baby,” he breathed out a chuckle. “Sarah’s alright, she just…well, she…started her you know what for the first time, and I—“ Joel was interrupted by the sound of your laughter, his eyes fixed on you as you doubled over, cackling at the fact that at his ripe age of 34 years old, he couldn’t utter the word “period”. “Alright, ha-ha. Go on and laugh at me, but I didn’t know what to do! I’m out of my depth here.”

“Oh, baby,” you cooed, a grin still on your face as you cupped his cheek. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs in the shower. Didn’t know what else to do so I told her to go have a hot shower,” he chuckled, sheepish about his lack of knowledge on this front.

“Do you have any pads? Tampons? Anything?” you asked. Joel shook his head and sighed.

“I thought we had a few more years until we had to worry about all this,” he admitted, scratching his neck. “Gimme a list of what I need to go pick up and I’ll run down to the drugstore.”

“Okay,” you smiled, endeared by his determination.

Joel walked you inside the house and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from his desk before joining you at the dining table. You had to giggle at his eagerness, his eyes wide as he looked to you for guidance. Pushing his hair back, you gave him a kiss on the forehead before beginning to list off the basics: pads for the daytime, maxi-pads for the evening, a box of regular tampons in case she wanted to try that out, some midol, a heating pad, and most importantly, chocolate.

“Jesus,” he whistled at the list, shaking his head. “Like preppin’ for a damn surgery.”

“Yeah, it’s not a fun time,” you chuckled. “Alright, you go out and I’ll wait for Sarah to get out of the shower. Think we gotta go over a few things that I’m sure neither of you want to go over together.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss you deeply. “Seriously. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I love you and I love her,” you assured. “It’s no problem at all. I know I’ll never replace her mom and I would never want to. But if I can offer my help and love, I want to, as long as both of you will have me.”

“I’m not plannin’ on shooin’ you off anytime soon,” he smirked, pulling you close for another kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now go on, you’ve got a hefty shopping list to get through.”

With Joel out of the house, you waited patiently for Sarah to make her way out of the shower by sitting across the hall in Joel’s bedroom. You managed to find a spare pad in your car’s glovebox, and held the plastic-wrapped square in your hand, ready to hand it over as soon as she emerged.

“Dad?” she called from her bedroom and you quickly stood up and walked into the hall.

“Hey, your dad went out to buy some stuff for you,” you called into her room. The door was cracked open but you didn’t want to intrude. “I have a pad here for you, though.”

“Thanks,” she gave you a meek smile as she opened the door. “How do I…use it?”

“It’s pretty uncomplicated. Just take it out of the wrapper and put the sticky side down on your underwear. You’ll get the hang of it the longer you use ‘em.” You handed the pad over and Sarah accepted it, flipping it around in her hand. “I’ll be downstairs. Have you eaten?”

“No, dad was gonna cook but then—“ she looked embarrassed. “Then it happened.”

“No worries,” you assured. “I’ll call in a pizza. How do you want it?”

“Pepperoni with extra cheese,” she was quick to answer, making you chuckle. “Oh, and dad likes his with jalapeños.”

“Good to know,” you made a mental note of Joel’s pizza order. “I’ll do half with jalapeños.”

“Thanks,” she spoke sincerely. “For all of this.”

“Trust me, I get how scary this is,” you gestured to the pad. “And I know it’s not the easiest thing to talk about with your dad, so, if you have any questions, I’m happy to answer them.”

“Oh, I only have about a thousand, starting with, ‘Is it always so bloody?’” You laughed and scrunched your face up in empathetic disgust.

“Unfortunately, yeah. But you’ll get better about handling it as you go,” you eased her worry. “How about you and I go through some more of these questions downstairs while we wait for your dad?”

“I’d appreciate that,” she smiled.

Downstairs, you called up the pizza place that Joel had a magnet menu from stuck into his fridge, throwing in one of their cookie-pie desserts knowing that Sarah would appreciate it. Sarah joined you on the sofa a few minutes later, dressed in her pajamas and a throw blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“So, how long does this last?” she asked over the quiet hum of a Fresh Prince of Bel Air rerun.

“About a week. Some girls are blessed and only have to deal with a couple days of this, but it lasts about seven days for me,” you replied. “It also changes the longer you have it. Your period is gonna be really unpredictable for the first few months because your body is still adjusting to all these new hormones and stuff. Make sure you always keep a pad or two on you these next few months because it might strike whenever.”

“God,” she groaned. “I wish I was a boy.”

“That would be easier,” you agreed.

“You should’ve seen my dad’s face when I stood up and there was blood on my jeans,” she chuckled, her simples reminding you of her father. “I think he almost had a heart attack.”

“Poor guy,” you laughed. “When he called me up, he was so scared. I think he thought he had way more time to come to grips with the fact that you’re getting older.”

“If getting older means all this, I’m not sure I want to,” she groaned.

“Amen, sister.”

Joel’s key turning the lock of the front door caught both of your attention, your heads turning in his direction as he stepped inside the house. He eyed both of you hesitantly before cracking a sheepish smile.

“Hey,” he greeted. “Everything…okay?”

“Yeah, just giving her the run down,” you replied with a smile. Joel nodded and looked to Sarah as he made his way over to the sofa, sitting down in the space between the two of you.

“Alright,” he started, opening one of the plastic shopping bags he’d carried inside. “Got everything on the list except for a heating pad. We’ll have to get that in the mornin’.”

“Cool,” she gave her dad a smile and lowered her eyes to the shopping bag.

“Alright, so,” he looked to you for help as he started to go through what he bought. “Got some different pads, I don’t know—“

“These are good for daytime,” you aided his explaining, pointing at the package of smaller pads he held up. “Less bulky so you’ll feel better about walking around in them.”

“Okay,” she nodded and accepted the pack into her lap. Joel lifted another pack labeled as ‘overnight’.

“These are better for sleeping. They’re longer and hold more blood.” Both of them shuddered at the word as it left your lips, making you chuckle. “Everybody bleeds,” you reminded. “Women just bleed more often.”

“You’re right,” Joel gathered his composure and tried to be an adult about the situation, though you could clearly see his head spinning over the fact that his baby girl was growing up. “I also got you some…tampons,” he forced the word out of his mouth like it tasted bitterly. “In case—“

“I think I’m good,” she chuckled.

“Respect,” you nodded, offering her an amused smile.

“This is some medicine for your cramps and stuff,” Joel handed her the box of Midol and you noticed his hand was shaking. “Also got you this,” he handed her a bag of assorted chocolate candies, Sarah’s eyes lighting up at the sight.

“I get chocolate?” she beamed, earning a laugh from both of you.

“Yep,” he nodded, eyes flickering to yours. “Oh, there’s one more thing, but it’s in the truck. Gimme a minute.”

Joel got up and walked back outside while Sarah got up to put her new things away upstairs, leaving you alone on the sofa.

When he returned, he carried a toddler-sized teddy bear in one hand and two bouquets of brightly colored carnations in the other.

“Where’s baby girl?” he asked, looking boyish with his smile.

“Upstairs,” you smirked before tipping your head towards the flowers. “Nice touch.”

“Glad you thought so,” he approached you on the couch and plopped down beside you, setting the bear and one of the bouquets in Sarah’s seat before handing you the other. “These are for you.”

“Baby,” you cooed, a touched frown on your face as you accepted the flowers, lifting them to your nose. “What’s this for?”

“For being here,” he replied, soft and sweet. “But mostly just because I love you.”

“Don’t make me cry,” you ordered, playfully stern. Leaning over, you pressed your lips to his in a quick but deep kiss. “I love you.”

“Are those for me?” Sarah beamed as she walked into the room, pointing at the bear and flowers. Joel nodded and patted the seat beside him, welcoming his daughter into his side. “Thanks, dad.”

“No problem, baby girl,” he leaned over and placed a kiss on her forehead, his arm draping over her shoulder to pull her into his side. “How ‘bout a movie?”

“Sounds good,” Sarah replied. “Oh, when does the pizza get here?”

“Pizza?” Joel turned to you with eager interest.

“With jálepeños and extra cheese,” you noted, delighting in the way his smile turned into a grin.

Joel shook his head at you as though he was amazed by you and reached over to lace his fingers with yours, mouthing a sinful promise for the evening to come. But for now, the three of you sat there on the couch, curled up, bellies full of pizza and sweets, all content with the family you’d become seemingly overnight.

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