#puts less work into not having to work though

[nostalgebraist]

Imagine that you can still draw, or paint, if you feel like it, and have the tools. That hasn't changed.

And (no, this post isn't about AI, there we go, where was I) all the other newer tools still exist too: Wacom tablets exist, and Adobe Photoshop, and every sort of camera, and so forth. If you have these tools ready at hand, you can just pick them up, and make pictures with them.

And tumblr still exists, and all the rest of the internet with it. And so – if you like – you can use these venues to share the pictures you make with others, easily and immediately, for free.

However, there is also another venue, for sharing pictures.

That is the only thing that is different.

The other venue is... let's say it's a magazine that only prints visual art, and which has an extremely large number of subscribers.

Everyone knows about The Magazine. Most people you know are subscribers.

Before the internet, The Magazine was the main way that visual art got into people's homes (if it wasn't created there in the first place). Your parents speak of The Magazine as though it's just where art lives, as though the notion that there might be art somewhere else has never really crossed their minds.

Much of what appears in The Magazine is, in fact, pretty good. Conversely, much of the truly great art of the recent past made an appearance in The Magazine, at some point, before or after appearing in galleries and/or being reproduced in other ways.

But a lot of it is just... fine. Trendy, competent, workmanlike.

You flip through the pages and mostly you think, yeah, this sure is the sort of thing that gets printed in The Magazine, in the current year. Occasionally you're impressed by something you see there, and even more rarely something moves you, transfixes you.

Much the same could be said of your tumblr dash, of course.

It must be noted, however, that The Magazine has a higher quality floor than your tumblr dash. Everything that appears there looks polished, professional, carefully worked-over. This counts for less than one might think; that professional gloss can do nothing to elevate ill-conceived or simply dull work (and The Magazine does print such things fairly often).

In a gallery, you might encounter mere sketches, or blatantly unfinished paintings (Leonardo left behind plenty of both, after all). But you will never find such things in The Magazine.

The Magazine's cultural and psychological prestige is immense. It holds the popular conception of "art" in its tight, totalizing grip. If you ever pick up a pencil and draw, it will be assumed – by default – that you aspire to eventual publication in The Magazine. If you are not very good, people will tell you to keep at it; maybe someday you will make the grade. If you are good, people will tell you so, and ask you whether you've prepared anything for submission, whether you've sent it, whether you heard back.

It is tremendously inconvenient to appear in The Magazine.

After all, anyone can pick up paper and pencil, but The Magazine only has so many pages per month. So, The Magazine has standards. It is persnickety. It couldn't afford to behave differently.

But even if it could afford to behave differently, it would not want to. For it so happens that The Magazine prides itself on its active role in the production of "art" (meaning, "that which has appeared in The Magazine").

Even if you are one of the "lucky" few who does not receive a simple rejection letter from The Magazine, you will not simply be allowed to put your drawing or painting or what-have-you into The Magazine as it is.

Unmediated transmission of art, straight from artist to viewer, is for lower-class venues ("tumblr.com," "physical reality and its tendency to project images of nearby objects onto the retina," etc). The Magazine has standards, and they have a full staff of not-quite-artist, not-quite-art-critic people who are employed to impose them. If you do not get a rejection letter, what happens instead is that you begin a long and laborious transaction with one or more of these strange middlemen. They will tell you that your work is a good start, but that you really should have put this part over there, or made the symbolism more obvious or less obvious, or "applied your evident talent" to a more socially relevant choice of subject matter, or something of this nature.

Eventually, after a protracted interaction like this, you might succeed! A new, different, quite possibly worse picture – produced by laboriously adjusting your original one (which, being original/unmediated, is of course unprintable by definition) until The Magazine's staff feel satisfied in the relative scope of their role versus yours in the collaborative act that is "art" production – will end up on a page somewhere in the next issue of The Magazine.

And, finally: real art has been produced! You've made it!

You're in The Magazine. And your work ("your"? you don't feel so sure anymore) does look nice, sitting there on one of those oh-so-glossy pages.

It is nice enough that you spend nearly a minute lingering over it, before you go back to tumblr.com, where all the rest of the pictures are.

(And then, on the weekend, you go to a museum, and look at pictures which were being lauded as masterworks centuries before The Magazine was even founded. You could never produce anything like them, you know – and you feel envious of their creators, not so much because of their greater talents, but because no one ever praised them by saying, hey, this stuff is good enough to be in The Magazine!)

But at least your mom and dad will look at your drawings, now, and think: my child is an artist. You were an artist before, too, but it was just amateur stuff. Now it's for real. Professional. In The Magazine.

Professional? Well, The Magazine did pay you a little in the end, as a prize. And there are some people who make their livings this way. They have good, longstanding, hard-won relationships with The Magazine's staff of intermediaries. They are unusual; by sheer force of numbers, only a select few can make a decent and reliable living in this manner.

(Indeed, The Magazine's insistence on imposing its standards is essentially inimical to steady, reproducible money-making for individual artists. You shouldn't feel secure already that they'll print your next picture without delay, before you've even sent it in for assessment – that would mean they are not keeping standards at all, wouldn't it? And so, cultural forces within The Magazine conspire to degrade its value as a potential source of one's livelihood.)

Those who appear regularly in The Magazine have unparalleled reach. As a child, perhaps, they shaped your notion of what an "artist" was; as a child, maybe you wanted to be just like them, when you grew up.

But then you did grow up – and so, you realized that they were employing the tools at hand (pencil, paper) to a very unusual end. Anyone can pick up the tools and draw. But few can make it into The Magazine, and perhaps even fewer than that should want to appear there.

After all, there is something almost shameful about the exercise, isn't it?

The Magazine says: I am the means by art is produced and disseminated. And many people, passively following the ambient culture, unconsciously nod along.

But in fact, The Magazine has no potency in it whatsoever. It is you, and the viewer, who create the work of art and create the experience of experiencing art. You can just draw things. You can just show your drawings to people.

And The Magazine cannot turn an uninspired artist into a genius, or an unskilled artist into a master; it can only trim perceived fat, arrange perceived rough edges into a more agreeable shape, apply gloss and trendiness and "professionalism." But those were never what anyone liked about art to begin with. You don't need them – unless you do, for your own artistic reasons (and your viewers'), and in that case home-made versions will probably do the job well enough.

There is, in fact, not much reason at all to want to appear in The Magazine.

And that, in itself, is a strong argument against the idea.

You ought not to play along in the charade, pretending that the whole laborious exercise has a point after all, if you know that it is in fact pointless. This is a matter of integrity, if nothing else.

Anyway, that's how I feel whenever anyone's like, "so are you gonna try to get this stuff published or what"

[lostwrlds]

WITH LOVE, ON YOUR BIRTHDAY ── NAGI .ᐟ

( 📡 ) summary; picking out the perfect gift for seishiro nagi was no easy feat, but after flying a thousand miles to surprise him on his birthday – you discover the only present he really wants is you. 11K

✩ lost notes ! happy birthday to my glorious king seishiro nagi !! my goat fr !! also if ur reading this thank u for supporting the first fic on my blog, i'm excited to share more with u soon !! sorry 4 any typos & enjoy international nagi day mwah ⋆˙⟡♡

✩ warnings ! minors, blank & ageless accounts do not interact. fluff & smut, female reader, pro player nagi, characters are adults. long-distance & newly established relationship, unprotected sex, clothed sex, dry humping, oral fixation, somnophilia, overstim, coercion, breeding, creampie, praise & pillow talk.

── © LOSTWRLDS ╱ 2025.

you would think that seishiro nagi would be any easy person to buy a birthday gift for. 

whilst in your eyes, he’s far from plain and simple, the white-haired striker takes pleasure in the things that come easy. like naps on sunny afternoons and golden rays that filter through half-drawn curtains to kiss at your skin or rainy nights curled up on a cosy couch, blankets pulled over your head as your breathing syncs up. he likes the nothingness of quiet, downtime and alone time away from the hustling bustling world that roars his name whenever he makes a powerful or unpredictable play. 

to you, seishiro nagi is extraordinary — in every possible way. not only is he extremely gifted and a natural at the sport he plays, but he is sincere. when he’s out there, he’s got his heart on his sleeve with the intention of pushing himself beyond his own limits. he takes on the challenge, the adrenaline and the rush not just for himself but for his team. he moves with purpose, revitalised energy like he’s more than just the title bestowed on him. seishiro is not just the lazy genius to you. perhaps you’re a little biased, because you find yourself lucky enough to be his girlfriend. to be the one thing that motivates nagi aside from the tase of a freshly formulated goal. 

but he truly is beauty personified to you. not just fresh snow white hair, calming pools of grey for eyes, and a tall yet muscular physique. though bonus points, he is everything. your own personal drive to do and be better. 

that’s why you feel as though he needs the perfect gift, so you can show seishiro that he motivates you to succeed just as much as you motivate him. most of what he does is for you, not just his ego. 

it’s only right that you treat him the same way.

so a video game for his birthday could suffice, but as a big time soccer player earning big time money — he practically owns almost every game to have ever existed. there’s not a piece of jewellery in the world that might ignite a bit of passion in him, except for the black studs he wears when he’s not on the pitch and even then, nagi never changes them. he’s a creature of habit, he likes things the way they’ve always been and disturbing that would be less than an ideal present. you’d go for more little homely house plants, but between his hectic schedule and the sleep he craves when not working, you think the white-haired striker would struggle with raising a high maintenance army of greenery.

everything seishiro nagi usually wants and typically likes… they aren’t things that you can wrap up with luxury paper and a pretty silk bow — they’re circumstances caused by a butterfly effect starting many months ago. you can’t put a perfect day into a box and call it a gift, no matter how many times nagi tells you that all he wants is you. you’d feel bad if your presence was his only present, what would you have to show for as his girlfriend? 

compared to the likes of other bluelock wags, stags and partners…you find it hard to come up with something that will prove your worth. diamonds and flashy cars, expensive trips and gourmet foods aren’t something you can afford out of your own dime and you’re not even sure seishiro would care if he wasn’t able to share these experiences with you. but that doesn’t stop the nagging, itching feeling that peels through the layers of thick skin like a bug that bites. this would be your first time celebrating nagi day with him as a couple. you at least want to make it special.

it would be the perfect time to prove yourself worthy of every little drop of love he so tenderly showers you with — almost as though you’re one of those mini cacti he raises back home.

an opportunity arises once the bluelock team departs the country for an away game right around the time of the genius striker’s birthday, meaning that you wouldn’t be able to celebrate with one another in person. in a way, you were relieved — the time apart would give you more time to search for the right gift but being long distance was never easy. not for the two of you, so used to being wrapped up in one another’s arms and scents. and when seishiro’s teammates insist on flying you out for his birthday; to cheer him up between practises and matches — that gnawing sensation you’d been feeling, the dire need to prove yourself as the perfect footballer’s girlfriend dials back. just a touch. 

he’s been missing you, he always does. it’s evident in the way that his plays become more sluggish and his mannerisms grow dazed and drowsy —  like he’s out of it. sometimes, seishiro can’t function without you there, up in the stands to cheer him on — it’s too much of a hassle to be his best when his girl isn’t around. who is there to show off to? who is there to make proud? without you, there’s barely any motivation to win.

so maybe that’s what he needs… to touch you, feel you, kiss you again. instead of a ridiculously fancy gift. maybe you’ve been selfish, ignoring the one simple desire your boyfriend had for a day dedicated solely to him rather than choosing to focus on how that would make you look in the eyes of world, instead of how you looked in his eyes. 

no insecurity of yours is worth the cost of his happiness.

therefore, on the eve of seishiro nagi's birthday ( may 5th and not the 6th ) with a prepaid ticket from isagi in hand, you nervously board a plane set to land halfway across the globe in a matter of hours. and hope in your heart that your arrival is enough to satisfy the genius striker’s birthday wishes. 

you’re quiet when opening the door to seishiro’s hotel room — instinctively flinching until your  shoulders are raised high enough to level with your neck at the offensive buzz it makes upon scanning your keycard for entry. it’s a spare from swiped from yoichi, you shove it into your back pocket with baited breath and pray that it hasn’t roused your sleepy boyfriend.

the room itself is shrouded in darkness, inky black painting the contours and corners from where the curtains are drawn to their max and every light switch is turned off. you can just about see your hands in front of you, deciding to shrug off your backpack and leave it by the door with your suitcase to avoid stumbling over it while your vision is impaired. after a few moments of blind feeling, you adjust to the dimness around you — guided by the familiar scent of baby-safe detergent and the sound of soft snoring towards the luxurious king size bed where your sweet boyfriend snoozes soundly.

it’s crazy, how your mind and body works to find him even when your other senses are down. nagi’s calm and safe aura lulls you into his orbit and you don’t ever seem to find yourself fighting it. perhaps he feels the same way about you. drawn to you like a moth to a flame, dying happily by it’s light.

your gaze lands on him, curled up in a heap under high-thread count bedsheets and blankets. comfortable. safe. you’re desperate to be near him after time apart, eager to inch past the barriers of his skin and make space for yourself in his rib cage right next to his heart because you cannot believe that you convinced yourself to stay away from him in the name of gift wraps and tags. kicking your shoes off at the foot of the bed frame, you crawl onto the mattress, hands and knees sinking into its plush memory foam like quicksand.

sitting back on your knees whilst hanging over the sleeping striker, your brain is able to piece together the truth in the meaning of his name. calmness. the sensation washes over you like the gentle lap of waves against a serene, picturesque shoreline — seishiro nagi looks so calm while he sleeps. as though he’s an angel resting or passing time on the fluffiest cloud in heaven. the thought makes you smile softly to yourself in the dark, a hand moving to brush stray strands of snowy locks away from his pretty face. 

“sei,” comes your attentive whisper, hidden beneath the quietness of night. your boy. all yours. so beautiful like this, you’d hate to interrupt his sweet dreams. “baby, wake up…” he keens into your touch even under the guidance of sleep, lifting silvery locks splayed across crisp, flat-ironed pillowcases to nuzzle against your palm. the sound of your voice fails to rouse him, and for a moment you contemplate slipping behind him and joining his deep slumber… but you just want to see his eyes.

see them and know that you’re wanted. 

so you try again, raking your nails through the shaggy roots of his hair and scratching at his scalp. you miss his voice, his scent, his touch. this is easier than forcing yourself to stay away from him, much less of a hassle to desire nagi’s proximity than to deny it. 

“seishiro…”

this time, his body answers your call and the mattress squeaks under the weight of his stocky frame rolling over until his back hits the sheets. still, though, he doesn’t wake. moving quickly, you seize the opportunity to clamber into the lazy genius’ lap — straddling his hips, pelvis to pelvis, as you admire him from above. “mph…baby?” he grumbles at the familiar, pressure of your body on his, still constricted by the misty fog of sleep. he reaches for you because he knows it’s you, instantaneously and it’s cute how even then he searches for you, like you would him. 

he likes your warmth, the smell of the shea butter lathered onto your skin, the closeness — like a safety net. the world is so bothersome without you, that’s why he can’t help but react to you even while he rests. not that you mind and even though you really should sleep after such a long flight, surprise him in the morning, everything within you is screaming at you to take more. give more.

“it’s just me, sei,” you coo and swallow down the ardour that begins to mount in the depths of your throat, like soot from the fire of lust sparking in your lower belly. “don’ worry,” exhaling sharply, you swoop down to press the wisps of a kiss to the tip of his nose — more so to calm yourself down, distract yourself from the desire that you unwillingly allow to spread through you, than anything else.

you can’t control your hips, the way they subtly grind down on seishiro’s lap while he snoozes away so preciously. he’s too pretty, too soft, too warm. he makes it unable to resist. a craving for more spreads across your brain like a sheet of rain during a storm, slipping into the deficits and dips of your brain — clouding your mind with lust. you act on the feeling tingling just beneath the surface of your skin, pushing the heat between your thighs against the subdued hardness trapped behind signature grey sweats that hang low on the striker’s taut hips.

the soccer star visibly relaxes as a result of your subtle affections and sinful movements, the uneven crease between his brows fades into nothingness whilst his adorable pout does the same — only, rather than going back to sleep, seishiro’s ashy grey eyes begin to flutter open and you’re soon face to face with the man you love more than anything in the world. “‘m not worried,” he quips quite directly, the baritone notes of his voice caked in a layer of exhaustion. nagi’s back bows from the bed, his cruelly slender waist jutting upwards to match your pace. “what are you… what are doing here?”

he’s breathless beneath you; lines of sleep still caressing the prettiest patches of his soul, already ready to give himself to you despite just barely returning to the real world. the sight of him sends an unbearable ache down the segments of your spine, crackling at your pelvis and shooting to clit nestled against his crotch. “it’s your birthday, sei,” you whisper, feeling shy as if you weren’t just intent on using his body tonight. not that nagi would mind, it was something he loved. being close to you without asking. “i flew in to surprise you…”

large, veiny hands land on your hips causing goosebumps to rise across their expanse like chicken skin, not guiding you but simply holding you in place — stopping you from retreating into your shy little shell away from your boyfriend's moonlit gaze. nagi raises a brow, quickly checks the date on the digital clock banished to the night stand, and then exhales deeply through his nose — expression vacant and tired but eyes swirling with a bout of mischief. 

hidden desire contrastingly dances through the smoke screen flecks dotted around his pupils too, telling you that his touch isn’t as innocent as one may first think.  “oh… yeah, it is,” his thumbs slip under the loose hem of your shirt, a comfortable one from your apartment back home with his scent intertwined with each little stich and loose thread. a pleased hum rumbles from the depths of seishiro’s chest once the pads of his thumbs make contact with the marred surface of your skin, drawing lazy circles against it. “flew all this way f’me, huh?”

“always for you.” 

“what a hassle.” there’s no malice in his tone and when he licks his lips, wetting them from where they’ve dried up during sleep, and basks in the way your line of sight instantly drops to his tongue — pretty pink darting out and swiping over micro cracks and crevices in otherwise plush, fleshy lips. seishiro appreciates…you. only his girl would fly across the globe to be with him on his birthday, that’s the kind of love and passion that motivates him to be better. good.

everything has a point when he’s with you.

“it’s not, i mean, it wasn’t,” your breath hitches as nagi’s gentle touch coasts over your skin whilst it warms, turning to an almost bruisingly tight grip that allows him to  pulling you back and forth over his lap. the white-haired striker knows exactly what he’s doing, lazily building up an undeniable tension that coils in your stomach and muddles up all of your thoughts.“anyway…i know it’s late a-and we should probably sleep,” incoherent musings come out as a rush, tangling with the heated particles that buzz in the night air — so full of mounting lust and kinetic energy. 

you’re rambling, you’re turned on and you’re flustered all at once. 

but that’s just what he does to you, and it’s so much worse when you’ve been away from each other for too long. seishiro hardens between your supple thighs before either of you can realise it, his erect and pulsating cock nestled between your clothed folds — catching on the hood of your clit through even layers of pure cotton and polyester. the feeling of him beneath you, so ready and so giving, has your steadiness swimming — the strength to keep yourself up already faltering to the point where you need to rest your hands against his firm chest. “but i was wondering… what you wanted for your birthday?” 

he hums at your dizziness, pushing your shirt up further. “nothin’ special,” comes his half-hearted reply, focus landing on the subtle rise and fall of your chest — trailing down to the softness of your tummy that he exposes to the word. “just you. like this.” nagi’s eyes darken, a storm brews within them — you can see the cogs whirring in his tired mind almost as if he’s calculating something. 

the white-haired soccer player bucks upwards experimentally, only once, pressing more of his girth against your pussy as it slickens with anticipation and you realise…

he’s measuring just how much of himself will fit inside you. 

the thought makes you groan with your  lips caught between your teeth — biting down hard enough to draw blood. flavours of iron would be enough to distract you from your aching clit and the soaked through gusset of your panties, but it wouldn’t take away how much you want him in this moment. “sei…” using a warning tone, you paw at his pecs and lean down to hide your embarrassed face in his neck — ragged breaths tickling the milky skin there.

just the mere implication of nagi comparing his size to you, imagining how he’s going to fuck you has you panting like a puppy in heat.

you’ve taken him many times before, in plenty of different ways… that doesn’t mean you’re not shy about it. nagi could have anything he wanted today — you may be new to this girlfriend thing ( girlfriend of a football star no less ), but you know that the world is at his fingertips. so, to think that your boyfriend, as handsome and as desirable as he is, can only think of fucking you for his birthday, it messes you up. does something to you. flusters you until you fall apart and your pieces are beyond repair. 

“i mean it, don’ want anything fancy. just you. on top of me like this. feels good…” seishiro continues to rasp, shaking out his pearlescent bed hair that seems to catch the light of the moon in the dark. something about his laziness is so sexy to you and you’re sure there’s a dark spot on the front of both of your sweats from how much his deep, sleepy voice makes your cunt gush and contract around nothing. “please, baby. you’ll do that for me, yeah?”

“yeah… yes, i can.” you’re nodding your head eagerly before the words have even been strung together — gasping shakily against seishiro’s skin as his hands trail down to your ass to squeeze fleshy cheeks, using them to pull you down against his prominent bulge. he slots between your legs perfectly, like he belongs underneath you or you on top of him. you hardly hold back the moans tucked into his neck, your fingers wrapping in silverdust locks while you hug his head — wanting to be impossibly closer to him.

whilst he appears to be in more control, nagi is no better than you are. he feels like he’s on fire, burning up with the feverish need to fuck you, make you his, fill you up. oh god, how he’s missed this. the adrenaline pumping through his veins, swirling around in the blood that rushes through his ears and down to his cock as it oozes against your covered cunt. there’s only two things that have ever gotten seishiro nagi this rilled up — one of them being you. his beautiful fucking angel; a simpering mess above him, clinging on him and depending on him for pleasure. “mmph, good girl,” his praise runs like molten sugar right through you, sugary enough to make you feel like you’re high despite the late hour. “want you to ride me. will you do that f’me too?”

seishiro squeezes your ass between deft fingers as if to ground himself. they feel so good on you, his lips pressing open mouthed kisses just beneath your ear lobe feels even better. nagi won’t let you go when you’re like this — so sweet and on the verge of collapsing on top of him. he has to soothe you because it soothes him, as if touching you and holding you and kissing you is the only thing that could possibly make him feel alive.

“anything you want, sei.” you reply weakly, lost  under the blanket of the night, you rut and grind against one another like two lovers leading each other blindly. you’ve hardly even started and you’re already close to tears just from having the striker’s sweatpants rub your clit until it’s raw and sticky. 

“i want you.” he murmurs firmly, his cadence still rough with sleep. you barely register his next movements, your entire thought process and any feedback turned to sluggish mush when your boyfriend suddenly pushes you both to sit up — his mouth slothenly finding yours in a languid lip lock. it’s slow, sexy and all-consuming, as if seishiro is trying to make you a part of him. his tongue licks into the crevices of your hot, wet mouth as you pour delectable, dulcet whimpers and whines into him. 

your breath tastes like spearmint like you’d brushed your teeth on the plane, but still has underlying notes of you. all he wants is to swallow you down, never come up for air no matter how your lungs may burn and beg for oxygen. nagi has missed this. he needed this. you find yourself chasing his mouth, his sinful tongue as it rolls over yours — wetly whining between pecks because you need nagi so bad you can hardly put it into words. fingers comb through pure white hair, noses knock against each other and become neighbours, whilst hands grow bolder and finally tug more forcefully at your clothes — impatient, ready to free you and expose you to possessive, fluttering sleepy grey eyes.

eventually the need to breathe outweighs the need to kiss each other and your lips glisten with sweat once you finally manage to pull away from the striker’s greedy grip on you. “arms up, angel,” blue lock’s lazy genius commands under his ragged breath, his tone firm but laced with affection. nagi lifts the hem of your shirt once you do what you’re told, throwing the article of clothing into the abyss of his hotel room. your bra receives the same treatment, exposing your nipples to cool-ish air.  “let’s take these off, they’re in our way,” a beat of silence passes, most spent on ogling the goosebumps that form at your chest like pin pricks — your boyfriend pings the elastic of waistband, causing you to yelp in surprise. “what a bother.” he pacifies you by rubbing cruel circles around your areola until reaching the hardening bud in the middle and pinching it.

in a flurry of fabrics, your own sweats are tugged down and tossed away with your panties — leaving you completely vulnerable and bare to your boyfriend’s manic, starved stare. he drinks you in like you’re the first woman he’s ever seen, the first glass of water to be found in a never-ending stretch of desert sand. before you can even make a move to cover yourself, wrap your own arms around the swell or your breasts — seishiro grasps your wrists a little too eagerly, nearly startling you out of your feverish skin when he pulls them down to have your palms resting on his chest. 

only after he’s sure you’ll be a good girl and stay in place, does he release his hold on you. but it’s far too late for that, by now your soul is tethered to his by strong ropes of longing and lecherousness.

“don’t forget what you promised me,” lifting his hips, nagi repositions himself on his back and yanks down his sweats  — moaning loud at the dark patch you’ve left on his crotch. tucking the waistband of both his pants and his boxers under heavy cum- filled balls — too drained to take them off properly. only then does his cock spring free, slapping sloppily against his toned abdomen, abs prominent through his light sleep-shirt. the lazy genius’ size is just as impressive as he is, where he is long and curved, he is also thick. idiotically pretty, his tip a delicious rose pink shade which might as well be vermillion red from how sore he is — oozing a viscous stream of cream from your earlier ministrations. pale blue gradienting to purple veins wrap around his cock like delicate ribbon on the perfect present, kicking to life as dopamine and other happy hormones rush to his shaft. 

the sight of him is hypnotic, calling to you like a siren’s song and you feel all of your self control slipping away when your hips jump forward — encasing his milky-tipped cock between your syrupy folds, rocking yourself back and forth. back and forth. back and forth over him — driven by the spark of ecstasy pulsing at the sticky sensitive pressure nub hidden between your puffy pussy lips every time his bulbous cock head nudges against it. you’re like a puppet on strings and seishiro your puppeteer, his pillow soft mewls and breathy, pleased laughter leading you through this impure performance. 

claggy, cloying sounds reverberate between your sweltering sexes that rub salaciously against each other — ad-libbed by the gentle sighs the two of you share. echoing in a sweet symphony of love making that only serves to dizzy you and make the world spin on its axis. all you feel, smell and taste is as him. all of him mingles with the air fizzling in the intimate night and all of you is put on display for his viewing pleasure. you are his present, his reward for working so hard. his everything.

eventually, a shaky hand reaches between your intertwined mess of half-dressed, half naked limbs to gluttonously grasp at the lazy striker’s chubbed up cock. you’ve had enough of grinding and humping at him, your whole body is aching for more. there’s a twinge of pain that blossoms in your lower belly and spreads throughout your sopping mound because she’s oh so desperate to be filled. 

you need him inside or you feel like that flickering wildfire of unadulterated lechery raging inside might burn you alive. blacken your organs and taint your soul with sin. you’re rushing, to put it simply, hotly pressing nagi’s mushroomed, pitifully creamy and red tip against the tight ring of your entrance as it flutters around nothing. squeezing droplets of your arousal onto him which helps act as the perfect form of lube.

nagi tuts at your impatience, he’s never liked to rush, always taking his time to make you fall apart but it’s so entertaining to see you crave him like this. so badly that your pretty face crumples above him like your world is falling apart and you’re about to shed some of those precious angel tears for him. “e-easy, angel,” he voices quietly, soft spoken words quickly turning into a hiss as your spasming hole easily circles and glides over the tip of his dick. “my birthday’s just begun…” from there, those very same comforting, warm palms from earlier take hold of your ass — pulling you forward as the white-haired soccer star aligns himself with your entrance and rolls his cock up into you. 

you do the rest of the work, it is his birthday after all, and push down to meet him halfway — burying your face against his stardust freckled skin and biting shoulder to cope with the delicious stretch as his weighty, viscous girth bottoms out inside of you. “slow… go slow, baby. want this to last. wanna feel you…” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, when you’re finally, finally fully seated down on him. though, it’s not long before seishiro throws his head back into the lush hotel pillows with an alluring whine — lips parting wide enough for you to see the strings of saliva that connect the roof of his mouth to his strawberry tongue, drool sloshing across its surface. “hah…mmm, angel. you’re so, m’fuck, you’re s’fucking tight.” 

if you had the brain cells to function, you’d agree. say something dirty in return, but you’re so exhausted from your flight and too worked up to even process full sentences — you’re just about conscious enough to relish in the feeling of his cock nestled perfectly along your rippling wet walls. almost as if they’re welcoming him home. “s-sei,” you whinge all babyish against his neck. “missed how you feel…” a displeased huff from him coasts along your skin as you pull back, but now you’re able to look at him with those beautiful, shiny bambi eyes that make his gut twist and his thick precum to pool deep inside of you. “‘s so big. feel so full.”   

“you can take it. yeah, pretty thing?” he coos; oxygen escaping from his lungs as if the air he breathes is thinned from how high he is — like it would to at a mountain top. because he is. high. high on you like you’re some kind of class A drug. high on the way you feel, wrapped around him so warm and wet — hugging him close, cunt locking around him to keep him inside. he’s high like he’s an addict and he never wants to give you up, never wants to go to rehab to get over you. so he trains you, makes you work for your own high to ensure that you’ll never ever leave him. “you promised me, s’my birthday.” 

a shaky sigh lays wet on your lips, your lashes fluttering against the exposed parts of his skin.  “uhuh… promised.” 

with that, you sit up straight and dig your knees into the crumpled duvet half discarded on the bed — peeling your salt-licked skin away from nagi’s so that you can lift and drop your syrupy cunt down on him steadily. you move up and down, up and down — picking up more momentum each time your pussy goes from suctioning around the swell of his base to just barely squeezing his miry tip. at first, you’re slow, sensual — just like he asked, airily squealing like a lamb at the slaughter house with each thrust. skin sluggishly slaps on skin, accompanying the glacé gripes clawing their way out of the inside of your throat whilst his deft digits splay out against your bare back — fingertips tucking themselves into the divot where your spine is. seishiro strokes along the length of it, sending an electrical current straight up to your brain, causing you to short circuit. 

again, despite his hands exploring and touching you, he does nothing to guide or help you navigate magnetic push and pull between you both as you make love — he’s leaving that all up to you, you are supposed to be spoiling him on his birthday after all. you’re too buzzed off him, too hooked on seishiro nagi to mind that he’s laying still beneath you, only pushing up when you’re too shallow when pushing down. instead, you savour the feeling of his thick cock and it’s prominent veins dragging against your soft, silken walls. 

creamy strings of your arousal cling to each blue ridge that spirals down his shaft, the probable cause of the lewd, squelch of your sex when you grind down on him — let him fill you to the brim once more. “angel,” he simpers, swollen lips escaping the prison of his perfect teeth just for a second as he inhales the waves of lust radiating from your pores. “do you know how wet you are? how good you feel…?” his praise runs like honey through your system, urging you to move atop him with more vigor — your grinding increasingly impassioned as you ride him feverishly. nagi’s rough palms become hot and tacky against the slope of your back but he refuses to let go of you — holding you there, making sure you can’t pull too far off him because he feels like he might die if his dick isn’t safely tucked inside your dripping cunt.

“yes,” you say without really understanding what you’re responding to, your own hands slipping up to shimmering milky-toned shoulder blades and the base of seishiro’s throat — not squeezing. just grounding yourself and reminding him to keep his hazy, stormy eyes on you no matter how blurred his vision may get. “s’all ‘cause of you, sei. o-only you get me like this…” you manage to cry out, but now you’re crying in two different ways. through your voice and your cunt as it bounces on nagi’s drooling cock. you just want to make sure that he sees it, the way your seams start to loosen and the threads of your sanity unravel because it’s his fault you’re like this. 

“not fair, angel. fuck, y’not bein’ fair…” he pants in reply, gaze dropping from the twist of your face to between your glistening thighs; enamoured by the way his chubby cock rhythmically disappears into your swollen pussy. you have no idea how much seishiro needed this, how his fist and pretty pictures of you just weren’t enough to keep him going. he wonders if you know the effect you have on him, shattering the pieces of his soul with you being the only person able to put him back together again. “won’ be able to function without your pussy on me…wanna stay like this forever.” 

nagi’s focus flickers back up to meet your line of sight whilst his slender fingers dance across your body, swallowing down a thick whine when he uses them to spread your nether lips — showing off small waves of your sweet nectar as it glazes his thighs and shaft. “fuck, dont you want that too, angel? keep you full of me forever. like this…” he comments avidly, grinding up into you for a moment furthering your pleasure by jamming his cockhead against your g-spot just to prove his point. “would be such a hassle to do anythin’ else. you could just be with me…”

you tremble and your muscles tense at the new sensation, you blossom under his words and observation — drowning in the storm of his hazy eyes whilst blood dotted with lustful hormones course through you rapidly, stinging right at your exposed clit. every drag of his length against your salacious insides ruins you for everyone else, you could imagine a world where you’re fucked and ruined by him every day and you like it — the idea goading you to ride him faster, harder, clumsily slamming yourself down on him to your heart’s content. 

even from underneath you, relaxed and only lazily bucking up into you on occasion ( when he thinks you need it or deserve it ) — seishiro has so much power over you. he’s the only one able to make you bounce on it until there’s a dulcet crack in your voice and white hot tears are stinging at your waterline — your bodies in a dance together in a way that only lovers know, making you both experts in tangled limbs heaving moans. such levels of intense passion and intimacy have your sodden mound seizing around the white-haired striker, causing a hiccup in the way he lovingly and slowly begins to pound away at you from below.

to be fair to him, you’re very motivational. those dreamy sighs you let out and those  bedroom eyes you look down at him with. those lush lips that you lick in concentration... the list goes on. each little thing about you is like another carrot in front of a prized horse; you’re something he wants to chase after, someone he yearns for. being with you is just as thrilling as the soccer he plays for a living, every time your bodies touch and connect like this, accompanied by a sense of vulnerability that trickles into the humid air — nagi is reminded of how lucky he is to have all of you. you’ll forever be his greatest gift.

in the dead of night, mere hours into his birthday, you give yourself up for him — rip open your chest and bear your heart all for seishiro nagi, the muscle beating rapidly behind your breasts as they sway from the force of your hips crashing down to match your boyfriend’s pace. “wan’ that, wan’ you,” you bleat, sounding so much needier and aroused than ever before — your sugary voice layered over musical tracks of sweat-drenched skin slapping wetly on skin. “please… need more. more of you always. don’ wanna be without you ever again…” 

“mmnn, pretty thing. you’re so perfect,” the striker groans low and sexy, sending a rush of hot dopamine over your tired brain and arousing it further. “want s’much more but you’re not even done riding me yet,” seishiro cocks his head to the side, moonlight locks spreading out across the pillows like refracted pattern from a gem that’s caught light. if he shimmers, then you shine — glowing in the dark from the sex and light sheen of sweat clinging to your naked flesh. “gonna kill me with how pretty you sound ‘n how needy you are…” his hand that once parted your folds now dances its way up your pelvis, traces over the chub at your waist and smooths over your soft tummy — feeling for how deep he’s gotten, churning up your guts while you languidly roll your clenching cunt over him.

next they toy and tug on your hardened nipples, circling your sensitive areolas just to make you twitch whilst the supple mounds of flesh bounce with every thrust. collar bones, the base of your throat, the tip of your chin — they all end up grazed by an adoring touch, acting as checkpoints in your boyfriend’s whistle stop tour of his favourite parts of you. of course, he continues his trek until he’s reached up high enough to brush a thumb under the curve of your bottom lip. 

“open up, sweet thing,” nagi taps his fingers against your mouth and if you focus enough through the fog of your mind — you can even smell yourself on his fingertips.

obediently, your lips part — warm breath coasting along the pads of nagi’s digits before you take them into your greedy little mouth. you happily suck on what your boyfriend gives you, two fingers pressing down on the drooly palette of your tongue, your frenzied emotions become subdued like someone has wiped you mind and you’ve become a clean slate — where all that remains is the white-haired striker pumping up into your hot, juicy pussy each time you slam it back down on him. 

a quiet ‘fuck’ drifts from seishrio’s open mouth, drawing your attention to his strawberry tongue poking at the inner epithelium of his cheek as he sets his mirthy sights on you while your hips roll like a rushing river over him – occasionally pulling his throbbing, seedy dick from the snugness of your creamy cunt. the striker admires you like you belong in a museum. as though you’re a flawless piece of oil-painted art or a perfectly smooth marble statue – even with all the parts of you that you pull to pieces or despise. the view from where he is, down there, is one he tries to sketch into his brain for all of eternity… because he doesn’t want to forget and he wants something to remember you by when the time comes for you to leave. 

you’re so beautiful, licking between his fingers, thick globs of frothy spit seeping from the corners of your mouth. he has to fight the urge to sit up and taste it on you – instead choosing to fuck your mouth like you fuck his cock. the striker presses down on your tongue to make you writhe in his lap, and although he’s the one technically in control, you are the reason for the gentle thrum of ecstasy vibrating through his lean, athletic frame. “you like that? does that feel good? sucking me in from both ends…” the player asks, his voice shaky and increasingly husky from how lovestruck and turned on he is. 

having him pressed up against the walls of your blisteringly hot slit, nudging against that one special spot deep inside your swollen pussy fries your brain – causes your jaw to slacken while you sleepily suck on his digits. your poor pussy even trembles around him, catching on the ridges of his length that plunges in and out of you. “feels s’good, sei… so, so good–!” your words are muffled by the way he strokes at your tongue, drowned by spit, because you really do feel like you’re about to see the pearly gates of heaven. its evident in the way your eyes roll back into your skull and sex squelches at every thrust. 

yet, it's not enough for him, seeing you like this is still not enough to appease nagi’s ever growing appetite. like the egoist within him on the pitch, he has a sickly urge to devour you – especially when you lean away to sit back on your haunches, using your grip on his thighs as leverage to keep working yourself down on his thickness – cunt locking and unlocking around his frothy base that stretches your little hole. you don’t stop, shifting your hips in slow sensual movements to help him sink deeper into you and pulsing against hot, viscous and squishy pleasure spots dotted along your insides. spots that only he can reach. “love the way you fuck me, pretty girl,” seishiro feels like he’s losing his mind underneath you, stuck between chasing the sweltering heat of your insides and kicking back to enjoy the show entirely. “but ‘good’ isn’t good enough…need you to feel like heaven. make it even better, baby.”

he groans lowly and relishes in the feeling of your warm wet walls tightening around his erection, pulling his digits from the splashy cavern of your mouth – seishiro drags them back down your body, leaving a tacky wet trail in their wake to reach between your doughy thighs for what lies between your fat pussy lips.

with your hips rocking together fluidly, your boyfriend is careful when letting the pad of his thumb graze your aching clit as it rears its adorable little head between your nether lips. frantically, you grind against his digit and stain it with your thick, trecaly essence. everything is coated in everything that you leak, the mess worsened by the tiny spurts of precum nagi rewards you with. although, it does help his impressive size glide through your sugar-coated lining of your gushy walls. every time his fingers flick against your puffy pleasure pearl, you’re one step closer to crumbling above him.

something. you need something to ground yourself. overwhelmed by exhaustion and love and desire. “g-god, s-sei!” squealing like a lamb being taken to the slaughter house you lift a hand from his clothed leg, over his knee and reach for the bottom of his sleep shirt. “please…pleasepleaseplease – need more. wan’ more. a-anythin’ from you. for you,” you’re babbling brainlessly with no idea of what you’re begging for – the delicious burn of his girth against the tiny, tensed rim of your entrance distracts you from even thinking straight. “wanna feel you, sei,” you add onto the tail end of your mewled words whilst you continue to paw at his last remaining article of clothing. fishing for his stupid shirt. still, you remain timid and shy despite how you moan like seishiro’s perfect, personal little whore.

that’s okay. your boyfriend likes that look on you. stupid, dumb and sleepy on his cock. his heart roars in the left side of his chest but circulates passion and excitement through the rest of his body. you turn seishiro nagi on in more ways than one. physically and mentally — he can’t help but get all worked up around you, even in the dead of night.  “you want this off? can you ask me nicely, angel?” he chuckles leisurely, mouth falling open to mock your seraphic moans whilst he relentlessly toys and pinches and draws shapes on your viscid clit.

“c-can you take it off, please sei. been good,” you drawl, all high-pitched and whistle-toned like a puppy begging for the treat in its owner’s hand. seishiro has you on a tight leash, his little well trained pet – even if he doesn’t mean for things to end up that way. neither of you really mind it, though.

a bemused, fond smile tugs at the seams of his lips because you really are so perfect for him. the perfect gift. he’s thought about it about a million times tonight. it all rushes to his head, messing with the sleepy tendrils curled around his consciousness; the way you claw at him, the way the silverness of the moon catches on the saltine-perspiration on your skin and your glistening slit that leaves webs of slick on his sweats and pubes. he tortures you for a little bit longer, signing his signature against the most sensitive part of your sex for a few seconds longer – happy to see you jolt, hear you practically sob above him before he relents. “yeah, yeah… been so good f’me, sweet angel,” nagi releases your poor clit and then uses his arousal painted fingers to remove his shirt. he takes the fabric hem between his pearlescent teeth – revealing exquisitely carved abs shaped by his soccer career to your delirious gaze. “always gonna give my pretty girl what she wants…”

your lungs threaten to explode as your gaze rakes over him and oxygen in them fades to nothing when your boyfriend tugs the article of clothing the rest of the way off. you choke on a moan, the fluid motions of your doughy hips faltering for a moment. the second his chest is laid bare to the humid, sex struck air you’re immediately jumping forward to press your naked chest to his. now, you feel complete. content. with your hearts beating against each other in sync like a promise of loving each other eternally, made in the depths of the dark. you feel fully connected, skin on skin, nipples brushing against each other – it makes you tingle, makes your pussy drip down his balls like a never ending tap in this new position. you’re so shamefully wet that crude slaps drown out the sounds of your shared laments.

“want you. only you, sei.  h-hah, fuck!” you simper softly, the sound warbling with the threat of crying. “love you s’much, i love you.”

just as your tears start to spill over the edge and flow down the apples of your cheeks, strong and safe arms wrap around your shoulders – anchoring you to seishrio’s lap and cock, giving him the leverage to pull you up and down on him in a nasty, passionate manner. you’re so close now, impossibly so, and you love it because you get to hear the striker in ways no one else ever will. his deplorable, breathy whimpers coast along the shell of your ear heatedly and pick up when he begins to jackhammer into you with levels of motivation he dedicates only to you.

you make seishiro nagi want to do the unthinkable. the unspeakable. he would move mountains for you if you asked, if it were possible. he’s never wanted to do that for anyone other than himself when playing soccer.

you may be falling apart on top of him… but you’ll always be able to control him as much as he does you.

the bed below, as expensive and sturdy as it may be, begins to creak beneath the weight of it all. squealing louder than you do into the crook of seishiro’s neck as you dampen it with moist moans tears. he’s angling his hips up to press directly against your g-spot, grey eyes wild like an uncaring hurricane whilst he taps into his ego to make you see stars. and you take it, no matter how brutish his sluggish thrusts are, pussy eagerly swallowing him down. “love you, angel. my perfect angel, huh?” he grunts slackly and in restraint. you love him and if you say it again, especially in that voice, he’ll break in ways that only men in love will know. you just… do that to him. make it so he could cream your insides before he’s ready to. “you… y’really do it t’me, baby. can’t help it when ‘m with you… jus’ end up going crazy.”

his eyelashes flutter against your damp cheeks and his voice begins to wander into a dark slur that you willingly sink under the surface for. it brings you closer and closer to the edge, and you’re so tired from the flight out here and the work you’ve put into fucking your white-haired soccer star that you’re not sure you can hold it back. “y’make me crazy too,” you pant, too out of your mind to say more, muttering praises into his skin, clenching down on him to the point where your arousals mingle and foam at the thick base of his pulsing length. you hug his head, intertwining your fingers in his sweat-locked silver hair and tug on it as if it’ll keep you tied to earth instead of floating out of the atmosphere from the pleasure. “a-are you close? need you to cum inside… been waitin’ for it. missed it…” 

oh, how he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the idea too. filling you up with a hot round of his seed until it was practically pouring out of you. breeding you. the two of you aren’t strangers to the dangers of him cumming inside – nagi hardly ever pulls out if he doesn’t have to. most of your intimate moments end in that way, with a spent cunt and a drooly cock, the result of many lazy early mornings started by the kick of his morning wood against your backside and nights like this. it's too much of an effort and too much of a mess if he cums anywhere else. and also, it’s much more a plus to focus on watching your face as he pumps you full and feels you struggle to keep it all in. 

“need it that bad, huh? so soon?” he’s being a little mean without really meaning to, licking over the front of his teeth and grunting as he increases the weight behind his thrusts – eager to push you as close to the edge as possible. his dick throbs in the embrace of your deliriously addictive walls from where you’ve got him fucked up beyond imaginable, but he keeps it together, long enough to ruin you and hear you sniffle from the overstimulation. “almost, angel. almost. can you hold on f’me?”

you said you’d do anything for seishiro and at the time, you’d meant it but now your muscles are achingly wary and your eyelids are growing heavier, and heavier by the second. just as you shake your head ‘no’ a loud and childish sob bursts from between your lips, wet and whiny while your hole flutters loyally around his drippy dick. no, you don’t think that you can hold back, not like this, not when it hurts so good and he’s fucking you numb and dumb. 

all you can do is reply in a pitchy squeal, nearly missed by the wet sounds of you dowsing him in your sweet nectar, soaked sex slapping down on him in an uncoordinated manner. “‘m close…c-can’t–!”

still, you squirm about and you do your best to catch up with nagi’s new insane pace, his unrelenting stamina… even the backs of your thighs start to burn from the exertion — a subtle stinging tingling sensation underneath the supple flesh  from the friction against seishiro’s sweatpants and its waistband.

“‘course you can, always do,” white starts to froth at the entrance of your ravaged pussy, a mix of his precum and your juices bubbling up to leave opaque milky streaks along the length of him – clinging to the veins decorating his shaft. “c’mon, s’too much of a hassle for you to give up now, thought you wanted to be my present? make me feel good?” his words are breathlessly patronising, causing your body to jolt and jerk above his own, your hips fumble in their rhythm but that doesn’t stop you from gushing about the place either. “or is it that my poor baby is gettin’ tired…”

keening hoarsely, his voice still under the authority of sleep – nagi’s gaze slowly but surely hones in on the point at which your bodies join, taking in the sight of his pre-cum coated cockhead disappearing in and out of your puffy pussy repeatedly. his sights trail upwards to where your tummy bulges from the sight of him and he imagines how beautifully you would swell with his seed – he can’t wait any longer, not for that. 

in response to his speculation, you nod this time, desperate for relief or second to relax since your limbs are on the verge of giving out – head flying back as a result of the formidable momentum nagi uses to pummel your pretty pussy. “y-yes!” you damn near scream, not caring how loud you sound nor how late it is. “sei i-i’m… ‘m too–!”

you don’t get the chance to finish your hiccuped and heaved words, not that they make sense in between your shrieking and pleasure-filled cries, only because your loving, lazy boyfriend is snaking his bulking arm around your waist in addition to the one around your shoulders. all so that he can keep you tucked into him whilst he rolls you both onto your sides. “you’re that tired, baby? you don’t wanna fuck me anymore?” seishiro is teasing you of course, a tender smile splitting across his sweaty face whilst he fixes you both in this new position. with your calf now thrown over his slender hip and your head safely nestled into a pillow, nagi captures your lips in a searing hot and sloppy kiss before you have a chance to cry or whine about how mean he’s being. consoling you in a way as he assumes control. “s’okay, angel. don’ worry, i’ll got’cha. ‘m gonna take over, take my present now…”

only then do you remember how large seishiro is. how the sheer size of his frame is able to manhandle and dominate you. how small and safe you can be with him. you suppose he likes it too, where he gets his motivations from… the ability to commandeer you.

whatever he had commented to you had been all the reassurance you needed to hear before losing all sense and control and coordination – going limp in seishiro’s consoling hold. between your cute little please and airy, dreamy wails your lips smack against the soccer player’s – in tune with his measured grinds and ardent stream of lunges into you. his grip on you barely gives him the room to pull out from your tight, blistering mound… and it’s not like your body gives him the permission to either – your preciously greedy cunt squeezes down and locks his fervid, pre-cum pearling tip against your gummy walls. 

“f-fuck…” seishiro drawls, whiny and romantic – like what you would imagine an aphrodisiac would sound like if it could make a noise. “y’keep suckin’ me in, angel. i can get s’deep like this…” he switches it up, going from rapidly circling his hips to gentle, purposeful pounds – stringing you along on a trip to your high. with such little space between you both now, you can feel his blistering hot breath coasting along your cupid’s bow, leaving the ghost of his mark along your sweltering skin as you gush around him – marking his cock and his balls as your own with your cream. “feel that… me, right here?”

whether you mean to or not, your pussy spasms around him – keeping him there. choking the life out of nagi in a way he can’t help but enoy. he feels like he’s being rewarded for loving you just as much as he is motivated to fuck you. he never knew sex could be this amazing until he met you, and now touching you..being with you is all that he wants. especially on his birthday.

pressing your forehead to nagi’s, you nod again – lost in your own lassitude and the sweep of delectation that laps at the inner parts of your soul. “r-right there, sei. need you r-right there,” you say tranquilly, barely able to keep your big wet bambi eyes open as the white-haired striker’s sappy cock massages that spongy spot nestled deep within, the one that only he knows how to find. “p-please don’t stop sei!”

your shared arousals form an elixir of love that seeps into the bedding beneath the lazy bump and grind of your bodies – it adds shine to your clit that drags over nagi’s pelvis, webs over your skin and wafts into the air, so that it smells like sex. the two of you are everywhere. everything and it only heightens the passion you have for one another. “not gonna, angel. n-never gonna. as long as i have you…” seishiro retorts, licentiousness lining the ridges of his throat, rattling about between the bones in his ribcage.

always. forever. an eternity. is what you want to say. you’ll have him for as long as he has you. you can only hope that where your words fail you, the erotic enthusiasm you have when you kiss him can make up for it. cupping his cheeks whilst you both lay on your sides, grinding and groping at each other – you lean forward and lick the trail of drool slipping from the corner of his mouth and track it up to his plush, parted lips – where he kindly feeds you his airy moans and stray straggles of his spit. all of which you accept, wanting whatever he gives you to fuse with your body and soul, whilst keeping you sedated. tongues roll over one another agonisingly slow, adding the thrumming bliss tangled in the panted breaths the two of you exchange. your kiss speaks a million words in a million different ways and languages, portraying the love and adoration you have for the lazy genius. 

cherry red outlines seishiro’s lips, emphasising just how swollen they’ve gotten from constantly being meshed and melded against your own. “did so fuckin’ well for me… all night,” your boyfriend murmurs pensively, his words punctuated by the pervertted plap, plap, plap of his breeders balls against your syrupy mound. “really is so unfair how perfect you are f’me, angel. my pretty girl…my dream girl.” he adds through gritted teeth, making a home between your cream-soaked folds, rubbed and fucked raw – pushing back and forth between them to relieve the building ache in his erection. “g-gotta make you feel it…make you cum.”  

throughout his lazy rambles, your boyfriend’s grip ( in the mess of tangled limbs ) cascades down to handle your waist – roughly circling you on him like a well-loved rag doll while he plunges into the quivering tackiness of your pussy. an orgasm starts to burn through you like paper being held to the flickering flame of a candle and you’re not sure how much more of this you can take, being able to hold off is usually an easier task – but not today, on his birthday, when his usually soft eyes are flooded with a desire so dark the black of his pupils eclipses any colour in his eyes. 

“’m going to. g’na cum, sei,” a hearty sob burts free from your lungs, shaking your body down to its core. the visage of seishiro, your beautiful boyfriend, in front of you becomes blurry from your salty tears but you can still make out the rouge flush to his skin and the crease between his brows caused by your pleas for release. “feels so, so good. lemme cum on your cock… please–!” juicy, wet sounds stack like bricks in your hotel room, a symphony of whimpers and simpers that accompany the perfectly pitched notes from seishiro bucking into your sickeningly deluged hole. japan’s favourite genius leaks an endless stream of precum, a creamy white like the loose strands of his hair splayed across the pillows – the pre-release oozes against your ribbed insides from his bright red tip and aids his movements. they’re smoother, easier, helping him glide in and out of your clenching cunt like it's nothing. despite how tight you are around him, pussy fluttering with the intent to keep him in.

that’s how you’re reminded of his sheer size; accommodating to the way his cockhead so sweetly kisses your g-spot just by having his cock nestled inside. he throbs, fat and inflamed from an oncoming orgasm and the load he’s saved for you in his balls, weighing them down as they swing with each rut of his taut hips. “yeah?” nagi questions you groggily, swallowing thickly at the sight of you straining to stay awake and present in front of him. “you gonna cum f’me, angel? s’gonna be the best fuckin’ birthday present i’ll ever have…” he can tell that you’re there, teetering on the edge of sanity and heaven on earth. viscous drops of your treacly essence runs through your slit, spiraling down the purplish blue veins pulsating on his shaft. he’s right behind you, ready to catch you if you fall.

if he could, the soccer star would selfishly keep you writhing like this for hours, slowly making love to you until you slip from threads of consciousness. it is his birthday after all, he’s sure you’d let him… but it’d be too much effort to ask you to hold on for that long. not when you sound this wet, not when you’re blubbering and crying for him – weakly grinding on him. “that’s right. take it. take my cock, you know you can do it. gonna… gonna make you cum, i promise. s-swear it…” he coos to you like it’s a promise over the crude sound of your sexes slipping over one another. 

both of your shaky arms hug his head once more, grazing the sweat-darked curls on the nape of his neck and you arch forward on your side to press your chest against his – craving that closeness, whimpering happily as his heart beats against your breasts bouncing between your bodies with each uncoordinated and sloppy thrust. nodding your head agreeably, your next words hang between your teeth – panted out from your mouth as it slowly falls open. “‘hmygod, sei. sei please, ‘m cumming! oh… i-i’m cummming!” you don’t last much longer as your release sneaks up on you like a thief avoiding streaks of moonlight. the ropes that had been twisting in your tummy since the start of your midnight escapade finally unravel and the world around you shatters, seishiro’s hold on you being the only thing tying you to it. darkness floods your vision, black spots dotted around the corners of your love tinted lense – you don’t even realise you’re passing out from how hard you’re cumming either. you squirt fast and hard, clear streams of your own arousal spewing from your swollen cunt and rendering you useless in nagi’s strong arms.

white noise buzzes in your ear but he holds you close through it all, pulling your head down to rest against his bare shoulder to help muffle the deliciously loud wail tugging on your vocal chords. the louder you sound, the more seishiro likes it. he likes all of it really, the way your pussy drowns him in your mess and nearly forces him out, it’s exactly what he needs to reach his own peak. pushing an arm past your head, he grasps at the soiled sheets and carefully rolls you onto your back – using the last of his stamina and energy to make himself cum missionary style. as if chasing after something that’ll slip away too fast, nagi speeds up his thrusts whilst little whinges and whines spill from his cherry-bitten lips. 

“f-fuck. fuuuck, ‘m cummin’, pretty thing. gonna put it inside. won’t need to clean up, won’t ruin the sheets…w-won’t–!” the white-haired striker rasps without a care in the world, stumbling over his syllables – spit pooling on the palette of his tongue whilst he rocks into your soiled cunt harder and harder. you don’t have the strength to respond, weakly cradling the back of his neck in one hand while your nails rake down his back using the other. tears like dewdrops cling to your fluttering lashes as you watch your boyfriend fall apart above you – orgasm stacking painfully in his pelvis and practically tearing through his mountainous frame as he fucks you through the remaining aftershocks of your own high.

a final ripple of your pussy around his drippy dick opens the floodgates and his orgasm breaks the surface. nagi pushes himself as deep as he can go, every inch of himself snuggled salaciously against your honeyed walls before he finally lets go. he shakes like there’s been an earthquake, gargling against the shell of your ear whilst blisteringly white hot seed spurts against your squishy, gummy insides. there’s so fucking much of it, a layer of opaque cream smearing over your abused folds, painting you with his claim. seishiro’s cream sloshes about, but he doesn’t pull out – languidly rolling his hips into you so that he can make sure it sticks, lubing up your sex as he fucks himself further into your naked cunt.

silence trickles into the room, not uncomfortable, but instead completely content – broken only by your shared and shuddered breathing. you relish in the way he intermittently throbs and he, in the way that you convulse around him as he softens. for a moment, it’s just the two of you and no one else in the world, simply able to come down from your highs and calm down while hugging each other close.

“h-happy birthday, sei,” you whisper once your voice allows you to, it’s cadence still rough from the sex. “i love you…” 

“love you most…” fatigue sinks its claws into the white-haired striker, who collapses on top of you at the first chance he gets. he nuzzles against you as he goes, closing his eyes and peppering your wet face with soft little kisses as if to help soothe you both. “mmm. happy birthday to me, i guess,” comes his exhausted, yet pleased, hum. “you okay, angel?” nagi’s still regaining his ability to speak properly, a pleasant buzz crackling like static over his brain whilst he inhales through his nose, memorising the scent of your union. of you. “went too hard, i think.” everything feels right when you’re together like this, more peaceful and safe. exactly what a relationship should be

so, you shake your head, searching for grey eyes that meet your own with a doting gaze. “you were perfect,” you grin tiredly, growing shy underneath him. “i hope i was too…”

“the best, always are,” he’s quick to reply, checking you over for bruises and hissing as you clench around him. nagi can tell that you don’t want him to pull out, that you need him in close proximity to properly come back down. so, he clings to you, rubs small circles into the parts of you he can reach and just… loves you. as best as he can. “stay with me, lay with me. don’ wanna let you go just yet. you’re my present after all.” seishiro pouts entirely too cutely, doing a complete one-eighty to the man who was wrecking your insides just mere minutes ago.

humming you feel yourself begin to lose the fight to sleep – choosing to bask in nagi’s warmth and love instead of stay wide awake. “all yours.” you sigh out, completely reassured that your presence alone is always going to be enough to keep the lazy egoist happy on his birthday. more than happy.

seishiro nagi will always want you, always need you, always love you – especially when you fly across the globe to be with him on his birthday. 

falling asleep together, with your fingers intertwined and your hearts beating in sync.

RIGHTS RESERVED © LOSTWRLDS 2025. the content seen here belongs to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend elsewhere.

[swordgrace]

𝐨𝐡, 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. (𝐈𝐈)

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after being pulled back from one of the latest missions to recuperate, you take advantage of the time alone with your boyfriend.

can be read as a standalone fic. read part one here.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) / fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.2K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: light smut (mdni), mild angst, talk of insecurities, mentions of past abuse/addiction, lots of fluff, heavy petting, heavy kissing, sub!bob, praise kink, male whimpering, dry humping, body worship, extremely soft/gentle smut, fingering (fem!rec), mutual orgasm, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: thank you guys so much for the love & support on the first bob fic! he is so fun to write for and I just adore him! If you all are interested in more bob content, let me know! thank you all for your love and support and I hope you enjoy! 🫶

When the rest of the team inevitably discovers your relationship with Bob, there isn’t a single surprised face in the room.

Instead, you’re met with plenty of understanding, snide remarks regarding how it was bound to happen, and mild shock that it hadn’t happened sooner. You’re grateful that it doesn’t become tense or awkward — everyone’s accepting.

There is always an element of danger, forming a bond with someone who’s life is constantly on the line — yours and his. This additional layer complicates things, but you’re learning, navigating it all, and so is he.

An incessant fear still gnaws at the recesses of your mind, the fear of losing him somehow, leaving your heart ragged. Bob is afraid of it too, much more than you — when you leave for a mission, it’s perilous, dark whispers nipping at his heels.

However, things are progressing — it’s a sluggish beast, recovering from immeasurable trauma, but he’s putting in the work. Even after so many months, there’s a stagnation he feels, as if he’s slammed into a brick wall, a plateau.

It’s to be expected, his therapist warns, and Bob doesn’t enjoy the feeling of little to no progress. Nevertheless, he swallows the discomfort and only lets it loose when most appropriate, long-winded conversation during his sessions.

He has you, though — his biggest supporter, a cheerleader encouraging him every step of the way without wavering. Sometimes, he feels unnecessarily clumsy, like a child, and he knows that he isn’t. However, you’re always the first to assure him that he’s doing well.

When doubt begins to fester, you extinguish it as best as you can, but it doesn’t always work out the way you intend. The Void is a patient creature, skulking about within the darkest parts of him, a predator preparing to strike.

Low days, high days; the low days eat him alive.

Bob wonders why you continue to stick around even after what you’ve witnessed; a blackness so encompassing that it nearly takes you, too. Though he's gotten better at managing it, it doesn’t lessen the burden, doesn’t take the sting away.

He’s taken to calling the “in-between” days even days, where he’s caught somewhere in the mix of it all, of despair and joy, of grandeur and melancholy. It starts when there’s word of a mission, he knows that you’ll go — he gets scared.

The nightmares still haunt him, lingering when he’s most vulnerable, but they become less frequent. More often than not, you sleep in his bed every night, limbs entangled, anchored to one another to make the pain lessen.

There’s something to brighten his days — your budding relationship, soft and effortless, a bond he cannot recall having with someone else. Yelena is protective, cautionary; he assures her that you treat him well, that you’re perfect.

Today is an even day, made lighter by the revelation that you aren’t going on this newest mission.

Admittedly, you’re desperate for a break, to savor time away from constant missions, publicity events held by Valentina for funding, fighting; you’re tired. As the opportunity arose to skip out, you seized it, and that meant spending more time with Bob.

Once the team is gone, the tower is blanketed by an unusual hush, save for the dismal sound of running water. He’s doing the dishes again, you realize, watching as the jet departs from the landing, soaring through the skies above New York City.

An impressive palette of hues paint the atmosphere, shades of violet intermingled with the glow of a waning sun, settling into a gentle twilight. When you wander back inside, you can hear him humming; tranquil, placating.

Slivers of sunset fall across Bob, turning his brunette tresses to a warm caramel, sleeves haphazardly tugged up toward the crooks of his elbows. It makes your heart lurch within your chest, skipping a beat, mesmerized by him; dazzled, really.

“Hey,” Greeting him with a smile, you inch closer, leaning against the edge of the granite countertop. “Do you want some help with those?” You gesture toward the pile of dirty porcelain.

Tension unfurls from within him as soon as your voice inhabits the space between, head craning over his shoulder to peer at you. He nods, stepping to one side, making room for you at the sink. “Sure.” He hums, passing off plates for you to hand-dry.

Busying yourself with such menial labor, Bob is preoccupied with you, stealing glances every few seconds, lashes fluttering. He notices the shirt you’re wearing, because it’s his, grey material sagging on your shoulders.

A warm scarlet invades his visage, creeping along his jaw, stretching against his throat. Having you here with him is incredibly soothing, and he’s happy to spend more time with you. Truthfully, if he could steal you away, he would’ve.

He’s discovering what he enjoys again, buried beneath the ruin of his trauma; and you make things so much easier. “What do you want to do tonight?” Breaking the bout of silence, you wipe off flecks of orange from a plate.

Bob gawks, uncertain of what to say. You don’t really have to do much of anything, as long as he’s with you. With a nonchalant shrug, the stack grows increasingly smaller, until there’s only a handful of crockery left.

“I’m not sure,” He admits, cerulean hues flickering over you again, flustered by the sight of you in his shirt. It was unexpected, but he wasn’t adverse to it, not in the slightest. “Is that my shirt?” Bob inquires, head canting to one side.

Caught, a familiar heat rakes over the nape of your neck, tendrils creeping towards your face. “It is,” Embarrassed, you chew at the inside of your cheek, knowing you should’ve asked beforehand. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked you if it was okay.”

Instantaneously, Bob is refuting your apology, afraid that he’s upset you. “No, no,” With a shake of his head, he smiles, an awkward chuckle slipping from his mouth. “I—I like it, I don’t mind.” He assures, and you feel relieved, lips twitching into a bright beam.

“Good. I like it, too.” Delighted, you fail to stifle your laughter, helping to clean the last of the dishes before you take the time to put them all away. Bob assists when you can’t reach something, hovering over you with a relaxed expression.

Slouched lounge pants complement his shirt, grey material swallowing you whole, still carrying the scent of him. Staying in the Tower often relaxed your dress code; Bob always thought you looked pretty in anything and everything.

When you weren’t looking, he was; azure hues never strayed far from you, his sun, emanating with a radiant warmth, chasing away the darkness. His gaze was one of longing, thinly-veiled affection, a security that he finds in you, you in him.

Fading sunlight turns grayed windowpanes to masterpieces, catching refractions of light, splaying out over the dark tile. Everything is bright, splendidly so; you’re bright too, beam glittering over your pearlescent teeth.

“I was thinking about watching a movie, maybe ordering something to eat,” It’s something idle to pass the time, but you’ve found that Bob finds enjoyment in it. “Does pizza sound good?” Your stomach snarls at the mere thought.

Bob barely registers your suggestion, too busy ogling you with doe-like hues and a countenance bristling with affection. He realizes how strange it might’ve been for you, his constant staring, murmuring an apology before he answers.

“Hm? Oh,” His throat stirs. “Yeah, pizza’s good.” Lips split into a smile that melts your insides, butterflies swarming within the pit of your belly, marrow turning molten.

“Hey,” You reach for him, hand gentle against his forearm. “Are you okay?” It’s something you’ve grown used to asking, practiced; it’s a habit, born of concern for him. Bob nods, visibly reassuring, the sincerity reaching his eyes.

“I like watching you,” There’s a peculiar softness in his admission, but he fumbles, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Not — Not like that.” He sighs, but you understand what he means, flattered that he’s drawn to you; it’s endearing.

“I know what you mean, Bob.” With a wrinkled nose, you step closer, hesitant to invade his space without permission. He savors the physicality of it all, growing accustomed to your touch — it’s always gentle, always accommodating.

Allowing you to thin the distance, Bob exhales when your arms curl around his midsection, musculature firm beneath your palms, through the material of his sky-blue sweater.

He always tries to hide his blushing, hands coming to cradle your face, foreheads dipping to ghost over one another. Every facet of your countenance is committed to memory — it’s a face he knows he won’t forget.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” It’s almost breathless, the way he says it, steeped in such reverence. He’s gotten better with the compliments, better at being a partner, a boyfriend. He’s warm to the touch, a kiss of fire to your flesh.

Flustered, you fail to dismiss his sweet praise, content to stand here in the kitchen like this; together. A shiver cascades down his spine, able to feel your fingertips draw patterns over his back, the sensation unbelievably soothing.

His lips caress against your crown, allowing it to linger, moments stretching into some blissful infinity. It’s his heartbeat you listen to, a melody that climbs in rhythm, quickening when his head lowers, dipping against yours.

“So are you.” Without pause, it earns you a small chuckle from Bob, whose heart gallops, sings to you when your mouth ghosts over his. Everything slows to a crawl, deliberation exuding from you, sluggishness intentional, meant to savor.

Just as his heartbeat begins to race, so does yours, ringing deep within your ears as you let the kiss continue, disarmingly gentle. He’s careful with you, cautious even when he doesn’t have to be, thumbs stroking along your cheekbones.

Absentmindedly, you find yourself smiling into the kiss, palpable, and he feels it too, unable to stifle the blush that flourishes within his features. Bob exhales, flesh beginning to sting with excitement, and he gingerly withdraws, visibly smitten.

Reaching for your tresses, he toys with your hair, satiny between his fingers. Wordlessly, he kisses your cheek, lips drifting over the bridge of your nose, over the corner of your mouth.

“That’s nice,” You hum, lulled into a state of serenity, delighted to be doted upon, showered in peppered affection. Bob knows that you’re just as starved for contact as he is, the pad of his thumb sweeping over your brow. “I’m going to order that pizza now.”

He’s nearly forgotten about it, hunger lurching within his stomach, growling at the thought. Before you untangle yourself from him, you rock up upon your toes, planting a chaste kiss against his mouth before reaching for your smartphone.

Bob never strays very far away when you’re together, the closeness comforting to him; and you don’t mind whatsoever. He lingers beside you when you’re on the phone, fingers idly messing with his sleeves, waiting for you to finish.

“It’s your turn to pick a movie.” He reminds you, curious to see what you choose. You have a unique taste — you like everything, and he tends to find something good in each film you’ve watched together.

Indecisive, you hum, wandering toward the lounge, couches forming an oval, centered around a massive screen. It’s typically used for analysis and surveillance, but you don’t mind hijacking it from time to time for entertainment purposes.

With a soft huff, you unceremoniously fall into the plush, crimson cushions, one leg folded beneath you as Bob sits beside you. “How would you feel about watching a drama? Something historical, maybe?” You muse, and he shrugs.

“I don’t mind.” Bob feels you reach for his hand, digits twining together. The consistent touch is something he’s grown used to, something he adores. He feels seen, wanted; his thumb traces across your knuckles.

Contemplative, you recline, partially slumped against his shoulder as you wrack your brain for something to watch. When you come up empty-handed, you clear your throat. “Would you rather listen to music?”

That suggestion is met with some enthusiasm as Bob nods, seemingly embarrassed. “I figured out how to make a playlist,” He wasn’t incredibly skilled with a smartphone, and watching him try to navigate it was amusing sometimes. “I made one for you.”

Incredulous, you sit up enough to tilt your head, flattered by the innocuous gesture. It’s unexpectedly charming, endearing — he’s a little flustered, but he doesn’t shy away from wanting you to browse the songs he’s chosen for it.

“You made me a playlist?” Others might’ve scoffed at the gesture, found it meaningless or juvenile — not you. Music was something that you often shared with Bob, a method of connection, of furthering your relationship.

Flickers of anxiety tick across his features, coupled with that of boyish abashment. A stifled hum escapes him as he nods, dark hues meeting yours, lips wobbling into a half-smile. “Yeah,” He clears his throat. “It’s just songs that make me think of you.”

“Do you mind if we listen to some of it together?” Unsure if he wanted this to be something private, you ensure to ask, and he’s willing to share. After he tells you he’s agreeable to it, your belly pools with a pang of heat.

Bob shuffles from the couch, finding the nook he’s crafted beside the window. There’s a variety of books haphazardly stacked atop one another, a side-table where his phone sits.

“It’s still a, ah — A work in-progress,” He clarifies, wandering back towards you, eyebrows scrunched together as he navigates through his phone. Rejoining you, he sits down, feeling your hand nudge against his ribs. “There.”

Connected to the Tower’s mainframe and subsequent speakers, he hits ‘play’, starting the playlist from the beginning. A softer folk song reverberates throughout the room, the melody reminiscent of a lullaby.

Songs that make me think of you; it means more to you than he fully realizes, the thought that each song was chosen with meaning, with intent. A hush fell between, a comfortable silence as you listened to the music, feeling his arm curl around you.

Tucking your head between his collar and jaw, you listen to the thrum of his heart, to the idle humming that occasionally slips from his lips. Draping an arm around his midsection, space becomes nonexistent, bodies flush together, basking in the moment.

Bob’s eyes flutter, pleasantly half-lidded, drinking in the physicality that you provide. Gooseflesh ices his spine as your knuckles graze in circles over his ribcage, cheek resting comfortably atop the crown of your head.

“This is the sweetest thing someone’s done for me,” A low utterance leaves you, cadence bristling with a kindly warmth, one that weaves around him. Each song had meaning — things he remembered about you, or the melody simply resonated with him, as you did. “Thank you, Bob.”

Flushed, he nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed the growing lump forming, stuffing down his nervousness. There was no reason to be anxious around you, he knew this — it was his own thoughts that made him flustered.

“You mean everything to me,” Despite the twinge of shrewdness within his tone, he’s sincere, palm mimicking your action of tracing over his ribs. With a brief exhale, he gets closer, if that were even possible; you’re nearly in his lap. “I should be thanking you.”

A mirthful scoff huffs from your mouth, as if the idea of him thanking you is a preposterous notion. “No, you shouldn’t,” You murmur, head tilting just enough to plant a chaste kiss against his jaw. “I really like being with you.”

It’s a raw reminder of how incomparable you are in his eyes — glittering, radiant, perfect. Bob’s smile is small, but it grows in your presence, proximity having something to do with it. Digits idly sweep aside his hair, lingering behind his ear.

Somewhere in the darker recesses of his mind, scrambled memories float about; he recalls feeling like a burden, feeling unwanted. Bob winces, pain unfurling from his chest, scratched raw, but it subsides when he glances toward you.

Several of the music choices are merely classical compositions, sound strung together to create enchanting harmonies. You wonder how they remind him of you, what goes on inside of his head, how he sees you from his perspective.

“I hope you like it,” Some small sliver of him worries that it’s all too much — he’s being too much, but you seem elated. “I wanted to make it special.” His cadence softens to a lower timbre, one that he doesn’t use often.

Gooseflesh ices your spine, a twinge of want stirring within your chest. It feels detestable to desire him, as if you’re some pervasive force invading his space, but you can’t help it. With a smile, you shift against his side, distracting your thoughts with something else.

“I love it,” As the music crawls to a heartfelt ballad, you decide to stand, slowly untangling yourself from Bob’s embrace. He seems a little disappointed, but it’s fleeting when you extend your hand towards him. “Do you want to dance?”

He laughs as if the idea is silly, but he’s more embarrassed than anything else. “I—I’m not going to be very good at it,” Bob trips over his words, gaining footing toward the end. “If that’s alright.”

With a wrinkled nose, you reach for him, hands twining, digits threading together, two pieces of a puzzle. It’s a seamless fit as you coax him forward and off of the cushions. “I’m not any good, either. We can just sway.”

“Sway,” Bob chuckles, still clinging to timidity even as he moves off of the couch and into your arms. Hands find their place against your waist, a touch shy as your arms loosely dangle around his neck. “What now?”

“We move,” A grin splits your lips, and he’s still laughing, a soft sound that jostles his shoulders. He’s a little uncoordinated, but he’s adaptable, mimicking your movements as you slowly turn about the lounge. “See? You’re a natural.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Blushing, Bob nearly hides beneath his lashes, posture hunched, as if he’s attempting to suppress his own height. Though, he does like being closer to you, too. “It’s nice.” He murmurs, digits curling into your shirt.

“Yeah?” A sigh of a whisper fans across his jaw, your breath a sweet plume. He begins to relax, less rigid, beginning to sink into one another. “Spin me around?” Playful, you take one hand, starting to twirl, albeit a little graceless, as he lets you turn.

Bob’s smile is the widest it’s been in a long time, and he’s careful with you, so delicate for someone with his inhuman strength. He eases you back in, hands joined together at one side, and he spins you again, caged to his chest.

You’re giggling, he’s chuckling, too; it’s pure bliss.

There’s a constant hint of shyness that permeates his visage, as if he’s stupefied by you. He knows that sentiment won’t change anytime soon; you’re beautiful, and you’re home.

“I’m happy,” Bob blurts, lips parting to make way for a trembling exhale. It almost feels strange, as if his life isn’t meant to be this way — he’s not meant to be happy, not meant to feel worthwhile. “Almost forgot what it felt like.”

Steps cease, swaying coming to a crawl as you stop to muster up a response. It’s devastatingly poignant, his statement — and yet, there’s something saccharine about it, too. “Bob …” Brows knit together, lips twitching into an empathetic smile.

“I—I know you don’t want my gratitude, but you make me happy,” It’s as if the earth shifts beneath your feet, something monumental; you feel just as undeserving as he does, sometimes. “You do, and I want you to know that.”

Tears sting the corners of your eyes, vision growing bleary, a haze of emotion as you swiftly try and blink them away. “You make me happy, too — so much,” You murmur, forcing a laugh to dispel any potential sobs. “I’m proud of you.”

Proud of you; Bob wants to dismiss it all, tell you that there isn’t anything to be proud of, but the words fade to ash upon his tongue. He’s still learning, still healing, a heart and mind that haven’t completely mended.

He knows that you don’t care, you take him as he is — Bob, the Void, Robert. Even the darkest parts of him are ones that you care deeply for.

It was his turn to become blubbery, head dipping as he stifled the tears, a smile still tugging at either corner of his mouth. Wordlessly, Bob’s lips press against your crown, the kiss firm, lingering; it’s his way of thanking you without saying it.

Violet-bruised skies subside, falling subservient to an inky black, chasing away the last wisps of an orange sunset. The room darkens, save for the glow of the monitor’s massive screen and the pallid lights that shimmer near the floor.

Before your lips can search for his, there’s a buzz that hums throughout the room — the bottom floor. There’s a monotonous voice that alerts you to movement downstairs, and you realize that the pizza is here.

“Oh,” Bob hums, mouth agape as another chuckle escapes him. “The pizza.” Admittedly, he had forgotten all about the food, forgotten about the vicious snarl emanating from his stomach.

“The pizza,” Conceding, you click your tongue, peering up at Bob with a tender smile. He’s flushed, using his sleeve to rid himself of any stray tears, pearlescent teeth glittering through the dim light. “You okay?” You ask, and he nods fervently.

“Yeah,” His smile grows when you kiss his neck, unable to reach his jaw this time. Fire follows in the wake of such an innocuous gesture, and he gapes, wanting to feel it again. “I’m fine — I’m hungry, too.”

“Perfect,” Clearing your throat, you move towards the elevator, pressing the communication button beside it. “Have him put it on the elevator, Tower.”

There’s some strange intelligence unit that helps power the Watchtower — you’ve taken to calling it ‘Tower’. Bob is somewhat unnerved by it, but it’s helpful to have an additional layer of security. Though, the elevator is notoriously slow.

“Now we wait.”

Remnants of a pepperoni pizza lay scattered atop the granite counter in the kitchen, scent of melted cheese and marinara heavy in the air. Bob is licking the grease from his fingertips while you’re cleaning up, tossing the box into the trash.

He’s grown fond of junk food; when in the throes of active addiction, he rarely ate, wasting away whilst searching for drugs. Bob fills the cravings with everything he can, with a penchant for burgers and milkshakes, too.

“That was good,” He remarks, having eaten a majority of the extra-large pizza you’d ordered. You were content to let him, noticing the streak of red sauce that’s still on his chin. “Thank you.”

“You’ve got something,” Gently, you reach forward, rocking up upon your toes as the pad of your thumb wipes away any stray marinara. “There.” You’re smiling and he’s smitten again, a bemused huff escaping him as the kitchen turns sparkling again.

The two of you go to your room this time, as opposed to his. Bob prompts the change of scenery, curiously admiring some of your decor, a reflection of your personality. There’s a picture of the two of you that Alexei took, secretly, both of you two deer in the headlights.

As the door slides shut, you move to turn on the nightlight over your headboard. You never had much of a use for it until Bob started sleeping in your bed — you don’t mind it.

“You kept this,” Bob murmurs, gingerly handling the photograph with a shy smile. “I—I didn’t think you wanted your picture taken.” It’s a small detail he’s picked up about you, incredibly adverse to flash photography.

“I didn’t, but it’s of us,” With a beam, you begin to fix up your comforter, making sure the pillows are there, sheets corrected. “I talked Alexei into developing it for me.” You muse, sitting down along the corner of your bed.

He examines the picture, finding you to be flawless in all senses of the word. You look startled, and even still, it doesn’t detract from your beauty. “Do you think I could have one?” He asks, glancing from the photo to you.

A peculiar warmth snakes over the back of your neck, heating your skin as you nod. “Absolutely, and we can take a new one together, too.” You wonder if it’s more than just sentimental reasons; so he’ll remember you, if something happens.

“I’d like that.” Bob hums, gaze fluttering about your room again. He’s been in it a handful of times, but things are constantly shifting around. You’re often inclined to go to his room when it comes to this.

Fingertips trace over the picture once more before he places it back on your vanity, hands retracting to toy with the hem of his sweater. Bob glances toward you again, his shirt pooling around your frame, exposing a glimpse of your collarbone.

A sliver of flesh, and he’s reeling, mind beginning to drift off, wondering what you might’ve looked like without his shirt. It makes his flesh burn with a feverish pitch, as if he’s been swallowed by fire.

He’s been thinking about it more often — intimacy.

Everything seems murky, clouded still as he wades through the tides of his past, searching for memories fragmented after he consumed the serum. He knows that he’s had a past fling, but none of it held a candle to what he shared with you.

He knows that he yearns for you, a feeling so intense that it’s overwhelming at times, something he tries to bury; and that’s wrong. Bob doesn’t want to scare you off, and he doesn’t want to make anything awkward.

Sluggishly, he moves to sit beside you, feeling your fingertips lightly trace over his spine. The sensation is something he welcomes, attempting to relax; you can hear his heartbeat. It’s somewhat erratic, an uneven rhythm that pounds within your ears.

Quiet, Bob dips lower, nose grazing yours, able to hear the subtle hitch within your throat. The kiss is devastatingly gentle, as always; there’s something inviting about his mouth, sweet and cautious, usually a touch shy.

As lips linger and still, he draws away, gazing down at you as if he’s awestruck, the ghost of a smile haunting his features. Wordlessly, you ask for more, tilting in again until his head briefly jostles in a nod, a sharp inhale puncturing his lungs.

There’s a subdued fervor behind this kiss, as if the both of you are actively skirting around the elephant in the room, avoiding startling the other. Absentmindedly, your hands gently perch against his abdomen, muscles firm and marblesque beneath your palms.

Bob feels himself burning with affection, but it’s heavier, heady; he feels your hands, steady atop his midsection, and it’s enough to make his head spin. Your lips are saccharine, each kiss one of a prevailing tenderness, a softness that he savors.

Kisses intensify, born of ardor as you tilt your head, deepening your entanglement. A soft, keening groan reverberates within his throat, a noise that makes you writhe in delight.

Finding some sliver of courage, his own hands snake toward your waist, hesitant, caging you in against his chest. Your hands are all over him, lavishing him in sweet caresses, and he begins to squirm beneath you.

One palm splays over the small of your back, digits ghosting over bare flesh, beginning to glide beneath your shirt. He feels your mouth stutter during the kiss, breath sharp and punctuated, likely out of shock.

“Sorry,” Bob apologizes, fearing that he might’ve taken it a step too far, but you’re there to soothe him, visibly content within his hold. “I—I should’ve asked, before …” His heart threatens to beat right out of his sternum.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Reassuring, you wonder what he’s thinking about, teeth chewing at the inside of your cheek. “I wanted you to.” Admitting your growing feelings, you notice the gears turning within his head, darker hues sparkling through the faint illumination.

“You do?” Incredulous, Bob doesn’t pull his hands away, doe-eyed as you attempt to broach the subject of physicality. You wouldn’t do it if you didn’t love him, that much you know. “If we … Would it be okay if we kept going?”

The thought entices you, heart pounding away beneath your sternum, as if it might rip a hole through your chest. You want to tell him just how much you want to, but it’s better to approach this gently, slower steps, easing into it.

“Yeah,” Swallowing the nervous lump within your throat, you ensure that you’re both on the same page about this. “We don’t have to do anything that you aren’t comfortable with. Even then, I want to take things slow.”

Bob isn’t exactly discomforted by the thought of exploring the physical aspect with you, but he’s terrified of disappointing you, or not being good enough. It’s maimed him, darker insecurities, but he knows how much you care.

There’s a distinct lack of raw lust, instead instilled by a burning tenderness, a mutual yearning, souls and bodies interconnected. That’s how you know that you’re willing to be vulnerable with him like this, in a way that you never were with others.

He nods, lips twitching into a tranquil smile as he holds you close, and you reach up to caress his brow as you’ve done many times before. “You’re so pretty.” Bob utters, wide-eyed and wanton, eyelids fluttering beneath your embrace.

Fingertips skirt along his brow, until your palm cups his jaw, thumb tracing circles over his cheek. He exhales, tension unfurling from his shoulders as he lets himself relax, lets himself become vulnerable. “You’re perfect.” You croon, beguiled.

It’s you who closes the gap this time, lips softly tangling with his own. Passion festers, a present spectator the more your mouths meld together, seamlessly molding to one another.

Bob shivers when your digits toy with the hem of his sweater, the feather-light dusting of your fingertips brushing over bare flesh. He’s not used to being touched like this, with kindness, reverence; a low groan stirs within his throat.

Shy, he begins to urge you closer still, but you’re halfway in his lap. “Is this okay?” Bob mumbles between sluggish kisses, and you’re quick to nod, adjusting yourself until your thighs are firm on either side of his hips.

This all feels like some distant fantasy, one that might slip through his grasp at any moment. He’s blushing, features permanently stained with scarlet as he adapts to the new position, his hands still politely gripping your waist.

He doesn’t know where to start, but he has inklings of ideas, awkwardly fumbling with the hem of your shirt, his shirt, blanketing your frame. You’re patient, preferring to explore, drinking him in for the hundredth time.

Tilting forward, your lips meet in another kiss, deliberate, and you can hear his heartbeat climb with a peculiar intensity. Bob caresses your waist, fingers flexing against the cotton material of your shirt, feeling your hand nudge beneath his sweater.

As mouths clawed for one another, a gnawing ache began to fester within your stomach, manifesting as arousal that coalesced between your legs. There is little space between you, replaced with a heated friction that seeps into your bones.

Your palm is cold against his abdomen, his flesh running hot, a shiver coursing through him at the contact. The sensation is somewhat foreign, but he enjoys it, reciprocating the kiss with a sudden blaze of passion.

His hands are like hot brands as they trace your bare flesh, gathering the confidence to push beneath your shirt. You shudder, delighting in the lingering kisses you give one another, never devolving to anything rough.

Slowly recoiling from his lips, your hands find the hem of your shirt, beginning to peel it from your body. Admittedly, you’re just as shy as he is about it, and the process of undressing feels like some sacred ritual.

Bob swallows, countenance one of pure amazement and elation as you toss the garment toward the foot of your bed. “You’re so beautiful.” He whispers. There’s scars on your body, past experimentation, but he finds favor in every single one.

A simple, black-cotton brassiere conceals your chest, nothing extravagantly fancy. His hands smooth over your waist, one arm curling around you, drawing you closer. Quiet, he presses a kiss to your shoulder, over a small scar.

One of your hands shifts, coming to perch against the nape of his neck, digits idly carding through brunette tresses. Bob exhales, the sensation pleasant to him as he feels your lips pepper his jaw, each kiss one of pure ardor.

A hoarse, low whimper escapes him when you gently kiss his throat, feeling his hands caress over your body. “Is this okay?” You mumble into his flesh, feeling his head jostle in an eager nod.

Poised to continue, you lavish him in feather-light, sweet kisses, chest flush to his, other palm still firm atop his abdomen. His noises are endearing, eyes nearly closed, preening beneath the attention you give him, kissing your way along his neck.

Thrumming in your ear, his heart sings a melody, calls your name, feeling your hand peruse through his hair. Flushed, Bob wants to reciprocate and more, heat bleeding from his skin, like warmth oozing from a crackling flame.

Lavishing him in the affection he deserves, your mouth continues to explore his neck, dipping against the hollow between throat and shoulder. Every kiss is fire, and he is naught but ash, a string of groans leaving him.

Joined hands meet at the trim of his sweater, following after you as he rids himself of the garment, running abnormally hot. As the blue material crests over his head, you marvel at the sight of him, as if he’s carved from stone.

He’s indestructible, muscles taut and nothing short of impressive, prompting you to swallow the lump within your throat. He’s so handsome, endlessly shy, his visage smitten as your gaze meets his.

Bob smiles, scarlet-faced as he moves to cradle your face. He’s more relaxed than he thought he’d be, stomach still coiled into an excitable, anxious knot, flesh bristling as he kisses you again.

Bodies twine together, and you’re slotted in his lap, hips occasionally urging against his own. There’s friction present, hot and unfamiliar; he’s infatuated by the sensation. He feels your hand drag from his torso to chest, hovering over his heart.

It’s soothing, your presence; a sanctuary that he feels uninhibited within, where his confidence begins to take root. It’s faint, but he can feel his courage flourish when his mouth begins to descend towards your jaw.

Bewildered, you feel yourself gasp; a subtle, surprised noise that becomes lost in the entangled barrage of sighs. He’s agonizingly slow in the best possible way, gaze occasionally shifting to make sure that he isn’t hurting you somehow.

Bob simply mimics your actions from before, and it has a rather powerful effect, ripping a low moan straight from your diaphragm. The sound is pretty, gives him some encouragement to know that he isn’t completely hopeless.

“S’good?” He murmurs, and you can feel the little quirk of his mouth against your throat. You nod, urging him to continue, and he’s more than eager to do so, kissing a trail toward your collarbone.

His hands remain stagnant, one occasionally caressing along your spine, the other content to rest against your hip. You don’t mind it, reveling in the affection he provides you, deliciously gentle, in the way that you desire most.

A shiver passes through him, your digits idly carding over his scalp, threading within his tresses, the sensation pleasant. Cupping the nape of his neck, you exhale, a shaky noise wrought with exhilaration as he kisses toward your sternum.

He’s blushing again, heat radiating from his skin, hesitant to continue further. Every scar on your body is tended-to by his sweet kiss, as if he’s worshiping your flesh, something you feel marrow-deep.

“Do you mind if I …” A tremulous sigh escapes him, and he reminds himself that there’s nothing to be nervous about; it’s just you, he loves you. “I want to see you — more of you, if that’s alright.” Bob inquires, his timbre low, a touch skittish.

A molten warmth curls over you, festering throughout your entire body, as if you’ve been struck by a fever. His constant desire for consent is endearing, and you nod, crawling off of his lap in order to sit beside him, instead.

It’s been so long; he knows what to do, he thinks, but it’s overshadowed by this unforeseen pressure, impressing you. Bob knows it’s going to take some time for him to work himself up for the entire act, but he knows just how patient you are.

Shimmying out of your thin, pajama bottoms, you nudge the material aside, letting it pool on the floor below, left in your undergarments. His eyes are wide again, silently appreciating you, drinking in your beauty — he’s not subtle about it.

His hand flexes into the edge of the mattress, nearly ripping it apart, if he wanted to. Bob watches, mesmerized as you tilt forward, capturing his mouth in another kiss, one hand poised against his thigh.

He tenses, a soft groan pulled from his throat as each kiss seems to burn with a growing intensity. It feels incredible, to be wanted — to be desired by you, in all ways imaginable. As your other hand settles against his abdomen, his lips come to a crawl.

“Still okay?” Ensuring that he’s still wanting to explore, he nods, though there’s a bit of hesitancy present. “What’s wrong?” You ask, cadence soft and assuring, wanting him to know that his well-being comes before any physicality.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” The weight of his confession is somewhat relinquished, vocalizing his nervousness out in the open. You’re nearly slotted in his lap again, chest ghosting over his, caressing across firm muscles. “It all feels new; but I know it’s not.”

Through furrowed brows, you shake your head, fingers sweeping to stroke through his tresses. “You’re not disappointing me,” You murmur, lips curling into a warm smile. “It’s okay if it feels new. I don’t have any expectations — I just want to be with you.” With that in-mind, he begins to relax.

Bob nods, visibly flustered as he shifts beneath you, attempting to hide the evidence of rousing feelings. “I want to keep going,” He gushes, hands settling against your hips. “Just a little more.” The enthusiasm in his voice is charming.

“Define ‘a little more’,” You utter, gaze glittering with curiosity as you caress his jaw, thumb tracing circles into his skin. “This is new for me, too, but it feels comfortable with you.” Those words strike a chord within him; he’s safe for you, too.

A twinge of embarrassment settles onto his countenance, marked by furrowed brows and a halfhearted, anxious smile. “I want to touch you,” He decides it’s best to be forthcoming. “If that’s alright.” Bob murmurs, watching your lips part in surprise.

Touch holds a certain meaning — you know what he wants, and when it comes from his mouth, it makes your skin scream with heat. Even then, he appears a little shy, as if the admission of it somehow tarnishes him.

“Okay.” Conceding, you watch as he sits back just enough, politely adjusting you to ensure that you’re in his lap again. Your hands settle against his shoulders, taut and broad beneath your palms, flesh an open furnace.

Bob beseeches you for another kiss, something to distract himself with, one hand fumbling over your thigh. He wants to come across as confident, self-assured, but it’s harder than he thought it would be. He starts to relax when your digits idly massage into his shoulders.

Lower, lower still; you shiver when his hand ghosts over the inside of your thigh, touch incendiary, a brand etched into your skin. Each kiss makes your head spin, a dizzying feeling.

Between loving, sluggish kisses, he finds the confidence to skirt past the material of your panties, digits finding the warmth between your legs. A sharp gasp splits your lungs, and he almost thought he might’ve burned you.

If it weren’t for his arm keeping you aloft, you might’ve collapsed beneath his touch, melting away into wisps of ash. Each sigh was rapturous, wanton moans inhabiting the space between bodies, a feverish warmth crawling over your spine.

“Bob,” Stifling a whine, you kiss his face, mouth snaking over his jaw as he begins to touch you. His ministrations are slow to start, sheepish, trying to find his footing with the act itself. “Keep going.”

The sound of his name rolling from your tongue with such ardor makes his heart catch fire, a low groan stirring when you plant kisses below his jaw. Nimble digits find the apex of your thighs, gliding through your folds as he touches you.

The sensation clouds your vision with a haze, drowning in desire as his fingers idly stroke along your cunt, rhythm somewhat erratic. He’s trying to discern where you enjoy it the most, but it’s difficult, especially when you’re kissing his throat.

A low, husky groan fluttered from his mouth, a noise that turned your stomach to molten heat. “G—Good?” The words barely escape between his hand and your mouth, and you nod, forehead drifting to press against his.

Pleasure coils your stomach into knots, letting him touch you, explore as much as he wants. He treats you with such care, visage flushed, chest-to-chest, his heartbeat slow compared to yours.

Scarlet blooms against his features, perspiration building along the nape of his neck, in spite of the friction. Your body continues to urge against his, sending tremors of delight through him, the closeness nothing short of perfection.

Arousal seeps into his bones, visceral and raw as he urged his digits against your cunt, easing them backward in rhythmic strokes. His pace was jumbled, each touch wanton, exploratory.

As his fingers deftly caress your core, you lurch forward when they graze your clit, countenance contorted into an expression of desperation. “There,” You moan, feeling the little spike in his confidence. “Right there, Bob.”

Bob exhales, head jostling in a brief nod, faces flush together, allowing him to steal a kiss from you. He whimpers into your joined lips, coupled with the sensation of your hand caressing his tresses, hips grinding against his.

Listening to your encouragement, his digits seek the spot that made you shudder, and when he finds it fully, you’re sighing his name. It’s beside his ear, hot, fervent; he’s enamored, completely and utterly devoted to you in all senses of the word.

As his fingers carefully circle around your clit, you find it difficult to sit still, squirming atop him, which only furthers the existing friction. Bob steels himself, flushed and exhilarated, gaze wide and doe-like as your eyes momentarily find one another.

You’re everything to him — his world, center of gravity, light in the darkness. There’s a semblance of awe in his eyes, coupled with adoration, a budding desire.

With a soft whine, your hands relocate, back to caressing over his chest, abdomen, ribs; anywhere within reach. Lurching forward, you desperately seek whatever scrap of friction he provides, feeling the coil in your stomach begin to unfurl.

“You — You’re so pretty,” Bob sighs, and it makes your limbs crawl with heat. “Like this.” He’s stumbling over his words, but it doesn’t stop you from soaring, completely enamored with him. He feels strange, saying something like that, but it’s the truth.

“Doing so well, Bob,” You huff, “Don’t stop.” It emerges as a breathless plea, and he reels at the thought of you embracing him like that. The room is shrouded by tangled sighs, groans, whimpering; the temperature feels rather tepid.

Preening beneath your praise, Bob holds you close, delighted to know that he’s been the source of your ecstasy. Lips collide once more, the kiss bruising, devastatingly tender even through the constant flurry of passion.

Consumed by want, by the adoration you feel for him, your hips continue to urge into his hands, chasing after any lick of heat. Bob is more than eager to give it to you, grinding haplessly against the pearl of your cunt.

Close; you can feel it, your body screaming for a release that you haven’t had in what felt like forever. Unbeknownst to you, Bob is there too, pushed to the brink by the constant drag of your hips against his.

The touching doesn’t stop, trembling digits steadying as he circles your clit, rhythm somewhat erratic, but you don’t care. You’re nearly there, each kiss raw, eliciting amorous sounds from the both of you, tangled within one another.

He groans your name and it’s your ruin, toppling over the edge at that sound. Bob sputters, foreheads nestled together, your chest flush to his, fingers drawing circles into his abdomen. Muscles tense, clench beneath your palms, his head canting just slightly.

As his fingers still toy with your cunt even through your orgasm, you reach for his wrist, a gentle reminder for him to slow down. A gentle ‘sorry’ slips from his lips, hand ceasing as he withdraws, caressing your body, instead.

Attempting to catch your breath, you notice his flurry of embarrassment, visibly sheepish as your gaze drops toward his groin. “That was perfect,” You whisper, and he’s crimson. Tracing your fingers over his brow, you make sure he’s alright. “You okay?”

More than okay, he realizes, sticky with an amalgamation of perspiration and his own spent, watching with mild dismay as you crawl off of him. However, it gives him an opportunity to retreat to your bathroom for a few minutes.

When he returns, hunched and flustered, you’re laying in bed, wearing his shirt, no pants; his heart nearly bursts from his chest. Bob basks in the afterglow, crawling into bed with you as he curls inward, his larger frame engulfing you.

“I’m fine,” Bob assures, pressing a kiss behind your ear, arm looped over your middle. He feels you writhe within his grasp, only to turn and face him, smiling as if the world is right again. “Was that alright?” He murmurs, hoping for your approval.

“It was amazing,” Admittedly, you weren’t expecting his enthusiasm, but it all seemed to work in your favor, and his. “I want to touch you too, next time — maybe a little more.” It’s an absentminded remark, but it makes him blush.

“I—I liked that,” Bob sighs, feeling you perch atop his chest, lying beneath you as your fingers caress over his torso. “I liked touching you.” His confession is sickly-sweet, wrought with a tenderness that makes you melt into him.

Loved it, really; his arms cage you in against him, holding you, even if it’s you halfway on top of him. There’s a semblance of contentment he feels, closer to normalcy, closer to himself.

Smiling to yourself, you hear his chest expand with a yawn, rising and falling underneath your head. “You’re good at it.” Praising him with saccharine words, you watch as his visage brightens with mild glee.

He’s less timid; he’s still nervous, but it isn’t as outwardly prevalent. Bob turns just enough to kiss your forehead, nestling against you, his breath pluming over your features. A hush falls between, and he’s content to hold you.

Beneath your palm, his heart hums, the rhythm even, placating. You press a kiss to his collarbone, bare skin still fuming with heat, his warm breath tickling your cheek. “Are you tired?”

With a nod, Bob melts into you, chin tucked atop your head, arms tangled around one another. “Yeah,” He hums, gaze half-lidded. He wishes that he could stay up longer and talk to you, but he’s beginning to feel groggy. “I can stay up, if you need me to.” He offers.

“No, no,” You soothe, peering up just enough to fully glance at him, pressing a kiss against his jaw. “We should get some rest.” Typically, you’re always the one falling asleep first — it was reassuring that it was the other way around this time.

“I can hold you,” Bob murmured, knowing that it was often you holding him; he wanted you to feel just as loved as you made him feel, too. With a smile, you turned over, back snug to his chest, his arms caging in around you. “You’re cold.”

“You’re really warm,” With a cheeky grin, you feel his head nestle within the hollow between your neck and shoulder, perfectly slotted there. Reaching for his hand, you interlace your fingers together, resting together over your abdomen. “Bob?”

His eyes are closed, legs tangled within one another, as if he’s wrapped you up in the heat of his body, all coiled around you. “Mm?” On the cusp of sleep, he’s almost out, so comforted by your presence that it’s lulled him to slumber.

You want to say it — the monumental confession, the three words that change everything; it hangs upon the tip of your tongue, dangling there until you swallow it whole. You’re anxious that it might be too soon, or that it might scare him.

“Goodnight.” You whisper, and your response is a soft kiss, buried into the column of your throat.

[pathless-stride]

I'm adding some stuff cause I wish the article was more than just use these machines or don't use them. most people can't afford stand mixers, stand mixers or food processors also still require scraping and such actions. higher counter tops is also a huge investment most can't do. readymade mixes are good but depends on where you are from and what you are making. (I also think they consider disability separate from hand issues and chronic pain?)

some easier alternatives would be getting an adjustable chair in the kitchen. stabilizes you for one and is good when your countertops are low. you can also put things on your lap for more stability and lesser movement of the arm. if the counters are too high you can get a stool but I've found they don't help as much with control and can be a risk if you slip. if sitting on the ground and getting up isn't too tough for you, then working on the ground is great! really stable and less back ache, more floor space ends up being more counter space. if you put a mat down it's easy clean up, this goes for countertops too, scrubbing and cleaning up after cooking and baking isn't talked about but it's a reality. a mat or a cloth down before you do anything less messy.

depending on what sort of pain you experience you can change the way or make small adjustments to the way you mix things. if a recipe requires you to fold things with a spatula you can choose not to follow and go for a whisk, it's design means in lesser movements (rather than round the bowl, going back and forth combines things well enough) you can mix ingredients. with whisks they tell you to use your wrists but you don't have to, you can hold it and move from your elbow or shoulder. if that is what causes your pain and not wrists then focus just moving those.

steel utensils make it easy to clean with less stuff sticking to them when you use them right. they also don't typically cling on to any smells. most are dishwasher safe but even if that's not an option you can just soak them in water for a good while and it becomes way easier to clean. steel plates and bowls tend to range from lightweight to more heavier so you can find the ones that are easier for you to hold on to. they are extremely resistant so any drops won't hurt them and you can just shove them in storage with less maintenance. if you make chocolate designs a cold steel plate works just as good as parchment paper, this is a good alternative if you can't use scissors or want something reusable.

if your oven is in a hard place and bending down or stretching up and then having to carry something hot to the counter is tough then look at recipes that can be made on the stove or a microwave. a cake isn't less cake cause it's not made in an oven. cooking on the stove can be easier cause you just need to move your dish to and fro from the counter to the stove. another easy change would be to change how your microwave is positioned. if it's not fixed in the you can turn it so the door opens toward the countertops and not air. helps when the food is hot or if you can't pick up something heavy for long times. just make sure there is insulation and it isn't stuck to walls though.

lot of people say make recipe changes to suit you, but that can get confusing. simple way to think about it is narrow down on your struggle, and imagine what someone would do if that wasn't an option. so- if you struggle with cracking eggs or get too many shells in, then look for vegan or vegetarian recipes. if you can't open jars or cans, or can't use a knife, then recipes that require more ingredients from bags and boxes. usually it's easy to make a base but hard to make it flavourful, chopping up fruit or chocolate, zesting, or measuring it out and cooking it down is hard work- flavour essences are good here, can make simple recipes fun without adding much work or ingredients.

I luckily haven't had to deal with much chronic pain or hand pain yet, especially with regards to baking (crochet is another story). That said, these look like some pretty solid tips! There's also some in the comments section.

[whimsiwitchy]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 (part one)

Pedro Pascal x singer!reader

series masterlist & series playlist

summary: you're a hot singer that has hot older men falling at her feet. pedro becomes one of them. (literally my cyg hughxreader fic but for pedro)

warnings: age gap (23/49), use of y/n, swearing, sexual themes, afab reader, she/her pronouns, verbal fighting, pedro is a smoker, cheating, Hugh Jackman is your ex (oops), he also pops up a few times and is mentioned, grammar is fake to me srry <3

warnings may change as the story progresses. all descriptions of real people in this story are fake! I don't know these people and this all for funsies. let me know if I missed anything!

author's note: hi everyone! this creation has been sitting in my head for awhile but @moonangxl is the reason it's being done lmao. anywaysss this is a little rough since I'm literally copying my hugh story and switching it to Pedro. It's basically the same but little details have changed. If you enjoyed that one, I hope you enjoy this one! If you're new here, welcome!! I hope you stick around. That's all the yapping I'll do...enjoy! oh wait...ummm so kinda annoying but music is a big part of this series and there is a song mentioned in here that you can listen to for context (playlist linked above!). okie okie fr this time byeee and enjoy!! <333

part one: late nights and heartbreak 

Being a young girl living in the middle of bumfuck nowhere made it seem impossible to live your dreams of becoming a singer. You grew up in a tiny little town in northern Louisiana. With a population of less than 15,000 people, growing up was pretty boring. You had dreams of making it big and making it the fuck out of the south. Once you graduated highschool, you focused on working and saving as much money as you could, only buying essentials and equipment to make music. You took a few online classes on producing and tried your best to make whatever song was bouncing around in your head come to life. It took a year for you to feel confident enough to release your first few songs out into the world. You started to gain a few more followers on social media here and there, it was exciting.You released your first song titled ‘to the point’ and it blew up on tiktok, bombarding you with a new hoard of followers.

Two years after graduation, you decided to move to Los Angeles, after finally saving enough money. The agency that picked you up was ecstatic about the move. Being in L.A meant more opportunities to move your career forward. After a few months, all the chaos became too much for you to handle on your own and you ended up hiring an assistant, Stacy, who became your best friend somewhere along the way. Fastwording to four years after graduation, your dreams have come true and you have been an established and respected artist since you set foot in L.A. You started to build a reputation as someone who was dedicated and passionate towards their craft, always being involved in the creative process. It was bliss. 

Lately though, you’ve gained another reputation: 

the controversial young girlfriend.

Since you’ve been in the spotlight, you’ve had your fair share of dating history and if they all happened to be older men, so what? It wasn’t something you had planned on but older men happened to be your type. They were so much more put together than the guys your age. They knew what they were doing and how to treat a woman right. You were so tired of being asked out through instagram direct messages, you wanted someone who wasn’t afraid to talk to you in person, and that seemed to only come from men twice your age. You weren’t complaining though, you enjoyed it. Your last ‘scandalous’ relationship ended up being far more public than you intended it to be. In the beginning, the men you were seen with were never anything serious, just dates or one night stands. Though with Hugh it was different. You wanted to be with him so badly but you held yourself back. You were terrible towards him and the relationship went south fast. 

—

“I wish they would have picked a different song.” You huff in frustration. Today you were performing on BBC’s Radio 1 Live Lounge and your agency thought it would be a great idea to perform an unreleased song from your upcoming album alongside the mandatory cover song. When the opportunity was first presented to you, it had only been a month after your breakup with Hugh. You had been ecstatic to perform the song that you wrote based on your relationship, to release all of the feelings attached to him. Now that the day has come, you feel like an idiot for even writing it. You were mostly over Hugh now and it was almost embarrassing to showcase this song today. 

“Babe, you’re gonna kill it! Just let your emotions flow, give the fans what they want.” Stacy is sitting across the room as she comforts you. She’s fidgeting with your vocal humidifier, attempting to put it together before you start warming up. Her advice isn’t terrible, she’s right. You’d been pretty silent on the subject matter, steering clear of social media so you wouldn’t say anything stupid. Rumors of your breakup had been all over the headlines but there hasn’t been confirmation from either of you. Singing this song today would definitely stir the pot again and make everyone realize that the relationship between the two of you was in fact over.

“You’re right.” You admit quietly as you slouch into the chair.

“I always am. Here, start warming up the money maker.” She gloats while handing you the humidifier. 

“I really hope he doesn’t watch it. I’d literally smash my head into a brick wall out of embarrassment…” 

Placing the humidifier over your mouth and nose, you sit there letting your mind wander. Having your personal life exposed to everyone really sucked and hiding your boyfriends wasn’t something you wanted to do. 

“I think I’m taking a break from men.” You let out abruptly, glancing over at Stacy. 

“Whatever you say girl.” You could hear the doubt lingering in her tone and the roll of her eyes. 

“Ugh… You don’t believe me do you? I can totally break off from men and be my own person for once.” 

“I’m not trying to doubt you babe. It’s just…You tend to attract men like a magnet and you have some severe daddy issues.” She's typing away on her laptop as if she didn’t just completely disrespect you. 

“I don’t have daddy issues.” You say flatly. “You know I have a very loving father who was always present in my life, so the whole dating older men thing does NOT stem from daddy issues. Thank you very much.” You say matter of factly. 

She hums. “I give it a week before you fold.” 

—

After a quick sound check for your mic and band, you perform your cover song. You chose a more upbeat song to cover, given that you were about to lay your heart out of the line. It was honestly kind of awkward performing in this setting. There was a booth in front of you that had the sound board and all of the other electronic stuff that was way more expensive than any equipment you owned. To the left of the booth, the cameras were positioned towards the ‘stage’ with a group of crew members sitting behind them. It always felt awkward performing to smaller audiences compared to large spaces full of fans that showed up for you. 

The cover went by smoothly, earning a few cheers from the people in the room. As the band prepared for the next song, you could see the door in the booth open and someone walk in. You weren’t wearing your contacts, given that it was a short day, and you refuse to ever wear your glasses on camera. You squinted, trying to make the blurred blob come into focus. 

“All ready?” A man behind the camera asks just as your eyes start to hurt from the strain. Your nosiness would have to wait. There’s a sharp sound of the clapboard and your drummer gives three short taps of his drumsticks to cue you in. 

why do I find it so hard to love you

when I know in my heart that I want to?

“I love you sweetheart.” Hugh whispered in your ear as you laid against his chest. You’d been spending the night in his apartment in New York when he said it. A few minutes prior, the two of you were laughing about something stupid but now you were frozen, pretending to sleep. You’re not sure how convincing it was considering your entire body went rigid at his words. You couldn’t say it back. You weren’t even sure you felt the same. It would make sense to say it. You’ve known Hugh for a year now and have been dating for five months, the first seven months containing a lot of flirting and uncertainty. You cared for him deeply and wanted to be with him, but what you felt wasn’t love.

After that night, he continued to tell you and you continued to ignore it. 

I’ve heard that all of the girls are starting to hate me

For stealing your heart and treating you badly 

This was the moment that halted any feelings you had for Hugh. You started talking fairly quickly after his divorce was announced and it turns out you weren’t the only one getting that attention. While you and Hugh were very public with your relationship, rumors started to spread about a possible romance he had with a previous costar. A week before the breakup, she messaged you with proof that Hugh and her had been intimate. He told her about all of the problems the two of you were going through and she harassed you for days, saying that you didn’t deserve a man like Hugh. 

I’m never gonna treat you like I should

I’m a part time lover 

As much as you wanted to put all the blame on Hugh, you can’t. You were at fault too when it came to the relationship not lasting, he simply made it easier to end things. In your talking stage, you still went out with other people, you were seen with other people. You openly flirted with guys during events you attended or with the occasional athlete in your direct messages during the early stages of being official with Hugh. You both weren’t 100% loyal. Thinking back, you weren’t sure why you did it. You were never one to cheat physically or mentally, but things with Hugh just never seemed to be serious enough to care, even with him being labeled as your boyfriend. 

—

You somehow managed to get through the song without having any vocal mess ups. It was a challenging song that required a lot of emotion to support your voice. A few tears slipped here and there, each line of the song reminding you of the memories that inspired them. A loud applause fills the room, some whistles are thrown around. You mouth quick ‘thank yous’ across the room and give a small bow. As the energy dies down, the crew begin to tidy up the room, the band packs up their equipment and instruments. You reach down to grab your water bottle when you see Stacy rushing towards you. 

“You did absolutely amazing…” She reaches to move a few strands of hair out of your face and wipes gently under your eye. “... but I need you to prepare yourself because a very hot and very famous dude is about to walk through that door.” Her voice is a poor whisper-yell. 

“Stacy what the fuck are you talking abou-” 

“God damn girl. You’re talented as fuck.” A booming wheezing laugh abrupts before you can finish. It’s a voice and laugh you know. A man you’ve met before and a man you thought was fine as fuck. 

“Hey Pedro! How have you been?” You lean in for a short hug, out of politeness…definitely not because you wanted to see if he was still wearing the cologne that clouded your mind the first time you met him. 

“I’ve been good! Super busy. Feel like I’m in a new city every night.” He lets out a slight chuckle. “How’ve you been? How are things with the old man?” The smile that you are wearing falters. 

“I’ve been good. Got a new album coming out and everything.” You do an awkward “woohoo” at the end while waving your arms around lazily. “But uh..things aren’t too good with ‘the old man’. We uh…we broke up.” His face tenses at that. 

“Y/n I’m so sorry.” He rests his hand on your shoulder for a split second. “I feel so dumb, the song makes a lot more sense now.” He trails off as he brings the same hand up towards his face, itching the right side of his beard. 

“Eh, it’s whatever. Probably for the best honestly.” You shrug and he hums. There's a brief silence. 

“Well, his loss yea?” He jokes, trying to cheer you up. 

“Yea…” You take a moment to really look at him. He looks older than the last time you saw him, a few grey hairs creeping in. He also felt taller somehow and his biceps have definitely grown in size. He was outrageously handsome. You awkwardly look away before you’re caught admiring his ridiculously hot face. Before either of you can speak again, a crew member is walking over, asking for a picture of the two of you for their socials. Pedro’s hand rested respectfully on the small of your back. You glance up at him from the quick shock of his touch. He’s already beaming at the camera with his picture perfect smile. You hear the camera go off a few times and you quickly focus on the camera, giving your best, genuine smile. Once the crew member is satisfied, he thanks the both of you and leaves. 

You turn to Pedro, your curiosity getting the better of you. “Hey. I never asked…Why are you here?” He makes a face of shock and you realize the rudeness of your question. “Wait no, I’m not trying to be mean just um…” He’s smiling that gorgeous smile at you as you try your best to explain yourself, stumbling over your words. “...I just mean, what are you doing at BBC?” He laughs and you slip out a barely audible ‘sorry’ as you look down so he can’t catch the hint of red that's bound to be bright on your cheeks. 

“No need to apologize. I know what you meant but it was pretty fun watching you get so flustered.” You don’t lift your head up, still needing a few seconds to cool down. “I was doing a radio interview a few floors up when I heard you were here. Thought I’d stop by to say hello since it’s been awhile since I last saw you.” 

“I’m glad you did come by. It was really nice seeing you again.” You finally life your head up. 

“It was nice seeing you again too darlin’. Real nice”

—

Later that night, you were scrolling through your phone when a text from Stacy popped up. 

Stacypoo <33: I told you. You didn’t even last a few hours. ;)

The text is accompanied by a screenshot of a notification from instagram stating that ‘pascalispunk’ started following you. You closed the messages, rushing to open your following tab in instagram to search for his name. You scrolled through his pictures for a while before following him back. 

While you had access to your own social media, Stacy handled all of the business aspects of your accounts. You clicked on your own page and noticed that the picture that you took with Pedro earlier in the day was crossposted with the BBC instagram account. You took a look through the comments to see what everyone had to say but only one of them mattered. 

pascalispunk: You killed it superstar 🤘🏼❤️‍🔥

thank you for reading! feel free to leave feedback in a comment, private message, or in my ask box!

🏷️ : @moonangxl @brittmb115 @starsmoonn @mmkkzz @angellreads @daydreamzsworld @goldfish-987 @peacefangirl @leclerc13 @llsister @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @needz1nk @olympe-lottie @mielsonrisa @sexyvixen7 @thezoddfather @joelmillerpascal @mega-kittyglitter-1 @bluetimeombre @stvrl1ghtt123

*pls comment on masterlist comment section to be added to taglist. comments on this post will not be added!*

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hi hi!!! Can I request Bob and Void relationship headcanons please! Love your work and I hope you have a good day!

Void’s section of this is possessive, controlling and kinda manipulative in a way, so I might as well put that out there for you all.

Bob is the sweetest man who’s been given the hardest time, yet he still smiles and is warm and beautiful and gentle with how he goes through your relationship with you.

Seriously this man thinks he’s the luckiest person in existence to have you in his life, he’s always waking up everyday with the thought that you were with him, it’s enough to have him smile and feel giddy and feel as if he could do anything. (He literally can do anything, he’s powerful and invincible)

Yet while all the power he has, you made him feel the most powerful in his entire life and he couldn’t even explain just how much you mean to him, he could try but feared he’d only trip up on his words and just end up sheepish and apologising for not being able to get his words straight.

But seriously you’ve blessed this man in ways you can barely understand. You’ve given him hope, security, a safe haven for when he has his really bad days and been nothing but an encouraging force when he has his good days and did the smallest things like get out of bed or shower.

Your support and understanding of his situation was something he thought he’d never get, something he feared he be called a burden for, and yet you stood by him no matter what and still confidently called him the man you loved with your whole heart and nothing less.

You didn’t see no reason to view him less when he was unable to get out of bed, but instead you kept him company and made sure he was comfortable, you reminded him that you weren’t going anywhere if he wasn’t going. You wanted to stay with him and gently kiss his forehead, caress your fingers across his dark bag and press your forehead against his and just stay there as though you were trying to reach his thoughts and tell them to cut him some slack.

All Bob could do during those low point was be on the brink of tears with how gently you cared for him while still being from enough to remind him that he should at least eat or drink a little, you didn’t care about missing out on anything, not when your partner was internally suffering and you’d gladly care for him until he wasn’t able to make it past his bedroom door. He didn’t believe that he deserved you at most time but you’d always peck him on the lips before he could even finish the sentence.

‘You are just as deserving of anything just like anyone else, if not more and I will not have you talk down on yourself, you are my partner and I will stand by your side whenever you need me to.’ You tell him earnestly, holding his face within your hands. ‘You need me and I need you just as much, if not more, I’m not leaving you to rot when I know I can at least be of some help. I love you too much to be so heartless and shallow.’

Hugs are a thing you do when words fail you, you just hold each other closely, foreheads pressed to one another as you just allowed your gently caresses and calm breathing speak how you felt at ease and at peace with one another. It was a difficult start when Bon would flinch when your hands touched his cheeks, so you took it one step at a time until he was poetically refusing to let go of your wrists, keeping your hands pressed to his cheeks as he melts in your touch, memorising it as best as he could while looking at you adoringly.

He made you feel seen and loved in a way that left you speechless, breathless but in the best way. You wanted all of his love and you didn’t have to say much to get it either as he was eager to give it to you with the soft, uncertain kisses he left upon your cheek or forehead and smiling sheepishly afterwards as he asks if he did good with burning cheeks.

‘You always do good for me baby.’ You replied, which only made his cheeks burn redder as his smile stretched across his face.

His hands can barely stay still for a single second. They need to be doing something and they’re favouring to do? Fiddle with your fingers or hold onto some part of you when you were within reach, whether it be your shirt, jacket sleeve or jeans. Bob’s fingers will fiddle with it or your fingers as you intertwine your hands, allowing him to caress your knuckles with his thumb or squeeze your hand three times to tell you he loved you.

Loving Bob was a dream come true for you, loving you was a dream come true for Bob, loving each other as deeply and a truly as you two did was something envied by all as a love as innocent and pure as yours was surly the stuff of romance books and happily ever after. You were his guiding light and he was your golden guardian.

Bob gets incredibly flustered when you wear his sweatshirts, seriously as if you couldn’t be more beautiful in this man’s eyes, you had to go and steal his sweater and make this man’s heart go into overdrive. He’s staring at you the entire day like a lovesick puppy until someone (John the prick) tells him that he’s staring and suddenly you were far too precious for him to look at.

You secretly loved his adoring staring and his inability to look away, so you smack John in the back of his head for being a prick towards your lover, saying that if there was anyone allowed to look at you it was Bob, so he should be the one to avert his eyes from you not your sweet and handsome man.

You’d fight god for Bob, he’s telling you not to but your mind is already made up. You must protect your sweet boy who runs extremely warm and is all powerful and invincible, yet you wanted to coddle him to your chest and kiss him senseless and you do. His sweet smile and soft eyes were enough to have you wanting to spend the day giving him as many kisses possible.

Forehead, cheek, nose, lips, eyelids, jaw, chin, neck, behind his ear, everywhere you will kiss this man as he stand awkwardly and giggles cutely. You smother him in affection but not too much to overwhelm him, just enough to have his cheeks flush and him holding onto your waist tightly as if he didn’t want to let go.

Loving Bob was warm, soft, sweet, gentle and kind as your first kiss was one to remember for certain, it’s gentle a little sloppy but it was worth the breathlessness you felt after pulling away from him, seeing his disheveled apparent and bewilderment within his eyes as though he didn’t expect himself to do such a thing, to take charge. You on the other hand wanted him to do it again a million times over for the rest of your shared life.

He treasures everything you give him, whether it’s plushies, they’re on his bed even if they take up half of it. He doesn’t like leaving any out, he holds them all to his chest when he sleeps with a massive smile upon his face, you could give him a bracelet you made and he’s never taking it off. It’s apart of him now forever and each time he touches it, he knows you’re with him wherever you were. He loves having a piece of you with him at all times, a reminder of who’s waiting for him or he’s waiting for every time you come back to the Watchtower from missions.

Bob is there waiting with wide open arms to hold you against him as he breaths you in, happy that you were okay.

Void

The opposite of Bob.

He’s knowing of what he wants and he’ll take it no matter what, he doesn’t care who stands in his way becuase who can take down a god like entirely like him? Absolutely no one.

You are his most precious possession and he’s a selfish dragon hoarding you away from everyone who could want you as much as he does.

Void doesn’t share and he’s not going to start now either, whoever looks at you longingly is now a shadow on a pavement somewhere. He doesn’t care about anything but keeping you all for himself, he’s selfish with you and would hoard all of your time and attention, so much so that you won’t noticed that Void has kept you away from everyone else for the entire day.

You couldn’t see him smile but you could feel that he was whenever you realised that you feel for his trap all the time.

He’s confident in his powers, he’s not concerned with anyone being more powerful than him when he was the pinochle of power itself in shadowy form. A form that can change appearance from time to time but he was perfectly content with his current one for the time being.

it was unassuming and yet still strikes that fear that something was wrong but not in the uncanny valley type of way, but close enough to understand his level of threat that was bubbling underneath.

He’s not afraid to show that you were his, not in the slightest. He’ll show off that you were his however he can with his possessive grabs and reminders that you can’t exactly escape him, for he’ll only follow you until you retuned to his arms like you should.

Got jealous of Bob and wanted whatever he had, he doesn’t like it when people have what he wants, what he desires and craves carnally. So why not just steal you away? It’s not like you minded at all, so what’s the problem?

Void is the one making the first moves, he does it in a way that tells you that this was your reality now, that he was what you should be thinking about constantly and without fail, that he should be the only thing that matters to you and no one else.

His kisses were demanding of attention, demanding you of your devotion and love and affection, things that were all his simply because you were his, his alone to love and be loved by as selfishly as he wanted.

Keeps a close eye on the people you have within your life, if he senses that they were trying to put distance between you and him, then he will rid them however he sees fit, for no one was allowed to come between you and Void at all.

His hold over you was airtight and it was near impossible to escape it as he could appear before you within a blink of an eye as his pinprick eyes stare deeply into your own, he knows where you are without having to try so hard either, he finds it humorous when you do try to escape his gaze, the hunt entertained him greatly as he followed you at a slower pace.

He makes you think you’re somewhat in control, only for the truth to come out as he reminds you that he lets you off with certain things because he loves you and only you. So you should treat him the same by dedicating yourself to him only and no one else, he didn’t care the relationship you had with others, they didn’t matter as much as your relationship with him.

Is into the whole predator/prey thing. Void obviously being the predator and you being the prey each and every time.

Knows your fears so intimately that it shouldn’t come as a surprise if you act out he’ll just trap you in your worst moments until you’ve learned your lesson, but this was a rare punishment because Void was under the belief that you could do no wrong and that it was everyone else trying to poison your mind against him.

There are moments where he acts like a gentleman towards you as he kisses the back of your hand, holding onto it tightly in a way that erased any chances of putting distance between the two of you, has his hands respectfully upon your waist but his grip was almost iron clad and kept you pressed to his chest in a manner that screamed ownership.

Void hordes you like a dragon with its gold, keeping you hidden from all, keeping you in his version of safety and protection, unable to let you go because he didn’t want to let you go and refused to do so. For you were his to have and to hold and to keep, no one else should be granted a glimpse of you at all.

[thelonelyraven]

Alternatively, I guess especially if you’re more of an auditory learner, speak. Maybe to yourself, first. That was me around age 12 with English. I was probably speaking beyond broken English in my head and the few recordings I have at the time attest to that, but it helped start a shift in my brain. I must have been between A1 and A2 by then but this prompted me on the path to the edge of B1 I think. I was there before the end of French middle school, which is when this is expected (in part thanks to basically only watching TV in original language subtitled and the overwhelming majority of said TV was English speaking) but slowly I learned.

I wrote a movie script that called for some lines / dialogues in English. It was… bad, but a start.

But, most crucially, I was able to spend 2 months in Australia having to speak English all day. I mean, I guess you need a certain level in your target language to get by. I know my 10 days in Germany were fucking useless but it’s also because it was short and I was too scared to speak German and spoke English most of the time as by then I was basically fluent in English (and basically everyone in Germany speaks it very well, dear god).

But yeah. 2 months in a country where you maybe have a couple other exchange students or something from your own country you see for lunch and chat with sometimes? That definitely forces you to adapt. They shaped my accent, especially as they corrected me on some pronunciation (which I think was sometimes maybe not *wrong* but not necessarily Australian idk) and there were times I had to ask for a sentence to be repeated, even a couple times as some words didn’t register (sometimes I’d even give up and just vaguely nod or apologise that I was having trouble understanding) but all in all I managed to get around most situations and only ended up with a moderate Australian accent, that, incidentally, was picked up on by an Australian student in my high school back in France. A high school full of English people as it was one of those schools where they taught us history and geography in English and we had English literature classes instead of English language classes and beyond the fact that I was incomprehensible to my friends at the start (though perhaps less so to the Australian girl so maybe it was in part an accent thing? Idk) I was told by my dad to keep trying to speak English to my friends so I’d get practice. And that really paid out because by the end of my first year is when I was basically fluent.

Well. Fluent-ish, I still got a C on my Cambridge Proficiency 2 years later, but you know.

I guess 3 years of dorms with people I mostly spoke English to helped. By the end when I moved to Scotland for uni people were genuinely surprised when I told them I was French, assumed I had at least on English parent and told me I sounded “very English”. Guess my roommate of three years with what I think was pretty much a RP “accent” (despite her father being from Manchester…) had its influence on me and uh… yeah. English accent. Though it got tamer as time went on but dear god around my second year I have recordings where I sound like I’m putting on an act of trying to sound English it’s so weird.

Anyways. Practicing a language is invaluable and I advise it to anyone who can do it to try. I’m sure there’s plenty of ways to do it that don’t imply moving to a foreign country for 3 months. Like chatting online on forums or discord servers or whatever and then you can maybe be on calls with people maybe playing games like Among Us (Alice no, it’s not 2020 anymore) R.E.P.O. or Lethal Company or whatever the latest trend is idfk. Maybe Dead by Daylight, join us

Just… practicing. Forming sentences is a skill you have to learn. Just like you can be expected to spit out a 20,000 word fanfiction just because you listened to a lot of podcasts, it doesn’t work quite that way.

I very much agree with these suggestions. Forcing myself to write was the way I could finally start to become an active rather than a passive user of the target language.

[barefoothighlander]

summer wine

summary: ghost can’t keep his eyes off his neighbors daughter

warnings: mdni (18+), perv!ghost kinda, age gap, outdoor sex, unprotected pinv, male masturbation, oral (fem rec), creampie, dirty talk, sub!ghost if you squint, teasing, this is just smut

a/n: y'all voted for this one so eat up. not proofread, I'm just horny for simon

Too fucking hot, that's all Simon could think about as he opened the sliding door to his backyard, the fact that he'd rarely spent time in this dry heat was getting to him, his brain muddled and limbs tired after working in the yard.

One of the few good things that came from weather like this was the fact that day after day, you would be outside, lounging in an outfit far too small to even be considered a bikini, your skin glistening with sweat and whatever lotion you had slapped on to improve your tan.

He didn't mean for it to grow to this, Simon refused to call it an obsession, even though he had spent numerous days watching you, his palm coaxing over his hard on, only concealed by his jeans. He figured it was normal, ish, you were gorgeous, and it was only natural that his heat-fried brain react that way when seeing your near-naked form laid out in the sun, but you were forbidden fruit, young, albeit from the conversations Simon had with your father, recently graduated from university.

Still, the instant you'd look over at him, noticing his large frame haunting his yard, and smirk, your body moving slightly to arch your back, your tits almost falling out from your string top, Simon knew he was in trouble.

You hadn't thought that much into it, a little attention from your hot older neighbour wasn't hurting anybody, plus it helped that when he'd mow the lawn, shirtless, his muscles would tighten and glow in the sun, highlighting the various scars that littered his skin, the flesh adorned with patterns of ink that you couldn't quite makeout.

Simon hadn't been living there that long, a little less than a year, and you'd barely spoken a sentence to him, rather offering sultry stares or meek smiles as you passed him by on your way out. You knew he had formed somewhat of a relationship with your father, the two of them spending time together in the garage, drinking, or working on the cars. There was just something about him, and the fact that day after day, he'd stand outside, watching you.

You had optioned just inviting him over, you had the house to yourself for the week, but something about this, watching, knowing he was watching you, was just so much better. So you decided to put on a little show, wearing your tiniest bikini, lathering your skin in oils and lying in the sun where he'd have a perfect view of you.

Simon swore the heat was getting to him, rewiring his brain somehow, but the smirk you gave him caused him to go haywire, his cock straining against his jeans, aching for release, he spares another glance at you before stepping inside, moving around the floor till he reaches his bedroom, quickly shucking his pants and freeing his cock.

He moves from his spot, his length in his hand, as he stands at the window, moving the curtains ever so slightly as to view your body, you've turned onto your stomach, your ass in full view, your tits flattened against the chair you lay in.

Simon strokes his cock as he watched you, he thinks about how your smaller hand would feel, how warm your mouth would be wrapped around him, how your soft skin would feel under his grasp. His free hand grips the curtains as he pumps himself faster, images of you infiltrating his brain. Your lips sucking his cock as you gaze up at him through your lashes, his mouth on your tits while you ride him, your pussy draining his cock.

He cums with a grunt, his grip on the curtains strong enough that a portion of it tears free from the rod holding it up. He pants a few breaths, regaining himself as he looks back at you, your body moved from the chair into the pool to cool off, your sunglasses glued to his position, the straw of a cold drink twirling as you tease your tongue around it.

He tucks himself away, trying to freeze the memory out, he doesn't feel right, this isn't him, but fuck if he doesn't find himself hours later, awake in bed, his hand stroking his cock to the images of you.

It's a game, how long until Simon comes over and fucks you silly, drives his cock into you so hard that you cant sit for a day, leaves handprints on your flesh. Too long is the answer; it had been a few days since you saw him outside, he had strayed from your little routine, and it was messing with you. You knew he wanted you, and you needed him bad.

You decide to make the move, tossing on a small skirt over your bikini as you make your way to his front door, knocking twice before his towering frame emerges.

"Hello," You say sweetly, his eyes roam your body before meeting yours, and you can see his body tense. "I think something got into the pool filter, and my dad isn't here. Mind taking a look?"

He agrees reluctantly, the last thing he needs right now is to be anywhere near you in this heat, with that outfit on. He follows you toward your backyard as you spare a few glances backward at him, god, he looks good, tight jeans that hug his muscled legs, a t-shirt that shows off his arms and the expanse of his chest.

"Filters over there."

He spares you a glance before kneeling down to investigate, popping open the lid and looking, "There's nothing in it."

"There isn't? Weird, guess it just made a funny noise."

He nods, standing up and moving to leave.

"While you're here, did you wanna go for a swim, weather's been really warm"

"I think'm alright"

"Ah, c'mon, just one swim? I'm all alone over here."

He watches you shuck your skirt from your body, your hips swaying as you make your way into the pool, tits sitting atop the water.

"Yeah alright"

He lifts his shirt from his body, the muscles hidden underneath now in full view, and you can make out a few of the tattoos that adorn his skin. He doesn't really own swimwear so he opts to just go with his boxers, the tight fabric leaving little to the imagination, the impact of his half hard cock making your mouth water.

He wades into the pool, settling near, but not beside you. Deciding that just wont do you move closer to him, the scent of your tanning oil invading his senses.

"Do you like to watch Simon?"

The question cathed him off guard, but the way his name rolls off your tongue makes his cock twitch, your hand moving to rest on his shoulder.

"You know i've seen you, watching"

"M'sorry-"

"No need to apologize, I like it, my favourite part is when you jerk off watching me, thinking I can't see you"

His eyes are glued to yours, his body tense.

"Do you want to touch me?"

His hand moves without thinking, grazing your hip under the water, finding purchase on your waist as you smile at him.

"Can I touch you?"

He takes your hand, his fingers holding your wrist as he places it on his chest, keeping hold as you move lower, your fingers skimming the waistline of his boxers.

You palm his hardening cock over the fabric and his stomach tenses, a small grunt escaping his lips.

"What do you think about? When you watch me?"

He focuses himself back on you, relaxing under your touch.

"I think about my cock in your throat, the way you'd gag on it, fuck- the way your pussy would feel around it, how good it'd feel"

"Mm-" You bring your lips to his ear, your fingers tightening around his bulge, "Do you wanna find out"

Your words snap something in him, his free hand moving to grip your waist as he moves your bodies, caging you against the wall of the pool, his lips on yours. His tongue finding its way in as his teeth bite down on your lip, the small gasps you let out only driving his crazier.

He pulls back for a moment, catching his breath, "Let me taste you"

You nod, biting into your lower lip as his grip on your waist tightens, he lifts your body out of the water, resting you on the pavement as his frame spreads your legs. His eyes looking up at you as his fingers toy with the ties on your bottoms, tugging them so they fall.

His gaze falls to your pussy, his fingers spreading you as you gasp, one arm rests against your thigh, keeping you spread, while the other reaches up to palm your breast. His mouth closes on your sex, tongue lapping at the bud, your hips grinding against him seeking more.

He cant help the grunts that escape him, he had imagined this so many times and none of it came close to the real thing, how sweet you taste, the sounds you make.

"Fuck, m'gonna cum" Your hand finds purchase in his hair, tugging on the roots as you grind into his mouth.

Simon pulls back leaving you breathless and confused, "You're gonna cum on my cock or not at all"

The loss of your orgasm leaves you sensitive and upset but his words send a shock straight to your core. He lifts himself out of the pool, grabbing your hand before laying you down on the chair he had watched you in so many times.

He sheds his boxers, his length springing free, and you nearly gasp at the size of him. He lies above you, resting on his elbows as he lines himself up, your legs bracketing his hips, he plants a few wet kisses on your neck as he slides in, allowing you to adjust to the stretch, revelling in the moans that escape you.

He grunts as he bottoms out, your hands scratching at his beck, trying to find purchase, something to ground you as his cock splits you apart. He sets a brutal pace, his length driving into you, "Feel so fuckin good, this what you wanted huh, teasing me with these tiny bikinis" His hands tug at the string of your top, allowing your breasts to fall free as his tongue swipes at them, teeth biting at your nipple.

A string of moans falls from your lips as his hand moves to circle your clit.

"Better than I ever imagined, your tight fuckin pussy, so goddamn wet"

You call his name, your eyes clamped shut as a familiar wave rises in your stomach, "That's it doll, cum for me, show me how much you love being watched, knowing that your perfect fucking body keeps me up at night"

Simon pounds into you, driving his hips deeper as his fingers quicken on your clit, your muscles contracting as your head falls back. You grip at his shoulders, your orgasm rising.

"Cum for me, cum on my cock, fuck- you feel what you do to me baby"

He coaxes an orgasm from you, the wave crashing over your body as the sun beams down, "That's it, such a good fuckin girl" He quickens his pace, chasing his own high while you try to come down from yours,

"Fuck Simon, feel so good" Your hand tugs at his neck urging him closer as your lips connect, swallowing his moans as his grip on you tightens. "Cum for me, please, I need to feel you"

Your words drive him over the edge as he buries himself in you, his seed spilling as he lets out a string of curses. He rests himself on top of you, your hands tracing lines down the expanse of his back as he catches his breath.

He rises slowly, placing a kiss on your lips as he sits up, allowing you room to move.

"Fuck we shouldn't have done that"

You smile slightly, placing a hand on his knee, "See you tomorrow?"

He turns to you, a small chuckle escaping him as he leans forward, kissing your forehead, "Yeah"

[evannamari]

Distribution of Paid Custom Content Is Harmful

Speaking about the eternal topic of paid access, I’d like to share my opinion (even though no one asked for it).

I want to note right away that I’m talking about permanently paid content — I have no complaints about early access.

I saw that a certain person wrote that hoping to get custom content from certain paid authors for free is impudence, because they put a lot of effort and time into creating it.

That sounds fair, but do free creators put in less effort? Let’s say this is a debatable issue. There can also be long discussions about what counts as high-quality content.

But I want to draw attention to something else: these creators do not exist in a vacuum. They didn’t gain their knowledge on their own. Everything we and they know about modding in The Sims 2 is the result of intellectual — and not only intellectual — work done by many people.

I also see that paid creators tend to form closed, elitist groups and do not share their experience with the rest of the community, even though they benefit from its collective knowledge.

For example, would these paid creators be able to make their content without SimPE? This software is distributed for free. Or didn’t they learn from tons of tutorials published absolutely for free?

Programs, plugins, resources — all of this helps our community thrive around an old game abandoned by its developers (don’t tell me about Legacy).

It’s the players who openly share knowledge about their favorite game who prevent it from being forgotten and keep reviving interest in it again and again.

Let’s imagine all custom content for The Sims 2 were distributed for a fee. This would cool interest in the game — not only because obviously not every player could afford to buy everything. It would also make content creation less sustainable: access to resources would be more difficult, and competition in the creator market would split the income so much that it would become negligible.

This is why I believe that custom content locked behind permanent paywalls is harmful to our community.

[urcoolgf]

GOT HER OWN

pairing. employee¡rafe && ceo¡reader

content. fluff. language.

summary. rafe’s got an interview with the CEO of one of the biggest financial offices in the country, but an unexpected turn drains the cockiness right out of him

song rec: ‘got her own’ by ariana grande && victoria monet

your morning had started as usual—meetings back-to-back, and only a quick break for coffee. your assistant, brooke, only slightly struggled to keep up with your fast pace as you set toward your office as she rattled off the rest of your agenda for the day and important documents that needed to be sent by ‘end of day’. it was exhausting, but it was rewarding. it was your life, and—even though you hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep last night—you couldn’t help but love it.

the office was bright, and warm—unlike any other office building you had even been in, which is exactly what you were going for when you designed it. windows lined the walls with lights hanging from the ceiling rather than the fluorescent lights usually embedded in the ceilings of buildings like this. you had made it a point to have plenty of plants and such around, and instead of cubicles you settled for a more ‘open office’ approach that encouraged teamwork without being distracting.

sometimes you couldn’t help but smile as you walked across the space, knowing your employees would never have to complain about being in a ‘cold, dark, lifeless work space’ eight hours a day, five days a week, like some of their friends might.

as you crossed the area, you shot friendly smiles at any employee that looked your way, giving them an encouraging nod as brooke continued rambling about all you had to do, and all she was going to accomplish today.

you had only one interview today—a mr. rafe cameron. a position had recently opened when one of your employees decided to move to move across the country. you requested only one interview today due to your lack of sleep, and your assistant happily obliged—less phone calls for her to make anyway.

when brooke finally split away from you to continue with her daily tasks, you were soon met with the sight of a way-too-cocky looking man coming into the office area.

he was tall, blonde, buzzed hair with piercing blue eyes that almost looked soulless. once his eyes locked on you, he tightened his tie, but he refused to ask you for help—or it seemed that way. you walked up to him anyway with your trained ‘customer service’ smile plastered to your face.

“excuse me, sir? can i help you?,” your eyebrows raised unintentionally, blinking at him in a mix of curiosity and annoyance. he shouldn’t have been back here without being sent back here. probably figured it was owed to him—that the rules didn’t apply to him. probably walked right past your secretary.

“yes. i have a meeting with the CEO in ten minutes. could i get a coffee—black, no sugar, no cream,” wow. spoiled and arrogant. what a prince charming… mr. rafe cameron. he stared at you like he expected you to already be moving to make it for him, like you owed him. you mentally rolled your eyes.

“black coffee… what a shocker,” you mumbled to yourself, and—even though he was looking right at you—it was obvious he was too self-involved to be attentively listening to anything you said.

“what was that?,” he snipped at you, only drawn out of his own world for a split second to question you.

“oh! i said i’ll get on that for you,” your smile widened falsely, your eyes squinting out of anger, but it was easily masked as complacency.

“yeah, and fast would ya? need some caffeine before this meeting,” he almost scoffed, turning away from you to look around the office at the workers and decor. it was shocking he hadn’t put two and two together at this point…

you walked past him, finally entering your office. fucking coffee. you scoffed to yourself, utterly impressed with his lack of manners. you sat in your chair, occupying yourself on your computer until this jackass decided to walk in.

—

“hey! excuse me, man. have you seen that intern girl around here? wearing all black? had these thin glasses on, i think? she was s’posed to get me a coffee ‘n she hasn’t come back,” the man just stared at rafe, waiting for him to say ‘just kidding!’, or start laughing it off—because it was a joke, had to be. after a few moments of awkward silence—and an equally confused rafe—the man finally responded.

“you’re serious? yeah… real funny, man,” the employee laughed humorlessly as he walked off, shaking his head in a sort of amusement. rafe was left there puzzled and annoyed. it didn’t matter. it was time for his meeting. a young looking girl—probably a little younger than the one who was supposed to get him a coffee—walks up to him. she’s wearing a black pencil skirt with dark red heels and a matching dark red blouse. he’s notes all this in case she decides to leave him in the cold, too.

“hi! you must be mr. cameron. i’m brooke, the CEO’s assistant. if you’ll just follow me to her office, she’s ready to see you now,” her chipper smile didn’t match the slight rasp in her voice at all, but somehow it just made sense. she turned on her heels and began walking toward the office, rafe having no trouble keeping up with his long strides.

her? he kept his shock to himself. the last thing he was expecting was a woman. this is the most successful finance company maybe ever, and it’s ran by a woman? was it passed down? maybe a father letting his daughter run it while he supervises to see if she’s any good at all?

his mind was racing, and confused, but he had to push it all aside. this job meant a lot, and he couldn’t afford to mess it up. although, the fact that it was a woman he was being interviewed by made him a little more confident. it wouldn’t be hard—a quick compliment here, a charming smile there, maybe a soft brush against her arm as he shook her hand. he had advantages now, and he was sure as hell going to use them.

the second brooke pushed open the door, rafe’s face went pale. it was her. all that confidence? the ‘advantages’? gone. fuck, it was her. of course it was her.

“ms. y/l/n, mr. rafe cameron is here for your meeting,” brooke said with a bright smile. she was the best assistant you had ever had—so much so, that she quickly became one of your best friends even outside of work. you thought it might be complicated ‘bossing’ around someone you considered your ‘best friend’, but your dynamic hadn’t changed at all. brooke knew business and pleasure, and the separation between the two was never hard for her to discern. that was one of the best things about her—the most lovable.

“perfect,” you smiled at the shocked man in front of you—a fake smile, but full of a sadistic type of amusement. you interlocked your fingers, lightly placing your hands on your desk, awaiting him to sit.

oh, this was going to be fun.

an: set up for a possible mini series .ᐟ i came up with this idea at work && absolutely had to bring it to life :) i’ve seen so many ceo¡rafe works, but i thought flipping the script would be fun

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[dantes-jacket]

Breaking down the walls

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: request #12!! Your rich ceo dad doesn’t approve of Dante and doesn’t consider him your boyfriend. That doesn’t stop you or Dante though from trying to be together. Fluff, some angst

You feel a warm hand nudge your shoulder and a deep voice whisper in your ear, “Baby you gotta wake up.”

You snuggle deeper into the warm body you’ve grown to love. You mumble against his neck, “No I don’t want to. Don’t wanna leave.”

You feel his heavy sigh and his hands running through your hair, “I don’t want you to leave either. But you’re going to be late to meet with your father”

“I don’t want to see that asshole.”

“Ugh baby you’re making this hard. I know you don’t but I don’t want him to yell at you. Or fucking touch you again.”

You frown at what he says. You know it’s true but you don’t want to leave Dante. He is the only thing that brings you happiness in this world. You hate the stupid world you were born into and wish everything was different. You want to happily be with Dante not sneaking around like teenagers.

You wordlessly get out of his hold and get out of bed. You grab the extra pair of clothes you’ve brought and head into the bathroom. You peel off Dante’s hoodie you slept in and set it on the counter. You put on your ridiculously expensive clothes your parents bought you. The fabric is tight, itchy, and uncomfortable. You can’t help but look at the hoodie with sadness.

You reach your hand over to run your hand up and down the fabric. It’s worn and not as smooth as it once was. You couldn’t care less about that. It was homey. If you can even describe a hoodie like that. Dante is not the richest and you’re completely okay with that. If anything that’s what you want. Someone that lives within their means and doesn’t feel the need to buy expensive stuff and show it off. Like your father.

Dante walked into the bathroom and sees you playing with his hoodie. He stands behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, “You can take it if you want.”

“I can’t. If my father finds it he’ll burn it.” Your voice cracks, “And that’s the last thing I want.”

Dante is quick to spin you around and wipe your tears, “Hey come on don’t cry on me now.”

“I’m sorry it’s just I hate this so much.” You sniffle and try to hold back the tears so you don’t upset him.

“I know but if this is how I can get you I’ll take it. I’d rather have this than not have you at all.”

You shove your face into his chest, getting all your tears and snot onto his shirt. “I wish things were different Dante.”

He holds the back of your head to keep you close to him, “I know. I promise one day I’ll change all of this.”

You bitterly think to yourself that it’s not going to happen. That you’re going to have to keep this a secret for the rest of your life because your family won’t accept the man you love. Just because he isn’t like your father. A successful ceo, big house, wears expensive things, and flaunts his money off any chance he gets. That’s not the kind of man you want. The kind of man you want is Dante. Someone that works hard, helps others, cares deeply about the ones around him, and does everything in his power to make you happy.

You pull yourself out of his chest and give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, “I can’t wait to see.” He knows you’re upset and thinking negatively but he doesn’t know what to say. There is really no words to make his thoughts known. He feels you wipe his chest a bit, “Sorry I got your shirt all messy.”

“It’s what a washer and dryer is for. I don’t mind though, cry to me any time and I’ll hold you.”

Your heart warms at his words. If it was your father he’d buy a whole new shirt and claim that one was ruined. That’s what he did when you were a kid. The first time you scrapped your knee you ran to him and cried and he was utterly disgusted and threw you off of him. He scolded you for ruining his clothes and left you alone in a time out for hours. Dante is truly a good man with a pure heart. You’re so happy you’ve found him and not a man like your father.

You finished getting ready while Dante hung out in the bathroom telling you about how Morrison called him before you woke up about a mission tonight. He doesn’t know many details so he can’t answer most of the questions you ask him. He knows it’s frustrating you because you want to know he’ll be safe. He feels bad when he can’t promise you.

As you’re slipping on your expensive and uncomfortable heels you can’t help but feel like today is going to be a long day. Before you leave Dante gives you a kiss and a promise he’ll call you after his mission. You hold out your pinky and he can’t help but laugh and link your pinkies. He gives you one more kiss and sends you off. He hates doing this but as he said earlier, he’d rather have you a little than not at all.

•

You met your father in is his stupidly big office in his equally as stupidly big building. You also had to wait two hours before you even saw him. This was the man that yelled at you not to be late, yet he kept you waiting? Yeah ironic. If you did that he’d lock you in your room for days to prove a point about “wasting his time.”

When you finally get in his office he’s sitting behind his desk drinking. Great it’s 10 a.m. and this idiot is already drinking. You try and contain your disgust when you question him, “You wanted to me with me father?”

“Yes. Long story short you’re going on a date tonight with a potential client. If this goes well you’re going to marry him.”

Your eyes widen how he can just sip on his drink and say something so crazy so casually. Marry a man just so he can improve his business? Hell no. Today you’re putting your foot down. “No. You know I’m in a relationship so I’m not doing it.”

“News to me you’re in a relationship. Who is it? How much does he make? What does he do?”

“I’m dating Dante remember?” You grit your teeth.

“The filthy demon hunter? No you’re not. You are going on this date and that’s final. If you disobey I’ll make sure you never leave the house again.”

“But-“

“Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been sneaking off to see that back water disgrace.”

You start to panic, “Father-“

“Enough and listen to me. As of now you two are done. You are doing to this event tonight with this man and that’s final.”

In this moment you wish you had Dante’s strength. He would be able to put his foot down and not budge. He’d fight for what he wants. He’d fight for you. You hang your head at the realization. You can’t do the same. You can’t fight for the man you want. You hate yourself more and more for that. Wanting to get out of here to call Dante and hear his reassuring words you meekly respond, “I understand.”

“Good. Now go home and get ready. He’ll pick you up at 4.”

With that done you dash out of his office and across the street where you know a pay phone is. You quickly slide in some coins and call Dante. Your anxiety only grows when the ringing lasts longer and longer. The call cuts indicating he isn’t picking up. You slam the phone back and scream. He must be on his mission now. How are you going to make this work?

The entire time you walk home you cry uncontrollably. You can’t stop the flow of tears. This is so unfair. Why did you have to be born into this life? You don’t care for fancy name brands and always want the newest expensive thing that comes out. All you want it to be loved and be happy. You only feel that when you are with Dante. Now the one thing you want is being ripped out of your hands.

When you make it back home none of the maids make a comment about how you look. You’re thankful but you know at the end of the day they don’t care how you feel. They’re just doing their job so they don’t get fired.

They get you ready with makeup and doing your hair. They are actually kind enough to let you pick out a dress. You pick your red dress that has a long train and a slit up your right leg. It reminds you of Dante and that’s the only reason you’re going to make it through the night.

•

Your father was right that your date was going to pick you up at four. The man came in a slicked out black car with the windows tinted. You rolled your eyes, one of those guys great.

The man doesn’t even help you into the car. He just watches you get settled in then starts yapping about how “awesome” he is. How he makes so much money, how he’s fit, and how “handsome” he is. He looks like a toad had a kid with a fish. He smells like shit too. You toon him out until you get to the event. It’s a formal event where rich people just talk both how great they are on stage. Your date leads you to your table but you are quick to excuse yourself to the bathroom.

When you walk to the bathroom you swear you see Dante walk into a random hallway. Rushing to see if it’s really him or you were seeing things you end up at the hallway. You see his trademark sword on his back. It is him!

“Dante!” You yell out and run to him.

Dante spins around and sees you running towards him, “Baby? What are you doing-“

He’s cut off by you pulling him into a kiss. He is quick to reciprocate and deepen the kiss. The kiss doesn’t last long because he’s nervous on why you’re here. This is where is mission is and he doesn’t want you anywhere near here.

“What are you doing here?” He questions immediately after breaking the kiss.

You catch your breath, “I- I,”

“Don’t worry you can tell me.”

You look away not wanting to see his reaction to what you’re about to tell him. “My father forced me to come here and go on a date with a potential clients son. He said that you and I aren’t together anymore. If I disobey him tonight I’m getting locked in my house and can’t leave.”

Dante clenches his fists. What say does he have in this? This isn’t over and he’ll make sure to change all of this as soon as this mission is over. But he has to get you out of here first. “I’m sorry you have to go through all of this baby but I need you to leave right now.”

You turn back to him confused, did he just not hear what you said? You can’t leave. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can.”

“Dante no I can’t. My dad will know and I’ll get in trouble.”

“Goddamnit just leave!” He frustratedly shouts. He sees you step back a bit after seeing his mood change. His heart drops to his stomach, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to yell at you. I just need you to leave. This is where my mission is and I won’t be able to focus if I know you’re here.”

You freeze, “Wait you mean there’s a demon here? Right now?”

“Yes so I need you to leave. I promise I’ll deal with the fallout with your dad just-“

“There you are.” A nasally voice interrupts Dante. You turn and see it’s your date. Dante is quick to stand in front of you.

“Leave us alone.”

“Ah sorry no can do. I’m here for my date. Or should I tell your daddy you’re disobeying him again like a toddler.”

“Don’t talk to her like she’s a child.” Dante threatens.

His gaze locks with Dante’s, “Let’s get one thing straight demon spawn. She’s here with me and going to obey me. We will tell her dad the night went great and get married soon. Now get out of our way before I get all these influential people to kick you out.”

“Don’t talk about him like that!” You step out from behind Dante. “I won’t let someone else look down on him. You never know when someone like him could save your life.”

The man walks over and grabs your wrist and starts tugging you down the hallway. Dante goes to grab the man but you give him a look. You can see the hesitation flash across his face but is quickly replaced by frustration as he stops his actions.

You mouth out to him, “Stay safe.”

Dante mouths back, “I’ll find you soon, promise.”

Your date drags you back to the table and just in time for the first speech. You two don’t say anything to each other and don’t make eye contact. As the speakers come and go all you can think about is what Dante said. There’s a demon here. That thought scares you. You’re afraid of them ever since the first time they attacked you.

You were walking home from a treat yourself lunch date. When suddenly you were backed into an alley by six different demons. They had different weapons, forms, heights, and noises. They were terrifying and you couldn’t even do anything. couldn’t scream or move.

The first one lunged towards you and you looked away bracing yourself for an impact. The impact never came. You look back to see a man in a leather jacket bouncing around and killing all the demons. He has a big smile on his face and can’t stop laughing. Especially after he insults how one looks or smells. He’s having fun doing this scary thing. How is that even possible?

The mysterious man finishes and walks over to you. “You alright? They didn’t get you did they?”

“Uh no they didn’t… you came right on time.”

“Phew! That’s great to hear. I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Well it’s all thanks to you sir.” You brush some hair behind your ear.

“Dante, my names Dante.” He holds out his hand. You introduce yourself then reach to shake his hand and the warmth of his hand lights a fire in you that you didn’t know you had.

You clear your throat while pulling your hand away, “So Dante, can I treat you to a meal? As a thanks for saving my life.”

“Oh you don’t have to-“ you then hear a loud grumbling noise that definitely did not come from your stomach. You watch him cover his stomach and chuckle.

You grab his hand and drag him out of the alley, “Sounds like you’re hungry. Let’s go, it’s my treat!”

The memory fills you with mostly happiness now because that’s when you met your amazing boyfriend but it still scares you. Demons are scary and no joke. You’ve come to realize that more with being in a relationship with him. He’s got the most important job in the world in your opinion. If the world didn’t have people like him then you all would have been dead years ago. He keeps this world safe and you couldn’t be more proud of him.

There’s suddenly a big crash and roar coming from the corner of the room. Everyone turns and sees a massive demon standing there. He’s tall and chunky. He swipes tables and people aside. You hear glass shattering, bones snapping and screams.

You quickly stand but once you see him get closer you push your date and try to run. As it gets closer your date pushes you towards the demon and takes off running again. You tumble to the ground not expecting his strong push.

You hear the insanely heavy footsteps of the demon getting closer. You can’t help but freeze in place. There’s no way now you can out run the demon. You hang your head and think about how the last time you got to see Dante you didn’t even get to tell him you love him. Now you’ll never get to see him again and tell him. Like that day long ago, you wait for the impact that’ll settle your fate.

You hear the roar of the demon basically right behind you. You steel yourself a bit and just count down until you know your untimely death is going to happen. Your suddenly hit with and impact but it didn’t hurt. Wait you’re moving really fast?

You open your eyes and see Dante holding you close and moving you out of the way. But he’s not in his human form. He’s in his devil trigger. You’ve only seen it once but not in action. One night you two were hanging out he opened up to you about it and showed you what it looked like. He told you the whole story from his dad, to his mom dying and how he thought his brother died but he actually lived.

You could tell he was scared to show you, thinking you’d run when you saw it. Since he is part of something you are scared of. Instead of walking away you walked right to him and reached your hand out. You touched along his devil form to feel him. It still gave off the same warmth that his human form does. It’s still Dante. How could you ever walk away from him?

“Dante?”

He sets you down and gives you a quick smile, or what you think is a smile considering the form. “You’re alright, I promise I’ll keep you safe. Just stay right here and don’t move until I come back. Understood?”

“Understood.” You hold out your pinkie to him and he laugh. He uses his long and sharp pinkie to link with yours. He tries his hardest not to cut or hurt you. After the pinkie promise has been sealed he quickly rushes off.

You see he doesn’t go right for the demon but instead he grabs your date by the back of the shirt. He drags the man over to the demon and holds him out as an offering. The demon happily takes the offering and swallows your date easily.

Dante knew after he saved you he was going to get that fucker that tried to have you die. He is quick to grab him and hold him to the demon.

“Demon spawn what are you doing!?! You’re suppose to be saving me!!”

“No way in hell am I saving someone who is exactly like a demon and tries to sacrifice my girl.” A loud scream falls the man’s mouth as soon as the demon takes him. Dante watches happily as the scene in front of him unfolds. Now it’s time to finish this thing.

Dante quickly pushes the demon back so it can be as far away from you as possible. Once he’s in an area he knows he can focus and go all out he launches his attacks. He slices through the demon in multiple areas to weaken it and have it fall down. Once it’s down on the ground he is quick to cut the head off and dismember the body. When the demon doesn’t move or make a sound anymore he rushes to you.

He reaches out to you but remembers he’s still in his devil trigger. Dante switches back to his human form and reaches out to you again. He places his hand on your cheek and rubs his thumb back and forth. “You’re not hurt right?” He looks you over and doesn’t see any injuries.

You lean into his touch and place your hand on top of his, “Once again I’m okay because of you saving me.”

He chuckles and stands up. He holds out his hand to you and helps you up. Once you’re standing he leads you out of the now destroyed building. Across the street you see your father fuming. He marches right over to you and starts to yell at you.

“Why would you bring your demonic spawn toy here! He ruined everything!!”

“Don’t you dare call him that. He just saved your fucking useless life and this is what you want to say!?! You’re an absolute joke.”

“What did you just say you me you brat!?” He raises is hand but Dante is quick to grab it and squeeze it.

“You won’t lay a hand on her.”

“Let me go demon spawn!” Dante doesn’t listen but tightens his grip.

“Don’t think I will.”

Your father turns to you, “How can you want to be with this useless and vile man!?”

“STOP IT!!” You screech. Now everyone around you is looking at you due to your outburst but that doesn’t stop you.

“Stop saying awful things about him, I won’t allow it! As I said earlier this man saved your life so how can you think he’s useless? Yes he may be part demon but he cares more than anyone in this world! Especially compared to the man you had me with tonight. He tried to sacrifice me to save his own ass. Dante made it his mission to save me before fighting the demon. I don’t care what you think anymore but I don’t want any of this. I just want Dante because I love him! I’m happy with him like I never have been before. I’m not going to let you take this from me.”

Dante’s gaze snaps over to you. You love him? You two have never said those words to each other before but you stood here and admitted it basically to the whole world. That takes bravery and strength. He’s so proud of you for getting your voice. He’s also happy to know when you did get that, it was for defending him. Dante loves you more than you’ll ever know.

Your dad gapes at you. “What!? How dare you say all that to me especially after everything I’ve given you?”

You quickly throw off all the jewelry, hair pieces, and kick off your heels. You didn’t need them. You’re going to show your father right here and now you don’t need him. That you have a much better man in your life now and he’ll properly take care of you. Your father watches you in astonishment as you throw off all these expensive things.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?”

“I’m done. I don’t need your money or this expensive stuff. From now on I make my own decisions. Starting now I’ll never talk to you again and I’ll be with Dante till the day I die. He is the man I want in my life and no one else.”

Dante pushes your dad back and picks you up bridal style. He starts to walk off when your dad calls out, “I bought that damn dress too.”

Dante snaps his head over his shoulder to look at your father. The look Dante must be giving him scared him so bad that he doesn’t comment again.

The walk is silent until you call out to Dante, “I can walk so you don’t have to carry me.”

“Not without shoes on your feet. I don’t mind carrying you, it keeps you close to me.”

You cuddle into his hold, “You’re warm.”

“And you’re beautiful. You looked great tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t say that earlier.”

“Thank you but I’m burning this dress.”

Dante’s quickly looks at you and questions, “What?!? Why!?”

“It reminds me of my old life and I want to be unshackled.”

“Well let’s not jump to conclusions. Why don’t we sell it and then with that money we can go pick you out a dress or two that you like and I can enjoy too.” He wiggles his eyebrows at the end of his sentence.

You giggle and lightly slap his chest. He laughs at your reaction then suddenly goes serious, “Thank you for standing up for me. I don’t care about what people say or think about me. But seeing someone defend me is nice.”

You place your hand over his heart and let the beat calm you. “I’ll always defend you. It’s the least I can do for you always being there for me.”

“I’ll always be there for the woman I love.”

You take your gaze off of your hand on his chest and meet his loving gaze. You have the biggest smile on your face, this time it reaches your eyes unlike it did this morning.

“I love you Dante.”

“I love you more than you’ll ever know baby.”

@overwach127 hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing this!! Also thank you for all of your kind words 🩵🩵

[rcvcgers]

Duty's Cruel Embrace, 1

Chapter One: I Believe This Is Yours

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prologue | next chapter

18+ MINORS DNI

pairing ; prince!xavier x princess!reader

synopsis ; upon returning to the castle, you meet the infamous lumiere, the knight who murdered your brother in a war against your kingdom. an alliance is made.

word count ; 7.1k words

author's note ; hi everyone! please read the warnings before proceeding!

trigger warning ; talks of death, grief, murder, the king gets handsy, threats, weapons, talks about war, sexism, misogyny , let me know if i missed anything!

my ladies in waiting ♛ °˖✧ @velaenam , @schwnapps , @massivenutkid , @celestialforce , @exitingmusic , @zeskyzed , @eve-ishu , @underfcvcked , @duffyinwonderland , @hiqhkey , @dooopiee , @awkward-stierle , @justpassingdontworry , @queenkymmie , @miffysoo , @kazbrkker , @applepi405 , @flamedancer13 , @prplbunny , @loreleis-world , @animecrazy76 , @emo4r , @crazygirl3001

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please go check out @velaenam 's story domina of the east!

The mosaic tiles on the floor have lost all of their color. The closer and closer you creep towards the heart of the palace, a place you have called home for the entirety of your life, dread begins to weigh your body down. You have every corridor memorized, every curve and chip that lies within the tan stone of the building. The halls have become muscle memory. Your body carries you where you need to go despite your heart’s protests.

The only aspect of your home that is different is the smell. The once vibrant trees filled with olives and lemons have died throughout the months-long siege on Nabira. No longer does your home smell like rosemary and figs, the scent that has been carried through these halls since its precious domina has left centuries ago. Your mother has passed on the memory of her beauty, the way she held her head high among even the deadliest of threats, and her presence lingers in the corridors as if she still lives inside these walls and not within the confines of the fallen Roman Empire.

Instead, you have been subjected to the constant reminder of smoke and ash, your lungs paying the price whenever the Philos army pushes closer to the walls, bringing blood and terror in their wake.

With one look to the side, you spot the familiar sight of her again. The faint smile in her lips as she looks down, the colors in the tile floor slowly coming back to you. A sense of comfort fills you. Her veiled gaze only puts your nerves at ease for a brief moment, granting you quick relief from the emotional torment you are about to go through.

Your brother’s giggles fill your ears, tickling the back of your mind with the reminder that he’s gone while you’re still here, picking up the fragments of his soul in the palace, hoping that the shards will come together and bring him back.

It won’t work, you know that. It is something that only happens in ballads and fables that have been sung to you in your earlier years. You can’t help but wonder, though, if she has felt the same dread you feel in this moment. Has she ever faced the death of a sibling, of someone so close to her that every breath after finding out they’re gone is agonizing? How did she push through the pain and act like a respectable domina?

Compared to her, you have always felt less than the title of domina. She has filled the shoes of what a triumphant domina is…embodying the ideals and morals of what a great woman should be in a high position of power. She is everything that you are not and never will be.

Unlike the others, this statue is not painted with vibrant pigments, no, no. This statue is pure white with no cracks in its bodice. The sculptor placed a marble veil over her face, the illusion looking as if a soft piece of silk were hanging over her head. It is surrounded by flowers, making the scene more lively. The colorful petals never wither away, they do not lose their color nor do they die under the shaded portion of the open corridor. They sway with the wind and thrive under the close care of servants and yourself. Your mother once took care of the flowers. She saw it as her sacred duty to keep her memory alive because she doesn’t deserve to be forgotten. 

Nobody does.

“Your brother—”

“I know,” you breathe the words out. The weight of his death slips onto your shoulders despite the sunlight feeling so warm and light against your skin.

Moments pass. You do not move, simply staring at your ancestor’s veiled face, her warm smile helping combat the ice that forms around your heart. Your eyes sting. It feels as if there are arrows being shot into your back, tethered to reality, desperately trying to bring you to the room where your brother’s cold body lays.

They brought him directly from the battlefield, whispers of the masses parting like the tales of the Red Sea floating through the walls, gliding along with the wind. The battle was over after your brother’s death. Not a single drop of blood has touched the sand along the walls. Your brother has become the final victim in a reckless and useless war.

You tear your gaze away from the statue, staring at the colorful mosaic pattern on the floor. It feels surreal to go see him. To go witness his dead body, frozen in time, never to grow old or have a life of his own.

Will he wear an expression of pain? Sadness? Anger? Or will he have the smirk of confidence he usually wears while trotting into battle on his horse? 

Your sandals slide against the sandstone floor, picking up remnants of leftover sand. Plenty of soldiers and palace guards stand outside the doors that lead inside your father’s throne room. They part as soon as they see you, bowing their heads in reverence, clearing a path that leads directly to your weeping father. You freeze in the open wake, your eyes unable to move away from your brother’s lifeless body.

The oxygen in your lungs evades you. Tears well in your eyes, stinging, threatening to fall. You don’t let them. Your brother would not wish for you to cry over him. The two of you knew that death followed him around wherever he went beyond the castle walls.

As the heir, people wanted him dead. To usurp his power and take it for themselves. You always laughed at these warnings and the worries of your father’s counsel. Did these people not know that by piercing the target on your brother’s back that it would move to them?

You slowly draw in a breath and take a step forward. The room smells like death but the closer you get to him, the more pungent the scent becomes. You don’t cover your nose and mouth like others do with silk and cotton. You take in your brother’s reality, inhaling the putrid fragrance of death, something that he has smelled throughout his battles, a fate that he will not be able to talk his way out of.

“Your brother is a fool,” your father speaks in a low voice as you approach. He holds his son’s hand, the other wiping away the dark red blood that oozes from his body. “A damned fool.”

“What happened?” your voice is quiet as you approach the marble table. The tips of your fingers rest against the hardened material, feeling the warmth from the day’s heat sink into your skin. It grounds you and yet you can’t help but feel as if the world is being pulled from under your feet.

“He accepted Lumière’s challenge,” your father’s golden jewelry rattles in the quiet of the day, “a duel between princes. He disobeyed my command.”

You suck in a breath, trying to steady your body as you feel your legs begin to go numb. Your eyes scan your brother’s body, taking in the scraped golden armor and dried blood. His exposed skin is bruised, staining his dark tan skin. There are a few slices along his arms and legs, most likely from other soldiers and warriors who wished to bring him down. Ash covers his face. Your father tried to wipe it away but his grief got the best of him, allowing the ash to act as a mask so he does not have to face the reality that his son is gone.

Your brother is the opposite of you.

He has always been brash, outspoken, and confident in his skills and abilities. He acts upon emotion and irrationality. He always thought that striking first is what mattered. To take one’s fate into your own hands, you have to be bold while fighting and to take risks that will gift great rewards.

You, on the other hand, are much more quiet. You prefer to hold your cards to your chest, to observe the playing field before making a devastating blow. You strike from a distance. Every choice is calculated, always thinking twenty steps ahead.

It is why you hold back your tears. You cannot show weakness in a room full of spies, to people who will come for your father’s throne as soon as he lets his guard down. You do not know if any of these men, men who gawk and whisper about the lineage of Nabira’s future while their future ruler lay dead on a stone slab, belong to Philos, if their loyalty has been swayed from the people from the west.

You stare at your brother’s dirty feet. Covered in sand, blood, and dirt. Your gaze travels up his body, the cloth that hangs from his body drenched in sweat and ash from the nearby fires. His golden armor has been dented and scratched, blades having slipped across it and arrows being destroyed on impact. His body is rigid yet is still warm as if he died inside the room and not out on the battlefield.

Your breath hitches in your throat once your eyes reach his neck. Your father shielded you from the truth of his death for as long as he could. A simple silver blade rests in his throat. It went in from the left and poked out through the right, the tip of the razor sharp blade glistening, his blood slowly trickling out, dropping onto the marble.

You move around your father and take your place at his head. Closing your eyes, holding back a scream of devastation as the reality of his death finally sets in. You place your hands on his head, a gentle breeze cooling the back of your neck like a gentle and reassuring touch. His hair is coarse. Dried blood stains his hairline and covers the black strands of his locks. You run your fingers through them, trying your best to untangle the knots that have undoubtedly formed in his small journey from the battlefield to the throne room.

Your eyes remain closed as you subconsciously extend your right hand, something from deep within your chest controlling your body. Your fingers curl around the metal of the dagger that remains firm in your brother’s throat. The metal is hot to the touch and brings you no relief. Agony crashes throughout your body like a summer sandstorm, the individual specks making your skin sting as you free the blade from his neck, squelching as blood freely drips from the fatal wound. You open your eyes.

The blade, coated in your brother’s blood, is a vibrant red color. You hold it up in the air, catching the metal underneath the bright sunlight that floods into the room. The thick drops of blood roll down the metal, traveling from the blade and onto your own skin. It trickles down your wrist, rolling beneath the teal sleeve of your dress.

You lower the blade, looking to the side. A servant quickly approaches you and bows their heads, extending their hands. You place the blade into their hands.

“Clean it. Bring it back to me,” your order is sharp, to the point.

They bow their heads and scurry away, their footsteps echoing down the hallway before the sounds fade into nothing. A hand rests on your shoulder. You angle your head to look at your father, your brother’s blood now seeping into the material of your dress.

“Go. Change. They will be here soon,” your father quietly commands.

You do not fight it. You stand still and nod your head, hesitation filling your mind before you eventually take the first step as Nabira’s sole heir, the target placed on your brother now having moved onto you.

With every step you take, you can feel the eyes of the room move from your deceased brother to you, the domina of the palace. The crown’s sacred jewel that he has protected for all of his life. Now that the first layer of armor has been peeled away from you, your brother’s protective spirit is no longer keeping you safe.

Who will steal the jewel your father has kept away from the public eye? Who will he bestow your hand upon now that Nabira has fallen to Philos’ feet? You cannot leave the kingdom, you know that. Will you be forced to negotiate terms of an alliance on your father and brother’s behalf? Will you finally be allowed to stand in the center of the room instead of being forced into the shadowed, dark veils hiding your face, passing you off as a priestess instead of a domina.

The weight of Nabira now rests on your shoulders and for once…you have no idea what you are going to do.

Maids surround you inside your bed chamber, moving at a swift pace while the bells are rung, signaling the arrival of the King and Prince of Philos. You smooth out the wrinkles of your skirt, the brown material matched with rubies melted into your golden jewelry. They catch the light and reflect red specks onto the walls around you. The dress exudes wealth, complimenting the golden rings and necklace that rest upon your body. Despite donning Nabira’s mourning colors, you look magnificent.

“How far?” you ask the room.

“They were last seen at the gates, my Lady. They will arrive in the east garden,” your highest ranking maid is quick to answer as she fixes your hair behind a dark brown veil, the border lined with gold lace, a pattern of vines with thorns.

You step into a new set of sandals, the old pair to be discarded. The servants quicken their pace as they set the final touches of the silks that hang from your body, fastening a metal belt around your waist, something to make you look more like them than your own people.

The thought of being forced into an arranged marriage had crossed your mind. It has always been a possibility for your life since the moment you took your first breath. Through the years of your life, there have been times where it came close to packing your bags, moving to a different kingdom to become their queen. You were far too young, though, and inexperienced in life. Your father stopped it before it could have gone any farther.

Now, the idea of an arranged marriage is not foreign to you. You know what is to be expected and that this is the card you were dealt as a woman. You hold no power in who you marry, in who you are forced to lay beside at night. It is all for the good of your kingdom. Generations of women have done it before you and it is something they will continue to do well after your death.

You quickly step out of your bed chambers and into the long corridor. Your maids and servants quickly follow you, continuing to pin your hair and fasten it under the veil. They cover your face before peeling away from you, bowing their heads as they watch you close the distance between your room and the east garden.

You pass by openings of the palace. It overlooks the immediate area around the castle, showcasing hellfire and a small portion of the army that the Philos monarch brought with him for the meeting. Their horses wear purple and blue caparisons, the Philos coat of arms proudly displayed behind thin veils of smoke. The sight makes you sick. How can they wear such light colors, colors that represent purity and justice, all while slaughtering small villages and cities in their wake?

You have heard stories about the kingdom from your father’s counsel and diplomats that have crossed the Mediterranean Sea to visit weddings and marriages between the western kingdoms. They are proud people, kind to those inside their kingdom's borders, all while looking down on those who do not hail from Philos. They keep to themselves and treat their people with kindness, not sharing that same mercy with their enemies during times of war. 

Lumière is a legend among the western kingdoms. Whenever he shows up to battle, he leaves a trail of blood and tears behind, a weapon of mass destruction as he fights his father’s battles with exceptional speed. He is the light of the people, the crown prince they flock to see, to touch a piece of his cloak or armor as he passes through the stone clad streets on his horse. It didn’t matter whether he was leaving for battle or returning, they always cheered and threw roses at his feet whenever he passed, blessing his name and bloodline, wishing for a stronger Philos when he takes the crown.

Do his people know that he is a murderer? How many men he has ruthlessly slaughtered under the guise of Philos’ destiny. Just like his father, you assume that the prince is just as power hungry. That he too wishes to conquer lands that will take years to travel to by foot, weeks by sea. All for what? His name to be written down in the history books as a powerful king? A man feared by his enemies yet loved by his people?

At least, that is what was told to you about the brave knight, the man who murdered your brother, the final victim of the war.

The golden hallways speak to you with every step. Whispers in the corridors both soothe and stab at your nerves. It feels like you are walking along shards of glass, the small pieces burying into the soles of your feet as you slowly creep towards your future. Pain spreads throughout your body. Every breath feels like fire in your lungs, your feet growing heavier with each step.

Is he handsome? Is he kind? Will your father truly marry you off to a tyrant who wears the disguise of a benevolent prince?

You turn the corner, the open design of the east garden filling your vision. Your father stands in the middle, his hands delicately touching a pink rose while stuck in conversation with two men. They wear their battle armor, silver and polished, reflecting the bright rays of the sky from the small, man-made water channel that runs through the garden. The rippling waves adding a new pattern onto the smooth armor. Your father wears his own mourning colors, the golden crown that usually sits atop his head placed on a plush red pillow to the side. The other king wears his crown, his hands folded in front of his armored stomach.

The King’s hair is a dusty blonde, just a tinge of silver within the locks. It shimmers underneath the sunlight through the tall trees that were shorter in your earlier years. His coat of arms, golden sun with two silver swords running through its body, lays in the middle of the fabric that hangs over his silver chainmail.

“Father,” you greet with a bow of your head, entering the garden. You feel the sunlight against your skin, the gentle breeze strengthening your soul, preparing for the mental battle that lies ahead.

This is your battlefield. Lumiere may fight with swords, but you fight with words and threats – no, not threats: promises.

Your eyes do not meet the men who bow their heads to you, their armor clinking against with every movement they make. You reach your father, who extends his hand towards you. You take it and press a quick kiss to the golden ring on his hand, finally turning to the two Philos nobles.

“My daughter, your Majesty,” your father says, resting his hand on the low of your back. You bow your head, slowly lowering yourself in a slight curtsey, a custom that you have learned from your maids.

“Your Grace,” you bring your eyes to greet his. He smiles at you, his greeting warm and welcoming despite the stories you have heard. He bows his head back, his silver crown remaining on the top of his head.

“My Lady,” the King raises his head. He steps to the side, one hand moving to introduce the figure to the side of him. “Allow me to introduce my son, Xavier, Crown Prince and Heir to the Philos throne.”

You immediately drop into another curtsey, heart pounding inside your chest. Slowly rising, moving back into your original posture, the knight takes your hand, bringing it towards him. Your gaze begins at his lower torso, memorizing the lines in the individual chains of the armor. They move upwards. His coat of arms catches your attention, silver thread woven into the design, glimmering under the light.

When you reach his neck, you notice a bloodied bandage. The blood is not dark nor is it dried. It is fresh, the white gauze absorbing the bodily fluid. Your eyes flicker to his, wishing to see any hint of emotion or surprise on his face but you are captivated by his eyes.

They are a shade of blue, dusty and light as if a razor thin layer of gray silk has been draped over his irises. There is a hint of danger behind them and yet they are so beautiful, luring you into his trap.

“My Lady,” Xavier greets you. His face remains stoic. The knight slowly brings your hand to his lips, kissing the barrier between your knuckles and fingers. His lips are soft and they linger against your rosemary scented skin, the fragrance making itself at home inside his nose.

“Your Highness,” you force the words from your mouth and quickly compose yourself, remembering what he has done to your brother.

You draw your hand back from his grasp, taking a step backwards and toward your father. His hand finds itself on your back once again as you take your place at his side.

“Nabira is as beautiful as the ballads tell in Philos,” the King compliments.

Your father doesn’t respond. He glares at the prince, his dark eyes cold and unfeeling. You slowly inhale, the scent of smoke and myrrh filling your nostrils. Xavier’s eyes continue to memorize the details of your body. No matter how hard you tried to conceal your true figure from behind silk robes, it feels as if he can see right through the fabric.

Right through your facade.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” you breathe out, stepping in for your father.

Your eyes flicker to Xavier, who relaxes his weight into his back foot, hands casually resting on the hilt of his sword that remains on his side. A gust of wind picks up the bottom of your skirt, flowing in the direction of the prince. You slowly move your hands to your sides, the fabric soft to the touch and yet it is restless as the gentle breeze passes by.

You do not fully understand the message behind the force of nature. Is it a warning? A sign that things will be okay? You do not find comfort in the wind like you once did. You wish that you had your bow in your hands, an arrow ready to fly through the air, to land in the murderer’s neck.

Your eyes meet again. His silver hair falls against his forehead, the tips crossing his eyebrows, slightly hanging over his eyes. Xavier tilts his head to the side, his eyes leaving yours as they roam over your body. You try your best not to tremble, to not show signs of weakness.

A tense silence fills the garden. Your father steps around you, blocking the prince’s sight of you. He turns to the other king, tilting his chin upwards, barely being able to bring himself to look at his son’s killer. He shifts on his feet, the sound of trickling water the only thing that can be heard.

Your father sighs. It is tired, weak. One of loss, something that stems from a depression that can only come from grief and utter defeat. You place a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling his body shudder from beneath his robes.

“Nabira is a beautiful place…one that prospers in its wealth, people, and culture,” your father begins. He looks to the side to the view the garden has to offer, one that showcases smoldering smoke and ash as it carries over the fortified sandstone walls. “A long time ago, an emperor wed one of Nabira’s daughters. He vowed to protect us — our kingdom — until his empire’s last breath.”

“And yet we brought her to its knees,” Xavier’s voice startles you, his words like ice during the hot summer day. Chills run down your spine.

The nerve of this prince. You may add ‘arrogant’ to the list of unlikable qualities alongside ‘murderer’.

“Know your place,” you snap, something that you should have thought before saying it aloud.

“Know yours,” Xavier’s response is immediate, sharp. Putting you in your place.

“Xavier,” his father cuts through the noise of your mind. He gives the young prince a warning look.

The knight lets out an aggravated sigh, tearing his gaze away from the room, turning around to overlook the destruction and chaos that reigns outside of the castle walls.

“My apologies on behalf of my ignorant son,” the King of Philos sighs, looking towards your father. “He has yet to tame his temper.”

You follow his gaze and see your father’s glare, imaginary daggers being thrown his way. He adjusts his extravagant robes, the mourning colors blending in with the stone, contrasting against the lush garden that sits in the center of the opening.

“My daughter has has yet to either,” your father comments. The two kings share a laugh while the prince and domina scowl at one another, internally dismissing the comment. “They have much to learn.”

“Perhaps they will be a good match,” Xavier’s father comments. His eyes flit to Xavier, who barely reacts to the news. A beat. “Your Majesty, Nabira is…remarkable. Being inside the castle walls has granted me wisdom and honor. Philos wishes to protect your kingdom. I know we are young, only four hundred years of our family’s reign in the new kingdom, but I vow to you, my son will vow to you, to protect your kingdom. We see the beauty that Emperor Calebius Xius valiantly protected.”

“An alliance,” your father steps forward, “is that your wish? To be allied with a kingdom across the continent?”

Your heart tightens in your chest. The oxygen in your lungs has left you, a burning sensation tingling inside the organs. Your blood, now cold. Closing your eyes, you slowly inhale, fingers tightening around each other, growing more and more sweaty by the second. One would think that your heartbeat races inside your chest, that it is about to explode by running at a mile a minute.

But it is still. Quiet. Silent.

There is not a word to be said. With your fate being sealed in front of you, with nothing you can do about stopping it, to stop your father from tearing away yet another domina to a foreign entity, you stand as still as you can, hoping that you will fade into nothingness and join your brother in the afterlife.

Will your image be carved into stone? Will you be remembered through ballads and lullabies that mothers pass onto their children? Or will you be another woman forgotten by the sands of time, shadowed by the husband who does not love you?

“My heir has not yet been betrothed,” the King of Philos states. He takes a single step forward, decisive and sure. Your father meets his gaze before it drifts to you.

He sees the look of uncertainty on your face, the way it twists for a split second before your expression hardens. Your eyes, something he has always found solace in ever since your mother’s untimely death, glisten from held back tears, tears that you refuse to let fall.

“Mine has,” your father’s tone is sharp yet there is a hint of openness behind his words, acting as if alliances set in stone can easily be changed. “Betrothed to the Lemurian Prince…I believe he has made an appearance in your court, no?”

“He has, yes,” the king nods, armor shifting with his body. It looks uncomfortable yet it is a burden that he must wear.

Xavier, on the other hand, looks comfortable in his armor. It is a second skin to him, the familiar scent of polished metal and the never ending stench of blood following him wherever he goes. The skin of a knight covered with the blood of his victims all for the glorious purpose of their god’s will and so called destiny.

“Lemuria will understand our position,” your father nods his head. You swallow the lump in your throat, opening your eyes to stare at the back of his head.

“Father—”

“Quiet,” he turns to look at you, speaking in your mother tongue instead of the common one the Philos men use.

His face is void of all emotion, all of the warmth and love he once held for you. It is something you haven’t seen in years from him. A gaze so indifferent that it makes your skin crawl. Right now, to him, to Nabira, you are a commodity. A woman who is nothing more than a pawn in a man’s game. 

“The gods are at work. Be quiet.”

The gods. A mythology that died out a long time ago ever since your ancestor’s fallen empire introduced a new religion. While Nabira remained the same, sticking with the tradition of a polytheistic religion, you ventured away from the path. Religion has no space in a woman’s world, especially when you are a woman of noble rank.

Some use it as a shield, others use it as an excuse. You? You see it as a whip, a tool to keep people in line, to keep them obedient and under the ruler’s thumb. Religion is a useful tool for those who know how to use it. You prefer spirituality. Nature roots you to the earth, the experience of your ancestors flowing in the wind and sand, guiding you on what needs to be done.

You hear your father’s angered voice when you were just six years of age. He ushered you out of a meeting, one involving the war with a neighboring kingdom, a precursor for Philos’ own attack. He threw you out, dismissing your cries.

Nabira comes first. Remember that.

You swallow your pride and hold your head up high, bowing your head. You take your leave to another part of the room, unable to bear the whispers of the kings coming to an agreement, one that the history books will remember as a daughter being ripped away from her family’s arms, to be forced and assimilated into a place that will wish to see her death before she ascends to be their queen.

Your father is knowingly sending you into a lion’s den.

“A daughter and gold for trade and troops,” Xavier’s father’s voice catches your attention.

You look away from the flower, a pink rose bush that is said to have bloomed from a previous domina’s tears. Does she know that her sorrow has blossomed the most delicate flowers that the kingdom has ever seen?

“May I?” the King approaches you, pushing past your father with such ease. It unsettles you.

Your eyes flit to your father, who nods in return. You turn to look at the King, who licks his lips when your eyes meet. You have to nod though, giving in to the world that does not care for you or your autonomy.

The King pushes past the barrier of comfort you have set up. He places his hands on your waist, observing you as an object for his son rather than a woman with her own mind and feelings. He squeezes your hips, spinning you around so he can get a good view of your body. His touch leaves a burning sensation on your skin, the way he pushes and pulls on you. The king’s touch is harsh, demanding. You can feel his nails drag into your skin through the layers of your dress.

“What skills do you possess?” the king’s question is casual yet you know that it is a small interrogation ready to be had.

“I know multiple tongues, am literate and can write,” you watch as he continues to circle around you, his touch liberal and exceeding your patience. “Archery is another skill, Your Grace.”

His hands leave your body. The burning sensation remains on your skin, from the way he dragged his hand across the front of your stomach to the curve of your ass. He circles around you, leaving your vision empty. He is not paying attention to you. You can say whatever you want and it wouldn’t matter. You are here for your body and ability to produce his son an heir. It’s laughable to think that he cares about your interests.

You turn to your father. He looks away, shielding his eyes from the truth, from the discomfort he purposefully puts you through.

“You would look wonderful in our colors,” the king mumbles to himself.

You suck in a breath and close your eyes, trying to think of something — anything — else to get your mind off of his hands on your body. To get away from the reality that you are being subjected to. Your bottom lip trembles. Clinking armor sounds from behind you, inching closer. Your heart strops beating, your lungs unable to breathe properly.

“She’s my future wife,” Xavier’s distinct voice breaks through the ringing of your ears. You open your eyes, staring straight ahead at the flowers of the garden. “I’ll continue. Deal with negotiations, father.”

The King of Philos lets out a huff of air. His eyes leave your body, your muscles slowly relaxing until Xavier places his hand on your lower back.

The tips of his fingers are warm and his touch is extremely gentle. His fingers glide against your back, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His touch counters the heat that once spread through his father’s, granting you temporarily relief from the searing pain. You turn your head to look at him, the knight’s hand sliding from your back and across your waist, delicate and airy, as he stands in front of you.

Your cheeks heat up. His dusty blue eyes leave you wishing to see what they look like under the moonlight. The wind brushes past your legs, calming your body down as much as it can. Xavier takes a single step back, placing distance between your bodies. The chainmail of his armor jingles, his hand flattening against the curve of your waist.

Silence remains between the two of you. The prince’s hand slowly leaves your body, lingering against the brown fabric before his hand returns to its place on the hilt of his sword.  

Xavier stares at you. He takes in the modest yet luxurious silk you wear, the way it hugs your body yet hides your true figure from him. The rubies of your belt, a style that is popular in western kingdoms and territories, catch his attention, the way it compliments your skin tone. Your beauty is beyond words and yet your sharp tongue and careless wit aggravate him. He hates the way you look at him with such contempt as if he is the only person at fault for your brother’s death.

“There is something on your mind,” his words surprise you and yet you remain composed. “What is it? Speak.”

“Your temper is as sharp as your blade, my prince,” you look straight ahead, watching your fathers from over his shoulder. Your eyes move to meet his, the man closing the distance with danger behind his gaze.

“I do not enjoy those touching what is mine,” Xavier responds in a low and husky voice. He reaches up, capturing your chin between his calloused fingers. Even now, as he asserts his invisible claim over you, making you as his wife, he is gentle. He tilts your chin up, thumb creeping towards your mouth.

Your breath hitches. He leans in, the tip of his nose barely grazing over yours. His eyes burn into your soul, making you want to run away from his touch. Something inside of you, though, keeps you there. The wind picks up, your dress’ skirt fluttering, gently touching Xavier’s metal armor.

The scent of myrrh fills your nose, overwhelming your senses. Your eyes flicker to the wound on his neck, the bloodied bandage calling for you to reach out and touch it, to change it so he does not have his own blood dried against his skin.

His thumb reaches up, swiping across your bottom lip. Your body leans into his, the flowing fabric touching his armored breastplate. A small smirk flashes across his lips before disappearing. He tugs your bottom lip down and his eyes move to your teeth.

“You’re mine now,” he breathes out. You fight the urge to nod, to give in to him.

“Am I?” you counter, a hint of playfulness in your tone. His grip on your chin tightens.

“Funny,” a chuckle does not pass his lips nor does he smile. “If I am a sword, does that make you an arrow?”

“Depends,” you muse with a soft hum, “are you my target?”

Xavier releases his hold on you, his hands moving behind his back. He eyes you up and down one last time before nodding, turning away, and walking to the two kings. You remain where you are, unsure of what to do now that your heart has begun to beat again.

“She’ll do,” Xavier comments, glancing over his shoulder. Your eyes do not meet.

You keep yours trained on the ground, the colorful tile keeping you company as you float to where the men stand. You remain behind your father, having been reminded of your place in the room, your identity as a woman stripping you of any opinion that you may have. Xavier keeps his eyes on you, though.

To him, you are a mystery that he cannot seem to figure out, a riddle that he is unable to solve. Your words, the way you hold yourself, the times in which you speak — everything is calculated. You do not make a move that you have not agonized over inside that pretty little head of yours. It’s thrilling to him. An unexpected chance of having the battlefield come home to him.

He cannot help but wonder how you’ll do against the Philos court, a place filled with lies and deception where people never wish you well.

Will you thrive in an environment befitting of your qualities? Or will you succumb to the pressure that has been laid before you?

“She will?” his father asks, turning to the prince. Xavier nods, confirming his choice of bride.

Chills run down your spine. You tear your gaze off of the tile, still reeling from the touch of a vile king, and look to the man who will become your husband, someone you will forever be stuck with until your last dying breath. Will he be the one to take it just like he did with your brother?

“The agreement is verbal but I shall have one of my men send you a contract to sign,” the King of Philos states. He approaches his son’s side, his eyes landing back on to your body, not your face. “Xavier will come for you tomorrow when the sun rises, my Lady. Be prepared for a long journey.”

Xavier’s gaze moves to his father, his eyes settling into a glare. You catch onto it, looking between the two of them, your interest piqued.

“We will send her with the essentials,” your father speaks up. “Our Lemurian allies will provide a ship for your travels at the Port of Tartus.”

“Wonderful,” Xavier’s father smiles. He turns to Xavier and nods his head in the direction of the exit out of the garden. “Shall we?”

‘Wait,” you speak up.

You stare at Xavier, the knight in shining armor that you will be wed to within the next couple months. He returns your gaze, turning to fully face you. You lift a hand up, using one finger to beckon him over. The corners of his lips barely tug up, a ghost of a smile disappearing from his face.

He inches closer to you, drawing him in with your beauty and mystery. Are you to depart with a polite kiss? Or will you bid him goodbye with a a token to remember you by despite your travels beginning tomorrow?

Xavier stands before you, looking down at the woman he will call his wife, the future Queen of Philos. Your face remains still, void of all emotion that he assumes you must be feeling. He watches you closely. Your hand moves up, fingertips lightly grazing the bloodied gauze on his neck. Your eyes move to the material before going back to his, your hand retracting back to your body, slipping between the layers of fabric.

“Visit our doctor,” you breathe out, “you need fresh bandages.”

“Is that all?” Xavier counters with a raised eyebrow. His attention remains on your face, the way your muscles move beneath your skin as you think of the next step to take in the game of cat and mouse that has begun between the two of you.

The familiar sound of metal scraping against his chest plate fills his ears. His skin is littered with goosebumps, the man not looking down as you drag the blade that was once in your brother’s next, the same blade he used to kill him, up his armor, slicing through the coat of arms that hangs over his armor.

“I believe this is yours,” you whisper, voice deadly and filled with poison.

Neither of you look away from each other’s gaze. He slightly narrows his eyes while you remain remarkably calm. He doesn’t flinch as the tip of the blade presses into his Adam’s apple. Xavier tilts his head to the side. He reaches up, fingers curling around your wrist, squeezing it so that the blood stops flowing through your veins. Your grip on the silver dagger remains strong. Your breaths become hollow, holding back tears of grief and loss.

“You are not a killer,” Xavier whispers, plucking the blade from your hands.

“And you are,” you respond.

You take a step back, bowing your head to the prince. You turn on your heel and walk out of the garden, disappearing into the depths of the golden castle.

as always, likes, comments, & reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

[pomefioredove]

May I have sugar cookie #13 with sprinkles, chocolate chips, and powdered sugar?

Thank you and have a good day!

thank you for requesting!

order #13, sugar with chocolate chips, sprinkles, powdered sugar

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ bad service

summary: he didn't mean to get you fired tropes: fake dating, hurt/comfort, coffee shop au characters: deuce additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is not yuu, pre-NRC

"Check this out,"

It was like seeing headlights right before being barreled over by a semi-truck. It was the bitter taste of poison before paralysis, it was thunder before lightning.

It was a group of giggling teenage boys that were standing in the door of the coffee shop.

And based on the way they were dressed, tattered knees on dark-washed jeans and chains and bruised knuckles visible through holes in their gloves, they wouldn't have liked their insidious snickering to be thought of as "giggling".

Though, of course, that's what it was.

You pretend as if you hadn't heard, hoping they might lose interest and slink out the door and back onto the streets. But the sound of the bell by the door never hit your ears.

You pretend as if you're busy, bussing tables and swabbing them with a soapy cloth, collecting cake crumbs and empty coffee cups.

And you pretend there isn't one standing behind you, a big, shit-eating grin on his face.

"You're just gonna ignore me? That's pretty rude, you know,"

You turn over your shoulder- he's a bit shorter than you, but that makes him no less scary. Where is your shift manager when you need him?

You put on your best customer service voice and smile. "Oh, I'm sorry, were you ready to order?"

"You could say that,"

The boys behind him snicker, and the sinking feeling in your stomach is actualized when the shorter, bleached-blond in front of you suddenly dives in.

You're not sure where your reaction came from- months of customer service, likely- but you raise your fist, dingy dish-water cloth in it, and smack him hard across the face.

The barrage of hormonal boys howls with laughter, and their leader- the blond, the shorter one with a face that almost could have been mistaken for sweet- stumbles backwards into a table, sending its sweet, coffee-flavored contents across the floor.

You don't apologize. Why should you?

"YOU!"

And there's your manager. Fashionably late, like he is for all of his shifts.

You sigh, not even bothering to react to his heavy footsteps and booming voice as he berates you. "What did we say? What did we say? First, it wasn't smiling, and then it was that attitude-"

"I can't control the tone of my voice,"

"-And now you're assaulting customers? Give me your apron, you're done."

Your eyes widen, and you almost argue, but then those boys are still standing behind your manager, snickering.

You shouldn't make this worse for yourself.

Though you don't smoke at work, the alley behind the coffee shop is where you spent your breaks, sitting on the concrete steps and thinking.

And that's where you sit now, taking another kind of break (a permanent one, this time). Thinking.

"Ex-excuse me?"

A small squeak comes from the mouth of the alley. Meek and afraid - a child? You don't know if you have it in you to help some runt find its parents today.

But that voice becomes a shadow, which becomes a boy, much taller than a child but no less cowardly.

"You're not... he didn't really fire you, did he?"

You narrow your eyes at the bleach-blond. "He did,"

"Oh," he sounds sad, as if he has the right to pity you. You might slap him again, just for good measure. "I'm sorry,"

"You're what?" you ask.

"I'm Deuce," he says. "I mean- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you fired."

"You were just going to grab me, that's it? How kind,"

Panic pinches at his skin, and he seems to puff up like a cat. "I wasn't really gonna- I mean, I was just gonna make it look like that. For my boys. But I wasn't actually... I'm sorry,"

You lower your eyes. "Sure. Sure you were,"

"Honest!" Deuce says, sitting across from you on the gravelly ground, still damp from this morning's rain. "I-I... I never would have. What would my mom think? I was just... well, I told them that-"

"Spit it out,"

His face turns tomato red, a bad combination with his banana-blond, making an overripe fruit salad out of his face. "I-I told my boys that we were dating,"

You couldn't be anything but taken aback. What the-?

"Why?" is all you can think of.

Deuce looks away, twiddling with his thumbs like a child caught cheating on his math exam. "Well... you're pretty,"

"...And?"

"And, well, I wanted to impress everyone,"

You look away, mulling over his meek confession. What would my mom think, is what he said.

No amount of pity is going to get you your job back.

"Well, that would have been nice to know before you did that,"

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'll never bother you again. I'll pay you whatever you want until you can find a new job. I'll tell everyone the truth, I'll beat up your boss!"

The offer is said with such endearing excitement that you, again, almost forget that this was the foolish boy who had deserved that smack across the face.

"I don't forgive you," you say, plainly. "But you may as well find me a new job. I... needed that one."

He lights up, standing with a sense of determination in his hands and eyes. "I won't let you down!" he announces to the entire alley. "I'll go right now- wh-what work do you do? I mean- no, never mind, I'll just find all the available jobs in town! Stay right here!"

You stand, gripping his wrist before he can bound off into town.

"Maybe I should come with you,"

Again, he blushes, and he nods. "O-oh- right- good idea!"

You link your arm with his (mostly so that he won't escape) and drag your prisoner along with you.

[nocasdatsgay]

All this? Over an Heir?

A Neapolitan Bond’s Fic.

Pairing: Azriel/Eris/Reader | Rating: T| Word count: 3341

Master List | Read on A03 | For @sjmxreaderweek day 5 Heir.

Summary: Eris and Azriel are acting strange after a meeting with the Governors that you were not able to attend. You venture to find out what happened. You are not prepared for the truth.

Warnings: Discussion of having children, some slut shaming, off screen murder, some bigotry

A/N: I wasn’t planning on writing this but… it happens. Note the POV shift and the flashback when Eris is telling his story.

Tagging: (I am hoping I got everyone): @myromanempiree @pit-and-the-pen @lilah-asteria @crazylokonugget @st4r-girl-official @thisblogisaboutabook @paleidiot @div94 @tele86 @chaos-on-stand-bi @bobbyisbored @ysmtttty @romantasyreader28 @azrielsshadows42 @stargirlrchive @scarsandallaz @paintedbyshadows @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @acourtofbatboydreams @ninthcircleofprythian @secret-third-thing @theicarustoyourcertainty2 @hieragalbatorixdottir @daycourtofficial @prythianpages

Something was off with Eris and Azriel. 

You knew their tells by now for when something was bothering them. Eris had tense shoulders and a clenched jaw even if it was subtle. Azriel’s shadows flurried more no matter how much he shooed them away. You’d been in the village all day and returned shortly before sundown, so you had no idea what transpired. You waited for them to talk about it at dinner. 

Nothing. 

They only asked how your visit was and told you how the governors meeting started off rocky but ended well. At least by bed they’d relaxed, but still something was off. You’d made it your mission to find out what happened. You outright asked Azriel if he was alright the next day. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” A lie if you ever heard it. 

“Your shadows seemed more active is all,” you shrugged. His wings bristled but he didn’t respond. 

When you went to Eris, you had to ask less direct questions. You asked about any hangups in plans for the month. Issues with the budget. When nothing worked, you asked for the written record of the meeting you missed. That seemed to get a reaction. 

“I would have to find it.” Eris sighed. “It went three hours over and in a tired haze I can’t remember where I put it.” 

Eris never forgot where he put things. 

“When you find it, let me know.” You smiled sweetly. 

You then went through the House looking for one person who could give you information. Charlotte, wife of Elden, was the biggest gossip in Autumn. She heard everything and forgot nothing. You invited her to tea under the disguise of catching up. 

She was an older fae- her brown hair streaked with graying strands. It suited her, with how she pinned it up. She always had a flower in her hair to match her dress. Today it was a marigold and her dress was a velvet yellow. She greeted you with a kiss on the cheek and instantly went to chatting. It only took you a few sips of tea for her to bring up what you’d been waiting on. 

“And poor Lord Hurbert, may The Mother keep him. I plan to visit his wife later today. Though I doubt she will be mourning heavily.” 

“Lord Hurbert passed away?” You tilted your head. He was an elderly fae but not so old he was frail. 

Charlotte’s well maintained brows arched. 

“You didn’t know?” You shook your head. She made a hmph noise. “Elden said that the High Lord who, well” she let her voice trail.

“I’m sorry?” You put your cup down before your grip could break it. 

“That’s what Elden told me. He wouldn’t speak of what happened. Came back from his meeting all shook up. Whatever it was, he did say Hurbert deserved it. The Mother knows the old fool had a temper.”

You sat there in silence. Eris had murdered someone? You felt a coolness against your wrist. You looked down and the shadow that followed you had curled around your wrist. 

“Oh dear, don’t look so distraught,” Charlotte’s voice made you snap out of your haze. “Forty years and this is the first time the High Lord has done away with someone? Lord Beron used to make it a point to torture at least every full moon. Cauldron knows Lord Eris is better than his father. If I may speak plainly, Hubert was a dreadful male. I never knew why Lord Eris let him live when he came to power in the first place.” 

That brought you no comfort. 

“I need to speak with my husband,” you muttered, still in a daze. 

You went to stand and Lady Charlotte stood with you. She grasped your sleeve, her dainty hand holding a tight grip on the fabric. You met her gaze and saw the panic in her eyes. 

“Do not tell the High Lord I told you.” Gone was the humor and haughty tone, replaced with a harsh whisper. “I’d rather not be on the receiving end of his temper should he still have it.”

“Of course, I- I will not tell him,” you said firmly. “I am bound to learn of it soon enough regardless.”

She eased her grip and relaxed her shoulders. “Thank you, Lady.” 

“Of course, Charlotte.”  

You left the south parlor, your boots clicking almost too loudly on the tiles of the hall. The shadow continued to pulse on your wrist. An attempt to get you to keep your breath even. It helped but-

You went into an empty room. You could see some dust as the evening light poured in from the window. There were covers over furniture, bookcases bare along the wall. A fireplace almost pristine in appearance from being unused. Thirty years in this house and you still found secrets. You leaned back against the door after you shut it. 

Eris had killed someone. 

During a meeting no less. 

He didn’t tell you. 

Azriel knew and he didn’t tell you. 

You tugged the bonds. You felt them both tug back twice. You looked down at the shadow. 

“Tell them where I am please,” you whispered. 

The shadow uncurled and disappeared. You waited and didn’t bother to move from the door. They would winnow in. You also didn’t care if sadness poured through the bond to them either. You didn’t have to wait long- a blaze of fire lit up the room and swirls of shadows followed next to it. 

You crossed your arms when they came into view. Eris was in his deep brown riding pants and tight white shirt. You’d forgotten he was going to take his horse out. Azriel smelled like the wind, and he too wore tight clothes, leathers he used for flying. You ignored the concern on their faces and spoke before they could. 

“What happened at that meeting yesterday?” You were curt and to the point. “Do not lie to me.” 

Eris’s face hardened, his hands flexed at his side. He reached up and brushed back his hair from his face. It was back long enough that it fell over his shoulders again. A flame appeared in the fireplace. Without a flick of his hand, magic fell heavy over the room- a ward. He wasn’t your mate at that moment. He was Autumn’s High Lord. 

“Lord Hurbert Graham crossed a line and I handled it.” 

“By murdering him?” You asked loudly. 

You didn’t like that Lord. He constantly made digs at Azriel. Covert ones that you could only mitigate with a stern tone. But it felt wrong. It felt wrong for Eris to have just killed him. It felt too much like the stories you heard of Beron. 

“Eris did him a favor,” Azriel said darkly. His shadows flurried around him. “I wouldn’t have made it as quick.” 

You looked between them both. “What did he do?” It came out as a whisper. 

A flicker of emotion on both of their faces and a painful pulse in the bonds meant it had to be terrible. The fire died down but still burned in the fireplace. Thankfully Eris tampered the heat down from it. Neither of them spoke, so you asked again. 

“I am your mate. I am Lady of this court- a High Lady if you had your way, Eris. I deserve to know exactly what transpired.” 

A moment passed and Eris finally relaxed his shoulders. 

“I am going to need a drink.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Eris convinced you to go to his study and not your chambers. He would not repeat those words within the walls of his refuge. Az was tense. What transpired got to him more than he was letting on. Eris poured himself a shot first and threw it back to try and drown out the look of disappointment on your face from moments ago. He prepped your drink and Azriel’s, which he added a second shot to. It did not go unnoticed by Eris that you sat yours down to the side and looked at him expectantly. 

“Tell me what happened,” you repeated firmly. “And do not coat it in sugar.” 

“If that is what you wish,” He replied. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Lord Eris, may I speak freely?”

The meeting had just started and Eris was already annoyed. The annual governor’s meeting was never enjoyable, But without you- he forgot this was what it was like. Lord Hurbert had waited for a lull in the conversation to poise his question. The eldest of the Governors- save for Elden and Rafael. Hurbert was his least favorite but his loyalty to Eris while his father lived was something he respected. But that was about all Eris cared about. Even looking at him now two seats down, Eris had little care for the male. Even more so due to this interruption. 

“You’ve never been one to hold your tongue before,” Eris replied smartly. Az sent a wave of humor down the bond. 

“Thank you, High Lord.” Hurbert’s smile grated Eris’s nerves. “While I do not doubt we will continue to see times of peace for more decades to come, may the Mother bless us all, there is never a guarantee.” 

Eris felt Azriel tense beside him. “Is there something you know that we don’t?”

He ignored Azriel. An offense Eris took note of to deal with later. Hurbert’s voice grew louder, as if he was trying to captivate everyone’s attention despite already having it. 

“You’ve been High Lord for nearly four decades, Lord Eris. But you’ve taken the mantle much later in life than your- much later than the previous High Lord.“

A knot twisted into Eris’s stomach. “Do you have a point?”

Eris did not hide his frustration this time. Hurbert knew it too, with the way his beady eyes blinked and he shifted in his seat.

“You have a wife now.”

Eris felt unease in the bond to Az. He tried to send back something soothing but knew he failed. 

”She is my mate and Lady of Autumn.“ Eris replied, staring down the male in a way that had him squirming again. “You will address her as such even when she isn’t here.”

“Of course, Lord Eris. We’ve had a new Lady of Autumn now for almost three decades. She is very kind and capable. Arguably she does more work than she has to; I find that admirable.”

”I’ll pass on the compliment.” Eris ensured his tone conveyed the discussion was over. “Shall we continue?”

 Hurbert held up his fingers. ”Actually, Lord Eris-“

”You are testing my patience, Hurbert.” Eris could feel the flames growing in him. “If you want to flatter my mate you may do so on your own time.”

Despite the older male shrinking back in his chair, he continued. 

“My point is, we simply have some concerns.“ 

Azriel spoke before Eris could. ”And what might these concerns be?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Kelvin three seats to the left spoke up. He looked at Eris with a knowing smile and a glint in his eye. Eris trusted him- but the male was as messy as some of the females of the court when it came to gossip and knowing secrets.”

”I want it on record that I, myself, have no concerns High Lord.” 

Kelvin brushed back his short red hair. A signal to Eris that this topic had been discussed before without his presence. He felt his blood start to boil. 

“Nor do I.“ Dresden added. 

Elden, the second oldest male at the table, looked to be sweating nervously. He liked Elden, trusted him since he treated the tenants of his land and the lesser fae well even when his father was alive. He was staring at Hubert. 

“Hurbert, maybe this topic is best suited for a different time.’ He said softly. 

Hurbert turned red in the face. “We have been putting off this topic for thirty seven years.” He turned his round red face to Eris. “High Lord, you’ve been blessed with two bonds. Which is a sure sign that the Mother herself favors you. And yet-“

“Yet what?” Eris said each word slowly and with venom that had the governors closest to him pushing their chairs back.

“You don’t have an heir.” 

The fireplace, which had been empty, came to life behind him. 

“And what consequence is it to you?” Eris leaned back in his chair like a snake waiting to strike. “Carefully consider what words leave your mouth next, Lord Hurbert.”

”It is a valid concern.” He replied weakly. 

“I didn’t realize how I am fucking my mates were anyone's concern but my own.” 

That only seemed to fuel Hurbert’s frustrations. He spoke louder this time. 

“The Cauldron has blessed you with a female. A beautiful, court trained high fae mate.” The glass of water started to steam from the heat Eris began to radiate at his words. “Your mother had three children in the same time frame, and she was simply a wife. The concern is that The Lady’s endeavors may be too ambitious, that she has lost sight of her courtly duties.“ 

Azriel was on his feet, shadow whirling. His knife was already in his hand. “Watch your mouth.”

Hurbert rose to his own feet. Gone was the semblance of weakness he had with Eris. His face skewed into pure disgust as he looked at Azriel. 

“What would a low born Illryian understand about the importance of an heir?”

Eris stood as well. “You’re out of line Graham.” His High Lord voice boomed throughout the room. “This is the last warning I will give you. Silence yourself before I make you.”

Hurbert, somehow redder, looked at Eris with sneer. “Am I out of line? The truth is that so called Lady of Autumn slinks around the house fucking that animal where ever they please like a whore. 

He pointed to Azriel. Then he pointed to Eris. 

“Maybe it is you who has lost sight of the duties to this court, High Lord. If she spent half the time on your cock as she does his, you’d have an heir by now. Or do you plan to follow your father’s lead by letting another breed your wife instead.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“And then,” Eris paused for a moment. “I set him ablaze.”

Az watched you carefully the whole time Eris spoke. He was attuned to every subtle shift in your expression. He sent extra shadows to help keep you calm. But you were surprisingly a statue, still and enraptured with every word Eris spoke. 

“I do not remember much of it. I was too enraged to think.’ Eris continued, his tone turning cold. “He was a pile of ash in an instant. I then commanded everyone else to answer if they had so called concerns or comments about my mates. None of them did.” 

“If they had, they would have been mine to deal with,” Az muttered, more to himself than for you to hear. 

Eris sighed. “I did not want to tell you, love. But you are correct. You deserved to know.” 

You finally blinked, your face still expressionless as you tilted your head slightly. 

“Do you want a child?”

Az knew Eris paled without even looking at him. Children were not something they had discussed with you. Even worse, Az remembered when he and Eris talked about it. Eris had said he was actually thrilled his mate was a male. He didn’t want younglings- he didn’t want to risk becoming like his own father. Nothing Az said deterred him of that opinion.

Then they found you.

But Azriel also knew what you weren’t saying. You left the bond open. All your emotions bubbling under the surface were pushed to him. He could feel you question your own worth. That this is what the court really thought of you. He could envision your embarrassment at the comment that fae had made about you and himself. How people must whisper behind your back for how brazen you were. Az tried to push back his love for you even if it felt like it wasn’t working. 

“It isn’t about what I want,” Eris finally answered. 

“If the court wants an heir, should we not try to give them one?” you ask slowly.

Az felt his blood boiling. “It doesn’t matter what the court wants.”

“I am not a fool, Azriel.” You looked at him with so much sadness in your eyes. “If it is important to the citizens of Autumn, then as their Lady it is important to me.”

“It was one male,” Eris snapped. “A foolish one who clung to the rules of my father. This court doesn’t need an heir. Nor will anyone force you to carry one.” 

“But what if I wanted to?” You whispered. 

Az finally looked over to Eris. He was as pale as he expected. His gaze dropped to the hand around his drink- Az was shocked Eris hadn’t broken it yet. Eris didn’t reply and he felt you turn your gaze to him. 

“And you Az?”

“Out of the question.” He winced at himself for how harsh his tone was. And how you recoiled. “It’s too risky. There is half of a chance the babe would-“

His voice cracked and he swallowed back tears. Images of Feyre slowly dying flashed in his mind. He could hear Rhys’s screaming and a flash of Nyx, so tiny and unresponsive in Mor’s arms. 

He took a deep breath. 

“The baby could have wings. I won’t risk your life like that. I can’t do that to you.” 

A pause. Then you asked, “so neither of you want children?”

“Do you?” Eris asked. 

A mix of emotions flickered in the bond from you. 

“I don’t know,” you looked down at your hands. “Not right now. But if neither of you want a baby then does it truly matter?” 

“It isn’t,” Eris paused again and took a long swing of his drink. He sighed. “I would need time. I am open to children but I would need time. I do not want my past to haunt my children.” 

“But if,” another flood of emotions came through from you. Feelings of worry about Azriel. 

“I would treat any child we have as my own,” Az said firmly. He pushed it through both bonds as well. “You are both my mates. A baby doesn’t have to be of my actual blood for me to love them. I mean that.” 

“Okay.” 

You stared down at your hands. Moments passed and the emotions from earlier resurfaced in the bond. 

“Does everyone really think I’m a whore?” You whispered and your face crumpled. 

“If they did, they would not be alive long enough for it to matter.” Eris’s words were sharp and venomous. “I commanded the governors in that room for a reason. That male said what he did because he thought he could get a rise out of me. But he forgot I am still a Vanserra and he suffered the consequences of that.” 

“He should have suffered more,” Az hissed. 

He was still just a little put out Eris didn’t allow him to end that male’s life. That male had undermined Azriel since the beginning. It was an honest surprise that it took him this long to say something that crossed the line for all of them. Az understood that Eris lost control, but it didn’t make it easier. 

“The people of this court adore you,” Eris said softly and drew Azriel out of his thoughts. “There is not a person in his House who thinks ill of you.”

“I know but,” you wiped your eyes and a laugh escaped you. “I probably have fucked you both in every room of this house.”

“Not every room,” Eris said. 

His statement broke the tension, you bursting into a laughing fit over it. When things settled he and Eris promised to not withhold information this severe again. You were right; you could handle it. Even if Eris and Az both felt you shouldn’t have to.

[redcherrykook]

────꒷꒦ 𝔩𝔲𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱 [ s & c ]

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

part of ɳσƈƚιʋαɠαɳƚ

↳ ❝ [ vampire!Jungkook universe] ❞

✎ summary: he´s observant, watches his prey like an experienced predator, but in 125 years of age, Jungkook had never craved someone as much as you. he had to have you.

note from cherry: warning!! Stalking., obsessive jungkook, crazy PATHETICALLY DOWN BAD jungkook. part one of our sexy obssessed stalker vampire. We love him here. Mini slow burn? Idk.

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

In the habitual sunday walk through the lush emerald park, the birds accompany your rhythmic heartbeat with their singing. Sunday matchas always taste better once the sun reverts to glow dimly at the horizon, dissappearing goodbye in a tortuously slow departure.

You were never fond of the sunsets as you were sunrises, steadily feeling a clench in your heart at something as radiant as the sun taking it's might to part from the world, vowing to greet you in the early hours of life's next morning. But in the unleashing dark, sometimes the return of the sun felt uncertain.

Almost ashamed to admit it- on rare, eerie occasion, you still feared the ominous that roams empty streets at dead hours way past midnight. Unlike a fairytale or a badly written horror novel- these creatures found themselves in every nook and cranny. Every slither of space, you were brought up to fear them. Never walk alone after sunset. Never look behind the treeline if you felt the presence of their piercingly colorful eyes stalking you every little step.

The world has become much less judgmental nowadays.

"Matcha latte to go?"

The fair skinned man calls out from behind the counter. His purple eyes dull of boredom in typical barista fashion, the smile he shoots you no less polite, although small, pointy fangs flash from it's corners.

"Thank you -" your eyes flicker to his nametag, "Nathaniel. Here's your tip, have a nice day" you reply, automated in that slightly raised frequency you twinge when talking to a stranger.

Your steps take you back through the way you walked initially, crunching on the freshly breeze grass beneath your soles, tracing the familiar route back to your apartment.

It had become utterly familiar to him too. The route was the same- sunday after sunday. On occasion during the week- mostly during exam season, when your body called for an added fuel.

He may have gotten used to the steps he took, synchronizing them alongside your own. However, he'd never get used to your pink lips cupping the straw in their little hold. How you sip the drink with the innocents of a little dove, unaware of the shudders that go through his body, stirr in his abdominal region.

It had captured him wholly. Unexpectedly but calculated nonetheless.

It must have been planned. Seeing your precious little blush, the shirt that snuck up your torso as you put back a book into the raking shelve of the bookstore he works at. It must have been no less than fate, the blood red string of fate that is tugging his nervoussystem in your direction. Letting something awaken inside of him- something of his roots. Akin to his nature- to taunt him of his designation, the realization that he was not merely a simple man.

And his madness grew with each breath of air that filled your lungs. Even when he wasn't around to watch you take them, as long as you inhale the same oxgyen- he craved to breathe you in as though you were his source of essentials.

Chance encounters don't exist- not in 125 years has it happend to him, not a singular interaction devoid of purpose or contrary, filled to the brink with the naked, uncanny urge to engulf this very thing into his chest. That's how he knew you were his calling.

"Hey, sorry, you dropped this"

He taps on your shoulder, unguarded, you spin around, glancing at his face, down his large, faintly colorless hand that held something dear to you.

In the midst of beautifully ordinary walk, you hadn't noticed the drop of your keys.

"Oh god- thank you. That could have ended badly" you offer a small giggle, airy, light. He tries to not let his eyes roll back at the melody, handing you your keys with an aching heart. Soon enough- he told himself- soon enough he will get to enter your space.

"Yeah. Cute guy you got on there. Has he got a name?"

The little, blue bow adorned monchichi keychain catches your eye for a second before they naturally wander up to his deep red eyes. They glint slightly, taking notice of his pointed fangs that he charmingly flashes through a grin.

"Mocha" your answer is polite, small. He knew better than to pry too deep, settles to hum,

"Mocha" he recites, tilts his head the slightest bit, "I think ive seen you at my bookshop before. But i never got to know your name, pretty?"

The instant he asked, he wanted to answer this question for you in place of his theatrically put on questioning expression. Replace it with genuine lust in his voice as he lets the syllables of your name roll over his tongue, just like he's been chanting them in the dark- when no one's watching - when there's no eyes to graze the beautiful sinner he's become once his stiff cock stands proudly in his hand.

You tell him your name regardless. How could you have known that the shadow who seems to follow you around, internalized it like a favourite poem all along.

You were oblivious to his ways, clueless even. He failed to hold back a miniscule slip of tongue, wetting the metal ring in the corner of his pale rose lips.

"Thats a beautiful name. I'm Jungkook"

You bless him with your little giggle for another time, remarking in your head about how easy it was to talk to the handsome creature. The one who's face had been burned into your imagination for quite some time now, tucked away into some box, beneath the litters of faces you've seen at the morisaki bookshop.

"Suits you"

"Is that good?" he asks, showing of his signature grin to which you nod,

"Its elegant"

"Vampires tend to be" he says, vaguely gesturing to your cup, "You like matcha? I could treat you to one, if you like?"

Satisfaction courses through his bloodstream at the airbrushed pink that dusts your cheeks, taking note of the way your pointy gel nails fiddle slightly with your jeanpocket,

Alongside the pleasure, relief floods him in it's soothing tide- he had finally uttered the sentence he meticulously practiced to say over and over again- watch his micro expressions in his reflection to tweak each subtle give away, enhance every unique feature he held within those constructed words.

"I'd like that" you reply, choosing a demure answer that attempts to hide your attraction to Jungkook, your girlish excitement at meeting him again.

"Same time next week?"

Succumbing to his natural charm was inevitable. Nothing could have prepared you for the lull in his voice, how every word he pronounced sounded like those of an ancient spell. The strike in his unusually colored eyes differed so drastically from the fairness of his flawless skin. It was drowning you in its hues.

Jungkook walked home with a use of his speed inflicted upon the pace of a human step. The sight of your lips trembling slightly as you gave him your number, the one he had memorized weeks ago, still playing in his mind's eye like a movie. It would become his favourite memory until he created more explicited ones- though he grew acustom to cumming at the simple sound of your name in his head- spoken by his own voice, now blissfully interchanged with the way you offered it to him earlier.

Patience is a virtue he had mastered inescapably, it grew into his life through vicious blessings, beautiful curses. 24 hours that multiply and blend into unexciting memories.

All strings had gotten loose upon your arrival. How would he be able to await another seven days without seeing you, without hearing you pronounce mundane words or viewing your camera app being opened over a little flower on the pavement.

He couldn't wait, no matter how much patience he had.

His shadow casts itself behind the many cars parking up your street, he zones in on your surroundings- the little shoulder look you give in the dark, as if to spot anything that could endanger you. It made his heart wrench,

"I'd never let you get hurt" he whispers to himself, watching the cold air manifest into transparent smoke as he speaks.

You rattle your keys, unlock the shabby apartment door with stiff fingers, suffering the low temperatures. From your peripheral, it almost looked like a blow- a gust of wind running by your side.

But when you turn around with hitched breath, its empty.

Jungkook exhaled once your figure disappeared into the building. Carelessy, he swung by, wanting to get just an inch closer, an inch away from having his highly receptive senses flooded with your gentle scent. For his yearning heart to get a fraction of gratification.

The closer he is, the more he needs to have. It clouds him like the smoke of a stormy night, rips him into the unknown, the unexplored and hidden desires of digging his teeth into the graceful skin of your neck.

Sunday finally comes around, the end of the week igniting him with a new flame. He'd been painfully dragging himself around in those remaining hours, holding himself back from standing in front of your bedroom window to watch you pick out your outifit, pace around nervously like you did before meeting with your friends on Wednesday nights. A tradition of getting cocktails at least twice a month, you appeared lovely, casual even. But jungkook saw it all behind the curtain of effortlessness, the pile of discarded outfits, your hairbrush thrown on your bed in frustration. The sweet, winged eyeliner that took three songs and four retries to draw on. He'd seen it all, every inch of your skin as you try on dress after skirt, shirt after blouse, no matter how much he restrained himself to avert his gaze.

Now, he's seeing you approach from afar, walking tentatively in the beautifully dim sunlight.

He skips a few steps to be in your vicinity quicker- you blink confused, before breaking out into a small laughter.

"Right, you can do that"

He returns your smile, his heart races at the sight of you so close to him, so attainable.

"Its pretty efficient"

You hum, tracking your gaze from the top of his pierces eyebrow, down his plump lips, taking your line of sight down the contours of his sharp jaw before your focus shifts on the unbuttoned top part of his silky black shirt. His prominent collarbones peak out just enough to make you elicit a barely audible sigh,

In his mind, he's been drifting to your bedroom, to his hands that let the pretty grey fabric graciously fall down the dips of your figure.

"You look really pretty, grey suits you"

Jungkook's smoothe voice guides you through the rest of the joint night.

Along his gentle nature, there is some sort of belonging. A shiver of closeness that runs down your back, even when it's just his knuckles that gingerly bump yours while you walk around the blooming trail. You catch him from time to time, in the midst of your conversation, how he lets himself wander off in thought a bit, yet, he's attentive, responsive, dancing the line of being completely entranced by the string of words leaving your lips.

"Youre easy to talk to" you tell him truthfully while throwing away the empty cup. He chuckles a little,

"Yeah? Well, you make me feel comfortable, i think thats why"

"I do? I feel like i'm so awkward" you chuckle- honestly, maybe you were a bit awkward. Trying your hardest not to let him pay and telling bad jokes about his vampire qualities that he'd probably been told multiple times before. Nothing shy from enticing in his eyes.

"I think youre adorable"

"You're way too honest. Is that a vampire thing?"

His hand brushes a little strand away from your face, stalled in front of the acquainted doorstep of your apartment. The soft hair glides through his slender fingers like liquid gold. From the back of his throat, a small groan of approval sounds,

"No, but I'm bad at lying anyways"

Your lips curve into a grin, mirroring his expression. The thumping in your chest rings so loudly, you're almost sure he's able to pick up the frequency with his immaculate hearing. Its a pounding you haven't yet felt before. It may be the deep night around you- adding to his sexy mystique, the way his eyelids seemed to drop the least bit, following the lure of the moon.

"When can I see you again?" He asks with a quiet, breathy tone. Goosebumps threathen to plaque his dull skin as you bite into the corner of your lip,

"Whenever you want. Just.. text me"

He nods, "Okay pretty"

With that, you smile and disappear into the walls of your home.

Jungkook exhales a long, deep breath. His eyes fall closed, body slumping against a nearby tree. Utter delight crashes his head, grounds him into the world that he is slowly, meticulously creating for you to be part of. For you to be the sun of.

Similarly, you collapse right against the closed door. Smiling stupidly like a giddy teenage girl, running your hand through your hair, you break into a fit of giggles. Immediately pulling your phone out to text your best friend about what had just happend in the last long, dreamy hours.

But before you get the chance to click on her chat log, a message lights up your screen,

Jungkook >.< : cant wait to see you again

He bites back a smile, the reflection of you getting excited over his text dances in his pupils as he stands off to the side of your slightly parted curtains,

"good night sweetheart" he mumbles, gradually turning back to resort back into his own home.

Messages like these had crept their way into your normal days.

Good morning texts, little things that reminded you of each other- mentions of movies to watch together or selfies with meaningless captions like "hard work day :( " decorated your chat in extensive loads. Despite not much time having past since the first date, time has acquired another meaning in its entirety. So much so that you find yourself aimlessly wandering inside a grocery store after suggesting Jungkook should come over for dinner.

He slipped into your life with ease, fitting into a space that seemed to be cut out just for him, and how much you adored him was almost embarrassing to admit.

You had never invited him to your home before, but he didn't mention it. Instead, he typed back that he'd be there at 7 pm, until he remembered that he isnt supposed to know your exact address- quickly adding the question onto his last message.

His breath quickens the instant he's greeted with you facing him, the tulips in his hand feel heavy all of a sudden, wanting nothing more but to drop them and engulf you into his selfish hands instead.

"Come in kook", while wrapping your arms around his taller frame, you can sense the way he tenses, his busy hand clenches the boquet with restrained power, the other one makes it to your back, carefully pulling you into his chest. He inhales your scent in pure ecstasy, button nose nudging the top of your freshly shampooed head.

Once inside- he's looking around the confined space with curious eyes. As many times as he had seen glimpses, being on the other side of your windows felt like a perverted secret. After hours of studying your schedule, analyzing common places, people, interests that are woven into your life, he would finally solidify himself as the most important.

Lucky was an understatement. Jungkook felt blessed- divinely touched to be able to move around the four walls of his angel- his very own godsend gift. His, only his.

The sigh he lets out almost serves as a way to release his overflowing happiness into the atmosphere, let go of his orchestrated hours that took him to his destination- you.

"Pretty place" he compliments, watching you pick out a vase for your favourite type of flowers, "hm, thank you. I love tulips, crazy how you picked them" you say, sparkling innocently as your fingers adjust the petals,

"Good guess right?"

The air thickens with his approaching steps, his aura carries itself over you, there's an undeniable chemistry brewing between you. Presents itself in the quickening of your heartbeat, the tension in his beautifully otherwordly features.

"No garlic i hope?" he jokes, pointing to the ingredients spread on the counter. The thin fabric of your tanktop collides with his cotton tshirt, his muscular arm holding onto the cupboard in front of you. The yearning inside of you leads you to turn around, facing him and essentially, trapping yourself between the kitchen island and his steady body.

Perfect, he thinks.

"Very funny" you giggle, looking up into the deep red you would never get used to. Its mesmerizing to see the color intensify from time to time.

Jungkook reaches his hand out to take your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up into his direction. His face is relaxed but the slight quiver of his lips, as if holding back from letting his canine teeth dart out, doesn't get past your observing eyes.

It doesn't get past him either, how you seemed to nibble on your lip a little, taking deeper inhales with the duration of his gentle touch.

"You're so pretty" he mumbles, growing an inch closer to your face with patience. The proximity makes his blood heat up, he barely has the chance to touch you before every single thought of raw and uncontrollable desire overtakes him,

Your gaze flickers down to his parted lips, the lip ring shines with a slight coat of saliva and you wish for nothing more than a deep collision, just as jungkook craves the taste of you all over his tongue.

As much as he has his instincts under control, he cannot deprive himself any longer.

Rationality vanishes from his thoughts- as his lips press gently against yours, he begins moaning in pure satisfaction. A slight taste of you was all he ever dreamed of having- but he should have known better than that. There was no way of not needing more- he had to have you, taste you, kiss and claim everything you had to give him.

The deep moan makes you whimper into the now passionate kiss- hands having found their way into his tousled hair, tugging at the roots with care. His lips clash to yours over and over, nipping at your bottom lip, licking over it to ask for premission.

You grant it to him immediately, the need to get as close as possible is indescribable, it is more than desire, more than a feeling or a simple word, you pull him in deeper and he whines at your desperation, seeing himself mirrored in you.

"Taste so fucking good. I need you, i need you so goddamn much" he groans against your lips- tongue pushing and tangling with your own, his hands wander up and down your sides as if to soothe himself, holding on to his control for all he's worth.

He steadies himself by breaking the kiss for a breath of air with his forehead meeting yours in a moment of isolation. It was hasty, messy and nonetheless perfect. He craved more, longed for another taste.

You're the first to break the silence, barely letting the words run past your lips in the midst of hightend breathing,

"I like you so much"

He doesn't recall when he last felt this intense amount of pleasure, he doesn't waste another breath on words, kissing you with newfound but always present lust, exploring the softness of your skin hidden beneath the tanktop- his shaky fingers itch at the brief shiver that passes through you- wanting to make you shiver again and again,

"You have no idea how crazy i am about you" he mutters while shifting his attention to kiss along your jaw, his mouth remains open and wet against your skin- running his tongue down your neck so, so gently.

The validity behind those words are something he cannot bear open to you in this moment- but he swore to himself he would eventually.

It takes all his willpower not to sink his pointy teeth into the delicate skin, feeling the pulse running wild like it was begging him to bite.

"Wanna make you feel so good"

Moans of his name fall from your lips, he recriporates each one with needy whimpers of his own, working to touch and worship whatever he has beneath his hands at the moment- already tugging at the bottom of your shirt, before you register it, its lying on the tile floor,

"Hold tight sweetheart"

The nickname adds to the heat pooling in your underwear- supported by simply one of his hands, a reminder of his inhumane strength. You´re lifted to the kitchen island, sitting with your thighs open for him to stand between. The thick bulge that's been present from the moment his lips met yours presses against you every so slightly- providing both of you with tiny amounts of pressure.

His lips run down invisible paths to your bra covered chest, submitting to his urges like a man devoid of free will- of any power.

"Wanna bite you s'bad" he rasps, unfastening your bra and attaching his plump lips to your stiffend bud, rolling the oppsite one in his skilled fingertips,

Institutiavely, your thighs clench around his hips, seeking more friction at the thought of his pretty fangs snaking into your skin. Jungkook completely surrounded you with his scent, his words, his presence.

Serving justice to all the mysteries and tales about his kind- his passion, his groans, his possessive hands are far to good to be the ones of a weak human man- his teeth ghost over you and in that instant, he becomes everything.

"You can- just not - mhmm- too hard"

Interrupted by your own noises of satisfaction, the words come out without any fear. Replaced by the sheer pleasure he lays upon your body, the look of desire in his features as he keeps grabbing, kissing, moaning for you.

He looks at you through his lashes, mouth leaving your chest wet and glistening, his lips are swollen as they breathe out his next words,

"You're a dream, my beautiful angel"

His lips return to your neck, suctioning harsher than previously, grazing the sharpness with every sloppy suck of your skin- and when he finally, ever so slightly indulges in sinking his teeth in- you make the most wonderful noise to him.

The moans of your name fall from his lips naturally, like a continuous prayer to your body, letting his fingers toy with your breasts- allowing his teeth to leave little lovebites in pretty shades of red spread across your neck.

"Youre so pretty, the prettiest angel" he whispers lovingly, gliding his fingers down your arm while admiring his work of art.

His skin burned- burned with the helpless devotion he cannot restrict.

"You´re mine, you´re mine angel all mine, do you understand?"

Posession creeps into the kisses to your stomach- he is touching you, his hands are the ones wandering your body, his lips are the ones marking up near every inch that falls victim to him, but it hardly registers in his head because you scratch along his muscular back- nodding without a doubt in mind,

"Feels so good- oh fuck jungkook please"

You whine- you whine for him and it gets him to nuzzles his nose into your slick lace panties, inhaling deeply to submerge himself in your femininity,

"Anything you want, im gonna fucking worship you baby. Gonna make you come until you beg me to stop"

Jungkook hooks his large hands on the underside of your thighs, kneeling in front of you as though he was actually praying to you- letting your legs dangle over his broad shoulders.

The sight of your wet folds, red and swollen clit all due to him- all in front of his very own diluted eyes made him salivate, he marked your entire thighs with deep red and purple bruises that you met with loud moans, trembling throughout your body- wandering until it´s coming out in your whiney tone of voice that kept asking for him- asking as if he wouldn't burn down the world for you.

"My pretty little pussy, look at that, look at how wet you are for me"

It was so overstimulating to him, hightend all his feelings, blurred his extensive vision at the first drop of your slick on his greedy, relentless tongue.

"Fucking angelic- taste so good" he whines into your pussy- laps and laps at the stickyness with vigour and precision when licking a long strip up to circle your clit.

In between closing your eyes, your droopy sight caught vision of jungkook sitting there, hugged by your thighs, his eyes framed with disshevld strands, glazed and cloudy- mouth wet with messy pleasure smeared along his skin.

"Mhh- kook- you look so hot like this"

The praise thrills him- diving into your need with the large overcast of his own, his cock twitching and aching so badly beneath the blue jeans but somehow- being on his knees for you, listening to your beautiful voice call out for him- it was better than any contact he ever dreamed to experience before.

His eyes roll back into his head upon the arrival of your first orgasm- overcoming you with a loud cry, your thighs clamp around his head, trap him there like you dreaded the separation as much as he did.

"Kook- fuck- ohhh fuck"

You shook, plead for more and his tongue obeyed, thrusting the wet muscle into you fast, his thumb rubbing tight circles on the throbbing pearl of your crying cunt,

"Good girl, good, good girl, come for me- let this pussy know who's it is"

He heard the second high before he saw it- the broken sob, the sniffling that send shocks into his constricted cock, made it beg for attention. It worsened as he glanced up,

"god baby- so fucking cute" he groans so loudly, smashing his lips to your cunt - sucking harshly on your oversensitive clit that endured so much of his suckling and gnawing.

Your moans continue to flow, changing into meek cries of his name, the pearly tears roll down your reddend cheeks ending on your quivering lips that are now covered in the salty liquid.

And at the thought of tasting them, oh so pathetically, Jungkook's cock pulses angrily - leaks with cum all over himself, coating his length in warm, milky pleasure, meeting the sensation of your tangy sweetness blessing his mouth.

"ahh.. mhh.." you stumble out, slowly dropping the slight grinding on his numb and swollen lips, just as jungkook pants and whimpers, having finished untouched- because pleasing you was his priority, his greatest achievement- and he hasn´t even gotten to feeding you every inch of his cock, hasn´t even seen it disappear into your tight, pulsing pussy,

"oh angel, you´re so beautiful, so good, did so so good baby" his lips run his trails back and forth on your thighs, calming their shaking with the addition of his big hands stroking your hips,

You tug at his shoulder and he recieves the silent question, bringing his body up to stand upward, dazed and bathing in your afterglow

It doesn´t take long for your eyes to find the wet patch,

"See that? All because of you. All yours" he says, pulling you into him by the small of your back, like a puzzlepiece, your hands wrap around his shoulders- both of you relish in the company of one another,

How right it truly felt to be held by his magical hands,

To meet his lips in another soft kiss, tasting the remains of yourself on him.

It was right,

He had done absolutely everything in and beyond his power to secure that, now that he had it in his grasp, black and white,

He would always make sure it stays that way, even if it meant digging his teeth into your neck until you bled.

[stagefoureddiediaz]

https://www.tumblr.com/stagefoureddiediaz/782760653117063168?source=share

What could the check pattern mean? 👀👀

(Also I swear if they end up cutting this scene 😐😐😐)

Hey Dru!!!

I’m truly fascinated by this shirt choice for Eddie for a scene with Hen! I’ve been expecting and waiting for an Eddie and hen conversation the entire season - since the plane disaster - and I’m finally finally getting my wish and it’s accompanied with a intriguing costume choice and in an episode that plays heavily into the juice theme surrounding Eddie this season!

Firstly I want to touch on the fact that no watch is visible - I think I can see the outline of it on his wrist, but it isn’t visible. Then there is also the black Henley - something we see Eddie wearing several times across the seasons - nearly always in scenes connected to eddies family in some way - and we have a clear split in when he wears a black Henley - we see him in one in 215, 217 and 218 and then we don’t see him wear one again until 605, followed by 609, 614 and 701. The 701 one is the most interesting one as it’s the scenes connected to Chris and his multiple girlfriends and his talk with Buck and the. Later when Eddie gives him the letter from Shannon. It’s a series of scenes that really highlights the place of Buck in the Diaz family, and the co-parentsl role Eddie is putting Buck in - is trusting Buck in. So I do think we’ll see some element of this hen-Eddie scene be about family - and most likely about Christopher and his return to LA (or even if he has returned to LA as we don’t know how it’s all going to play out at this point) but the scene will definitely feature some element of conversation about Chris.

So back to the shirt Eddie is wearing - it is in his typical style - for the most part - we have breast pockets that are incredibly similar to the ones we’ve seen on other shirts he wears - shirts I would bill as his LA shirts or style, but the rest of the cut of the shirt is a mixture of Eddies LA and Texas styles - mostly his Texas style. The check is in keeping with his Texas look, so I’m not sure at this point if it’s going to be Eddie still in LA post funeral - before he leaves to return home to El Paso, or if it is Eddie newly returned to LA and the style is a hangover from him being in Texas - in a similar way to how we saw eddies style change over season 2 - moving away from El Paso style - less and less denim and a change in fit and less check and actually a more narrow colour palette!

My feeling at this moment is that it’s a scene shortly after Eddie has fully returned to LA - in part because of his hair and how happy and relaxed he looks in the still, and the fact that we have no reason to think that Eddie did more than fly in for the funeral before returning to El Paso (something I’m sure Tim will magically be expecting us to know even though it will have happened off screen!), but it it truly could be either option because a conversation with Hen in either context is going to work and is going to be important.

One of the reasons I’m so on the fence about it is the fact that it’s a pink shirt - and pink has been very intentionally been connected to eddies search for himself and for joy - his own joy - that is not connected to or about Christopher (directly). As you can see it’s a much more of a ‘dirty’ pink - a pink with brownish undertones - still in the same zone as the other pale pinks we’ve seen him in previously and in the same zone as bucks own forray into pale pink - with his cardigan.

It’s worth pointing out at this moment that all of the above uses of that pale pinks can be read as queer coded to a fairly big degree, and all three scenes are very buddie heavy as well - in different ways - showingn and highlighting different aspects of their relationship and its strength.

Now to me the check aspect of it is suggesting that this conversation is more than likely go somewhere Eddie isn’t either ‘ready for’ or isn’t going to like having pointed out to him - which for me is screaming that it’s about the Buck of it all because there isn’t a lot else it could be about and as I’ve just shown/ explained the use of the pale pink we’ve seen in the show in connection with Eddie and Buck is very buddie, especially buddie relationship coded. So the check is seemingly going to be about Eddie having his worldview changed in some way - because the check always means danger of some sort for the character - but danger isn’t always bad and invariably the person in check (especially when it’s a main) is having their plot moved forward in some way and the danger they face is the way that movement happens. My working theory is that the Eddie hen conversation will be connected to Bobbys ‘death’ and will come around to Buck in some way.

Then there is one last aspect to this new pink Eddie shirt - that is Buck unpacking his things in the Diaz house - finally moving himself in and letting himself accept his new reality. The shirt Buck is wearing is slightly more in the brown side of things than eddies new shirt - but it has very pink undertones and they are the same tonal shades. So we have a scene where Buck allows himself to accept and actually begin to exist in a space that he has struggled with because of its connection to Eddie, Chris, and all that Buck has ‘lost’ - a space that he’s never been a guest in because it’s Eddies house - a space that is still tied to Eddie because it’s eddies lease and Buck is subletting. Coming off the back of two scenes with two people pointing out the Eddie of it all and actively questioning bucks feelings - where eddies straightness is also brought up in both scenes. It’s very definitely an intentional costuming colour choice and it’s making me think that perhaps the reference to Buck that we might be getting is going to be about the roommates era we seem likely to be about to get - maybe hen questioning Eddie about his living arrangements if Buck is in eddies house - if Buck has found a new place now Eddie is back or something in that wheelhouse - about the idea of that connection and about existing in a space and of that space being a safe space.

This is of course all speculation on my part based on the colours and the way the show has previously used colour and even check patterning on Eddie or around Eddie - we’ll find out how close I was to the mark when the episode airs, but it isn’t a common colour and it’s not one the show has used much and the fact we’ve got so much of it in the last couple of seasons and in connection with one characters arc specifically is making me feel a certain level of confidence in my predictions - i really do hope I’m right!