#so i don't count him :pensive:

[ruporas]

the blank ticket in your hand is just waiting to be filled in.

happy birthday vash! (ID in alt text)

[bi-writes]

i'm a big fan of your writing! can i ask what made simon want to mail order a bride in the first place? thanks <3

mail-order bride

he's tired of staring across his dinner table and seeing nothing but empty space.

it isn't something he had thought about in the before. he's spent a long time shifting between different cots, collecting sand from faraway places and counting the bodies he dropped with tally marks against his boots.

there's a picture he keeps tucked into his vest, but he won't take it out. it sits heavy there, an invisible wall between himself and the outside world, a reality that he chooses not to believe. if he doesn't look at them, he won't think of them, and if he doesn't think of them, maybe he can pretend they were never even real.

they all have something outside of here. his sergeants are too pretty and too outgoing to stick around; they're social butterflies, and simon has seen the shuffle of pictures of some pretty girl that gaz can't stop staring at, and soap never shuts up--whenever they have a signal, he's somehow got a phone call with his cousin's stepfather's little sister, or it's his second cousin's brother-in-law's birthday, and he's got to wish him well since he missed his art exhibition last month.

even price has a pale circular shadow that is stained onto his ring finger.

it's not his fault, is it? it's not his fault he was dealt the worst fucking hand. it wasn't his fault he was born already two feet into the grave; it couldn't have been his fault that he can only get a good night's sleep when there's screaming in one ear or the rattle of a battlefield over his head.

it isn't his fault. it isn't his fault. it isn't his fault.

the cigarettes taste bland today. they're old, stale, and he can taste the bitterness already, but he lights it anyways, flicking ash into the ground, scrunching his nose until he gets used to the bite of it.

there's a shadow at his side, and he turns to snap at them, assuming it's johnny and his incessant nagging, but he holds his tongue when he realizes it's his captain.

he's got a warm cigar in one hand, and he leans against the concrete wall beside him, sighing deep, the kind of pensive weight that only a captain can bear.

price looks tired. he needs to go home.

"boys invited y'out, didn't they?" price asks, and simon chuckles lowly.

"'m olready 'ome," simon murmurs. "'n i can get piss drunk oll on my own 'ere."

price shrugs.

"ya haven't taken leave since you joined my team, simon," he says low. "can't have that. you know it."

simon shrugs.

"can try and make me go," simon tells him. "but y'know i won't leave."

"i'm not asking, simon," price says firmly. "'m telling."

"doesn't matter," simon takes a long drag of the cigarette, holding it in for a second too long before letting it out slow. "got nowhere ta go."

his captain is not blind. simon's on a one-way road, and the end of it stops at the end of someone else's gun. men like simon, the ones who have nothing to lose, they're dangerous. they clear rooms outnumbered thirty to one because no one thinks they can. they hit targets from thousands of yards away because it's the only place that never changes. they kill and sleep peacefully because the blood of a stranger is far cleaner than that of someone they know, of someone they love.

they'll never leave because war is familiar. they don't want to go home because home isn't something they know. they're nomads, taking with them only what they can carry, because the rest is baggage and an emotional weight that they aren't strong enough to carry.

but it doesn't mean men like simon don't want. it doesn't mean they don't wish for more. it doesn't mean they don't think about using their teeth for something other than baring them to show their dominance, their aggression, their insecurity.

simon's a protector. the way he shoves his men behind him says so. the steadiness of his voice over comms when the op goes to shit. the ease of his hand when he ties a tourniquet. the split second that simon never wastes, the way he uses his body as armor and the look he gives his men when they're scared. simon's died twice before, and the look in his eyes tells them that this isn't it, that this isn't death, because he'd fucking know--he'd recognize it if he saw it.

simon's unrelenting. his past, his trauma, it's tried to beat him into a shape that will bend and snap, but its obvious simon is not made of lead--fuck, he's an entire block of unmovable steel. he does not give when compressed, he does not crack when the strength of him is tested. simon's fought too hard to live to let a gun terrify him, he's endured too much torture to flinch when someone sinks a blade into his chest.

but he knows, simon knows, that there is something missing. he fought hard to live, but for what? he's endured, but what the fuck is there when he lays his head down at night?

simon's a lover. he tries so hard to convince himself that he's always been this way--alone, drifting, lost, but it's a lie. simon knows what it's like to want. he knows what it's like to look into a crowd and hope you see a familiar face. he understands wanting to pull that string taut, but he also understands what it can do to you. what it can take from you.

he understands what you can never get back.

he thinks this is a bad idea. he crumples the note paper in his hand that had the address scribbled onto it, tearing it, staring up at the house in front of him. it's quaint, a lovely little house in the outskirts of london, with a red chimney and overturned planters in the yard. there's a weathered wooden door, a porch step that needs fixing, and when he kicks open the door, he grimaces seeing a carpet that need's replacing.

"the fuck am i doin' 'ere?" he whispers to himself, sliding his mask off, running a hand over his face. his heart is pounding, but he's not sure why, but he catches his reflection in the window. what looks back at him terrifies him--he can't do this.

he makes his way back outside, rummaging through his pockets for a cigarette. he takes a seat on the steps, lighting it, and as he takes his first frantic drag, he sees the torn pages of the note still on the ground. he picks up one end of it, running his thumb over the crumpled paper there, smudging the pencil scribble there.

she needs you

it's written in price's ugly handwriting, letters all tilted to the side and barely legible, but he still can read what price didn't write--and you need her.

but simon doesn't need anyone. he barely needs himself, barely can take care of himself. this won't help him--he can't help anyone, he isn't the kind that can be this kind of thing for anyone. he's stayed in the service because at least this way, he can die with honor, he can prove them all wrong, he can at least be remembered for what he could do and not by what was done to him.

his touch is ice. his heart is buried too deep under his ribs; no one has seen it since he could finally register a memory. his face, the skin he wears--he's not a pretty man, he's a forgettable one. he isn't gentle, he isn't capable of it. he can't forgive. he's so quick to anger, likes to snap his teeth, and he cannot be the kind of thing that they all expect him to be.

he does not love himself. he will not love himself. so he cannot love another.

there is a certain kind of satisfaction he feels when he fixes the porch step. once abandoned, once a nuisance, and now it functions as intended. he feels the same kind of thing when he rips up the stained carpet, and he feels it again when he watches the seeds of the thyme leaves grow as they rest in a pot above the sink.

things once forgotten serve a purpose. with effort, they can be used again. they don't have to be replaced, they can be open anew, they can live again and breathe deeper and see through the lens of a different perspective.

when you climb the porch steps the first time, he thinks about the board that doesn't wobble any longer. when the door shuts behind you for the first time and you take off your boots, he thinks about the new carpet that warms your toes now.

and when you lay next to him for the first time, under the covers of the bed he's made, he reaches over and slips a few fingers around your wrist, thumbing at the base of it and swallowing hard when he feels the pulse of your heartbeat. it beats, warm and steady, to a beat familiar, one he knows. his heart has not been hiding under thick bone and the tar of his own blood.

it's here now. under your skin. and now it's home.

[sturniolohouse]

Anniversary in the Cape - M.S

A/N: hey so, i feel CRAZY after writing this. this is truly an example of the duality of my writing... also, i'm sorry if there's any typos, i've proofread a ton and even stuck this bitch in grammarly but i could have missed something. she's looonnnng, so get some wine (if legal) and some popcorn and enjoy!!!!!! ALSO, ALSO, minors!!! DNI!!!! pls and thank you. :)

summary: matt and reader take their relationship to the next level, going on an overdue vacation to the cape for their anniversary.

warnings: cursing, smut (unprotected do not recommend), spanking, choking, matt being hot, uhhh idk

word count: 5.8k

song: stargazing - the neighborhood

'started with a spark, now we're on fire'

"And you're sure your parents were okay with us using the car and the house?" I ask looking at him focus on the road in front of him.

"Yes, baby. For the one-hundredth time, they don't mind. Quit worrying, this is our vacation," He looks at me quickly, taking a hand off the wheel to meet my thigh and squeeze it lightly.

"I know, I'm just nervous," I admit softly and he turns to me with wide playful eyes.

"Nervous! Why the hell are you nervous?" He laughs in bewilderment, and I roll my eyes, shrugging slightly.

"I mean, obviously we've been alone before, but we've never been away just the two of us," I explain.

"Yeah, and I'm fucking ecstatic about it. Like you said, no interruptions, quiet house, on the cape...possibilities are endless." He says looking at me with a small suggestive smile growing on his face.

Of course, Matt and I get alone time. Do we get as much as we would like? No.

It's difficult finding time for ourselves when Matt lives with his brothers and my roommates are hermits.

Which I never saw as an issue, because I honestly don't mind spending time with Chris and Nick whenever I'm by their place–which is often. I was actually friends with all of them way before Matt and I began dating. 

But when Matt brought up the last time we had gone on a real date, it had been months.

"No, I know. I'm excited too, it's just a new step in our relationship and it feels very...adult? I don't know, I sound silly," I shake my head and he squeezes my thigh again before grabbing my hand.

"Hey, I know what you mean, and you don't sound silly." He softens a bit to reassure me before kissing the back of my hand. My heart warms at his gesture and I squeeze his hand. 

"I'm excited to show you one of my favorite places, I still can't believe you've never been. I literally grew up here." He changes the subject as he switches lanes and I see the sign indicating Cape Cod is less than a mile away.

We flew into Boston by ourselves yesterday afternoon and spent the night at his parent's house. It was Matt's idea, saying he didn't mind taking the drive as it wasn't too far from his house in Somerville. 

"Are you finally going to tell me what we're doing?" I rub circles into the back of his hand with my thumb.

His mouth quirks to one side pensively but he laughs as soon as he hears me sigh impatiently. 

"Okay, okay, you really wanna know?" He drawls out, turning to glance at me for a moment then turning back to the road. 

"You know I wanna know," I lean over the divider and stare into the side of his face. He smirks a bit, side-eyeing me a few times before humming. 

"Hmm, I think I'll leave you squirming a little longer," He says after a moment.

He exits the highway and I huff, slumping back into my seat.

This place looks like something straight out of a storybook.  

The green, hilly scenery takes my breath away. Matt shows me the main street, driving past the historic houses and buildings as families and couples walk down the street. When we round the bend, the dense trees become few and far between and the lush green landscape dissolves into tall grass, sand, and rock as the ocean comes into view.

We drive along the coast the rest of the way and I just stare in awe at the cozy beach town as Matt tells stories of growing up here in the summer. 

"That house at the end is the family house," He points to the one on the left.

Pulling into the driveway, Matt puts the car in park before cutting the engine. I go to open my door but he stops me, putting a finger up and getting out of the car himself.

I give him a questioning look before I see him jog to the other side of the car to open my door for me.

"And they say chivalry is dead," I shake my head jokingly and he shrugs with a smirk.

I get out of the car and lean up to give him a quick kiss, we're smiley and giddy when we pull apart. He gives me another kiss before handing me a key.

"Go head inside, I'll grab our bags," He says softly against my lips and I nod quickly.

As I walk past him to make my way to the front door, I feel a light slap to my ass. I go to give him a playful disapproving look, but he's already opening the trunk to grab our stuff and acting like nothing happened.

The house is small and charming.

It belongs to their grandparents and has been the family vacation home for decades. The colorful wind chimes on the front porch sing with the soft breeze. I breathe in the salty air and walk towards the steps leading to the front door.

I twist the key to open the door and I'm engulfed with a warm, inviting scent. There are tons of family pictures on the walls and my heart swells at the baby pictures of the triplets.

I can easily spot Matt in a picture of the three of them on the beach, probably around four or five years old.

Seeing photos of them as children always blows my mind because of how identical they looked.

Matt comes in with our bags, noticing me looking at the photos on the wall.

"You were so fucking cute as a kid," I say going to grab my duffel from him but he takes my hand instead, leading me down the hall to the bedroom.

"Am I not cute now?" He pretends to be offended.

"Eh," I joke back and he opens the door at the end of the hall.

"This is our bedroom, the bathroom is next door on the left," He nods behind us toward the hall.

The bedroom is a pale seafoam green color, the bed adorned with a vintage patchwork quilt lined with a ruffle trim. The room has more family photos hung on the walls and beach-themed decor.

"We can unpack now and then head to the store to grab something for dinner and the next few days. There's definitely no food here. Sound good?" He places our bags on the bed and turns to me, placing his hands on his hips.

He wears a backward camo Boston Red Sox hat, a black tee with a silver chain around his neck, jean shorts, and white New Balance sneakers.

I must have been ogling him for too long because he snaps his fingers in front of my face with a smug expression.

"D'ya hear me, kid, or are you too busy eye-fucking me?" He smiles, licking his lips, and I feel a deep blush bloom from my chest up to my neck.

"Not my fault my boyfriend is so hot," I shrug, trying to recover from his playful callout, and he rolls his eyes, blushing himself.

He shakes his head, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into his chest. I wrap my arms around his middle, placing my head over his heart as we settle into a moment of comfortable silence.

An intrusive thought takes over, and I squeeze him tighter against me. I hear him groan at the sudden pressure of my grip, and he grabs hold of my arms.

"Okay, okay. Enough with the cuteness-aggression. You're going to break my ribs, kid," He wheezes.

I let up only after he tickles my sides. I squeal as he chases me to the other side of the bed and I finally surrender and ask for mercy. He slaps my ass and tells me I'll pay for it later.

We unpack our stuff and head out to the store to get ingredients for tacos. The one and only thing I've tried to improve in Matt is his cooking skills.

When we first got together, it was concerning how little he knew about cooking along with the number of times a week he'd eat out. I changed that real fast, teaching him basic meals he could make himself that were quick and pretty foolproof. Tacos were one of them.

"Go shower, I'll start dinner." He tells me, putting all of the groceries on the counter.

"You sure you can handle it?" I tease, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Hey, I've gotten better. Didn't you like the salmon I made you the other week?" He points his finger at me and I roll my eyes.

"Yes, my love, I was very proud of you." I lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth, "I'll be quick," I say before going to take my long-awaited shower.

As the hot water cascades over my shoulders, I can't help but let my thoughts drift. This trip is a huge step for us, and despite my nerves, I know it was a much-needed and deserved trip.

We don't really have an anniversary only because we both don't remember the specific date and we never made our being official a big deal. It's never been our style.

But we decided this would be a getaway for our 'anniversary' as next month will be our second summer together.

I finish up and wrap myself in a towel, savoring the lingering warmth before I quickly get dressed. I smell the scent of sizzling meat and spices coming from the kitchen.

When I reach the kitchen, I can't help but smile at the sight of Matt carefully chopping lettuce. His brows furrowed and his tongue poked out in serious concentration.

"Smells amazing in here," I comment, leaning against the doorway.

Matt looks up startled a bit, dropping the knife and putting a hand over his heart. A proud grin quickly spreads across his face when he realizes it's just me.

"You fuckin' scared me. I'm almost done, just need to heat up the tortillas." He gestures for me to come over, and I do, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind.

"You're getting good at this," I compliment, kissing his shoulder as he flips the tortillas.

"Only because I have a great teacher," he replies, turning his head to kiss my cheek.

I help set the table while Matt finishes up. We sit down to eat, the atmosphere cozy and intimate. The tacos are actually delicious, and I make sure to shower Matt with compliments for his efforts. We pop open the sparkling apple cider Mary-Lou and Jimmy gave as a parting gift to us. Digging through the cupboards, we end up finding old plastic flutes to make a quick toast with.

"Here's to us, thank you for making each day brighter. To many more days with you, I love you very much," I say simply, raising my glass. He gets shy and smiley but clinks our glasses.

I can't help but smile at him as he blushes and tries to hide it. I lean in for a kiss and he immediately gives me one.

"I love you more," He whispers against me, pulling me onto his lap and giving me a deeper kiss. "I would say something too, but I don't want to sound stupid,"

"Hush, I already know you're madly in love with me. You made me bomb ass tacos," I joke, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pulling him into my chest. He giggles and kisses my collarbone.

After dinner, we go to the backyard to watch what's left of the sunset. We put a lawn chair by the water and sit together watching the orange horizon disappear behind the shoreline. The hues of blues and purples melt together in the sky until it grows darker and the moonlight casts a silvery glow on the water.

The sound of the waves is soothing, our breathing in sync as I sit in his lap, his hand drumming lightly on my hip.

"This will continue to be my favorite place, I'm glad I get to share it with you." Matt says, his voice soft and contemplative.

"Thank you for sharing it with me," I reply, squeezing his hand. "I'm really happy we came."

"Me too." He turns to face me, his blue eyes reflecting the moonlight. He goes deep in thought for a moment and he almost goes to say something but stops himself.

I give him a questioning look and nudge him lightly.

"What was that?" I ask gently and he shakes his head.

"Nothing," He tries to brush it off but I grab his chin and turn his face toward me.

"Didn't seem like it," I play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I don't wanna freak you out," he says lowly and I give him a pressing look before he sighs deeply, finally giving in.

"I was just imagining our future. I can just see us, you know, bringing our kids here in the summers. They'd grow up with memories of this place like I do," he admits, staring directly at the water as he confesses his inner thoughts.

My heart tightens with emotion at his statement.

"You think about stuff like that?" My voice cracks, tears stinging my eyes and he immediately snaps his head to look at me.

"Hey, why are you crying?" He looks worried, cupping my cheek and using his thumb to catch a tear falling.

"Of course, I think of 'stuff like that' though. Does that scare you?" His voice laced with uncertainty and I shake my head immediately at his foolish question.

"No, no," I say softly, running my hand through his hair tenderly, then tracing his face. Starting from his left eyebrow, down his cheekbone, and over the scruff on his jaw.

His eyes flutter at my soft touch and he grabs my hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss my knuckles.

"It's actually really sweet, Matt. I didn't think you'd want things like that with me, a family..." I admit and his eyes widen at my foolishness.

"Sweetheart, I hope you know you're it for me. Pretty sure if you ever decide one day you're sick of me, I'll spend the rest of my fucking life alone." He tells me openly and I blubber at his sweet words that pierce my heart more.

"Stop crying," He laughs lightly, getting slightly nervous by my reaction but I try to compose myself.

"You wanna have babies with me," I squeak, crying more and he tosses his head back in laughter as I continue to be a mess.

"Yes, I want 'babies' with you. If you want babies," He smiles, continuing to wipe my tears. "Okay, I love you, but you have snot all over your face," he says motioning all over his face with his finger and I gasp covering my nose.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Now, no more tears" He says and I roll my eyes, hitting his shoulder lightly, laughing a little bit now.

"They're happy tears. I just love you, a lot. It's overwhelming sometimes," I bury my face into his neck and he rubs my back soothingly as I actually compose myself.

I must be severely PMS-ing because I'm never this emotional.

"I know what you mean," He says, my heart swelling once more. "It scares me how much I love you." He kisses my hair but I lift my head for a real one.

We share a tender kiss, the ocean breeze wrapping around us like a comforting embrace.

"I can see it too by the way. Having a family. But way, way in the future," I say when I pull away, fixing the hair on his forehead.

"Oh, yeah for sure. Although, shit happens, who knows." He shrugs and I raise my eyebrow.

"Well, thanks to modern science and my IUD, no kids for at least ten years," I say and his eyes widen a bit.

"Okay, ten years is kinda a long time..." He trails off, catching me off guard.

"Matt!" I say in shock.

"I'm kidding!" He laughs.

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Matt walks into the room after brushing his teeth just as I'm taking the throw pillows off the bed and pulling back the duvet.

I feel his arms wrap around me from behind and his face buries into my neck. He places open-mouth kisses on the curve of my neck, making his way up to my ear, where he grazes his teeth lightly.

I sigh, shuddering at the sensation and allowing my head to fall back against his shoulder.

He puts both hands on my hips this time, pulling my backside into his crotch. I moan at the feeling of him already hardening against me and I press my legs together in anticipation.

"I like this, no one around to interrupt...just us," His voice is velvet and I melt into his hold.

I hum, "Yeah, it's nice," My voice is airy.

"Can be as loud as we want, too..." He chuckles lowly, as I feel one of his hands sneak beneath my sleep shirt.

His fingertips delicately dance up my stomach, barely even touching my skin. Leaving goosebumps in their wake, yearning for his touch.

His hand stops right below my breast and I whine when he doesn't touch me further. I arch hoping to make more contact with his hand, but he doesn't give it to me.

"Matt," I say almost as a whisper, a plea.

"Mm," He hums, returning to kissing my neck. I can hear and feel the smug grin on his face, he knows what game he's playing.

"Touch me," I whine, arching again and lifting myself to reach his hand.

He finally cups my breast, taking my nipple in between his fingers and I gasp as he tugs and pinches gently.

He sucks on my ear lightly, giving it a kitten lick before blowing cold air. I spin around in his hold, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him into me.

The kiss was explosive, and we both let out a breath we didn’t realize we were holding.

He wraps his arms around me, pulling our hips flush together and leaning into the kiss more, forcing me to bend back.

In the heat of the moment, we stumble back onto the bed behind us clumsily, my butt slipping off the edge of the bed. I yelp when I almost fall, and laugh into the kiss. Our teeth clink together momentarily as he chuckles too.

He grabs under my thighs, lifting me further onto the bed as I make room for him to settle between them.

"That's better," He breathes out before kissing me again, laying me down on the cool linen sheets.

I revel in the feeling of his weight on top of me, our hips perfectly puzzled together, my hands running through his soft hair, while his rest on my hips.

I tug at the roots of his hair to elicit a delicious sound from him, something primal and guttural.

He squeezes my hips and pulls back to look down at me with half-lidded eyes. His pupils are so blown out you can barely make out the icy blue of his irises.

He keeps eye contact with me as he makes his way lower, lifting my sleep shirt above my breasts. My nipples pebble and harden as they're exposed to the cool air. He places wet kisses down my sternum, then my stomach until he reaches right above my cotton underwear.

He kneels on the floor so he's perfectly aligned in front of my core, his fingers play with the band of my underwear and he smiles to himself shaking his head.

I lean up on my elbows, "What?" I can't help but smile back.

"Kittens?" He raises his eyebrows and smirks at me.

I shrug, not ashamed in the slightest at the pattern of my underwear.

"Yeah, you like 'em?" I deadpan, but break into a grin when he tips his head back and laughs.

Endearingly, of course.

"Very sexy," he replies, and I shriek as he yanks me to the very edge of the bed.

He slips his fingers into the hem of my underwear, finally pulling them down my legs and discarding them. He lightly slaps the inside of my thigh before prying them apart and pinning them.

Just as quick as we're joking about my underwear, I'm back to trembling under his touch.

Completely exposed to him now, he teases me, kissing my inner thighs and nipping at the sensitive skin.

My hips buck at the gentle assault but he keeps me in place, stunting my movements.

"Patience..." he chides and I roll my eyes.

He slaps my thigh a little harder this time and I hiss, my core pulsing at the act. He licks a stripe on each crease of my thigh, purposely ignoring my aching cunt.

His thumbs spread my lips apart before he collects my arousal using it to circle my clit. I whimper at the contact, stopping myself from bucking my hips again.

Matt's in a trance, mouth agape, eyes heavy, as he continues to tease me and I become more and more restless.

Almost as if he couldn't contain himself any longer, he finally buries his head between my thighs. He hungrily licks from my entrance up to my clit, before sucking on my swollen nub like I'm a honeysuckle.

"Fuck," I gasp under my breath, squirming under his grip. My breath shallowed and my heart stuttered.

"I told you, we could be as loud as we want," He slurs against me, flattening his tongue against me and shaking his head side to side quickly.

I let go of a whine before snapping my legs around his head, overwhelmed by pleasure. He growls, immediately prying them back open and relentlessly swirling his tongue against me.

I grab a hold of the hair at the crown of his head as he continues to drink me in. Skillfully lapping every inch of my folds, knowing exactly what to do to get me wound up in merely minutes.

I feel the build-up of my first orgasm, all my muscles going taut as I begin to shake uncontrollably.

Matt knows that I'm about to come, so he pulls his mouth away and replaces it with his fingers. He slips his ring and middle fingers inside me with ease, massaging my front wall and coaxing my orgasm out of me with each gentle drag.

"Oh my fucking god," I cry out, my hips moving with his fingers.

He stands above me now, swiping my hair away from my face and gently caressing my cheekbone. I grab onto his bicep beside me as he leans down to kiss me, swallowing my whimpers. 

"C'mon, baby. I can feel you squeezing the fuck outta my fingers. Come for me," His voice is a gentle command against my jaw. 

His mouth attaches to my nipple as his thumb smushes into my puffy clit, drawing lazy circles, stimulating me everywhere.

That's all it takes before the wave peaks, then crashes and floods of icy-hot, blinding pleasure courses through me. He moans against me as he feels me pulse and ooze around his fingers.

My nails dig into his bicep and I arch into him, my hips mindlessly riding out the pleasure as his name falls from my lips in a desperate, broken cry.

His mouth and fingers gently work me through the aftershocks before I'm grabbing his wrist and whining from the sensitivity. 

"You're so fucking hot," He breathes, kissing me again.

I exhale into him, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him down onto me.

He pulls back, tossing his shirt off his head and undoing his belt, looking down at me as I lay half-naked and panting. I lean up on my elbows and move myself further up the bed.

He's only in his black boxers now, placing a knee on the bed before crawling towards me.

"Wanna taste you," I say, reaching up to kiss his neck and he lets out a shaky breath.

He shakes his head, "I won't fucking make it," he pants, grabbing my jaw and claiming my mouth again.

He pulls back, "As much as I love this fucking mouth," He adds darkly, tracing my swollen lips before licking them sensually and kissing me deeper.

I moan at the kiss and the feel of his cold rings against my hot skin. I run my hands down his chest as our breathing picks up, the kiss becoming more heated.

I run my tongue along his bottom lip and he allows me in before moving his hand down from my jaw to my neck, squeezing gently.

I pull back this time to take my shirt off, leaving me completely bare in front of him. I then hook my fingers in the band of his boxers and pull them down just enough to free him. His dick springs up, the tip so red it looks painful.

I spit into my hand before taking him into my hand and giving him a couple of strokes, swiping his weeping tip with my thumb. He whimpers at the touch before grabbing my wrist and making me release him.

I pout, bringing my thumb to my mouth to suck off his precum. His mouth falls agape at the sight, and his eyes screw shut as he falls onto one of his hands weakly.

"What's wrong?" I make sure my voice is dripping like sweet, gooey honey. Tempting a very hungry grizzly bear.

He grits his teeth, straightening himself back up on his knees in front of me. I look up at him, my hand rubbing up and down his thigh.

"You're going to be the death of me," His voice is gritty, and I tilt my head innocently. I yelp when he grabs my hips and flips me over.

It's moments like these that remind me of his surprising strength.

He pulls me onto my knees so my cheek is pressed into the mattress and my ass is elevated, leaving me exposed and shaking with anticipation.

His hand comes down onto my asscheek and I hiss at the sting. I feel his dick poke the back of my thigh as his hand smooths over my ass to ease the burn.

"Matt, please," I pant when he kisses down my spine and I push my hips back impatiently.

"Need my cock that bad, hm?" he murmurs against my skin and I nod quickly.

"Need you inside me, please," I whine, not caring how desperate I sound, only focused on how his low chuckle makes my core pulse around nothing.

"Yeah?" He croons and my breath hitches when I feel him run his tip along my aching pussy. Knocking against my clit with each teasing stroke.

"Yes-" I whimper and then gasp when I feel the familiar, delicious stretch of him.

I grip the sheets as he grips my hips harshly, slowly entering me.

"Fuuuck," He strains out, and I can picture the vein in his neck protruding, wishing I could lick it.

He fills me completely, his hips flush against my ass. I whimper as I feel him buried deep inside me, hitting a sensitive spot that turns my legs into jelly.

He begins guiding me in a gentle rhythm, slow and deliberate, determined to make this last. His thrusts are deep, intentionally angling down to hit the spot that he knows makes me see stars.

"You feel so fucking good, so deep," I praise him and he slightly picks up the pace.

My core tightens around him involuntarily and he hisses, his grip on my hip becoming almost painfully tight.

"Fuck, don't do that. I'll come too fast," He pulls back slightly, trying to steady himself.

"I don't care," I push back against him again, just wanting to feel him.

He curses under his breath, his hands firm on my hips to stop my movements. He pulls me up by my hair, my back against his chest now and I laugh maniacally before moaning at the fresh angle.

"Must you always be so defiant?" His breath is hot against my ear and I can't help the grin on my face. I love getting him riled up.

"I like it when you push me around," I admit, my voice dripping with playful challenge.

He releases his grip on my hair, and I catch myself on my hands, bracing for whatever comes next.

"Yeah? You like it when I'm rough?" He presses, his voice low and taunting.

"Mhm," I hum pressing my hips back again but he pulls out, leaving me feeling empty.

I go to whine in protest but I'm shut up with the hardest slap of the night, right on top of the red mark he left before.

I cry out and bury my face into the sheets again, but quiver with longing for more.

"That's what you wanted, right?" He continues to taunt and spanks me again but this time, on the other side.

I moan and go to rub my clit for some sort of relief but he grabs both my wrists, knocking me down further.

Another smack. I groan this time in frustration.

He gathers my wrists in one hand as I feel him lean over me. His hand sneaks around to find my neck as he presses his mouth against my ear.

"Are you just that fucking desperate?" He queries, his fingers pressing into my pulse points, just enough for my head to lighten.

"Please, Matt." I plea, but don't exactly know what I'm pleading for.

"What's the matter, baby, you can't handle it anymore? Thought you liked me pushing you around," He tuts.

His free hand lifts my hips before he teases my entrance with his tip and I let out a shaky breath.

"Hm? Nothing to say?" He pushes his tip in but pulls back and I whine at the teasing.

He releases my neck to brush my hair away so he can see the side of my face. A reminder that he's still the caring Matt I love.

"Just fuck me, please," I beg and he sighs deeply.

"You're so fucking lucky I love you,” he says through his teeth before he drives into me again in one swift motion.

Both of us moan in relief, the tension finally being broken.

He grinds his hips down into me teasingly and my eyes roll back at the intense, tight angle.

I feel his body heat leave my back as he straightens out behind me. Placing his hands on my lower back, he leans forward causing my back to arch before slamming into me. Again and again and again.

Each breath is knocked out of me, and each blow is deeper than the last, discovering a new spot inside of me and pushing me closer and closer to the edge. His pace quickens with every approving sound I make, answering me with his own moans of approval.

He turns me onto my back, staying inside me, wrapping my leg around his waist before leaning forward to kiss me slowly.

"Mm, missed your face," he admits softly, his thrusts starting off slow but steadily increasing momentum. "Wanna see that pretty face when I make you come," he coos, and I shriek at a particularly hard thrust that sends me further up the bed.

He watches my face the entire time, studying every furrow, every eye roll, mirroring my expressions as if he can feel everything he is doing to me.

I can tell he's trying to distract himself, to last longer, slowing down to kiss me and then picking up the pace.

My second orgasm build-up is slower and more subtle. It almost comes out of nowhere, but he knows my body so well. He reaches down to stimulate my clit, deepening his strokes, driving me to the brink.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh-" My back arches, and my ears ring as my orgasm rips me apart.

"Good girl, fucking come for me–oh fuck. I'm coming–I'm gonna come. W-where do you want me to-" He rushes out, as my pussy continues to spasm around him.

Through my haze, I push my heels into his hips and grab the back of his neck.

"I-inside, come inside me," I pant and he shudders, whimpering.

"Oh my–fucking, fuck," He strains as he comes and I moan at the feeling of him filling me up.

He pushes as deep as he can inside me, and the aftershocks of my orgasm milk him further causing him to hiss.

He collapses into my collarbone, his hair drenched in sweat as he takes a moment to regain strength.

I place a hand in his hair and scratch his back lightly as we settle into a steady breathing rhythm.

"Holy fuck," he says eventually into my neck, laughing a little and I giggle too.

"Wait, wait don't laugh-" He pulls away with his face scrunched and I realize he's still inside me.

He hisses again in sensitivity, looking down at where we're connected before pulling out of me carefully. I whimper at the feeling and he softly apologizes.

I feel his come leak out of me and I watch his expression falter for a second as he notices the sight.

"Fuck me," he says under his breath, shaking his head and I bite my lip to stop myself from giggling.

I slowly reach my hand down to play with myself and his eyes widen as he quickly grabs my hand to stop me.

"Are you trying to kill me tonight? No, I'm cleaning you up and we're going to bed. Stay right there, don't fucking move." He gets up, pointing at me as he walks away.

I cover my mouth and laugh at his reaction. He comes back with a wet washcloth, using it to wipe me carefully.

He huffs out again, shaking his head and I give him a knowing look.

"Devil woman, don't look at me like that." He tries to sound stern, but his voice cracks with nerves.

"I love you," I tell him, meaning it. His eyes soften and he leans over me, a hand on either side of my head. He scans my face, a soft smile carves into his face before he leans down to kiss me.

"We really need our own place," he says when he pulls back and my stomach flips.

"What was that?" I ask him with wide eyes.

"I said we really need a shower, c'mon," He lies, laughing as he tries to pull me up but I'm tugging him back towards me.

'Hey, get back here. That's not what you said," I laugh at his antics but he runs away towards the bathroom before I hear him call back.

"I plead the fifth!"

[always-just-red]

Hey, a fluff scenario for cuddling with Rafayel? Thank you 🐡✨

This one really got away from me ahaha, whoops. There's also a moment where my fine art degree really leaps out, so look forward to that, everyone. My first time writing for Raf - thank you anon!!

Perspective

Rafayel x Reader 🎨

Summary: You've spent two hours preparing a meal for Rafayel, and he has absolutely no intention of sitting down to it.

Genre: fluff fluff FLUFF!

Warnings/Additional tags: established relationship, cuddling, kisses, lots of intimacy tbh (soft, not spicy!)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Thirty minutes. You and Thomas had spent thirty minutes on the phone trying to figure out where your boyfriend actually was. Half an hour of he’s not with you? and no, I thought he was with you!— back and forth, like a metronome, and it wasn’t exactly the first time, either.

You’re seasoned investigators at this point: called constantly out of retirement for one last job you swear you’re too old for, and yet you know is never going to really be the last. You’ve already got matching t-shirts printed for the tortured agent’s next birthday: ‘Special Unit: Find Rafayel.’ (He won’t find it half as funny as you do.)

Neither of you had heard from the artist since Tuesday, and— it being Friday— he was either in his studio, painting, or definitely dead. It fell within your jurisdiction to find out, so you’d driven here two hours ago, texting Thomas upon arriving:

He's alive!! 🥳🥳🥳

You’re less excited about it now.

Stood at Rafayel’s kitchen island, you lay out the last of the buffet you’ve prepared to try to entice him away from his art. It’s worked in the past: has seen him sniff the air and follow his stomach to whatever you were cooking, like a stubborn stray cat.

“C’mon, Raf,” you call out, because he’s not taking the bait. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Not hungry!”

Your fists ball around the cutlery you’re setting down on the marble; he’s not eaten for three days. You glance up at him across the open space of his home, taking a deep breath through your nose as you watch him scrawl away at his painting. Somewhere in your mind, Thomas is speaking. This is what you signed up for, remember?

Reluctantly, you cross between the rooms, folding your arms as you come up behind Rafayel. “Raf,” you insist again, “come and sit down. Please? You need to eat something.”

“I’m fiiiiiine.” His paintbrush drags viridian over the lower third of his piece.

“You’re not fine,” you huff, and he doesn’t respond. “Rafayel.”

“Rafayel?” he mimics with a chuckle. “You’re mad.”

He’s ‘Rafayel’ in only two types of circumstance: when he’s making you really, really happy, or he’s making you consider the career-leap between bodyguard and assassin. It’s an extraordinarily thin line, and he just loves walking the tightrope.

“I’m not mad, just worried. Can’t you come eat with me? Your painting isn’t going anywhere.”

“It’s not,” he agrees, smoothing out a stroke of paint, “but what about my inspiration?”

“That’ll be waiting for you, too.”

“You think?” His lips curve as he pensively pokes at them with the wooden end of his brush. “I guess you did spend a lot of time cooking, huh? And if you’re really that worried, then…” He spins around with wide eyes. An epiphany. “Feed it to me?”

You stare back, unmoved by the puppy-like expression. He looks cute, yeah, but you’re not falling for it again. This is exactly how he looked earlier, when you’d convinced him to at least accept a glass of water. You’d almost drowned him in your subsequent efforts to actually get it down his throat.

Rafayel mixes three colours on his palette as you relive the ordeal. Like the once-white of his shirt, it’s awash with vibrant greens and blues, some fresh, some days-old. He pauses when he’s done, but you can tell he’s itching to get back to the canvas. “Give me, like… half an hour?” he estimates. The number’s been plucked from thin air. “The food’s gonna be delicious, even if it’s cold. You made it!”

“Raf, I—”

“And how can I even enjoy it if I’m racing to get back here? I wanna savour it, y’know? And anyway…” he trails off, his attention drawn by something above.

“Yeah?” you prompt, glancing upwards. There’s nothing there.

His gaze snaps back. “Sorry, the ceiling was doing something weird. But yeah, anyway, it’s not like you have to— I mean, it’s not like I’m going to— wait. What were we talking about again?”

Not much surprises you these days, but your mouth is still agape. Enough is enough. “Put the paintbrush down. You’re done.”

He nonchalantly returns to the painting. “I’m really not, though.”

You narrow your eyes. Reassess. “You were right about the ceiling.”

“Yeah?” He looks up.

You snatch the paintbrush. “Ha!”

He blinks blankly at you and your eagerly-clutched trophy, unfazed by the moment of triumph. “Cute trick,” he shrugs. He runs a finger across the palette and applies the new colour to the painting with a quick sweep. “What’s next, Miss Bodyguard? You gonna cut off my ha— ow, ow, ow! Hey! Take it easy!”

You’re pinching his ear, dragging him wordlessly to the kitchen, because you're out of things to say.

“Fine. Fine!” he groans as he tries to keep up with you. You release him and he straightens, his face pink, but not as pink as his ear. “You win! Let’s just get this over with, yeah?”

You stop dead in your tracks, then turn with a look so cold he couldn’t melt it with all of his fire.

“I mean— ahaha,” he laughs nervously, rubbing his neck. “It smells amazing, cutie. You’re amazing. I can’t wait.”

…

Rafayel sits back on his stool, still staring at his painting. The mood is different from earlier. There’s no more restlessness or impatience; he isn’t in a rush. He’s humming a soft song you’re almost certain you’ve heard before, but you can’t quite place the melody. It’s pretty, though: the sort of tune one might recall from a childhood music box, or maybe even a dream.

There’s a clink as you stack two finished plates. Then another. And another.

“Don’t,” Rafayel says quietly, catching your hand before you can collect the plate nearest to him. “I’ll do it later— promise. Sit with me?”

You were never going to say no, but his hands are on your hips before you can say yes, and he’s turning you gently— pulling you up onto his lap. You smile as his arms wrap around you, keeping you from slipping, and he’s warm as you relax back against him.

“What do you think?” he asks, staring out over your shoulder.

Your gaze follows his to the painting, still waiting for him. “It’s okay.”

“Oh yeah?” You can feel him chuckle before it reaches your ears.

“Yeah,” you confirm with a smile, shifting to face him as much as you can. “Kinda pales in comparison to my favourite masterpiece. This one,” you poke two fingers to his chest. “Right… about—” they walk higher, “—here!”

You boop his nose and he immediately scoffs, his face going red. “Sheesh,” he mumbles, unable to meet your eyes. “That was lame.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Am not!”

He squirms as you laugh and try to touch his cheeks; they’re going to feel hot, and he’s a sore loser. His hands don’t manage to capture yours, so they settle for finding your hips again, swivelling you around until you’re trapped by his embrace. You’re both one misjudged move away from toppling to the floor, so you let him keep his victory. What’s left of his dignity, too.  

Your laughter rescinds like a tide, but the quiet is far from empty.

“C’mon,” Rafayel tries again. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, nudging your head, urging you to look forward. His hair is feather-soft on your skin, and he peppers chaste kisses along the line of your jaw. “Tell me. What do you see?”  

You hum contentedly. “A painting.” You’re not thinking about it at all; your eyes are closed.

“And?”

“A plant. A sofa. Some curtains,” you recall.

“You know what I meant,” he grins against you.

You lean back with a sigh, no longer supporting your own weight, but sinking into him with trust and begrudging compliance. It’s not bad, as surrenders go. He gives you a squeeze of encouragement and your head rolls back, stopping at his shoulder. His breath is skirting over your cheek, just barely.

You open your eyes and really look at the painting.

“It’s beautiful, Raf,” you murmur. It is; it was always going to be. “Everything you do is beautiful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, “I know.” But he wants more. “Does it make you think of something, maybe? Anything?”

There’s no right or specific answer. This isn’t remotely your field of expertise, and you’re oceans apart sometimes, so he has to outstretch a hand. Two viewpoints. Two sides of a coin; you never should have seen each-other.

Your life is hunting monsters, and his is finding beauty in a world where they exist. It’s not what you see, it’s how you see it. Crimson to him is a sunset; to you it’s blood.  

Something in you aches as your eyes roam over his latest work. He won’t tell you what it’s meant to be, not really: that’s a private understanding between him and the canvas, his heart and every stroke of paint. Does it make you think of something? Though the marks are fixed, they’re somehow fluid. The emerald tones are marred by shadows, as though something’s lurking beneath the surface, but there are traces of white, too. Light: shimmering.

“Reflections,” you finally answer. “Scattered to anonymity by a now turbulent lake. They belonged to something else, once, but they’ve taken a new shape— a restless and ever-changing identity— and no-one knows what it is, let alone what it was.”

With a satisfied smile, you close your eyes. That ought to keep him quiet for a minute.

Sure enough, Rafayel is silent. You don’t have to see his crystalline eyes to know they’re set on the painting, soaking it in with a new perspective. His favourite perspective: yours.

You have never been strangers to each-other. Two sides of a coin are still the same coin.

With a light laugh of surprise, he plants a kiss on your shoulder. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For taking care of me.” He’s nuzzling into you again. “I know I can be—”

“A pain in the ass?”

He laughs louder. “I was gonna say eccentric.”

“Oh…” You draw air through your teeth. “Yeah. That’s what I meant.”

Your voice is humourless, your face plain. It lasts all of two seconds, and then the charade is falling to pieces; he’s nibbling at your ear, your neck, and it tickles mercilessly. You giggle, but you don’t try to escape. The punishment fits the crime, and who are you to deny him his justice?

You’re quickly running out of breath, so Rafayel ceases his assault, letting you get it back. “Can I look at you now?” you ask.

He clicks his tongue. “I’ll allow it.”

You shift and he lifts you a little— helping you twist around to face him. He smiles fondly as he links his hands behind you, stopping you from falling as you lean back to enjoy the view. It’s the best kind of smile: one that reaches his eyes and makes them sparkle, like the water in the painting, but infinitely more pretty.

You want to feel that smile on your lips, so you lean in and kiss him.

It’s tender and perfect and when you’re done, you snuggle closer, wrapping your arms around him and nestling like you’ll be staying there for a while. You can hear his heart, and though a part of it is in his painting, the rest is with you. Always with you.

“Shouldn’t you get back to your work?” you ask as you think of it, smiling into his shirt. He won’t— not tonight.

“Nah,” he says, running his fingers through your hair. “It can wait.”

[the-kr8tor]

lavender + ❣️ with Jason todd where they are at the manor after being out ( prob shopping or smth) and he confesses his love bc a bunch of guys were asking for readers number but she turned them all down and he wanted to be hers and was tired of guys bothering his (soon to be) girl. Hopefully this makes sense lol but you totally don't have to do this. I love you and hope you have an amazing week!! 😘😘

Yay a Jason req! Thank you for being patient! I hope you like your potion 🩷

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem! Reader/ Red Hood x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.7k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, CW food mention, Best friends to lovers, Fluff

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

Jason has been uncharacteristically quiet the entire drive to the manor. He doesn't even tap his fingers to the rhythm of the radio playing a cheesy pop song that he keeps telling you that he doesn't like. With one hand he steers the wheel while his elbow rests on the window sill. It's a cool afternoon in Gotham, orange and pink hues shifting along the clouds, the road is still wet from the downpour a few hours ago. His drenched jacket that he used to shield you both from the rain hangs over the backseat.

You watch him with pensive eyes, wracking your brain as to why he's so quiet when he was such a chatterbox back when he was driving to the grocery store. You've almost forgotten what he was talking about, mind reeling from the conclusion that you might've done something to agitate your best friend. Maybe you shouldn't have volunteered to go on a grocery run when Alfred asked, especially that you and Jason planned to hang out at your place. Biting the inside of your cheek, you try to remember what happened at the store to warrant such a stifling silence from Jason— Well, he opened the door for you while he was talking about that new book he was so excited to read. Then he grabbed a cart, pushed it while you had your hand on the end, guiding him, and all the while you two kept chattering on the aisle, taking stuff that was on Alfred's list. And then that was it. Nothing special happened, well except for that one guy with a nice smile who asked you where the cereal was. And that one dude who helped you take the can of beans from the highest shelf while Jason was weighing the blueberries.

You must've looked quite agitated or even constipated because it's now Jason's turn to worry.

“Are you okay? You look like you need to take a shit.” He glances briefly to you, green eyes hiding an emotion you're still trying to ascertain.

“Am I okay? Jay, you're the one who's been silent the entire way.” He enters the manor's gates, shrugging at your words. “We can still hang out at my place after this. I'm sorry we wasted an afternoon buying Damian's sweets.”

There's a small smile on his lips, “that kid eats too much sugar.” Clicking his seatbelt off, he opens the door with a groan, you surmise that his healing knee is still bothering him.

You sigh, getting more anxious at his dodging. Before you could open the door for yourself, you find Jason outside of your door, opening it for you. “C’mon, Jay, talk to me.” Tugging at the hem of his shirt, you smile up at him. “Is it because I ate the donut you left in my fridge?”

Jason furrows his brows, lips pursed, trying not to laugh. “That was yours, babe, I left it for you.”

You blink, hand drifting away from his shirt. He already misses your hold on him. “Oh, thanks.”

“You and Dami share a sweet tooth, so I got it for you.” He leans down, arm placed atop the car, eyes soft and tender. “But thank you for confessing your sins.”

You can't help but ogle at how he looks from below. “...yeah, sure, Jay.” You say in a small tone. It's not the nickname that has you all giddy inside, you're used to his sweet nicknames that he has bestowed upon you. No, it's the thought that he left you a treat because he knows how much you love that triple chocolate donut that has you bouncing off the walls after eating it.

So it's not the donut, then why the hell does he have a stick up his finely toned ass?

Jason leaves your side, the cologne you bought him lingering around you. He opens the trunk, carrying every single plastic bag with both hands. You finally stand up after being weak in the knees after the simple look he gave you. Walking towards him to help, he's already halfway inside the mansion before you could grab a few bags from him. Knowing him, it's all effortless. Well, at least he left you one tiny bag that only contains two boxes of cereal— one regular wheat and one that has your tooth rotting just from looking at the bright colors. With a sigh, you grab it and follow him inside and towards the kitchen.

The plastic bags rustle as he takes out all the groceries. It's filled with fresh vegetables, fruits, sugar and all the food that a vigilante needs for patrol. You put your singular bag on the counter next to the others, helping him take out the rest while he still stands there all quiet and broody. In the low light of the kitchen you can clearly see that Bruce has definitely made a big influence on him.

You put your foot down, knees up on the stool to level with him, hands placed on the cold marble countertop as he raises a curious brow at you. “What's up, Jay?”

“What's up?” He mimics your tone. “Nothing, babe, just taking out the groceries.” You take the can of beans from his hand and then you place it loudly on the counter while you take a stance against the red hood who makes goons cower in fear just from his stare. “You really want to know?”

“Yes!” You exclaim, reaching over the counter to grab his hand. Wordlessly telling him that you're there for him whatever kind of problem has plagued him recently.

Jason watches as your fingers dance along his scarred palm, kneading his muscles just like you always do whenever he drops in your apartment after a tough patrol. He was so sure that he had gathered enough courage to tell you, but now that you have your hands around his own, all his bravery is down the drain.

He sucks in his teeth, leaning down, elbows atop the counter, green eyes staring anywhere near your eyes, and then he places a quick kiss along your knuckles. Warmth soothing you, almost making you forget what you were asking for.

Defeated, you cup his jaw, thumb running along his growing stubble, fingers reaching behind his ear to rub lovingly across his nape. “Okay, it's okay if you don't want to tell me. But I'll be here if you want to tell me.” You smile when he leans against your touch, eyes looking at you with such fondness that you almost melt on the spot.

Jason rationalizes his thoughts, the same thoughts that have plagued him for years, the same thoughts that he has dreamed of telling you. “It’s not the donut.”

“Of course it's not the donut.” You chuckle, fingers still tangled in his hair.

“And it's not because of the trip to the grocery store.” His eyes flick over to yours, smiling softly at how you look back at him with the same fondness. “I liked our trip, I kept imagining that we were buying stuff for our place.”

“Do you want more hangouts like that then? You can join me in going to my laundry place. We can watch the clothes tumble and dry like a couple of old people.” Your waist is cold against the counter, but you don't mind as long as he's there with you. “How's that sound?”

“Sounds great. I'll bring the spare change.” You chuckle, after a beat, you thought that was the end of it, but Jason looks like he still wants to say something else— so you stay rooted in place. “But that's not the reason.”

“Okay,” you nod, encouraging him to continue. He gives you his other hand to hold, fingers beckoning your touch. You indulge him, leaving his hair to hold his hand.

“It's that fucking guy.” He blurts out. “Guys.” He corrects himself.

“What guys?”

“The ones who were asking for your number.”

You blink, trying to recall. “I don't remember that.”

“Come on, Y/N.” He squeezes your hands as if that will help you remember them. “The tall blonde guy and the one with the uncanny smile. Just thinking about that grin gives me the creeps.”

“Oh,” you know Jason enough to actually know what he means. “Yeah, I actually remember now. What about them?”

He scoffs, acting like you caught his hand in the cookie jar. “They were bothering you is all. I was just worried for you.”

You nod, hands sliding from his own. For a moment, Jason thinks you're about to go off on him, telling him that you can handle yourself or that you can give your number to whoever the hell you want to. Because who is he to tell you who to date? It's not like you're together, right? But is it wrong that he wants to?

His thoughts get thrown out of the window when you hold his face, soft palms against his rough skin, thumb tracing along the scar on his cheek. It's all affectionate, loving, and it has Jason's heart pumping a thousand times per second.

You smile, head tilting, staring at how his eyes glow under the kitchen lights. It's mundane, but you love him like this, just like how you love him in any way shape or form. You love your best friend. “You're an idiot, Jason Todd.” Your smile gets bigger, he frowns, fearing the worst. “You know that I'm in love with you, right?”

Jason's worried eyes light up, not a trace of his worries, just you in his vision, bathed in the light of his home. “Now I do.” He chuckles, mirroring your position, holding your face in his hands, gentle, like how you'd hold a delicate feather. Placing his forehead atop yours, he says the three words back. “I love you. I'm sorry it took this long.”

Jason leans away, eyes staring at your lips before watching your heart shaped eyes look at him. “That's my girl.” Tilting his head back, you chase his lips, grabbing his collar to do what you've always wanted to do.

“I don't blame you, it took me a while too.” You sniff, refusing to let the tears escape you. “By the way, I never gave them my number.”

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

do you fancy a quickie? word count: 2,5k cw: shameless smut, viktor is a tease (everybody act surprised), no use of y/n, reader is reffered to as spouse. what else? ah yes. semi-public sex.

art cr: @arcanescribbles. saw her viktor in formal wear and instanly knew i had to write something mentioning it. *standard 'english is not my first language please don't be mean to me' bullshit*

It felt immaculate. The languid wince of bright eyes, the smirk you were wearing — chiselled just perfectly precisely for a moment like this, as if you were an inborn heartthrob rejecting unfortunate suitors left and right — a natural, if you will. 

“I appreciate the compliment,” you started from a far, making sure — patently by total accident — to casually snake a dextrous hand up your chest, resting it right above your cleavage — just where that fool’s eyes were devouring you. “But I am simply not interested. I’m married.”

You’re savoring the drop of his face when he notices the ring. You just wiped a grin off a man’s face with class — surely, that must’ve felt spectacular, and you rejoiced when he hummed — suddenly all clumsy and simply pitiful — and, with a rather impolite mumble of a sharp ‘excuse me’, walked away, leaving you all proud and unapproachable. Yeah, that’s right. Don’t ask me for a hand in a dance, gentlemen — because someone has already put a ring on it. 

You got back to chugging on your champagne, lips tightly closed around the rim of that ridiculously fancy glass, although it matched the ridiculously fancy gown you were impressing the so-called select society with tonight. And it actually worked (or so it seems),  since you managed to strike the fancy of the mentioned earlier tipsy sir, who were now pouting his lips like an offended child, turning his subtle drunkenness into a full-blown intoxication; squinting, and ranting, and swallowing yet another drink as he kept whining about your flawless rejection to a bunch of sympathetic peers. 

But you couldn’t care less — not when you were just minutes away from leaving this bougie ballroom behind, with all its curious glances and endless mingling; so many faces, when you only wanted to stare into the sharpness of one — with two moles piercing the pale canvas of skin and cheekbones hollow enough to stroke a soft finger over the lines of them, demanding a kiss. You sigh — almost dreamily in the way your head wearily leans its weight onto the back of your palm. So cliché, but who are they to blame you? Not when your husband is such a sight, and certainly not when your husband is such a sound — raspy, low, and, frankly – simply hot, and you giggle at the thought, sinking two front teeth into the pad of your thumb. 

You barely understand a word when Viktor tells the inquisitive Upsiders about the Hexclaw glove, yet still absorb each moment of his speech with tender thoroughness, because listening to him talk — about anything, really — is a privilege, one you cherished dearly and with genuine care. You were an admirer, watching him — all intelligent and so pensive, in that suit, with that raw passion in the depth of copper eyes, on that stage. And comprehension is not necessary — not when you see how talking about his inventions lights him up; so bright, that he could easily outshine the golden boy. In your loving eyes, at the very least. 

He notices when you join the round of enthusiastic applause, quietly thanking his audience for the attention — pensive and polite, so uniquely pretty in his demureness. It feels like showing him off, and that grin stretches even further across your face when he goes down the stage to walk up in your direction. 

You’re not subtle with that kiss. Pulling on his tie, shamelessly pushing your tongue into his mouth, knowing that they stare, and when Viktor — all wide-eyed and smitten — reciprocates, humming into the heat of your lips, you’re gone. He’s breathless when it’s over, arches a thick eyebrow in a curious manner, sinking your proud expression in. 

“What was that for?” he chuckles, feeling the damage done to his bottom lip with your teeth. 

“Can’t I kiss my husband simply because I felt like it?” you purr in response, greedily eyeing him. 

He laughs. You stroke a hand over the rise of his chest, and he clutches his cane — the pretty one for special occasions, with elegant carving and gilding. 

A thin arm wrapped around your waist coaxes you to jump off the stool, allowing him to steal an embrace. Can’t resist Viktor in a suit. In his other attire too, of course, but god does he look spectacular all dressed up. It’s almost like he was made for all the blazers, vests, and ironed shirts — an inborn gentleman, sickeningly handsome.  

His gaze travels down, to the oh so taunting cut of the silky dress: a peek of garter holding the elegant stocking, and you notice just how he relentlessly fails not to drool over you too shamelessly.

“How was my, er, speech?” he asks, practically forcing himself to rip those eyes off your hip. “I suppose it went rather well — very laconically, if I do say so myself. However, I’m afraid that Jayce is much more natural when it comes to keeping the audience entertained.”

“I was too busy listening to you to pay much attention to the golden boy,” you confess, straightening his vest for him — another excuse to touch him, but Viktor decides to touch you instead.

“That is rather disrespectful,” he scoffs, gently capturing your wrist into the warmth of his hand, and before you can react — presses a chaste kiss to the back of your palm. Damn him and his gentlemanly tricks. 

“Perhaps,” you shrug, giggling when his breath tickles your knuckles. “But you did amazing. Truly.”

“I am flattered,” he acknowledges, letting go of your wrist. His touch lingers there — warm and domestic, a wordless way of returning the courtesy. “I hope that my brief absence didn’t bore you too much?”

“Not in the slightest,” you assured him with a wry smile, and he met your words with another inquisitive hum. “Some very persistent gentleman kept trying to convince me that I need an interlocutor.”

“Is that so?” the inventor asked, evidently amused by your revelation. “And just how did that go for him, may I ask?”

“He was heartbroken to hear that I was married, you see,” you sigh, and your lips protrude into a pout — one of fake, rather comical sympathy.

“What a pity,” Viktor retorted, blessing your ears with that low, raspy laugh of his. “I hope the news didn’t crush him.” 

“Ah, don’t even bother. You hope they did.”

“What an accusation,” he exclaims, and your hands ache to strangle him with that pretty tie. “Though not an entirely unreasonable one, I must admit.”

“My point exactly,” you bite back, and your arms rush to be wrapped around the bastard's neck, chest pressed flush to his, heartbeats mingling into a mess of thuds. 

Sinewy fingers don’t hesitate to slip into the cut of your dress. They also don’t falter to cautiously crawl into the band of your stocking, almost forcing you to whimper his name into the crook of his neck — an indirect plea to proceed in private. 

“Such a mouthy thing,” Viktor whispers, and you’re done with him, almost ready to demand he bends you over in front of those very Topsiders. “Just what shall I do with you, hm?” 

He’s hard against your thigh, even a hint of friction has him jolting, hissing a quiet curse into your mouth when he occupies it with a kiss again — one too lewd to be appropriate for public eyes. 

“You should steal me away,” you suggest, staring into the madness of heavy eyes piercing yours. “For some fresh air, of course.”

“Fresh air?” he mocks, shaking his head in fake disapproval. “Is that the only reason? Not that I’m reluctant to be alone with you — quite the opposite, actually. I simply doubt that it’s the real, eh… purpose of the encounter you’re suggesting.”

Fuck’s sake. He’s utterly incorrigible. Thanks Janna you love this man. 

You sigh, struggling to suppress the urge to slap him. 

“Do you fancy a quickie?” you finally surrender, knowing damn well that out-smartassing Viktor is simply impossible. Besides — the way his lips stretch into a thin handsome line feels greater than any meaningless pleasure a well-aimed smart comment could ever bring.

It feels even better when his mouth hovers above your ear, purring a sweet, “I most certainly do.”

***

You squeak when he presses you against the cool bathroom wall, and a cautious hand cradles the back of your head, preventing it from repeating the dreary fate of his cane, which had just hit the floor with a loud thud. You, on the other hand — no pun intended, of course — are not that careful with your limbs, fingers already tangled into his hair, messing up its unusually neat style. He’s kissing you with desperation: rush didn’t leave him any time for hesitation, but you’ll gladly take him like this — all frantic, cock an aching swell inside his finest dress pants. 

“Darling,” he keens, licking at the fresh proof of his lust after you, as if trying to soothe the pain from his teeth needling into the softness of your neck. 

“Yes?” you breathe out, thoughts a mush of smutty images, but the limited privacy of this bathroom is not enough for a full-course debauchery. They call it a quickie for a reason. 

His hand slips under your gown, shamelessly kneading the plumpness of ass, ready to free you of the lace underwear. 

“No,” you pull away, shaking your head with a sharp inhale. “We don’t have time for this.” Your outfit is too impractical to allow him the pleasure of undressing you even partially, even though you’d love to let him have his way with you.

“But, beloved, isn’t that what we’re here for?” he protests, but you shut him up with another kiss, and, while he suffocates against your mouth, smoothly turn him around, firmly capturing between the wall and your softly pushed between his legs knee.

“I had other plans,” you reply, kissing down his jugular — some brief foreplay before abruptly sinking down.

“Oh,” he lets out a shaky laugh, leaning that bright head against the wall, but his eyes never leave yours — they attentively follow your every motion, carnal need thickly seeping out of them. “You’ll get on your knees for me? In that dress? My, I might’ve done something good in my past life.” 

“Will you please shut up?” you snarl, fighting with the buttons of his pants, and he nods, figuratively zipping his mouth with one dextrous move of a hand, informing you that his lips are sealed. Viktor knows better than to talk back to a person who’s about to suck him off. Teeth are a rather dangerous weapon.

He tenses up when you tease the head of his cock — slightly swollen flesh a pretty shade of pink, so sensitive that it twitches against the warmth of your fingers when you wrap them around the hilt.

He goes quiet, but not purely for the sake of not getting caught. He watches you in fascination: mouth forms a silent ‘ah’ the second you dip your tongue into the slit, and precum coats its tip, all sticky and bitterish. You both know he won’t last long — your next ministration proves it, relentlessly riding him of his wits. 

You kiss at his shaft with tenderness, to the point when it becomes barely palpable, so he squirms, demanding the resumption, and you can’t help but smile against the velvety skin of his tip. Pearly liquid clings to your bottom lip, forming a translucent trail — a mixture of him mingled with your saliva; just enough lubrication to slip lower, licking at the sensitive frenulum. Viktor lets out an illegible sound — you recognise a keen of your name in it, and it earns him one languid stroke — just the tiniest mercy. 

“Don’t you just love to torture me?” he sighs, looking down — all vulnerable and pretty, weak knees threatening to start trembling any second. 

“I’m only using your weapons against you,” a sweet reproach rolls of the very tongue you’re tormenting him with, and he swallows the most delicious whimper when you swirl it around the tip — once, twice, but thrice is what finally has him slapping a palm over his open mouth to muffle a dirty moan. 

He abstains from grabbing a handful of your hair, reluctant to ruin its whimsical style — because at least one of the spouses has to be an actually considerate lover. His long legs are struggling to keep in place, relentlessly spreading apart with each bob of your head — but he’s leaned against the wall securely enough not to fall. 

You swallow around him in a rather messy rhythm, but it still manages to reduce Viktor to a mush of babbles and incoherent praises. You have him by the balls — quite literally, because your free from squeezing his width hand is cruel enough to knead them, dragging more throaty sounds of pleasure out the thrusting into your mouth man. 

You’re fucking him with skill, painfully aware of just what goes through his head in this exact moment: that orgasm will be intense enough to hurt, making him wish you’d rather proceeded with those teasing licks and fleeting kisses. His hips jerk when you suppress the gag, taking him whole, not a single inch left without your thorough attention. Even the hand shoving those moans back into his lungs doesn’t stop him from letting out the most embarrassingly high-pitched keen — it breaks free when he coats your tongue in warm spurts of thick cum. You stick it out, allowing him a pornographic view of exactly what he’d just done to you, and he almost sobs, completely forgetting about his initial intentions of keeping quiet. 

“Gods a-above,” he stutters, suffocating like he’s the one whose mouth was just frantically fucked, wiping his release off your lips with his trembling thumb — a gesture of gratitude, tender in comparison to the curses he was panting just seconds ago. 

The air is thick with the smell of sex, raunchy enough for anyone who decides to walk into this bathroom to meticulously define what the two of you had just committed in it. Even getting off your knees and tucking him back into his pants wouldn’t help your condition — the pure way Viktor looks at you right now makes it all appallingly obvious. One doesn’t need to become a witness of the intercourse itself to confidently state “They’ve just fucked, Your Honor.” It’s written on both of your faces, on the mess of his hair, and, of course — on the burning under the thin material of stockings redness of your knees. 

You accept his touch, swallowing the remnants of his climax still covering your tired tongue, and he sighs, engraving the sight into his mind — probably to get off to the thought of it someday. But you decide not to tease him about it. You’re not that evil after all. 

You’ve never stormed out of the bathroom so fast before, all trembling limbs and nasty giggles —  the afterglow of your shared secret, dirty enough to banish Viktor from the Academy. 

He’ll recall it later, most definitely next Progress Day, when you’ll wrap those impatient arms around his neck, whispering a famous “Do you fancy a quickie?” into his ear again. 

Except for this time, your outfit will be easily removable. 

[le-fruit-de-la-passion]

Press One for Love, Two for Regret

Chapter 3

Summary: Proper confessions should never happen over the phone. Viktor knows that. So how did he get here?

Pairing: Viktor x Reader

Word Count: 5.3K

Warning: Mature (mentions of explicit content, explicit in last chapter)

Notes: Yup, this started from a silly lil 1K prompt, don't ask me what happened, I wouldn't be able to say either. This chapter is pretty heavy on feelings, self-reflection and angst, but I think y'all will find it enjoyable ❤️. There's one more chapter left (the SMUT yeehawww), but I've written chapter 3 in a way where you could technically stop reading the story here if you didn't want to read the smut, and it would still be a satisfying conclusion. I know most of you are in it for the smut too, so don't worry my beloveds, it will come 😛💕

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 4/End)

The humanities faculty room always smells horrible.

It's hard to tell where the pungent scent even comes from; it feels like it's in the air, in all the furniture, in the walls themselves. There's no window to even attempt to vent it out either; it’s in the oldest wing of the university, built at least sixty years prior to the construction of every other unit. Most teachers avoid it like the plague, preferring to work in any other available space on campus, so it's almost always empty.

But it isn't today.

“Melllll,” you moan, shoving your face into the leather couch’s pillows. The smell is somehow worse, imbued into the fabric. If you had to describe it, you would just call it old. Like rancid coffee forgotten on the kitchen counter for too long, or ancient damp books abandoned in an attic. Old. “Why do I always mess up everything I do?”

Mel looks up from the paper she's grading with a sigh, adjusting the small reading glasses on her nose.

“You don't mess up everything you do,” she argues softly. “You wear your heart on your sleeve, and you say what you think without feeling ashamed. That's not something for everyone, but it's not a flaw, either.”

You can only groan into the odorous leather as an answer.

Viktor had been your very first friend at work, but he had been a lot more. Without him, you would have never met Jayce, and without Jayce, you would have never met Mel. And you would have no one to cry your woes to on a Friday evening, a whole two weeks after the most disastrous phone call of your life.

“And I believe Viktor is equally at fault here. He knows better than to play hide and seek with you forever,” Mel hums pensively, crossing her legs. Her olive eyes narrow, her nose scrunching up slightly in thought.

“He's stalling, trying to figure a way out without confronting his feelings or yours. He's smart enough to know there isn't one, but he's stubborn,” she points out, tapping her manicured nails on the wooden table. Tic, tic. Like **the sound of seconds passing on the clock, never-ending and all-consuming.

At first, both Jayce Talis, mechanical engineering PhD and researcher, and Mel Medarda, political science PhD with five peer-reviewed books published under her name, had been two extremely imposing people to interact with. You already felt unworthy enough talking to Viktor, but after learning of the kind of people he usually hung out with, you felt like an absolute loser. Jayce and Mel are both unreasonably attractive and accomplished, and when Viktor joins them, there's no denying he belongs to their world, and not yours.

In those moments, the differences between the two of you seem much more glaring: the university professor with a collection of awards and a PhD in biomechanical engineering, who is dedicating his life to creating life-altering prosthetic limbs and transmitting his knowledge to a whole new generation of scientists… and you.

The guidance councillor who can't shut up.

It’s not that you're ashamed of your job; you love what you do. You love being able to help people figure themselves out, and orient them toward what will make them happiest.

But when you stand in the same space as Viktor, it's hard to see anything other than how much greater of a person he is than you will ever be. He's like a star in the sky, shining brighter and brighter every day, and you get the privilege of watching him through the lens of a telescope. That should already be enough for you to be satisfied.

But it isn’t, not anymore. It hasn't been for a long time. And you want to do so much more than look at him. You want to touch him. You want to kiss him. You want to be someone worthy of shining alongside him; but you never believed that would ever happen.

And for so long, it felt so much easier to just date people whose very existence didn't make you feel like you would never be enough to reach their ankle. People who just wanted something casual and meaningless, some sex, maybe the semblance of a romance. And that's how you ended up with a string of disastrous relationships with men you barely even liked.

You contort your body uncomfortably on the couch to face Mel; it squeaks awkwardly under you, like it's threatening to break.

“Did you know? Did everyone but me know?”

She rests her head on her hand, the hint of a smile on her lips, seemingly slightly amused by the question:

“Depends on who you mean by everyone. No one outside his circle of close friends, for sure. He's not the type to scream about his love life over the phone,” she adds with a teasing glim in her eyes. “No offence.”

You groan, shoving your face back into the roughed-up leather. God, it still smells.

“But Jayce did know,” she confirms, and you hear her straighten her chair to return to work. The comforting sound of her fountain pen starts up again, but you know she's still giving her conversation with your full attention. Mel is like that, able to carry on a hundred tasks at once without breaking a sweat; you wish you had an ounce of her composure.

“Viktor told him after he got drunk last year at the faculty cookout. I believe his exact words were…”

She pauses to do a dramatic imitation of Viktor's voice and tone, “‘Jayce, she is wearing that dress just to put me into an early grave’.”

Not only is it pretty accurate, but God, you know exactly what dress.

The skimpy little sunflower dress that you knew showed way too much chest for a work-related event. You had worn it in the hopes of eliciting any sort of reaction from Viktor; but he had barely spoken to you that afternoon, constantly vanishing every time you entered a room. You assumed you made him uncomfortable with something you said, like you always ended up doing with everyone else.

So you had left the party on the arm of some nameless T.A. from the law department, hoping it would help you forget Viktor, just for a while.

It hadn't.

“And I knew,” Mel continues smoothly in her regular voice, “because I know what it's like to want someone to notice you so badly. To want someone to love you back.”

You detect something very personal in the way she pronounces the word ‘love’, almost like it's painful to even say.

Mel rarely talks about herself, preferring to listen to the stories of everyone around her. Everything about her gives an air of mature confidence and independence, and if she ever has any issues in her personal life, she never shares them with you, or anyone that you know of.

She's not cold by any means, and she helps everyone with genuine care, that, you are absolutely certain of. But you can feel there's a side of her she desperately wants to keep to herself. She's only ever mentioned her mother once, in a drunken haze, muttering something under her breath about never being enough for her.

You wonder if that's the person who’s love she’s longing for.

When she speaks again, there is something akin to nostalgia lingering in her voice:

“You get that special look in your eyes. You both looked at each other just like that, but neither of you ever noticed.”

You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes. Fucking ironic. You can never seem to stop talking, but now, the words you want to tell her just won't come.

Mel doesn't seem to mind, though, and the sound of pen scrapping paper picks up again. You force yourself out of your leather cavern, sitting up on the couch to look at her directly.

“…Why didn't you say anything?” you ultimately settle with, but it rings much more fragile and hurt than you wanted it to.

She gives a small shrug without looking away from her documents:

“Not my place to. Viktor needed to confront his feelings head-on, and you needed to realize you were never not enough or too much for him,” she states matter-of-factly, “It's that simple.”

Everything always seems so easy when it comes from Mel's lips. But in your mind, thoughts are jumbled, emotions are running wild, and everything you thought you knew about the last four years is falling apart.

Maybe, that time on New Year’s Eve when he told you there was no other place he'd rather be, he hadn't meant at the party. He had meant with you.

Maybe, when he had taken your hand, it wasn't just because you were excitedly counting down the last seconds until midnight. It was because he wanted to touch you just as much as you wanted to touch him.

Maybe, at the end of that night and in those early morning hours, when he had said you would make someone really happy one day…he was asking if it could be him.

“Maybe,” you **exhale bitterly, enunciating the world like a curse, “it would actually be simple if he just answered my texts, or my calls. Or anything I do to try and reach him.”

Yeah, you're to blame for being so blind for so long. For noticing the smallest things about everyone else, but missing all the signs when it came to him.

But so is he for refusing to talk about it now that you finally see it.

“At this point, I’m seriously starting to consider lock-picking their apartment,” you grumble, more in tiredness than anger; you can't even manage to stay mad at him for longer than a minute. “He’s the one who showed me how to do that, did I ever tell you that?”

She lets out a soft laugh at that; but when she glances over to you, there's a hint of something new in her eyes.

“I'm sure he would enjoy seeing you put your training to use, but there might be another way to see him. I think he's had more than enough time playing hide and seek.”

You know that glint in her forest-green stare; she knows something you don't, and she’s chosen to reveal it to you. You almost jump off the couch with your eyes wide, so quickly you almost lose your balance:

“Mel, what do I do?”

She snorts as she motions for you to sit back down with a calming wave of her hand, amusement clear on her face.

“Calm down. I wouldn't tell anyone about this normally,” she begins, lowering her voice in secrecy, as if you’re not the only two in the room, “and I want to make it very clear you did not receive this information from me.”

You nod eagerly in agreement, hanging on to her every word.

“Go to their apartment,” she declares with certainty. “If you keep going after their door and to the end of the corridor, there's a big potted plant on the window sill. An orchid.”

You frown in confusion.

You've only been to Viktor and Jayce's apartment a few times in the couple of years you've known them. Usually for relaxed group hangouts, or an occasional game night. You remember very little about it other than the all-consuming childish excitement of being in Viktor’s home, and the absolutely not innocent thought of his bedroom being barely a few feet away.

Why don't you ever remember the important things?

You try to muster every memory you have of the apartment complex itself instead; they live on the third floor, and their door is the second one on the right after the elevator. The hallway is a straight, narrow line, and you've noticed how dark it always is every time you’ve visited.

Dark, yes, that's right, because aside from a cheap light fixture, there’s only one window that lets any light into the hallway, at the very end of the corridor. One window, that is almost entirely blocked by the world's most decrepit potted plant.

“The… really ugly one?” you ask with uncertainty.

Mel snaps her fingers in confirmation, a hint of perfect pearly white teeth shining between her lips.

“I think you may find something of interest under it. Jayce told me about it for whenever I want to…” she hesitates on her next word, uncharacteristically a little bashful, “visit.”

Oh, you fucking knew it.

“I totally-” you start triumphantly.

“Yes, I know, you knew it for months,” she interrupts, waving her hand in dismissal. Her lower lip sticks out slightly, almost like she's pouting. You've never seen her this embarrassed. “It's incredible how you notice everything about everyone else, but when it's about you, you suddenly forget how to use your own eyes.”

Touché.

You've sensed it for at least a year now, the unspoken electricity between the two of them. How her arm sometimes lingers just a second too long on his shoulder, how his hands seem to always accidentally brush her waist. For as subtle as they were being, there was no mistaking the fire when they looked at each other.

Did Viktor ever look at you like that, too?

Why hadn't you ever noticed?

“Wait, wait,” you interrupt your own train of thought. “The orchid. Why is the orchid…”

You pause when the realization hits you like a bucket of cold water.

Oh.

Oh.

“Do… do they have a set of keys under the orchid?” you ask slowly.

“I didn't say that,” Mel says, bringing her two hands up in self-defence; but the smile lingering on her lips tells another story. “And if you say I did, I will deny it and throw you under the bus with every inch of my power as the advisor for the debate club. Are we clear?”

You could kiss her.

You settle with a tight hug, holding her with as much force as you can muster. The scent of her perfume, bitter and floral, masks the decrepit smell of the room for just a moment. Is there any problem Mel can’t solve?

“Mel, you're the best,” you grin against her ear.

“So I'm told,” she hums. She gently detaches herself from the hug, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Now go. I don't like seeing you mop around my teacher's lounge, and I can't stand when Viktor performs his little disappearing act instead of talking things out.”

She picks her pen back up, giving you one last genuine look of support, voice soft, sincere: “You two are really meant for each other. Give him hell.”

—

Viktor is much less attentive than people give him credit for.

That’s not to say he’s oblivious or careless. In fact, when it comes to his work, he could instantly notice a tenth of a millimeter discrepancy from a mile away. He could hear the slightest abnormal murmur in the heart of any machine, and pinpoint its exact origin within seconds. Throw a blindfold on top, and he'd still know exactly where to place each and every single component of his prosthetic models.

But when it comes to the world outside his lab, his attention to detail just plummets.

If a bomb went off right outside his apartment, he probably wouldn't even look up from his notes. Jayce usually has to call his name thrice to pull him out of the trance-like state he gets into when he's sketching up a new idea, and that's only because he's used to Jayce's voice; for someone else, he might not hear it at all.

Even walking home from campus, he pays no attention to his surroundings, lost in his thoughts of valves, hydraulic cylinders, and flexion plates. He mechanically follows the same path he's walked thousands of times, a habit so ingrained in him it allows him to fully disconnect and think of nothing but work.

He's glad he has such a strong grip on his own mind, because if he didn't, he would let his practical ideations slowly morph into thoughts of nothing but you. You, who he hasn't seen in two weeks, because he likes to pretend change can't happen if he simply refuses to acknowledge it. It's much better to focus on what he actually has control over, to lose himself entirely in the things that make sense to him. To forget the world burning around him.

And that's exactly why he doesn't realize you’re in his apartment, sitting on his couch about ten feet away from him, until you make a pointed cough to signal your presence.

“Ah,” is the only thing he manages to get out.

He wishes he'd be surprised, but then again, he knew you would find your way to him eventually. He could keep trying to bury himself in work and avoid you with every inch of his power, you would not stop until you got answers to your questions. You’re just as stubborn as he is. That's part of why he fell for you.

So, there's nothing he can do, but let out a defeated sigh.

“I would ask how you got in here,” he starts flatly, taking off his coat robotically to place it on the hanger, “but I have a feeling it doesn't really matter.”

You don't react to his distant, tired tone, your expressive face unusually devoid of emotion when you speak.

“I didn't use your lockpicking lessons, if you're wondering.”

He can't help but snort at that:

“Disappointing.”

You both stay silent as he slowly takes off his boots and removes his wool scarf. The atmosphere isn't exactly awkward, but it's not comfortable either. Like a cheap, stiff version of the warm intimacy you usually share.

You've always been so easy to read, and anything that didn't show on your face always came from your lips. He always knows how you feel: he's observed every single expression on your face, from the slightest pout to the biggest grin, and committed it to memory with the dedication he only ever puts into his projects.

From the day you literally crashed in his life four years ago, utterly drunk and analyzing him with astonishing accuracy, he's felt the need to analyze you, too. To decipher every part of you, understand each component, each reaction. He craved the idea of knowing you like a cartographer knows the maps of the world, like an astronomer knows the place of every star. To understand you as you had understood him, with a single glance.

Right now, he has no idea what you're thinking.

In typical fashion, you're the one who ultimately breaks the ice first:

“You could kick me out,” you declare, staring him down almost challengingly. “I'll leave if you really want me to.”

There's clear apprehension and hurt in your voice, a bitterness you're trying your best to hide, but failing. He despises being the one to make you feel that way. He's become no better than any of your exes.

“We both know I won't do that,” he exhales. He's still standing in the entryway, just a few steps away from the threshold of the living room. There's no hiding anymore, no backing out. You're here, and he has to face you. Even if it breaks him.

“In the kitchen, second drawer on the left,” he says, making his way inside resignedly. “There's a rather large bread knife inside it. It hasn't been sharpened in a while, but it should do.”

Your passive expression falls for a second and you stare at him in confusion.

“Do for what?” you ask, eyebrow raised.

“Killing me to spare us both the embarrassment of this conversation,” he answers unenthusiastically.

You're the one who snorts, this time. If he could forget why you're here, he could almost pretend this is just a regular talk between close friends. Almost.

You get off the couch without hurry, stretching your limbs lazily; he wonders if you've been waiting for him for a while. You're still in your usual work clothes, but your hair is dishevelled, and your makeup is a bit smudged. Had these been different circumstances, this would be the kind of look he would imagine you in when he's alone in bed, but that's exactly the kind of treacherous impulse that's led him to this situation in the first place.

There's a strange shimmer in your eyes when you look at him again:

“You got any booze in that kitchen ?”

He’s starting to realize no matter how many years you give him, he’ll probably never be able to completely figure out what's going on in that brain of yours.

“You want to drink. Right now,” he states in disbelief.

You shrug:

“Seems like you listened to me when I was drunk last time. Maybe that'll get your attention again.”

There's an undeniable bitterness under the light sarcasm. It's deserved, frankly. And maybe a drink would make what's inevitably coming less difficult.

“First cabinet to the right. You can take the clear unlabeled bottle,” he offers.

You hum in approval, making your way to the kitchen without looking back at him. He makes his way to the couch, sitting at the opposite end of where you had been.

You come back with the bottle in one hand, and two mismatched shot glasses in the other. One is his, a souvenir from an academic conference in Marseilles; the silver lettering simply states ‘Ainsi va la vie’, ‘such is life’. He has to wonder if you chose it on purpose, to taunt him.

Although, the other one is Jayce's, and it's shaped like the torso of a woman with huge breasts in a bikini top with the colours of his old college. So it's equally as likely you just grabbed the first ones you found.

He always overthinks when he's anxious.

You put the three items down on the rectangular table in front of him, before sinking into the couch next to him. Your bodies aren't touching, shoulders an adequate distance from each other, but the proximity is still unnerving. The smell of your perfume, usually so comforting, makes him feel slightly ill.

You pour the alcohol into the shot glasses unhurriedly, progressively filling them both to the brim.

“Did you know Mel and Jayce are together?” you ask, not looking up from your task.

“Unfortunately so,” he mutters sourly.

You pause at that, perplexed.

“No, that is not what I meant, I am very happy for them,” he clarifies quickly. “But their decision to keep it a secret has been rather… precarious for me.”

You slide a glass towards him and give him a smile; the first one of the day, the first one in two weeks.

“You walked in on them fucking, didn't you?”

He groans, and you laugh. God, he missed that sound.

“I have never been more embarrassed in my entire life,” he complains, wrapping his hand around the shot glass. He notices with gratitude it's the plain one and not its heavily endowed sibling. “Being able to run had never seemed more appealing.”

You grab your own glass, the smile on your lips genuine, but fragile. The words still left unsaid hang above you both, and he's forced to remember this is but a moment of respite before everything falls apart.

“Maybe a drink will help you forget,” you joke, holding up the glass in his direction.

How he wishes it would.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he simply answers, bringing his glass to yours until they hit with a light clink. “Cheers.”

Your gaze holds his captive as you speak, like you're reaching into the depths of his very being.

“Na zdravià.”

You throw your head back and down the shot before he has time to voice his surprise, so he does the same, not wanting to break the unspoken rules of the toast; his ancestors would roll in their graves.

The liquid burns his throat almost instantly, the familiar warmth of alcohol settling into his body. It’s strong, powerful, but there’s a recognizable hint of plum and almonds that's comforting to him.

He can’t help a discreet, fond smile as your face scrunches from the sharp taste.

“I-I don't think I've ever had that before,” you cough out, your eyes slightly watery. It's endearing that no matter how much you drink, you never seem to build a tolerance to the sting of strong spirits.

“Slivovice. Plum brandy. The homemade ones are noticeably sharper than what they sell in stores here. Although… perhaps not as legal.”

You let out an amused cough, wiping away any tears before they get the chance to fall, smudging your mascara even more. But you're still smiling at him, decided, bold, never letting yourself be defeated by anything. It's like he's falling for you all over again in that single moment, outside of time and space.

Even in his darkest moments, when all else crumbles, you remain the unwavering light he can always find in the sky.

“I am a little surprised you remembered how to say that,” he admits softly.

What he had meant as a compliment seems to come off as a reproach in your eyes, and the smile falls, ending the magic of the instant.

“It may not always look like it, but I listen to you, Viktor,” you mumble, hurt. “I'm not an idiot, either.”

“I did not mean to imply-” he protests, but the words die in his throat. He opens his mouth by reflex, before closing it again; the sentence lingers incomplete in the air.

“…Why did you hang up?”

Here it is.

“Ah, so we're jumping into the questioning already. Alright,” he sighs. He chooses to stare at the bottom of his empty glass to avoid seeing your reaction. It's pitiful, but it'll spare him some of the pain and embarrassment. “I did not want to listen to what you would say, this once. I was scared if I heard your answer, it would all be real. Unchangeable.”

Change. Viktor had never been scared of the concept before. Change means something new, passing from one state to another, an evolution. It means progress. Nothing could ever be as gratifying, as glorious, as making the changes you want to see in the world.

But he didn't want you to change. He wanted you to stay just as you are, always excitedly talkative and brilliantly observant. Always shinning. A star brighter than any other, that could never fade no matter how the world treated her.

Revealing his feelings for you would have put that in harm’s way. You might think he had never truly been interested in your conversations, in all those ideas and words you feel so self-conscious about, and lose the trust you had in him as a friend.

He couldn't take that risk.

“So… you avoided me for two weeks ?” you scoff in disbelief.

He lets out a short, bitter laugh:

“I would have attempted longer if you did not break into my apartment.”

The poor attempt at a joke doesn't seem to land very well with either of you. The atmosphere feels still and heavy, the strange tension palpable.

“Ok,” you exhale, leaning your head back against the back of the couch. “You can ask me a question now.”

He glances at you in surprise:

“A question? Why?”

“So it's equal. I ask you one, you ask me one,” you explain simply, like it's the most basic rule of conversation in the world. “I haven't been attentive to what you were trying to tell me, for a long time. I need to change that.”

He hesitates for a second. There's a lot he wants to ask you. Had things been different, would you ever have considered him as someone you could fall for? If he could change the timing, the place, the words, would anything have made it so you could have loved him?

“You read people so easily,” he almost whispers. “I always assumed you knew how felt for you, but were too nice to tell me off. That you did not want to break what we had.”

It’s time. It's time for change. There is no other choice than to move forward. He continues:

“I am… sorry that I fell in love with you.”

Ah…

The weight seems slightly lighter on his chest. It's not a good feeling, exactly, but there's a certain peace that comes with finally having said it.

The expression on your face is yet again one he doesn't recognize.

“I'm not. I’m not sorry, Viktor,” you breathe out, hardly any louder than his respiration.

Your hand touches his, just barely, and he flinches, pulling away. But you refuse to back off. You reach for him again, your fingers timidly touching his own.

“Maybe I did know, in a way,” you reflect, a single digit moving across his knuckles, the ghost of a caress, “but I wouldn't let myself believe it. I didn't want to lose the only person I’ve ever felt wanted to listen to me. So… I stopped listening to my instincts, I guess.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

“I talk all the goddamn time and I don't even listen to myself.”

He turns his hand around, letting your index trace the lines of his palm instead.

“A fortune teller who can't read her own cards,” he teases gently. “Ironic.”

You scoff with a smile; your fingers intertwine, tentative.

“You're one to talk, asshole,” you huff playfully, “the big smart professor who can't figure out when someone is in love with him.”

His heart stops beating in his chest.

“Ah. You... you lo-” he stops himself before finishing his sentence, scared of pronouncing the word. He takes a shaky breath before he attempts again: “You feel the same way I…?”

He leaves the question open. He's still hesitant to make it real. Of saying the words that'll shift things. Because damn it, yes, Viktor is scared of change when it comes to you.

“I’m in love with you, Viktor,” you smile, like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Did the part where I broke into your apartment just to talk to you not give that away?”

What a strange feeling. He's dreamed of hearing those words from your mouth for so long, never believing they would, and yet it feels so right. As if you had told him a thousand times before this moment.

Maybe you had, in your own way.

He squeezes your hand, the sensation of your skin against his making it all feel impossibly real.

“I suppose we're both idiots,” he sighs gently, eyes locking into yours. “The blind oracle, and the clueless teacher. What a dynamic duo we make.”

Your forehead meets his, your nose just barely tickling his.

“I'd say we make a good duo. You and me,” you grin. You're so close he can feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. He smiles.

“I'd say so as well.”

Taglist Darlings ❤️ : @soniiyi , @mischievous-piltovan , @just1cefor4ll , @luv-urself-first, @girlidkthinkofsmth , @starflesh-moth , @raynoway, @vyshnevaka , @ash-84321 , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx

[satorulovebot]

cursed seas chapter six | the lakes

pairing — satoru gojou x fem!reader

summary — all your life you’ve been taught to hate pirates and the sins they have committed against god. you've always strived to be a good citizen upholding the law and avoiding the lawless, but when you meet the infamous captain gojou, known to be dangerous and cunning, you realize that survival in this world often requires sacrifices. sometimes, that sacrifice is your sanity.

word count — 5.6k

warnings — nsfw (minors dni), explicit sexual content, fellatio, cunnilingus, explicit smut, profanity, alcohol consumption, heavy angst, age difference

notes — this is like my second time writing smut in like 2 years gimmie a break pls. anyways. hello to my cursed seas babies, don't worry i will never abandon my og child you can be assured its my first priority, unless i have writers block which unfortunately happened and thats why this chapter is short and why i SEVERELY dislike it. enjoy ;)

series masterlist // pinterest moodboard // general masterlist

♪ the lakes — taylor swift

previous chap. you're on your own, kid | next chap. (coming coon)

The morning sun filtered through the curtains of your father's small, cozy home, casting warm light across the room as you silently folded the last of your clothing into a worn leather bag.

Your father sat at the table in the dining room, watching you with a pensive expression, his hands resting on his lap. It had been a few days since you returned to Elysport, and in that time, he had treated you like the little girl he had lost so many years ago. Considering your relationship over the last few years, the affection he had shown you was more than you had expected.

“Are you sure you want to go? There might be another way to find out what happened to your mother.” 

You paused, looking down at your packed bag before facing him. “Father I’m sure. There are things I need to know—about Mom. And I think this is the only way I will get any answers.”

He frowned, his brows furrowing. “Alright, but promise me something—promise me you’ll be safe.”

You nodded. “I promise,” you whispered.

He wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug. You didn't want to leave, not really. This small part of Elysport, your father’s home—it was a sanctuary compared to the madness of the ship you were about to return to. But you had made your choice and you knew that you couldn’t stay here forever.

“I’ll be back,” you said softly, “Soon.”

Your father smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be here, waiting.” 

With a final glance around the room, you hoisted your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door. 

Making your way through the streets of Elysport gave you time to think about what going back to Gojou’s ship meant. And it meant diving headfirst into a world of chaos once again and having to face him after everything that had happened.

And you didn't like that idea. 

The docks soon came into view and you could see the massive silhouette of Gojou’s ship towering above the rest. You hesitated as you stood at the pier's edge, watching crew members bustling about, preparing for the next leg of their journey. 

Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and began walking toward the gangplank. You found him near the helm overseeing his ship as he usually would. When he spotted you approaching, his eyes widened briefly before narrowing in that familiar way that made your stomach twist.

“Back already?”

You set your bag down, taking a deep breath before answering. “I told you I’d be back last night.”

Gojou’s eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place. He looked at you for a moment before shrugging and turning his attention back to the crew.

"Well, you're just in time. We're setting sail soon. Grab your things and get ready." 

You waited for more—some snide comment, some half-hearted insult—but it never came. His voice lacked that usual bite and he avoided directly looking at you, which was strange in itself. 

It was strange, this new version of him—one that didn’t bark orders or throw insults your way at every opportunity. 

It was... comforting in a way.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of something bright—a familiar tuft of pink hair. Yuuji was perched high in the crow's nest, his energy impossible to miss, even from afar.  He instantly noticed you, his face lighting up as he waved enthusiastically, calling your name across the deck. You couldn’t help but smile, a warmth spreading through you at the sight of him. His energy was infectious and his kindness was a rare comfort. You lifted your hand in return, waving back.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, you found yourself standing near the railing watching the waves lap against the side of the ship. You heard footsteps behind you and turned to see Captain Gojou approaching.

He leaned against the railing beside you, his gaze fixed on the horizon. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between the two of you like a taught wire.

“You won’t ask why I let you back so easily?” 

You glanced at him, surprised by the question. “I figured you just wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible,” you said, your words laced with a hint of bitterness.

Gojou chuckled, though there was no real humor in it. “Yeah, well... maybe I’m not as heartless as you think.”

You raised an eyebrow, not sure if you believed him. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He winced at that, and for a moment, you thought he might snap back at you, but instead, he just sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not good at this... at any of this. You want to hate me, I get that. Hell, maybe I deserve it. But I’m trying, alright?” His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. The Gojou standing next to you wasn’t the arrogant, reckless captain you had grown accustomed to.

“I don’t hate you,” you said quietly. “But you make it really hard sometimes.”

Gojou let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m good at that.” He paused, his expression softening. “But I meant what I said. You did good back there. And... I’m sorry for the way I’ve treated you.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if maybe the Gojou who you had kissed so desperately in that hotel room was not as far away as you thought. The waves lapped steadily against the ship’s hull, the sound calming as you stood in silence next to Gojou.

“About earlier,” he began. “When I left your room… I just—” He paused, seemingly frustrated, like he was trying to find the right words. “I didn’t mean to be such an ass.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden confession. “You always mean to be an ass.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But not like that. Not this time.”

You turned to face him, fully leaning against the railing. The fading evening light casting shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the pale strands of his hair that moved gently with the breeze. When you looked at him, you didn’t see the infamous captain you had grown to know—he looked… tired. 

“It’s not like you to apologize. What’s going on?”

He frowned, his gaze dropping to the deck below, his hand absently drumming against the wooden railing. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “It’s just… you’ve been different. This whole situation has been different.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he began slowly, as if testing each word before saying it, “I don’t know why I keep pushing you away when I don’t want to.”

Your heart fluttered at his confession. He wasn’t the type to open up easily—especially about things like this. And for him to admit that he didn’t want to push you away… it was almost too much to process.

“But you do,” you pointed out, your voice barely above a whisper. “You push me away every chance you get.”

He let out a long sigh, his head dropping for a moment before he straightened, running a hand through his hair. “I know. It’s just… easier, I guess.” His gaze finally met yours, and the sincerity in his blue eyes was enough to take your breath away. “I’ve lost a lot of people. Crew, friends, family.” His voice grew quieter. “It’s easier not to get attached.”

“And me?” you asked softly, your voice barely above the sound of the waves. “Am I just another person to lose?”

Gojou hesitated, his gaze never leaving yours. “I don’t want you to be.”

This wasn’t just the arrogant, reckless captain speaking—this was Satoru, the man behind the mask. And the way he looked at you in that moment, like he was finally seeing you for the first time, sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could say anything more, Gojou spoke again, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “You’re really leaving your father for this?” he asked, his eyes flicking to your bag.

You nodded. “I need to know the truth about what happened to my mother. And… I need to find that treasure and be with the map.”

A shadow crossed his face at the mention of the map, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the horizon, his jaw clenched tight. You knew he didn’t like talking about the map—it was the one thing that seemed to come between the two of you time and time again.

“I’ll take you back onboard. But I need you to understand something.” He turned to face you fully now, his expression serious. “This isn’t a game. Whatever you’re getting yourself into with Sukuna, it’s dangerous. It's more dangerous than you realize. I don’t trust him or whatever he is up to.”

Sukuna. 

That must have been the man with the pink hair you were talking to in the marketplace. You didn’t expect Gojou to know who he was, or at least know him enough to have that look on his face.

“I know,” you said quietly, meeting his gaze. “But I have to do this.”

Then, slowly, Gojou nodded, as if finally accepting your decision. “Fine,” he said, his voice resigned. “But if anything happens, I’ll kill Sukuna myself.”

Without another word, Gojou turned and began walking back toward the ship, his usual swagger returning with each step. You followed, your heart pounding in your chest, the thought of what lay ahead heavy on your mind.

Captain Gojou leaned against the ship's railing, gazing out at the ocean and the small port where they’d docked. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and workers from the docks were beginning to head home. His crew had grown restless after days without a break, so he’d ordered a stop at a quieter port for some shore leave. But he hadn’t been completely honest about why he gave the order—it was mostly for the map. He wanted a chance to study it carefully and had recently decided they would soon start the journey it promised, especially now that you had rejoined them. The treasure it led to was dangerous, and he knew he’d need a solid plan if he, you, and his crew were going to make it out alive.

After a moment of contemplation, he looked over his shoulder and spotted you coming up from below deck. He grinned, giving you a casual wave. “Looks like everyone’s scattered,” he said. “You wanna go for a walk?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Uh, sure. But what’s the reason?”

“Because I asked you nicely, Y/N.”

“Fine, I could use some fresh air anyway. Your ship’s unnaturally stuffy.”

Before the two of you departed the ship, Gojou made his way to his captain’s quarters to stow the map away safely. You assumed it was for security reasons, considering how much of a pain in the ass he’d been when trying to take it from you. After he returned, you both took off your shoes and walked down the gangplank together, stepping into the shallow water and heading down the beach toward the port town. Gojou’s ship was too large to fit in the small port, so he’d had to anchor it a little way off the coast. It was a bit of a hassle, but you didn’t mind.

You and Gojou had made it halfway down the beach before he broke the silence. "You know, I wasn't born a pirate."

You turned to him, surprised by his revelation. "Really? I wouldn't have guessed. Although, now that I think about it, you seem like a child who was spoiled far more than he should have been."

He gave a small shrug. "Pretty much. When I was a child, I ran away from home. I had met a young pirate, the same age as me, and he showed me another side of life. The place where I grew up felt like a prison and I wanted out."

"Oh. What happened?" you asked quietly.

"My family… my family had high expectations for me. They expected me to marry another girl from a rich family, a girl I had never met, a girl I didn't love. They expected me to be the head of the family when my father died and live up to the Gojou family legacy. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I left in the middle of the night. No one came looking, either.” His voice softened. “Guess they were happy to be rid of me.”

"Was it hard to live like that?"

"I stole for a little while, I had no name, no ship, and barely any money. After a few months to a year, I was able to make a living for myself and I never looked back."

“You never went back? Not even to see how your family is doing?”

"No, my father was a bastard and could have given two shits about how his own family felt about him. I actually spent some time living in Saltstone Port when I was eighteen, it wasn't too bad. You used to live there, right?"

Wait how did he know that?

"Anyway, we're almost there, do you wanna find a bar? Since you know, you like drinking."

“Who said I like drinking?”

“I did,” he said with a smirk.

And that's how the two of you found yourself in a dimly lit corner of a booth, ordering round after round as a way to “unwind” as Gojou said. Somehow, unwinding meant downing enough drinks to make the room spin. 

“To—” He paused, squinting at you. “To us, and to making it through yet another day without you murdering me,” he toasted, raising his mug with a smirk. You clinked your glass against his as you sipped, feeling the warmth of the alcohol seep into your veins. As the alcohol loosened you up, you began telling Captain Gojou things you shouldn’t have, things you probably won’t remember in the morning.

As the night went on, the two of you began inching closer and closer to each other. At some point, he’d moved his arm around your shoulders, and you’d stopped noticing, letting yourself melt into his warmth.

“Y’know,” he slurred, eyes glassy as he looked at you. “I always thought I was fine alone.”

You tilted your head, blinking slowly as you tried to focus on his face, which kept swimming in and out of view. “That so?” you mumbled, giggling as you took another sip of your drink. “Thought you liked being all ‘mysterious and distant,’ Captain.”

“I… I dunno.”

Your heart did a funny little skip, and you glanced up at him, your gaze meeting his. “Maybe it’s the drinks talking,” he muttered.  “Or maybe it’s just…you make things… less lonely.”

Gojou,” you started, but before you could finish, he leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead in a clumsy, affectionate gesture.

“I like having you around,” he mumbled. His gaze flicked down to the empty glasses on the table. “But we should… get back to the ship, yeah?”

You could barely remember the journey back to the ship. When you made it back to his ship, you stumbled towards his captain’s quarters, exhausted from your night out. As you reached his bed, you tugged on your shirt, frowning. “Ugh, I can’t sleep in this. It’s filthy.” The fabric was sticky and wrinkled, and the thought of crawling into bed with it on was almost unbearable.

Gojou chuckled, leaning against the doorframe with a lopsided grin. “You’re a bit of a handful, you know that?”

Ignoring his teasing, you started to strip off your clothes, too tired and too drunk to care about modesty. You caught the faintest widening of his eyes before he quickly looked away, a strange sort of awkwardness flashing over his face.

“Better than being boring,” you retorted, your voice muffled as you ducked under the covers, the warmth of the bed wrapping around you. The soft linens felt heavenly, and you sank into them with a sigh, your eyes already drifting shut.

“Goodnight, Gojou,” you murmured, barely managing to keep your eyes open as you watched him from beneath half-closed lids.

“Goodnight,” he said softly. He hesitated, his hand resting on the doorframe for a moment longer, before he finally slipped out of the room, leaving you to the gentle lull of sleep.

When morning came, the sunlight filtered softly through the small window. You stretched, blinking sleepily as you tried to make sense of your surroundings. The memory of the previous night came flooding back, and as you shifted beneath the covers, you became very aware that you were still bare under the blanket. You stifled a groan, recalling your insistence on sleeping without your filthy clothes, and your face flushed with embarrassment. At least Gojou had seemed too out of it to really care.

Quickly, you climbed out of bed, searching the room until you found your discarded clothes from the night before. You tugged them on hastily, smoothing out the wrinkles and trying to compose yourself as best you could.

You stepped out onto the deck, the salty morning air filling your lungs as you glanced around. You wanted to ask him something, and to ask him that something you needed to find him first. You managed to find him perched on a higher part of the deck. Noticing your footsteps, he turned around and before he could speak you opened your mouth first.

“I need a bath.”

The words left your mouth with a bluntness that surprised even you. You were covered in grime from the ship and smelled like salt from the sea, it made every inch of your skin itch for a proper soak. After days of being at sea, all you wanted to do was feel clean.

“Well, this place doesn’t exactly have the best facilities for that,” he said, surveying the streets. “But… I might know a spot.”

You tilted your head. “Not exactly helpful, Captain.”

“Follow me, then. It’s a bit of a walk, but if you’re willing, I’ll show you a river that’s a hell of a lot nicer than any of the baths in town.”

You and Gojou made your way out of the port city and through winding paths that eventually opened up to a dense forest just beyond the edge of town. Gojou was quiet as he guided you through the bush towards the spot, glancing back at you every now and then.

The two of you reached a clearing where the trees parted to reveal a serene river winding through the open land. The water sparkled underneath the sun, so crystal clear and inviting it nearly hurt to look at.

“Not bad, huh?” Gojou said, standing beside you.

“It’s… beautiful.”

Gojou shrugged, feigning indifference. “It’ll do the job. Go on.”

Your gaze looked to him as he leaned against a tree, arms crossed, watching you with a smirk. “What, you think I’m just going to strip down right here?” you teased.

“Not my fault if you can’t handle a little river bath. Besides, who’s gonna see?”

With a deep breath, you started to peel off your outer layers, feeling the rough fabric leave your skin before carefully folding it on a rock nearby. You kept your eyes trained on the river, trying to ignore that he was sneaking glances, but you secretly didn’t mind. You turned to meet his gaze before turning your back to him, realizing how close the two of you actually were.

Once you shimmied out of the rest of your clothes, you waded into the river, the chill of the water sending goosebumps through your body. You went deeper into the water, washing away the grime and heat of the day. When you turned back, you saw that Gojou hadn't moved from his spot; he simply watched from where he stood.

“You know, the water’s plenty big enough for two,” you called out to him, splashing in his direction with a grin. “Or are you too scared of a little cold?”

Something mischievous sparkled in his eyes. You think I’m scared of a little cold water?”

He began unbuckling his belt with a smirk, tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it onto the ground. His toned frame caught the sunlight, the faint scars scattered across his torso telling stories he rarely spoke of. “Let’s see who’ll be begging to get out first,” he teased.

Your eyes trailed down his body as he began walking into the water. When your eyes made it toward his pelvis before you had to stop yourself from going any lower, reminding yourself it was indecent.

“It's as warm as the sea,” you teased, floating on your back and letting the gentle current carry you.

“No, but it’s a hell of a lot quieter.”

The two of you were naked, but you didn’t seem to mind, and neither did he.

“So, where did you learn to be so comfortable in the water?” he asked, kicking lazily as he floated beside you.

“My father,” you replied, glancing up at the canopy of leaves overhead. “He used to bring me to rivers like this when I was a kid. Said it was the best way to wash away the world for a while.”

Gojou nodded thoughtfully, his eyes studying you. “Smart man.”

​​You chuckled, meeting his gaze again. “He is. Sometimes I wonder if I’m disappointing him by being… here.” You gestured around you. “Running off to play pirate with people that are hardly respectable.”

“You’re not disappointing anyone,” he murmured, the words so soft you almost missed them. “And, honestly, I think it’s brave. Not many would have the guts to do what you’ve done.”

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

Gojou continued to float nearby as sunlight filtered through the trees overhead. He didn't try to hide the way his eyes roamed over your body, and you could feel he was growing bolder by the minute.

"You know, you clean up real nice," he muttered, his voice lower than usual.

You let out a small chuckle, feeling your cheeks warm under his intense stare. "I could say the same for you."

Silence enveloped the two of you as he drifted closer, standing up when he got close to you. You were in a shallow part of the water, which made the water about waist height. It was unfortunate that it was the only thing that covered his lower half because it was see-through. His fingers came up to brush your arm, lingering for a moment too long, the feeling sending a shiver down your spine.

Without thinking, you closed the distance between you two, standing so close that you could feel his warm breath fan your face. His hand drifted to your waist, feeling the soft, plush skin before sliding his hand around your back as his other hand came up to trace along your jaw. When you leaned in, you found yourself tilting your head up, your lips parting instinctively.

The kiss was soft at first, testing the waters in a way the two of you had only done once before. But then the kiss deepened, his fingers tightening on your waist as if he was afraid to let go. You let yourself melt into him, your own hands finding their way to his broad shoulders as you traced the muscles there, losing yourself in the kiss.

Gojou shifted the two of you, pressing you gently against the smooth edge of a nearby rock. One hand braced himself beside you against the rock with the other made its way down your backside.

His lips trailed along your jawline, sending sparks throughout your body, and when he kissed you again, it was like he was claiming something he had not dared touch before.

The kiss slowed as both of you caught your breath, still tangled in each other's arms as you steadied yourselves. Gojou's lips hovered near yours, his expression filled with desire.

"Hey," he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “If you're up for it… we don’t have to stay out here." His fingers traced gentle circles against your back. “There’s places in town. Places a bit more... private.”

You felt your pulse quicken and your heart race at his suggestion. “Yeah... let’s go.”

Neither of you wasted another second. Hands fumbling, you slipped back into your clothes, laughter and shared glances filling the space between you. Gojou helped you fasten a few buttons that wouldn’t cooperate. Once dressed, the two of you scrambled over rocks and brush, the cool evening air sharp against your skin after your bath—but in the heat of the moment, you hardly noticed.

You made your way back the way you came, with Satoru practically dragging you through town, looking for somewhere that wouldn’t ask too many questions. The sky was now dark, and the nightlife of the port had begun. Finally, he stopped in front of a modest hotel along a quiet street, breathing heavily from his excitement.

“Here,” he said.

You both hurried inside, catching the attention of the older man at the front desk. His eyebrow lifted as he eyed the two of you, taking in your windswept appearance and the clear look of anticipation you both wore. He sighed, passing you a key with a knowing look. “Just… keep it down, eh?”

A mischievous laugh escaped Gojou as he snagged the key and tossed you a wink. “No promises."

The two of you dashed up the narrow staircase, careful not to trip in your haste. When you finally found the room, Gojou fumbled with the key, his hands practically trembling as he tried to unlock the door. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him—a pirate captain, renowned for his cool composure, completely undone by anticipation.

“Need some help?" you teased, biting back a grin.

“Hey, keep that up and I might reconsider,” he shot back.

After fumbling with the key for a while, he finally managed to get it inside the lock and unlock the door. The room wasn't much, with only a small bed, a few chairs, and a vanity to decorate it, but it would do.

The two of you stumbled inside the room kissing fervently as he closed the door with his foot. You walked backward, leading him to the small bed in the center of the room.

“You're so beautiful to me,” he spoke in a hushed voice.

Your fingers reach up to his collar, gently pulling him down and pressing your lips to his in a passionate kiss. Nothing prevented you from him when your fingers began to work on the already half-undone buttons of his shirt with slow and deliberate movements.

You continued your path to the bed and before long you felt the back of your legs hit the bed and you fell backwards on the plush cushions. The desire was mutual, you could see it in his eyes, and there was an urgent need to be closer on a level beyond words. Satoru moved his hands up and down your sides, caressing the curve of your back and touching the delicate skin of your waist.

He broke the kiss before moving down to your bust, removing the layers of your clothing to reveal your supple breasts. His pupils were fully blown completely covering his cerulean eyes, wanting to submit to his carnal desires. He leaned down kissing you once more, feeling the slopes of your breasts pressed against his chest in your lip-locking exchange.

You sat up before flipping the two of you over so you could be on top, a wave of confidence overtaking you. You slowly kissed down his body before reaching his trousers and undoing the ties of his breeches. Before you knew it, you were crawling off of his lap and laying on your stomach between his legs.

To be completely honest, you had never pleasured yourself before, let alone a man.

Your eyes widened as you pulled off his breeches, releasing his aching member that revealed a size that was proportional to his height.

"Sweetheart—ngh! Don't tease me like that."

You looked up at him with those beautiful doe eyes he had dreamed about, and he thinks he somehow got harder.

"But what if I want to?"

"Ah fuck, please sweetheart? I'm so hard already," he whined.

"Um, I don't really know how to do this… so please forgive me."

You had a friend back in Elysport who was a courtesan for the wealthy, often having sex with married men for money. You never judged her, as she was a friend, but she had taught you a couple of things including how to give a man a hand job, but you had never thought you would need to use it, not in a situation like this with a man like him.

Satoru looked down at you, and awaiting your next move he decided to wrap a hand around his cock.

"Fuck sweetheart," he moaned. "You don't know how many times I dreamed of doing this with you."

Something inside you awakened when he said that—something bold, you decided to replace his hand with your mouth. His deep and guttural moans were enough to encourage you to keep going and take his entire length.

Your mouth is so warm and fuck babe was all you could hear him say. It gave you a confidence boost hearing his constant praise.

You continued until he suddenly tugged your hair, pulling you off his cock. Frowning, you looked at him wondering why he did that when he seemed to be enjoying it.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I was about to cum."

Disappointed you made your way back up his body, kissing him deeply once more. He flipped the two of you over so he was back on top, kissing your neck and feathering soft kisses around the bruised skin before moving down to your breasts. He alternated between both of them, giving them equal amounts of attention by biting and sucking at the flesh and biting at your nipple.

"S-Satoru," you moaned, arching your back to meet his chest, as he descended further and further own your body to where you needed him the most. On his way down, he muttered a "Lift your legs." before removing your soaked pair of panties that he threw somewhere in the room, not caring where they landed. He was quick to dive head-first into your sopping cunt, lapping at your entrance with his tongue, exploring your walls until you were softly moaning his name.

"Fuck you taste so sweet," you could hear his muffled voice from between your legs. He encircled his thumb on your sensitive bud before looking back at your slit, slightly spreading your lips apart to look at your weeping hole. He sat up, grabbing hold of his cock and rubbing it up and down your slit, teasing you to the point of tears.

"S-Satoru, Please!"

"Fuck. Good Girl," he muttered before sliding himself in.

“Ngh—! Y-You—aaah!” You could feel your body being dragged back and forth, your hips being jostled as he continued to sink himself into you.

He was insatiable, he couldn't get enough of the tightness of your cunt. He was moaning loudly from the feeling of your warm, velvet walls milking his cock. He continued to thrust inside you, sitting up with his hands on your hips, keeping you steady as he rammed his cock inside you.

"That's it, gotta stretch you out," he says. “You’re taking me so well,” he groans, burying his face in your neck.

"Satoru," you moan, your walls clenching around his length. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer as you feel the ends of his soft hair.

He knows what he's doing, and you can feel that smirk he always has on his lips but surprisingly, he peppers kisses on your neck before he pulls away.

"Can you get on all fours?" he asks, halting his thrusts.

Wanting to please him, you quickly get on all fours and he immediately presses you back down onto the mattress. He lifts your ass as you arch your back even more. He palms the flesh of your ass in his hands before entering you once more.

You gasp, clutching the sheets in your small hands. When Satoru notices this he moves to interlock your fingers, pressing his chest against your back to pound into you.

"Satoru, ah—" you whine.

"I know, I know," he grunts. You can feel your walls tightening around his thick cock "Fuck—so good." you moan.

“Gonna make you cum so hard.”

His balls slapping against your ass feels euphoric, leaving you breathless and wanting to reach your orgasm. A couple of more thrusts against your g-spot bring you the most incredible orgasm.

“Fuck Sweetheart, I’m close.”

It takes a few more thrusts before his movements become erratic and you feel his cock twitch inside you. You feel his sweaty forehead drop against your shoulder as you both struggle to catch your breath. After a few moments, he lifts his head off your shoulder and moves to lie next to you. You flip yourself on your side, eyes focused on the ship's wooden panels as your chest heaves.

You feel Satoru shift next to you, pressing his chest to your back as he wraps his arms around you.

“Thank you, baby. Thank you.”

© satorulovebot 2024 please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my work.

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[hoseoksluna]

THE BALL OF LIGHT, ii. | jjk

pairing: friend!jeongguk x fem!oc

genre: angst

word count: 4.2k

summary: inside jeongguk's apartment is where you meet the possibility of life.

pin: ball of light / taglist: join / discord: join / masterlist: run

cp: ao3 / wp

warnings: mentions of smoking and vaping, described nudity, oc feels a lot of emotions and she's overwhelmed, guilt.

note: i really enjoyed writing this chapter and it opened my eyes actually to where it's going. i hope you like the chapter as well. writing about jungkook is my biggest comfort. i feel at home. i love you, guys. happy reading. don't forget to tell me what you think. i'd appreciate it if you tell me ur expectations. <3

side note: i also want to update my taglist because i feel like most of the people i tag haven't allowed themselves to be tagged on this app. if you want to be tagged in my works, let me know. in comments below or my askbox.

It seems as though Jeongguk is still turning your words over his heart once you arrive at his apartment and the sullen grayness of his personal space greets you. A certain pensive look, embellished with a wrinkle between his brows, paints him in the shades of stark reclusiveness, the unapproachability of that façade the blue highlights that make the current inertia of his usual hyperactivity uncannily animated. It’s an oxymoron, the stillness of his being, despite the fact you very vividly sense the turmoil happening inside his chest.

Turmoil must be second-nature to him. Almost like a friend.

You don’t know what to say. The downturned corners of his mouth are so engraved into your vision that when you look away, you can still see them. Sad and pouty, caused in most probability by the truth you uttered. War happens, Jeongguk, if Yoongi and I see each other outside of the walls of our home. Those were the most heart-felt, authentic words that were flung out of the chambers of your heart because—yes, if Yoongi were to know that you smoke one cigarette a day with a boy with a nicotine-addiction, a motorcycle and a tendency to go back to people who have spread agony down his lungs like the white fumes of his cigarettes, he would get up from the kitchen table and grab the nearest knife, start a war for your dream that, according to him, got interrupted by temporary, meaningless things.

But Jeongguk isn’t meaningless. You thought for the longest time that he was temporary, but his lingering presence through high school and now through uni convinced you of the opposite. You believe now, now as he bends at the waist to place a pair of pink, fuzzy slippers with a yummy fried egg on top in front of your icy-cold, socked feet, that he has more shape—the eyes of an angel born wrong, born human, the mouth of a saint that fears to say the wrong thing—than your dream does.

Your dream doesn’t have a face.

Your dream doesn’t have a meaning, either.

Yoongi knows this, pretends he knows the contours of that dream when he tells you to go study. Pretends he knows the color of its flesh, all the greens, purples and blues, when the only words he throws your way are of commanding nature. Come eat. Go shower. Go study. Don’t. You can’t recollect the last time you had a genuine conversation with him that did not include those very words.  

It’s exhausting. Your bones are burdened by it—by being treated as a student and not as a human being. But you ignore this because you respect him, hold him in high regard because of his own burden, laid heavy across the length of his shoulders that have become too thin, too skeletal, that have once been broad, beautiful and ogled by those, who had the luck to encounter him. 

He doesn’t go to the gym anymore, to fill the mass of his muscles with exercise. He works long hours doing food delivery to fill your tummy instead. 

And it’s hard—balancing your respect for him and your ostensibly inner desire to go in search of the things you read about in your books. You can’t help but expect to dig them out, selfishly, in Jeongguk. The kind, now somber, boy who has been by your side for so long. With words and simultaneously without. 

Would Yoongi understand? Doesn’t he, also, have a need for company? 

You push those thoughts away and focus on the clandestiny. On Jeongguk’s frown, on his adorable pout, on his emotions. Because perhaps in it you shall find your destiny. 

Jeongguk walks forward and you swell with the guilty need to fix what you’ve broken, to glue back the pieces that put together his traditional cheer. The tree in you shivers in cold. Your own bones are still frosty like that bus stop you both escaped from. But glancing at the span of his shoulders, drooped and rolled forward, the guilt expands, making you think that maybe you shouldn’t have said something, despite the fact the truth made a dent in the birdcage you have been dwelling in since the death of your parents. 

He empties out his pockets. Wallet, keys, phone, a pack of cigarettes, lighter and a pink, fat vape that you’ve never seen him smoking before. He places those essentials on the kitchen counter, stretching his hands backwards and ridding himself of his beige hoodie. The T-shirt he wears underneath rides up, exposing the smooth and muscled skin of his back, and your throat dries up at the sight. The tree stills, pacified by the movement of his shoulder blades. It puts a spell on you, this innocent yet consumingly heated view of a male’s body, one that continues burning down your body even when he grabs a hold of the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it down. 

Somehow, the act made it hotter. 

Your fingers wrap around your throat, a habit of yours that helps you compose yourself, ground yourself in the severity of the moment. Jeongguk reaches his hand towards the kitchen counter again and as you swallow with great difficulty, he fills his lungs with that scented fume before discarding it.

It isn’t until your breath comes out in pathetic staccatos that he turns around. Large eyes heavily lidded, clouded by that white smoke as he exhales. He purses his lips, dimples on full show, in order to make the smoke thinner. And that, the eye contact while blowing out the fumes, his full attention on you, the element that you’re here—in a boy’s apartment, all alone, for the first time, that warms up your bones, the frost melting away. You feel your body form little pearls of perspiration, overwhelmed and so suddenly overheated by his boyish beauty. 

He’ll never know—just like Yoongi. He’ll never know what he does to you. 

“I’m gonna make you some tea so you can get warm,” he says, softly, and shuffles his feet towards the brightly lit kitchen. You hear the water running, the clapping noise of the kettle being shut and then the boiling bubbles, but you’re frozen—red-hot and frozen—in the place you’re standing, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to be a normal human being. “You’re free to take a shower if you want.” 

A headache pierces through your undeveloped frontal lobe. Nothing about this is normal to you—being over a guy’s place, using his shower and his towel, drinking his tea. Being at home all the time never prepares you for this and while you feel so out of place, it also evokes the feeling of thrill. 

This is thrilling. 

And it should stay feeling that way, but your guilt eclipses it so quickly. Your guilt and your self-pity. Due to Yoongi, due to the fact that this should feel normal and that you should act normally. How many girls must’ve been in your place and how well they were able to talk to him and accept his kindness and hospitality without being weird about it. 

You run a hand down your face. Feel like crying. Feel like screaming. Feeling like slapping yourself so you snap out of it and act normal. Yoongi flickers in your chest, however, and you’re reminded that you should let him know where you are. Usually, at this hour, you’re settled in your cage. Right there in the corner, the only warm spot because you sit there all the time. But you’re not there. You fit your body through the slivers, your feet rubbing against the different, more warmer floor than the one inside your birdcage, while your wrist remains chained to the center. 

Your bus, the number 59, never came. Jeongguk’s, number 60, was the last one that came due to the thickness of the snow and he said that you should get on with him so you don’t freeze on the bus stop. I’ll drive you home on my bike, he promised. I got a helmet for you. And you agreed, despite the fact your thumb was ready to dial Yoongi’s number, because it came natural to you to follow a male’s order. 

You scratch your fingernails through your scalp, waking yourself up from the stupor, and you take a deep breath. You’re here and you’re safe. Jeongguk is the safest person you can go behind Yoongi’s back with. These are the words you internally repeat to yourself as you lift one leg and the other, watching where they take you. 

You wind up at the very edge of the counter where all of Jeongguk’s essentials lay scattered. You go to study all the charms hung over his keys when your fingers, somehow instinctively, take a hold of his pink vape. Light and pink, fitting just right in the palm of your hand. Your clandestine habits are invariably seen by Jeongguk, however. 

“Don’t puff on that,” he says, pouring the boiling water inside the kettle over your cup of tea. A Christmas-themed one, evidently for adults only. The taupe Gingerbread man has a raging, bare boner that sticks out to the side whilst his hands are lifted, cheerfully, in the air. Your mouth parts, blush coloring your cheeks in dusty pink, and your brain, bizarrely, connects the Gingerbread man’s emotion to Jeongguk—both emotions, in fact. So bizarrely that anger begins to grow in you because a picture of Jeongguk’s own happy boner pops up before your eyes. Big, hard, leaking. Your stifling heat descends to your lower regions and you have to rub your eyelids in order to stop seeing it, your cheeks scalding, embarrassingly hot. “It’s not good to mix it.” 

Without asking, he places one spoon of sugar inside that obscene cup, stirring it diligently. And the clinking noise rams a clapping monkey inside your brain. 

You’ll die. From this headache, from the heat, from how irresistible this boy is. 

You’ve never felt this way before towards him. Never seen him in this lustful light before. And you don’t know what to do—it’s towering you, so much bigger than you and you have very little strength to stand up to it. 

It’s not good to see your so-called friend like this. 

Jeongguk brings the cup over to you, placing it before his stuff. The Gingerbread man faces you, smiling ever so gleefully, and the blush of your cheeks deepens within this proximity. Jeongguk takes his vape from your hand and puffs on it—and your brain remembers what he just talked about. 

“But you mix it,” you say, your words dripping with confusion, and Jeongguk places the device back into your palm, the tips of his fingers brushing against your flesh. You regard it as intimate, that brief physical contact, and it speeds up your heartbeat. 

That touch-starved you are. 

“I shouldn’t, but I do,” he responds, his pretty eyelashes static, unblinking, those macadamia chocolate pools of his penetrating your pupils. “I try to stick to just one from time to time, but my nerves are asking for more.” 

You look down at the pink device, imagine it’s his hand that you’re closing your fingers over. Think his explanation has zero backbone, and so your confusion drips on. 

“Nerves?” you inquire, a wrinkle appearing between your brows akin to his, even though his has been smoothed out. It seems his act of service to you is slowly easing his sombreness. 

Jeongguk doesn’t want to elaborate, though. He flicks his eyes towards the cup and nods, just once, encouraging you to drink. You let out a quiet huff of a scoff. Consider it strange that he’s so unwilling to expand on this matter when he has shared with you in the past the reason behind his smoking habit. Trauma from his relationship with Ka-eun and the difficulty of his field. What else is behind those nerves of his that you can’t know about? 

You follow the trace of his gaze towards the cup, feeling smaller than you are. Incompetent, inexperienced for the vivacity, immensity of his life that looks nothing like yours. Your pointer finger pokes out, clicking against the emerald green handle. 

“Am I supposed to really drink from this?” you murmur, meaning it as a joke that would fix what you cooked in this situation, but it comes out much sadder than you planned, the hollowness from all of your lacks coating your vocal cords. 

Jeongguk scowls and turns the cup around, his brows springing upwards as he glances at the naked and aroused Gingerbread man. You begin to anticipate his laughter that would make you feel worse about yourself, but it never breezes through. 

Actually, Jeongguk apologizes. Makes a big deal out of it. 

“My God,” he sighs, adding your name, running his fingers through his hair before he puts the cup away, but you stop him by enveloping your fingers across the warm, naked skin of his forearm. His eyes widen en route to yours and he holds the misting cup in his hand, immune to its hot temperature. The good ones don’t get burned, your mother would say with hatefulness whenever your fingers would get burned by steaming cups and hot running water in the sink, and she proves you right in this moment. You bet she smiles in her grave, seeing from the afterlife that you are indeed bad while the others are good. “I didn’t notice. I have one just like this, but he’s dressed. I thought I’d pulled out that one. I’m sorry.” 

But you’re not scandalized by it. As a matter of fact, you like the little Christmas man—there’s something oddly comforting about his own comfort in his sexuality, smiling as gleefully as he is. What you said was a stupid joke, one that shouldn’t have left your mouth. 

“No, I don’t mind. It’s fine. It was just a joke,” you say, hurriedly, sweeping your eyes over his in the same pace whilst he remains calmly staring at you, a steady stream of thoughts filtering through those features of his that you wish you knew the contents of. 

You always said you’d die for knowledge, and right now you’d die to discover what he’s thinking about, looking at you the way that he is. 

He flattens his lips. “I’ll make you another one.” 

He turns around and you yelp your disagreement, cupping your hands around his. And the greater intimacy of this physical contact consumes you whole. 

The heat grows, your spine wet with perspiration. Jeongguk swivels his head back, the shorter pieces of his hair swooshing past his forehead, landing on those pretty, pretty eyelashes. And it’s his turn to part his mouth, for blush to creep up his pale cheeks, and your heart—it melts. 

You’ve never held hands with a boy before. And right now, you’ve come very close to doing it. In fact, the tender grip bears the resemblance of hand holding and you can’t take it. 

A pained, indistinct pout quivers on your lips. A characteristic expression of yours, which conveys that something has hurt you. Your mother would give you a hard time because of it and that’s how you learned that you do it. That’s how you learned how to fleetly hide it, too. 

This is the closest you’ll ever get. 

Tears rush to your waterline. You blink it away, stretching your lips into a little, neutral smile. The scent of cinnamon and cloves from the tea hits your nostrils and from the edges of your palms, you feel how hot the cup really is. It sobers you up quite rapidly. 

“It’s hot, set it down,” you breathe and don’t let go of his hands until Jeongguk complies, the pensiveness back to shadowing his face, but he’s not unapproachable, not at all. The entirety of his dispirited and contrite aura is welcoming, pastel blue instead of that grayish undertone, and he looks at you as if you held the entire world in your palms and he was content with just being near it, silently hoping you show him grace and give it to him. 

But that’s not you. You’re too small to cup this world. Too stupid, too unfledged. 

It’s him who’s flown around it, deeply acknowledged with it. Who’s smart, who’s a full-fledged bird, unlimited and unhindered. 

It’s you who should be looking at him like that and drinking from his vulgar cup. 

And you shall. 

“I’ll drink it, it’s cute.” 

He doesn’t trust it, though, and that’s the scar Ka-eun carved into the flesh of his mind. You brush the pads of your fingers across it, however, when you take the scalding cup to your lips, blow on it and take a small, hesitant sip of it. And the wintry taste of cinnamon and cloves, it is the sap to your tree. 

You hum in delight, taking another sip, even though the temperature burns the tip of your tongue. You watch as Jeongguk’s brows twitch and as a certain glimmering glint of endearment laced with unbelief fills his eyes with the canvas of stars. He straightens his spine while you swallow, his lungs inhaling and exhaling slowly but surely. 

It is a sight to behold, the entirety of his boyish beauty. And you hate that you regard him this way, that your forced visit caused this because you’ll walk out of this door with a longing entwined around your heart.

A longing for him to be yours. 

You set the cup down, cradling it in your palms, your sweat clinging to your body. Jeongguk averts his gaze and rubs his chest, roaming his eyes everywhere but on you, landing on the pink vape you placed on the counter before almost-holding his hand. 

But he doesn’t take a puff of it. Not this time. 

And you want to heal that scar of his even more. Only because he pushed you very close to the things you read in your books and always wanted to experience. 

“I think the tea tastes so good because you made it in this cup,” you chirp, tenderly, giving him a genuine smile, one that Jeongguk doesn’t reciprocate. That one corner of his mouth doesn’t lift, the long cleft of his dimple doesn’t appear. Your heart trembles for a brief moment. In a foreign kind of emotion that feels like fear but isn’t because the turmoil in him rages on and you’re useless. Completely and utterly useless in your efforts. 

His stare is deadly, marked by the depth of his thoughts. 

“Why did you say war happens if you and your brother see each other outside?” he asks, his tone low and grumbling. 

A frightening question. Because no one has ever asked you that. Because you’ve never had the chance to answer such an intimate, personal question. Because no one has ever cared about your home situation. 

The trembling of your heart reaches your entire body and you hide your hands behind your back. Lament that you can’t cradle the cup. Lament that you can’t drink it and postpone your response. Lament that you don’t have a normal life. One worth talking about happily, that is. 

You don’t know what to say. How to begin, how to string the words together in a way that he would understand. And it’s not that you fear that he will judge you; it’s that you fear that the way he looks at you, regards you will forever change. 

You were never the cool girl and you never were the weird girl, either. Somewhere in the middle you stand, solitary and detached, regardless. 

You open your mouth, willing the words to spring out of you on their own, without any careful thoughts to cover them. 

“Yoongi wants me to live a life that doesn’t look like this,” you start, mirroring his tone, unable to look him in the eye. You sense the demons of your guilt and your ungratefulness cornering you, coming closer and closer—and you can’t walk away, you can only speak.

Jeongguk, however, is quick and curt with his following question.  

“Like what?” 

The pearls of your perspiration thicken on the planes of your throat, which constricts. You blink, thinking that you don’t wish to offend him with any formulation of your sentences. So you go around it, hoping he understands. The demons inch closer—and you can’t breathe. 

Jeongguk doesn’t blink, focused intently as he is on the emotions written on your form. It creates a delicate, yet protective ring around you that keeps the demons outside. And he lessens your strange fear owing to that.

“He wants me to focus on school and focus on my dream while he takes care of everything else. It was a deal he made between us. I study, he works. Nothing else,” you continue, and Jeongguk bites his lip, nodding in understanding as he glides his eyes down your face to your sweat-coated neck. For some reason, that little act of his acknowledgement dispels those demons—and you no longer feel guilty, you no longer feel ungrateful because Jeongguk validated those emotions, didn’t scrunch his nose at them. And that heals, little by little, your wounded, flightless bird wings. 

“What does your dream look like?” he asks once again, and you wonder at the formulation of his question. It’s not what’s your dream; he’s asking for a description of the biggest mystery of your life. 

And you chuckle, humorlessly. Jeongguk flicks his gaze back to your eyes, seemingly not knowing what to expect.

“That’s the thing,” you say. “I don’t know what it looks like, and Yoongi doesn’t know either.” 

The roundness of his eyelids spasms, as if the truth you just uttered irks him. The validation grows and buds of blossoms sprout open, in the middle of this sunless winter, upon the twigs of the tree within you. 

“He doesn’t know what your dream is and yet he decided how you should live,” Jeongguk scoffs, shaking his head, and you marvel at the light bursting in your sternum. It is the sun to your growth, to your tree’s growth. 

A moment of bliss that is too brief, for you begin to sense an uncompromising responsibility to stand up for your brother. He means well—he’s doing it out of the love and kindness of his heart as the root of this declared problem is literature. 

And literature is your life. It’s all you know. 

You begin to say these words, but Jeongguk interrupts you. 

“I understand, but you need to live a life that you want to live,” he rasps, standing taller than he was a minute ago, greater and powerful than he ever was. That confident and assured he is in his opinion and you gawk at him as if he were a cult leader, about to change the course of your life. Maybe, just maybe, the cinnamon tea was the kool aid—and you want to drink again, but you’re ashamed of the trembling of your hands. “And if you feel like you’re indebted to him, you shouldn’t. You’re an adult. It’s your life, it’s not his just because he’s older.” 

Your throat dries and you risk it all, enveloping your fingers around the cup. Jeongguk’s all seeing eye notices your movement and his powerfulness drops. He sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

Bare, bare you are all for him to see. For anyone for the first time in your life—and at this point, you don’t even know how it makes you feel. 

Where light and so many emotions were inside you, emptiness falls like fine dust. You’re reminded of that one sentence in White Nights and, quietly, you reflect on it while your fingers tremble on. 

My God, a moment of bliss. Why isn’t that enough for a whole lifetime? 

Jeongguk makes space, like the ring of protection he created around you, by taking a few steps back and leaning against the counter. He crosses his arms over his chest and simply looks at you, reads your body language, and lingers at your hands. At the fact you don’t drink. At the fact you don’t speak. At the fact that nothing will ever be the same after this conversation. 

When he asks his last question, he softens his voice. His demeanor, too. Allows his arms to plummet down to his sides. Sags against the counter. 

“He doesn’t know we’re friends, does he?” 

Something that resembles a cry leaves your mouth and you’re so shocked by the freedom of your emotions that your hand leaps to cup your mouth, as if to hold back any more outpouring. That is your reaction. 

Jeongguk’s is more earth-shattering. 

By his instinct, he lengthens his spine and his hand… his beautiful, strong and veiny hand jerks towards your direction, as if to catch your hand, prevent it from hiding your outpouring—or as if to catch your outpouring alone. 

And it is so heartbreaking to you that you mutter the first thing that comes to your mind and run away. 

And you don’t realize where you are until you get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. A mascara tear stains your cheek in blackness, and the smallness of the bathroom encloses around you. 

You want to wash it away. Feel like the decision is yours to make, a right one at that. Feel like it’s the first step in the new way Jeongguk bestowed over your life by his wise words. And so you undress. 

And you don’t lock the door. 

And you don’t hear your phone ringing ten minutes later. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl, @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

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[cinna-stars]

Trafalgar Law x Fem!Reader - MDNI

18+ Trafalgar Law Ghostface SMUT - ABSOLUTE FILTH below the cut

Word Count: 3.3k

This is my first time writing in a few years. This was a self indulgent piece after seeing this art from hunnismoker on Instagram:

Trigger Warnings: 18+ MDNI, this is your last warning!

Knife play, Choking, Law has a potty mouth, Penetrative sex, Dacryphilia, Blowjob, Face fucking, Mask kink, Ghostface mask, Shachi being a little perv at the end

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Trafalgar Law, your boyfriend and Captain of the Heart Pirates, was acting more quiet than usual. Which was somewhat concerning, given that he was already one of the most stoic people you had ever met. It had started after you had come to him with the proposition of bringing a Ghostface mask into the bedroom. "I don't want to hurt you" was his initial response. It wasn't until you noticed a white mask in his dresser drawer that you realized he had been considering your request. You gently pulled it out, running your fingers over the smooth surface. Law's eyes widened slightly as he caught sight of you holding the mask.

"I... I got it for you," he admitted quietly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. "But I'm still not sure about this."

You smiled softly, touched by his thoughtfulness despite his reservations. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with, Law. I appreciate that you even considered it."

He stepped closer, taking the mask from your hands and examining it. "It's not that I'm uncomfortable," he said slowly. "I'm just concerned about losing control. The thought of potentially harming you, even in play..."

“ I trust you, Law. And if at any point either of us wants to stop, we will. No questions asked."

He brings his hand to his chin, rubbing slowly, gazing off pensively for a few moments. “Okay. Let’s try this.” He lifts the Ghostface mask to hover in front of his face.

“How do you want me to initiate this… and when?” He questions in a slightly deeper, more sultry tone than normal. Even the illusion of him wearing the mask has your heart racing and core heated, the question sending shivers of excitement through your body.

“I feel like the element of surprise adds to it, so, whenever you’re ready, Captain.” you grin. His golden eyes peer through the mask and examine the joy on your face.

He moves his free hand to ghost over your throat, pulsing his grip ever so slightly and leaning to your ear. “That’s Mr. Ghostface to you.”

A small whimper escapes from your lips and you hear a light chuckle from Law. “Something tells me this is going to be enjoyable for the both of us.”

A few days pass, and the anticipation of finding Law lurking around any corner wearing the mask that he had bought filled you with both lust and anticipation. He had teased you with it a couple of times, leaving it in places for you to find it, such as the bathroom mirror whilst you were taking a shower, and hanging from the back of his door in the dark of night. Needless to say, he had started to gain just as much excitement from the prospect of fucking you in the mask as you had seeing him in it.

Tonight, Law had advised he was going to be working until the early hours of the morning in his office. This wasn’t irregular for him, especially as of late. So, you decided to sit on the sofa in his quarters and watch a film, hoping to try and stay awake for his return. The film you chose was not particularly of interest, and your eyes started feeling heavy. Just as you lean your head back on the sofa, you hear footsteps approaching.

Your eyes snap open, suddenly alert. The footsteps are slow, deliberate. Not Law's usual confident stride. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize what's happening.

The door creaks open slowly. You hold your breath, heart pounding. A figure emerges from the shadows, tall and imposing. He still wore his normal attire, the usual black t-shirt and dark jeans, but over his face he wore the white mask. The smooth plastic gleams in the dim light from the TV screen. You also notice what you think is a small black hilt tucked into his waistband.

The footsteps continue slowly in your direction, and you lift your head up to watch his figure approaching. You swallow hard, a mix of fear and arousal flooding your system. "Mr. Ghostface," you whisper, playing along.

He stalks towards you, movements predatory. "You've been a naughty girl, waiting up for me. Don't you know it's dangerous to be alone at night?"

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-” he cuts you off, closing the distance between you. With a sudden change of speed, he straddles you where you sit. His bare hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, but firmly holding you in place. "Shh," he hisses through the mask. "No excuses."

Your breath catches as he presses you against the sofa. Even through his jeans, you can feel the heat radiating from Law's body. His free hand trails down your side, sending shivers through you.

You remain silent, watching as he tilts his head in that eerie Ghostface manner, his curious hand finding purchase on the waist of your silk pyjama shorts.

You whimper softly, torn between playing the scared victim and showing how aroused you already are. "Please," you whisper, not even sure what you're begging for.

He chuckles darkly. "Please what? Please let you go?" You paw at his hand and nod vigorously, and he feels you swallow hard. His fingers now play with the fabric of your waistline, the hand around your throat moving round to the back of your head to grasp your hair. With one swift pull, your neck cranes back as he leans forward to whisper in your ear. “Don’t FUCK with me. You’re getting exactly what you asked for. Now be a good girl and do as I say.”

Your breath hitches at his commanding tone, a mix of fear and desire coursing through you. You nod slightly, careful not to move too much with his grip on your hair.

"Good," he purrs, the mask distorting his voice just enough to send chills down your spine. "Now, stand up slowly."

He releases your hair and moves off of you, allowing you to rise. Your legs feel shaky as you comply, standing before him. His golden eyes bore into you through the mask's eyeholes, intense and predatory.

"Strip," he orders, voice low and dangerous. "Slowly."

With trembling fingers, you begin to unbutton your silk pyjama top. You can feel his gaze burning into your skin as you reveal more and more. The top falls to the floor, revealing the black lace bra that you had kept on in anticipation of him making his move tonight. You hesitate at the waistband of your shorts.

"Did I tell you to stop?" he growls. You pause, wondering what he’d do if you disobey. Apparently you took too long thinking about this, because in one swift motion, Law grabs your arm, spinning you round so that his chest is flush with your back. You feel him manoeuvre to grab something from his person, and just as quickly you feel a cold, hard object placed against the underside of your chin.

“I told you not to fuck about. Now we do things my way.” The cold metal against your skin sends a jolt through your body. You realize it must be the small blade you had noticed earlier. Your heart races, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through your veins.

"Y-yes, Mr. Ghostface," you play into the role, your voice barely above a whisper.

You feel his breath hot against your ear as he speaks, "Good girl. Now, finish what you started."

With shaky hands, you slowly push your shorts down your legs, stepping out of them carefully. The cool air of the room raises goosebumps on your exposed skin. You stand there, clad only in your black lace underwear, hyper-aware of Law's presence behind you.

The blade trails down your neck, across your collarbone, and down between your breasts. It's not enough pressure to cut, but the threat is there, heightening every sensation. Law's chest presses harder into your back, and you can feel how hard he is through his jeans. You’re relieved to know that he is enjoying this as much as you.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice husky behind the mask. "Now, on your knees." You comply, carefully turning around and sinking to the floor. The knife follows your movements, never leaving your skin. You can feel Law's presence looming over you, powerful and dominating.

"Hands behind your back," he orders. You comply swiftly, gazing up at the sight before you. Now that you were pretty much level with it, the bulge in his pants was VERY obvious. It looked painful, even. Your lips part in awe, panties absolutely soaked through already. He removed the knife from your plush skin, discarding it onto the sofa, and unzips his jeans, pushing them down to his ankles. He does the same with his boxers, but not before you can notice the significant wet patch across the front of the black fabric. His cock bounced as it was freed from the confines of Law’s pants, and you notice how flush his tip already was. You snap yourself out of the trance you found yourself in, staring and drooling.

"Open wide," he commands, his voice thick with desire. You comply eagerly, parting your lips as he guides his cock towards your mouth. He teases you at first, running the tip along your lips, smearing pre-cum across them. You whimper, and stick your tongue out, desperate to taste him.

Finally, he pushes into your mouth, groaning softly as your warm, wet tongue envelops him. You hollow your cheeks, sucking eagerly as he begins to thrust slowly. His hands tangle in your hair, guiding your movements.

"That's it," he hisses through the mask. "Take it all."

You relax your throat, allowing him to push deeper. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you gag slightly, but you don't stop. The sounds of your wet, sloppy efforts fill the room, punctuated by Law's low groans.

“That’s a good fucking girl” He breathes, picking up the pace of his thrusts. You adjust to his size, tears streaming down your face, gagging and blubbering as he lolls his head back in pleasure. You can see the fall and rise of his chest quicken, indicating how close he already is.

His breath catches in his throat, and he pulls you off his cock by your hair with a “pop”. He glares back down at you through the mask, chest still heaving. “Such a compliant little slut now, huh? Look at you. Is this what it takes for you to fucking listen?” You moan at his words. Hearing him talk like this, you could feel your pussy clench around nothing. All you wanted was him inside you. With his free hand, he holds your chin, using his thumb to wipe your saliva around your mouth. He places his index and middle finger over your lips, and you start sucking them in. He starts thrusting them across your tongue slowly, pulling your head back with the other hand still attached to your hair.

Suddenly, he shoves his fingers down your throat, causing you to gag and cough. He releases his grip on you, allowing you to catch your breath momentarily, before grabbing you underneath each arm. He pulls you up harshly, spinning you back around and pushing you onto the sofa. On instinct, you get on your knees and arch your back, giving him a perfect view of your ass.

Law's hands grip your hips firmly, his fingers digging into your soft flesh. You feel the cool plastic of the mask brush against your shoulder as he leans over you, his hot breath tickling your ear.

"Look at you, presenting yourself like a bitch in heat," he growls, voice dripping with lust. "Is this what you wanted all along?"

You nod eagerly, pushing your hips back against him. "Yes, Mr. Ghostface. Please..."

He chuckles darkly, one hand leaving your hip to trail down your spine. "Please what? Use your words, slut."

You whimper, desire clouding your thoughts.

Without warning, he rips your lace panties off, the delicate fabric tearing easily. The cool air hits your dripping core, making you shiver. Law brings his hand down hard on your ass. The sharp sting makes you cry out, a mix of pain and pleasure. "Answer me when I speak to you," he demands.

“P-please fuck me, Law! Please! I need you inside me.” You wail. Another harsh smack reverberates off of your ass and echoes through the room, along with the sounds of you crying out. His hand returns to your neck and pulls you up against him. You turn your head to try and face him.

“What the fuck did you just call me?” He snarls. Your face goes as white as the one staring back at you. The few seconds of silence are deafening. The sounds from the TV dull as the room fills with overbearing silence.

“I-I-” you try to start, his grip on your throat getting firmer. More tears start to fall from your cheeks as you gaze up at him through the mask, trying to predict his next move. The pressure on your trachea is starting to overwhelm you, and black spots start to cloud your vision. Before you pass out, he lets go and you fall forward, back onto all fours, gasping for breath.

Without warning, he grabs your hips and thrusts his entire length into you. You both groan in unison from the pleasure, yours slightly more strained. He starts thrusting in and out of you at a harsh pace, the rough grip on your hips already burning. The silence that once veiled the room is replaced with the sound of his balls slapping against you with every thrust, his feral grunts and your rasped moans. He removes once hand from your hip to hook into the side of your mouth while he fucks into you from behind.

“Fuuuuuck baby, you take me so well” he drawls. This is the first time during his pursuit this evening that you can feel your Law shining through, clear as day. The use of one of your many pet names has your stomach doing flips, and you can feel your release building up fast.

“M’gonna cum” you strain. The remaining hand on your hip shifts slightly closer to your ass, as you feel his thumb probing at your back entrance, and your orgasm hits you in a wave of pleasure. Back arching even further, mouth agape and drooling, you let out a mix of a moan and a scream. Law watches as you come undone around his cock, feeling you tighten up and watching as your ass clenched around the tip of his thumb, your whole body trembling. The feeling of his own high flooding his senses.

“Thaat’s it, good girl. Gonna cum inside this tight little pussy” He breathes ruggedly, hips faltering to a stop as he releases his load deep inside you. Another drawn out moan expels from you both at the sensation.

Law reaches up and pulls the mask off of his face to help catch his breath, and you turn your head to see his beautiful, fucked out face, forehead drenched in sweat and hair a mess. You can’t help but beam from ear to ear, and he can’t help but smirk back at you. Throwing the mask to the side, he wraps his arms around you from behind and rolls you both onto your sides on the sofa.

You both lay there panting, bodies intertwined and glistening with sweat. Law's arms hold you close, his chest pressed against your back. You can feel his heartbeat gradually slowing as he catches his breath. The room is quiet now, save for your soft breathing and the muted sounds from the forgotten TV.

After a few moments, Law gently turns you to face him. His golden eyes, no longer hidden behind the mask, search your face with a mix of concern and tenderness. "Are you alright?" he asks softly, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face.

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his care. "I'm more than alright," you assure him, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his lips. "That was... incredible."

He returns your smile, relief evident in his features. "It was," he agrees, "I have to admit, I enjoyed that more than I expected to."

You examine his face, taking in his flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair. "I could tell," you tease, running a hand through his damp locks.

He smirks at you again. He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips. “Next time you come up with one of these mask ideas, can you pick one that has a fucking hole to breathe out of?”

“I don’t know, the heavy breathing adds to the immersion” you giggle. He rolls his eyes playfully in response. You begin to trace the tattoos on his arm idly. He leans in again and slots his lips between yours. It was tender, soft, and epitomised the sappy side of Law that he revealed ever so rarely. He withdrew from your lips and paused for a moment, as if he was contemplating something.

“I missed kissing you, too” he admits, the innocent confession causing even more of a blush to form and his eyes to shift to the side.

“Trafalgar D. Water Law, are you going soft on me?” you tease. Your hand moving to his cheek, forcing his eyes to meet yours.

“Don’t ever change. You are more than I could ever ask for, and far more than I ever deserved.” You brush your thumbs across his cheek. “I love you so much, Law".

You can see his eyes go slightly glossy from the emotional confession. “I love you, too, Y/N.” He tucks another loose strand of hair behind your ear and his face contorts into a smirk. “Now who’s going soft, huh?”

The hand that you were using to caress his face pats his cheek lightly in a faux slap. “Can’t have one sincere moment without one of us being a cynical ass hat, huh?” You retort, grinning.

Slowly sitting up from the sofa and rubbing your (rather sore) neck, you can feel the mixture of your fluids leaking out of you. You both head to the bathroom to wash away the remnants of the evening, getting comfortable underneath the covers, bodies entwined with each other.

——————————————————————————————————

The Next Day

Shachi and Penguin opened the door of their Captain’s quarters, in search of Y/N’s log pose, at her request. They headed straight for the corner of the bedroom where a small makeshift living room space had been fashioned; a simple set-up including a sofa, coffee table and small TV.

Penguin fumbled through stacks of paperwork on the table, while Shachi moved around the pillows on the sofa. Y/N had instructed that her log pose may have fallen off somewhere in that vicinity.

“…holy SHIT” Shachi exclaimed, pulling out three items from betwixt the cushions. Penguin turned around and examined the items in his friends hands: a small knife with a black hilt, a ripped pair of black panties, and a plastic, white Ghostface mask.

“Oh my god” Penguin stared in awe. Shachi was particularly distracted by the panties that he gripped in his fist. “Do you think these are… Y/N’s?” he beamed.

“No, I think they’re the Captain’s... OF COURSE THEY’RE Y/N’S!” Penguin examined the other two items in Shachi’s hand. “Man, they’re into some kinky shit.” His friend nodded in agreeance.

They both continued searching for the log pose, but not before Shachi stuffed his new find into the pocket of his boiler suit.

[everythingisromant1c]

It's Always Been You - Chapter 10

james potter x fem!reader

summary - In all the excitement—or horror, to you—of the week, including the rumors that were still spreading rapid-fire around school, or your supposed best friend James's mysteriously terrible mood, you'd almost forgotten: the time had finally come for you to go on your date in Hogsmeade.

wc [5.0k]

all chapters | <- Chapter 9 - Chapter 11 ->

Maybe your best friend's unexplainable foul mood had been the reason that sleep came difficult to you that night, or maybe it was the fact that the clock in your brain was counting down until the time the sun would rise. The time when morning would come and you'd take that carriage ride over to Hogsmeade with the boys like you'd promised, and have to find Sebastian to go on your date with him. Your date. It still didn't feel real.

You didn't know if anything you'd done in the past could truly be qualified as an official date, one you could refer back to that morning as you finally saw sunlight through your window and knew you'd have to get ready. Luckily, you had two of the best girls you knew for friends, and they were set on helping you.

"I'm telling you, it's the first dress." Marlene nodded her head at you with wide, excited eyes, as you held two different dresses still on hangers up to your neck. "I mean are you kidding? It's one hundred percent your color, and you look sexy as hell in it."

Your jaw dropped at her antics. "Marlene," you cooed nervously.

"I mean it. Sebastian's not gonna be able to keep his hands off of you when he sees you."

You covered your face with your hands, half because you were embarrassed, and half because you didn't need Lily and Marlene to see you spiraling at the thought of what Marlene had just suggested. You'd been so caught up with, well, everything going on, that you hadn't even considered what going on a date truly entailed. What if he wanted to kiss you?

"Then you kiss him back," Marlene said easily as you voiced your question aloud. She stopped herself. "But only if you want to, of course."

"Yeah," Lily agreed, placing down a pair of nice shoes with a short but elegant heel on them that you'd forgotten you'd owned on the floor next to you. "Only do something if you want to do it. Don't let him pressure you into doing anything you don't want to. Even if it's as simple as holding your hand."

"Thank you guys, I know." You set the dress you were planning on wearing on the bed beside you, fiddling with the hanger pensively. "Holding his hand would be nice, I think." You chewed on the inside of your cheek, sitting down on the blanketed mattress. "To be honest, I don't know what I want." The two girls came to stand closer to you as you spoke. "I mean, Sebastian's a great guy and all, but do I even know him all that well?" Your mind traveled back to all the interactions you'd had with him. "What if I only said yes to go out with him because he asked me during the middle of that prank and I panicked and-"

"You need to relax," Lily said, voice firm but comforting at the same time. "You're just freaked out because it's the morning of. You're gonna have a great time." She shrugged a shoulder. "And if things don't click, then it wasn't meant to be. It's not the end of the world. "

"Exactly," the blonde said from next to her. "Don't let Potter's nonsense-spewing mouth ruin this date for you."

You'd filled them in the night before on all that'd been going on with James for the past few days, minus the few intimate 'almosts' that you'd shared with him that'd been dangerously playing in your mind even when you begged them to stop.

"Trust me," you said. "I'm trying not to."

"I still can't believe he's acting like this." Lily shook her head agitatedly. "And just when I was starting to think he might be maturing."

You nodded grievingly. "I would defend his honor to you, Lily, but I don't feel much like doing that right now."

"Maybe it's for the best." She breathed out a dry laugh. "Anyways, I suppose," she sighed. "Are you finished in the bathroom? I need to use the loo."

You snorted. "Yeah, all yours."

She shot you an overly excited grin and slipped into the bathroom, the door shutting behind her. All the while, Marlene took a seat on the bed next to you, something glimmering behind her eyes that told you she had ideas she wanted to voice.

You stared at her half amusedly, half hesitantly. "What is it?"

"Did you ever think, during all your bickering, why Potter has such a problem with you going on this date?"

You sighed. That was all you could think about. You tipped your head at her, knowing where this conversation was going to lead. "Yeah," you said plainly. "Because he's set on the five of us spending every Hogsmeade trip together until we die."

"Or maybe," she argued, "it's because he's jealous."

You dropped your shoulders, shaking your head as you stared at her. "You're not serious."

The blonde stared back at you with an equal amount of fire. "I so am."

You laughed to yourself, perhaps deprecatingly. "The only thing James could be jealous about is the free butterbeer I'll probably be getting."

"Don't be dense."

"I'm not being dense. I'm being realistic." You puffed out a breath. "I know James. Well enough to know that, after we ..." you trailed off. "After the party, when he disappeared, he was freaked out because I'd scared him off. And he knows me too. I didn't have to tell him for him to figure out that I'd ... felt something for him. Something that he obviously was uncomfortable talking about, so I've spared him the trouble and moved on. That's the end of it." You picked up the dress you'd laid on the bed as you heard Lily washing her hands in the bathroom. "It has to be."

Marlene regarded you for a few seconds, maybe scoping out how genuine you were. "Like you said," she shrugged, "you know him best."

You nodded, ending the conversation as Lily exited the bathroom. Though the more this week went on, you believed that fact less and less.

You soon were leaving the sides of both Lily and Marlene after the walk down to the horseless carriages in front of the school, dozens of them stationed there to take everyone down to Hogsmeade.

The air was especially crisp for a September evening, making you think to yourself that maybe bringing a jacket would have been a smart choice, especially in the dress you were wearing, but your brain soon became occupied by other thoughts. Thoughts that were centered around the sight of your four friends standing around an unoccupied carriage in the distance, probably waiting for you.

You took a breath in, and then another one. You were completely devoted to ensuring this would be a drama-free carriage ride, no matter what, or who, tried to stop that from happening. You made your way over to the four boys, two of their backs turned to you. You tapped the long-haired one, of course Sirius, on the shoulder.

"You didn't think you were going to leave without me, did you?" you smirked up at him.

He had a wry smile on his face as he turned to you, surely ready with a quip to send back your way, but that smile left as he saw you, his eyes quickly scanned over you.

"Wow," he blanched. Then a sparkling grin took over his features. "You certainly clean up nice."

You crinkled your forehead at his remark and amused smirk until Remus cut in. "What he means is," corrected the sandy-haired boy from next to him. "You look beautiful. Seriously."

You felt your face begin to heat at the four pairs of eyes all now observing you as you stood there in your dress. You were surprised they weren't poking more fun at you than just Sirius's single obvious remark. You couldn't remember the last time you were this dressed up in front of them.

"Thanks," you muttered gratefully. "Now stop gushing and let's get a move on, yeah?"

Remus shook his head at your reaction but hid his laugh, taking an effortless step onto the high carriage, Peter quietly behind him. Sirius made a move to ruffle your hair, which you dodged easily and shot him a glare. He chuckled, making his way over to the carriage as well. That left only you and James.

You turned to him finally, expecting him to be avoiding your eyes as he'd done for the past few days, but instead found him looking straight at you, hazel eyes and all. You didn't know what to do under his gaze which you'd grown somewhat unused to, so you settled on doing nothing at all. You were still holding your grudge over how he'd been acting and weren't quick to forget about it. You were fully expecting him to do the same and say nothing to you at all.

"You do," he said suddenly, and at the confused quirk of your brow, softly added, "Look beautiful, I mean."

You paused, somewhat taken aback by both his words and the genuine tinge of his eyes. You didn't know how James could hold eye contact so easily, especially when he'd been so set on doing just the opposite lately.

"Oh," you voiced quietly, and couldn't help the way the corners of your lips tilted upwards. "Thanks."

He nodded wordlessly and the two of you turned back to the carriage that held your three other friends, clearly able to hear and see your conversation. You eyed the tall wooden floor of the carriage before you and then the high cut of your dress, and then your shoes. As if reading your mind, a firm hand held itself out in front of you.

You peaked your head over to the source of the hand: James, who looked at you expectantly, a certain air to him that was both light and heavy. You regarded him and his hand for a split second, deciding there was no harm in taking it, and did, your fingers slipping over his steadying palm as you took the large step into the carriage. And maybe you were imagining it, but you felt the ghost of his fingers delicately shadowing your lower back as you steadied yourself into your seat, James following from behind.

He sat across from you and you avoided looking at him as you fought reacting to the feeling that ran through you, like you were still on some kind of high from his touch. It only made you mad to think about, so you decided not to, looking elsewhere instead as the carriage began moving seemingly on its own.

It'd only taken a few moments for the Hogwarts castle to be only a beautiful shrinking sight in the distance, and for the scenery of the early fall to take over your senses instead. You were sat in front of James, who sat next to Peter, the blonde looking rather sickly and lost in troubling thoughts.

"Pete," you called curiously. "You alright? You look pale."

The boy in question turned to you with worry behind his eyes, but he only nodded. "Yeah, I'm great," he said, voice rather shaky for someone who was 'great.'

"He's just nervous about his date." Sirius reached across the carriage to pat Peter on his shoulder, shaking him a little in his frail state. "You've got nothing to be worried about, mate."

"Yeah, Sirus is right," you agreed. "Remember, she asked you out because she wanted to spend time with you as you already are. Just be yourself."

Sirius nodded, before shifting his focus to you. "And what about you? You nervous for your date with Vance?"

You shrugged. "Maybe before, but I think I'm alright now." You smiled thinly. "I already talked it out with Lily and Marlene in our dorm getting ready."

"So that's what you ladies do up there?" Sirius asked, and you frowned. "Thought there'd be more pillowfights in your underwear."

You made a nauseated expression as Sirius grinned at his own joke. "You're disgusting," you scolded, though Peter had let a smile overtake his face at the joke and you figured maybe it was worth it.

Remus was shaking his head as well from next to you, the corners of his mouth teasing upwards. You turned forward again, James straight in your line of vision, but it didn't even seem he was listening to the conversation at hand, head aimed out the side of the carriage. He looked more distant than ever as he sat tensely and you had to fight the urge to reach out to him. You knew all too well what would come from that.

You let your focus slip onto other things, like the wind that was brushing against your exposed arms and moving your hair slightly in the wind. You fought a shiver, bringing your hands up to rub at the sides of your arms—you were sure you had goosebumps.

For the second time that morning, like he was reading your mind, you watched as James held out his arm towards you, though this time he was holding something in his hand instead: his coat. It was brown on the outside, a light jacket that was lined with a soft flannel fabric, one that you always thought looked dashing on him. He looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to take it.

You faltered from surprise and then shook your head. "I'm alright," you said softly, pursing your lips.

"You're practically shivering," James pointed out, tipping out his chin at you. "Just take it."

"I don't want to take your own jacket from you, James. It's chilly."

"Exactly," he said, catching you in your lie. "And you're not taking it from me, I'm giving it to you."

You looked up from the jacket he was offering, if you could call it an offer, and at him, seeing the stubborn hold of his jaw and yet the sincere gloss of his eyes. Because you knew he wouldn't let you say no anyway now that you'd admitted it was chilly, you took it from his hand.

You wrapped the too-big coat over your shoulders, grateful but perhaps hateful of the way it immediately warmed you like the lighting of a fireplace. It smelt warm and comforting like a fireplace too, or maybe that was just the fact that it was James's jacket and he always smelled strangely nice. You blinked at yourself, chasing away your thoughts that were certainly not appropriate, considering you were currently on your way to a date with a different boy.

In all your thinking, it was like you could feel a pair of eyes on you. You looked up again, but James already had gone back to staring out at the moving scenery. You couldn't read him right then, and if there was anything you'd learned about James from all the years you'd known him, it was that you could always read him, even when others couldn't. The fact that you hadn't been able to read him for days was worrying you sick and setting you off all at once. You just wished you could get inside his head.

You sighed, your eyes shifting over to Remus, who was giving you the oddest of looks. The corners of his eyes crinkled, though his lips stayed shut together. You raised a brow and he only shrugged, looking away again. You really needed to get inside that boy's head, too.

Before you could even mull over the different possibilities of ways that your up-and-coming date could go wrong, a habit of your mind that you hated, the carriage had pulled up into Hogsmeade. It came to a slow stop next to the uniquely shaped brick buildings you'd become all too familiar with over the years. That didn't take away from the excitement bubbling inside your stomach—or maybe that was nervousness; you couldn't tell anymore.

All five of you exited the carriage, James offering you his hand again as you took the big step onto the ground. You were growing too frustrated to even consider the feeling of your hand in his larger one that somehow was still as warm as the jacket you wore. How he could be so sweet yet so aggravatingly aloof you didn't know, but you forced your mind off the topic once again. Only, you couldn't force thoughts of James away completely, because he was calling your name as soon as you'd walked past him.

Your head turned to him so swiftly it almost made you dizzy. He was standing there along the side of a building you identified as The Three Broomsticks, hands now shoved into his trouser pockets with his head slightly tipped forward, though he stood up straighter as you made your way to him.

"Yeah?" you questioned, and maybe your tone was testy, but you didn't have it in you to alter it for his sake.

James shifted his footing underneath your gaze, taking a moment before speaking. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."

The pull of your brows let up at his words and you observed his facial expressions shamelessly, sorting through what to say. Luckily, he spoke again before you could.

"I'm sorry for making you take the carriage ride into Hogsmeade with the rest of us. You should've just gone with your date. I was just in an ... off mood last night. Didn't mean to take it out on you."

And just like that, the hope you were harboring when James had first uttered the word 'sorry' had bubbled and churned inside of you until all that was left was dissatisfaction.

"Is that all?" you questioned.

James's lips parted. "What?"

"I mean, I'm grateful for your apology," you breathed the word like it left a foul taste in your mouth. "But is there anything else you'd like to talk about? Apologize for?"

James scratched his head almost comically, and you laughed without any humor as you began to turn around. Before you could take a single step, James grasped your wrist in his fingertips, and you fought not to notice how feather-light he held onto you.

"Like what?" he asked you, and at your stone expression he dropped your hand. "Please," he insisted.

You swallowed and shrugged up your shoulders irritatedly. "Oh, I don't know James, maybe the fact that you've been acting 'off' this whole week and won't say a word as to why?" You took the hand he'd held and put it to your forehead. "I've probably asked you if you were okay about a dozen times and all you can say to me is that you're 'fine' when you're clearly ticked off."

"Because that's the truth," James insisted.

"Please," you remarked. "It's not the truth. Don't lie to me, James. I know you. Better than anyone else, and I know when you're upset about something."

"I'm not upset, alright?" James squinted at you. "Why can't you just let it go?"

"Because!" You took a breath in, trying to calm yourself because this was not the drama-free morning you wanted to have. "Because, every time I've been down, which has been too many times to count, you've been there for me. Always."

You thought back to the night you realized you loved him as more than just a friend, when he'd comforted you through your tears so quickly and sweetly, and it only made you feel more exasperated.

"So I'm not just going to 'let it go' when something's so obviously bothering you, enough to make you act completely differently to the point where you won't even talk to me." You paused, noticing the sinking in James's gaze the more you spoke. "And quite frankly," you continued, "it hurts like hell that you don't think you can tell me what's been going on, because you can. We're supposed to be best friends, remember?"

James let out a low breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff that had your forehead pulling. "Trust me, I remember."

"Then why the hell won't you just talk to me?" Your palms were facing him, telling him it was his move, his turn to try and fix things.

"Because there's nothing to say." He'd thrown away his turn without a second glance, running a fast hand through his hair. "God, this was a mistake. Every time I talk to you, I just-" he stopped himself.

Your heart was beating hard in your chest. "You just what?"

James shook his stubborn head, a muscle in his jaw noticeably flexing. "Nothing, alright?" He looked upwards, like he was battling something greater than him, and began walking towards wherever the hell James Potter went when he didn't want to talk to you. You weren't going to let him.

"How long are you going to keep doing this for, James?" He halted his steps, turning his head back towards you with a rigid look in his eyes. "How long are you going to avoid me?"

"Avoid you?" he laughed, and you froze. "That's rich, coming from you of all people."

You clamped your jaw shut for a beat, blinking at him as your mind started to spin. "What are you talking about?" You knew exactly what he was talking about.

"I'm talking about when you were avoiding me just a few days ago. Ring a bell?"

You lowered your gaze, confidence stuttering. You didn't respond.

"I mean, you wouldn't even partner with me Defense Against the Dark Arts, for Merlin's sake."

"That was different," you argued, though you were ashamed of how pathetic the words sounded coming from your lips.

"How?" James asked, staring at you fearlessly now with raised, expectant brows and an unmoving jaw.

"It ... it just is!" You looked away. "We're getting off track. My point was that ... I just miss you, James." The irony of your warm words contrasted with the angry shake of your lips didn't escape you. "I miss the James who wouldn't push me away every time I tried to have a conversation with him, or who wouldn't act like a bloody child every time I mention I'm going on a date."

If you thought you saw a crack of guilt racking James's expression, there was no trace of it now.

"Oh yeah?" he questioned, his tone colder than you'd ever heard it. "I'm sorry I don't like talking about your beloved Sebastian every five minutes."

"Well it's not like I can talk to you about anything else, can I?" Your heart was thumping in your chest and you felt like crying. "You know what?" You chewed on the inside of your cheek, turning away. "I give up! Let's just talk whenever you're ready to be honest with me."

Your back was to him when he shouted, "You want me to be honest?" You scoffed, nodding your head. "That's what you want?" he repeated.

"Yes James!" you shouted. "That's exactly what I want!"

"Well then, fine!" He wiped a desperate hand over his face, throwing up his arms. "We kissed, alright?"

Your heart sizzled somewhere in your chest beneath your stilled lungs, every part of you halting its movements. Your expression fell slowly and you blinked at him, staring wordlessly for a moment. "What?"

James stared back at you, looking at you more than he'd looked at you in the past week altogether. The opposite of yours, his chest heaved up and down like he'd been fighting for air and could only now come up for oxygen. He didn't look like he'd misspoken and that scared you more than anything.

"We kissed. Last week. At the party."

Your lips hung, parted and confused. "What are you-"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. We kissed, and you ran off, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since."

Your eyes felt like they had a mind of their own, scanning rapidly over James and then looking at the ground, your heeled shoes, anywhere but at him because your world was shifting around you, the walls of what you thought you knew crumbling down on you.

You swallowed, throat going dry. "James," you voiced carefully. "That kiss was ..." you shook your head. "We were playing a game."

Maybe he would take the slowness of your words for sureness rather than struggle, because that along with seemingly every other emotion was what you were feeling inside.

"No, c'mon. Don't do that." James shook his head back at you and you felt like running away, but you couldn't now. Not when he was looking at you like that. "Don't try and make it seem like that was all it was, because it wasn't. Not for me, and I know it meant more to you too."

The cool breeze from before had picked up and was turning into an inexorable wind that made you feel worse than you already did. Could he see the way you had to stop yourself from shaking? Hear the way you willed your heartbeat to stop pounding? Clearly not, because he kept talking.

"For days, weeks even, all that's been on my mind was you. Do you know how hard it is to get anything done when all I can think about is my best friend kissing me?"

You felt dizzy with the way he was staring into your eyes. Like you'd voiced to yourself a million times, how James held eye contact so effortlessly was a mystery you'd never find the answer to.

"And I know you said you wanted to just pretend like the kiss never happened, but you should know that I can't do that, alright? Trust me. I've tried, and obviously that didn't work." He ran a hand through his tousled hair again. "So I just ... I need you to say something to me. Anything."

You willed yourself to speak again, blood rushing past your ears now. "I ... I don't know what to say. It was a part of a game."

James practically flinched. "Anything but that." He breathed out a laugh without any chest, tipping his head back and taking steps around. "God."

You still felt like crying, because nothing was making sense. Then James refocused on you, and you felt pinned underneath his gaze.

"You can tell me it was part of a game however many times you want." His words were achingly slow and desperate. "But tell me ... just tell me you didn't feel anything when we kissed. That it meant absolutely nothing to you, and I'll stop talking. I promise."

You knew he meant what he said; you could see it all through his hazel eyes. You'd asked for honesty and you'd gotten it. You knew that you couldn't lie to him anymore, and you said your truth with your voice was on the verge of breaking.

"I can't." Even if your voice shook, James heard it loud and clear. He stopped moving and stepped closer to you whether he noticed or not. "But that doesn't mean it can mean anything now."

If it was possible, he went even more still. His eyes pleaded with you to say more to him, so you did. "It's not fair, James." Your voice broke off, and James took both your hands in his, and held them tight near his chest, like hope pumped through them.

"What? What's not fair, Love?"

You flinched at the name you hadn't heard in seemingly forever, but it pinched at the part of your brain that remembered it vividly. You didn't know how this moment was real. You looked down at his hands that engulfed yours. "It's not fair that it meant something, because it can't."

You pretended not to notice the way James's hands loosened their hold. "Not when-" your voice hitched at the sign of your eyes blurring despite how much you'd willed them not to. "Not after I spent months—years, even—trying to make every interaction between us mean something. After I spent all that time trying to get over you! It- it's not fair, and I won't do it. I won't."

You shook your head timidly and repeatedly like it would stop what was happening. You didn't know when you and James had moved away from each other, probably somewhere between your voice breaking and your eyes watering, but you had. But that wasn't was most important.

James had gone eerily still, painfully silent. That didn't change the fact that his unforgiving eyes continued to search what seemed like every inch of your face. His voice rang out lowly.

"Get over me?" His heavy brows furrowed in hurt and bewilderment. "Wh-" he choked. "What do you mean 'get over me'?"

You put a hand to your head, amused in your disbelief. "Like you haven't known."

James took a persistent step forward, the pinch between his brows desperate. "What the hell are you talking about?"

This all felt like a bad dream you couldn't wake up from. You forced yourself to breathe. "I really can't do this right now, I-" You didn't think you could do it ever. You pulled at the hem of your dress. "I have a date."

Even with the wind whipping against you both, you'd never heard a silence like the one you did right then.

"You're really still going on that date?" James peered at you interrogatingly, his eyes slightly red now, and it killed you.

"What am I supposed to do, James?"

You wiped at your nose. James's hands were elevated at his sides like he wanted to reach out to you, but didn't. He looked like he didn't know what he wanted to do, but he didn't stop.

"You can't just go running away all because ..." he panted, "because..." His voice trailed off.

You wanted to shout at him that all you'd done since forever was stop yourself from running away, but you didn't. It wasn't his fault you'd tortured yourself all these years. But that didn't mean he could get his happy ending with the snap of his fingers, either.

Just to twist the knife in your chest, he whispered, "Please."

You dropped your gaze low to the cobblestone ground beneath your feet, blurry now through your lashes. "I need to go." The sight of him standing before you, eyes watery and lips parted helplessly, sent painful pangs through your heart. You moved your head, willing yourself to turn away and your legs to move. You didn't think you could leave if you looked him in the eyes. "I'm sorry."

Those same eyes followed you as you walked down the path, head hung low but steps quickening despite. Steps taken in the direction of The Three Broomsticks, where you'd go on your date with Sebastian. Your mind kicked and screamed at you at every step, but you couldn't get them to stop.

You felt James's eyes on your retreating form like you felt the wind snapping against your cheeks, though you didn't turn back to look at him. That way, he wouldn't be able to see the way your expression shook at the effort of just trying to keep yourself together.

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[star-sim]

your lips, my lips, apocalypse ☆ heeseung lee

☆ non-idol! heeseung x fem! reader ☆ summary: sex, love, and romance tasted like poison on your tongue, a secret that you held close to yourself for years. unfortunately, when heeseung kisses you, he, too, could taste that poison. ☆ genre: hurt/comfort, angst, veeery suggestive but no smut, implied college! au, unclear relationship status but can be viewed as friends to lovers ☆ warning(s)? implied s*xual abuse, hypersexuality as a coping mechanism, if youre not comfy with these topics don't read! ☆ word count: 2.0k ☆ atp im just writing my entire playlist... based off of apocalypse by cigarettes after sex <3

Heeseung should have known the moment that your first instinct was to lower your head in shame and unbutton your shirt, revealing your lacy undergarments and bare skin, because you thought your then-boyfriend was angry at you.

He should have seen the signs when you had no problem shoving your tongue down every team captain's throat for everyone to see, but danced around the topic of sex, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as you clutched onto his sleeve.

He should have noticed the way you changed, how you slowly showed more and more skin, yet said less and less, shrinking into yourself whenever a pair of eyes glazed over you, almost like you were afraid.

But most of all, Heeseung should have known the moment that you attacked him with your lips, hungrily kissing him like a starved hyena.

He hated himself for realizing so late into the night. 

There the two of you were, sprawled across your bed. You had your back flat against the soft, white sheets, your bare skin so pretty under the warm light. Heeseung, shirtless in his own right, hovered over you, admiring you.

Both of you were breathless, lips swollen and eyes blown out as you ached for each other, spending the last hour teasing each other.

What started as a calm night with his dear friend became an impromptu makeout session, that then became the two of you half naked in your bedroom.

The first sign should have been how you faltered at Heeseung's mindless mention of his love-life, the way your expression pinched briefly. You let out a few sad words, yet your tone was so happy that Heeseung didn't notice the way your brows furrowed, sinking your teeth into your lips pensively. 

The second sign should have been the cloudy glaze over your eyes the moment Heeseung's hand accidentally brushed up against your thigh, and more importantly, the way your eyes were glued to his hand as he pulled it away, a small "sorry"falling from his lips.

The third sign was the way that you paused for a moment, giving him a confused look after you crawled on top of him, your lips attached to his neck. Heeseung's hand ghosted over your hips and waist, asking breathlessly, "Can I touch you here?" 

This should have been the nail in the coffin, the way you looked so quizzical just because he asked permission to touch you.

But now as Heeseung pinned you under him, his large, doe eyes gazing down at yours, he felt his heart pound. You looked so beautiful. The sight of you under him was something that he could only dream of, but now that you were right in front of him, Heeseung felt dizzy.

All these years, he'd been waiting for his moment— to be so close and intimate with you, you who he never really escaped from.

Heeseung could feel the warmth of your skin against his, the feeling being so delicious that he wanted to bask in it forever.

As his long fingers slithered down to the hem of your panties, dipping into them, Heeseung watched your face. 

Your head was thrown back, gazing up at him like he was a god. Your pretty lips were wet and parted, sucking in sharp breaths and letting out small sighs as Heeseung worked on you.

But what made Heeseung falter was the look in your eye.

He'd always known you to be bright-eyed; it was within your eyes that he could see the universe unfold before him, without a single speck of dust obstructing it.

But this time, your eyes told something different.

Earlier, they were filled with excitement and desire. But now, they were dull; storm clouds shrouded the sky that was your eyes, shedding a murky and foggy cast that was so dark that it bled onto the rest of your face.

Heeseung was no stranger to your past.

It was no secret that you had many sexual partners, almost to the point of being rumored to be a 'whore' or 'slut.'

Heeseung didn't know for sure, but he was perceptive enough to understand the link between the older boy that you dated for years in high school who was known for preying on younger girls, and your transition into being more sexually-charged. He had a feeling that your sudden change into being more sexual had something to do with the predatory nature of your relationship back then.

All this time, you'd told him that you were okay, that you'd moved on and did things because you wanted to do it, that you were no longer haunted by the memory of your sexually abusive ex-boyfriend from when you were seventeen years old.

But Heeseung could read you better than he knew.

From your eyes, he could tell that you were desperate.

Not desperate for sexual gratification or pleasure.

Not desperate to be touched.

Not desperate to be satiated by some sort of sexual hunger.

No, you were desperate to be healed, desperate to be held.

Of course. You were turning to sex to fix your problems. You were finding value in relationships and yourself through sex. 

You didn't want to have sex with him.

Slowly, Heeseung removed his hands from you, pulling up your panties and getting up to find your shirt. Without a word, he slipped your shirt back onto you, his hand fixing your disheveled hair.

Sensing that something was wrong, you gently grabbed his face, pressing your lips against his. For a second, Heeseung forgot everything, only relishing in the way that your lips felt. His body was begging him to relieve him of his desire. Atlas wanted you. Oh, he wanted you so bad. He wanted you selfishly.

But Heeseung wasn’t going to have sex with someone that didn’t want it.

“No,” he mumbled against your lips as he tried to pull away. “[Name]-”

You only pulled him closer by the shoulders, squeezing them. Your lips were now crashing against his aggressively and with a passion that felt artificial. “[N-Name],” he tried to pull away. “No.”

“I just—” you said in-between kisses, “I just really want you.”

Heeseung could have easily pushed you away, given your strength difference. But he refused to hurt you. With a firm jerk, he was able to get himself free of your grip.

"I can't do this with you," was all he said.

You looked like you were about to cry. Heeseung felt a pang in his chest, but all he did was shake his head. Heeseung silently got off of you, finding his pants on the floor and slipping back into them. He went to your bathroom to get a warm wet cloth to clean your wet thighs up, his hands gently grasping your skin as if you'd fall apart if he was too rough.

Just as Heeseung was about to throw the towel into your hamper, you grasped onto his bicep, digging your nails into it. You looked up at him with tearful eyes, your brows knit together as you began to sniffle.

"I-I'm sorry," you whimpered. "Did I do something wrong? A-Are you mad at me?"

Heeseung immediately tossed the wet cloth aside somewhere on your bedroom floor.

"What are you talking about?" He wrapped his arms around you, pulling your head to your chest, feeling your tears stain his bare chest. When Heeseung pecked your forehead, you wailed even harder, your arms coming up to pull him closer to you, holding him like he'd save you. "Why would I be mad at you?

"W-Why don't you want to h-have sex with me then?" you shakily choked out. "Am I— Am I not good enough?"

"No," Heeseung's eyebrows crashed together, his eyes narrowing. His words were serious, but his voice was soft, as soft as a feather for your delicate ears. "I could tell that you didn't want it, Baby. I would never get mad at you for that. I hope you know that."

The sound of your sobs must have been the worst thing that Heeseung had ever heard in his life. He didn't like it one bit. Those hot tears were tiny droplets of all the pain and abuse that you've suffered from. 

"I'm s-sorry," you whimpered. "I-I'm s-sorry."

What did they do to you? What have they done to you that you apologized so much?

Heeseung clenched his fists. His chest burned with a different type of anger, an anger that was so great that it was overwhelming, eating Heeseung alive and chewing him into dust. He'd kill them, he'd kill the son of the bitch that hurt you so much like this with his bare hands.

"Fuck," Heeseung cursed under his breath. In a single movement, Heeseung hoisted the both of you up, so that you were on top of him, your head rested on his chest. As tears spilled from your eyes, clinging to Heeseung, he petted your head. 

Heeseung was warm, warm in a way that you couldn’t describe. You wanted to fall into him, let your eyelids flutter down peacefully, and relish in what was his essence. 

You felt apologies prickle the tip of your tongue. After all, other than letting others use your body, saying sorry was the only other thing you knew how to do. You felt weak, helpless, like a wet dog at the mercy of its owner, yet you felt more sorry for Heeseung, who was now stuck with you. 

“S-Sorry—“

“Shhh,” Heeseung whispered into your ear. “Don’t apologize, Baby.”

“But—“

Heeseung hushed you. 

When your breath didn’t slow, in fact speeding up to the point that you were huffing in quick breaths and pushing out even shallower ones from your chest, Heeseung grabbed your hands. 

It felt like the entire world was crashing down into your shoulders, hitting you all at once. Everything hurt, your body was trembling yet you couldn’t feel anything. You should be okay, right? After every one-night stand or sexual partner that inevitably used you like a doll, you were always left alone and cold. You experienced this exactly, and you’ve dealt with it every time alone. You can do it again, right? If you’ve been alone all this time, you can deal with it this time alone, too—

“Hey.” 

Heeseung’s voice forced you out of your head.

“Hey,” he repeated, rubbing circles on your back. “Breathe.”

You swallowed down the sob that threatened to spill out. “I’m o-okay.”

“You aren’t,” he said simply. “I know you aren’t.”

You shook your head, pulling away from him. You wanted to shrink back into his warmth, to be sucked back into the paradise that was the comfort that was Heeseung, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so. You were scared.

Why would he want to be around you? Why would he even want to have a burden of a person like you to hold? You were a mess, a wreck that had too many problems to count. You were unlovable, broken, fragmented and with missing parts because of all the men that have robbed you of your identity, your autonomy, your ability to love, and—

To your surprise, Heeseung simply pulled you back in. His hands gently slinked to your wrists, pulling you back into him. Your mind told you to run away and hide, but instinctively, you melted into him.

“Let me take care of you,” Heeseung said. His voice was calm, light on your ears in a way that made your heart ache. He took your hand again, squeezing it. “I don’t care what you say, I’m not leaving you.”

“Please d-don’t,” you whispered back, so softly that your voice was barely audible. “Don’t leave.”

“I won’t,” was all Heeseung said. “You can count on it. I won’t.”

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 18 "Universe"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: This chapter is dedicated to the quantum spirits.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 5k

A/N: It's a Christmas miracle! 🎄 The final chapter is ready just in time. And, my God, I'm so emotional about it 😭 It hurts to let it go.

After finishing this chapter, you might want to re-read a certain part of a certain other chapter, because of reasons 🤭

If there ever pops up a 19th "chapter", don't be surprised! If it happens, it's going to be a bit of art for this fic 💖💖💖

My biggest thank you goes to @/ClockworkSiren, once again, for beta reading this whole thing and letting me borrow our lovely babies Alyth and Michael and turn them into Lilia and Mikhail ❤️😭

Reposted from my Ao3💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter

"So, this is it?" She gazes out the window, engines rumbling under their seats. "The Maldives of Giedi Prime?"

"What was that, darling?" Feyd's hand is heavy on her knee, the coolness of his wedding band seeping pleasantly through her gown. His bald head thuds softly against the back panel as he follows her gaze.

The black, oily waves of the svart valta lick at the pale coast of the peninsula below. White sand stretches between tall, chalky cliffs that stand out of the landscape like the unearthed bones of an ancient beast. According to her interface, they're still 150 meters above the ground.

"The Maldives," the relic mutters pensively. "They were an archipelago on Earth, a popular honeymoon destination. Never been there. They were flooded around the time I was born."

"Honeymoon," Feyd repeats the foreign word that lacks a proper translation in Galach, but with the individual words grafted together, it sounds cute. He likes it. "M'gonna drink your honey as soon as we touch down. Until the moon comes out?"

His wife snickers warmly and her breath fogs up the window. Feyd's hand slides to the inside of her thigh, squeezing the soft flesh above her knee.

"Not if I drink yours first," she teases, though her musing gaze remains on the lurid landscape below, abyssal wave hungrily trying to scorch the peninsula of Telkel. From the tasu aurinkosesti, they had flown east to reach one of the most remote Harkonnen settlements on Giedi Prime. Looking at the undulating mass of radiation, she wonders: "What color do you think it'd have under a yellow sun?"

"Don't know," Feyd hums. "You're the scientist. Green, maybe? Or brown."

He had explained to her earlier that the settlers had tried to reintroduce fish to the sea here in Telkel. The giant, corroding basins along the shore remain, but their filter systems have been shut off for decades. To cultivate fish that can not only survive but thrive in the heavily polluted waters would take some serious scientific effort that the late Baron Harkonnen didn't think promising enough to chip his budget for.

"We could have gone to Lankiveil," his woman briefly pouts, though her eyes betray her fascination as the village below increases in size. "I would die to dip my toes into an ocean without having them singed off. Or for some fresh air and a walk among pines. I never had much of that on Earth either."

Feyd hums, contorting his torso to press his cheek against hers as they both gaze out of the same window. Long, pale fingers play along her ribs. "The waters on Lankiveil would freeze your toes off, but… We'll go there," he promises with a low whisper. "Or any other planet you want. The universe is practically ours now." 

Practically. Perhaps after a week of writhing on top of each other in damp sheets, their thirst for revenge will return.

The conversation between Feyd and his brother after the ceremony had been brief, but Glossu had formally invited the both of them to Lankiveil, the snowy, tranquil home of Feyd's early childhood and a place full of emotional debris. But he would rather not elbow his way through the wreckage on their honeymoon.

The aircraft touches down on a bleak landing pad between low buildings that look like matchboxes among the unforgiving landscape. A small committee of a dozen Telkelis awaits the daunting visitors from Barony, their massive aircraft ink-black and shiny, factory new, among the dusty grey architecture and pale hills. The sharp wind of rotor blades makes the Telkelis' drab trousers whip around their legs.

Lilia quickly maneuvers to the other side of the passengers' cabin after prying the hem of her Lady's travel mantle out of Glugo's many finger-toes. The garment has the same functionality as her wedding down, but simpler and more practical.

"You'll get your plushies back when we're inside," the handmaid tries to soothe the wistfully glugging creature. "They're in the suitcase— Oh! Not that one."

But Glugo has already wrapped four out of eight hand-feet around the handle of Mikhail's personal suitcase that the guard had refused to deposit in the cargo department because old habits die hard. As a former resident of the slums of Ganpolis, he prefers to have his belongings where he can see them.

Feyd-Rautha clicks his tongue while Lilia helps his wife into the shiny mantle and gloves, concealing her from head to toes.

Outside, scalding wind carries the sound of distant, crashing waves and the scent of bitter salt. The relic has to hold onto her husband's arm as she sways on the iron footsteps of the aircraft. Behind them, guards spill out of the second cabin, half of them heading straight to the cargo compartment where her cryo pod is stored. She is quite like Mikhail in that regard. 

The committee bravely keeps a stoic face and  doesn't flinch at the disturbingly cute sight of an eight-arm-legged creature toiling away with a too heavy suitcase and refusing a desperate guard's help.

Leaning towards his wife, Mikhail whispers: "My chair's inside that thing!"

Feyd's nostrils flare as he struts towards the gathered dozen with heavy, leisured steps, clutching the hand of his wife. His other hand lifts to shield himself against the glaring sun and the tip of his thumb subconsciously slides against his ear where an inconspicuous black button pierces his antihelix. To the unsuspecting eye, it looks not too different from a regular transponder with an unconventional placement, but what it really contains is a tiny loudspeaker and a chip with just enough memory to run the script that detects the voice.

"Welcome to Telkel, my Lord, my Lady." The committee bends their knees and salutes. The clumsy tension in their limbs gives away that they didn't have to salute to authority often in their lives out here in the godforsaken wilderness.

"Thank you for having us."

If it weren't the young Baron's very own raspy drawl speaking, the Mayor of Telkel would have never believed that 'thank you' would be the first words coming out of Feyd's mouth. The Mayor's daughter had cried in the morning, certain that Feyd-Rautha would behead her father for something as mundane as the driveway to the villa being too crooked or the bad condition of the weather-beaten landing pad.

"It's an honor. The entire village is ecstatic, my Lord." Still hunkering down on one knee, the man's smooth brows suddenly shoot up in horror. "Congratulations!" He blurts. "On your marriage!" He'd meant to say this in the very beginning. Helplessly, his pale eyes snap from Baron to Baroness.

"Thank you," the Lady speaks from behind the curious veil and her voice sounds kind and human. "Why don't you stand up. Don't hurt your knees."

Feyd-Rautha casts a threatening glance at Mikhail, so the guard doesn't blurt out that 'the Lady could print y'all some chairs.'

The Mayor and his people shuffle, straightening their bodies into the sharp wind.

"Oh, my Lady, our knees and backs are used to it." The older man points a scarred thumb behind his shoulder, where the inkvine plantations are beyond the village border. This is how Telkel gets by now, hovering over the maws of poverty at the whims of Giedi Prime's rocky soil and erratic volcanoes.

The Lady lets out a sympathetic sound and the Mayor can't help himself. The next words just come tumbling out. "It'd be an honor to show you around the plantations and the old basins, if you'd like. Never seen them in action, but my father did. For a year or so, they had a relatively stable population of Tilapia in there."

"I'd love to see them. Actually, if I could have some water samples, maybe I could—"

"Not now, sweetling," Feyd's grating voice chastises and he squeezes his wife's gloved hand, compressing her wedding ring between her fingers. "The villa is prepared?"

"Yes, my Lord. The maids and workers you sent have been very thorough. Radiation-proof window panes, fresh paint. Even got some imported plants. My daughter picked them." The renovated villa is now considerably more homely than the Mayor's own residence. "Shall we head there?"

Despite its forlorn ugliness, the relic finds Telkel and its grey, flat buildings among chalky hills oddly charming. Even if she'll be covered from crown to toe in her lead-painted mantle, she swears she will go to the beach — if Feyd lets her out of the bedroom — and feel the sand underfoot, hear the massive waves trying to swallow the shore. Compared to Barony and the roiling industrial trenches that stretch across most of the northern hemisphere, this is a natural paradise.

"Guess we won't be seeing ya for a while, eh?" Mikhail leers, freshly painted teeth brilliant in the glaring sun as he leans lopsidedly against the grey pillar of the villa's roofed porch. Lilia harshly pinches his side, between the plates of his armor, but the apples of her cheeks round up with laughter. Sometimes it still scares her how openly her husband jests with Feyd-Rautha, a man who used to be known first and foremost for his quick blades and unstable outbursts.

The welcome committee has left them ten minutes ago and the guards currently come shuffling out of the building, having deposited the Baroness' priceless sarcophagus in the room adjacent to their honeymoon suite.

"You may join us for meals," Feyd concedes, grinning.

"Meals as in…?" Mikhail cocks a hairless brow.

"Oh, absolutely not!" The relic gasps and her guard breaks into raspy laughter, lungs expanding in crunchy hops.

"Dun' worry. I wouldn't share my woman anyways. Not even with you, m'Lord. Aight then, see ya in a week, eh?"

Wiry arms curl around Lilia's thighs and the scrawny guard hauls his wife quite easily over his shoulder. She calls him a prat between giggles, and a mongrel, but Mikhail already makes a sprinting beeline for Glugo who still stubbornly drags his suitcase down the freshly paved pathway to the guest house.

"They'll be fine," Feyd-Rautha soothes his wife's veiled, lingering glance. "Look at me." His gravelly timbre demands for her undivided attention and her eyes follow his magnetic pull.

Pale fingers sprawl across her sternum, urging her backwards. Even through the lead-painted layers, she feels his possessive touch singe her skin and bones. Unwittingly, her feet pass the threshold of their holiday abode and the door closes at her husband's back.

Inside, silence embraces them. This place is only for them, where they need to be nothing but lovers. Color provided by golden glow globes fades into Feyd's pallor, the softest notes of pink on cheeks and lips, and blue framed by dark blonde lashes. 

The building is brutalist in its arches and pillars, but less suffocating than the palace. The welcoming range of non-colors and sharp angles creates actual depth and contrast, not like the bulbous pyramid interior that reminds of  a termite burrow, or the innards of a giant insect. Bright daylight streams through the thick windows, fading into glowglobe haze.

Something about this place evokes… Nostalgia.

"You're blushing, husband," she teases, though her hammering heart under his palm betrays her own butterflies.

"Off with that thing." Feyd-Rautha has already mapped out the buckles that keep her mantle fastened and strips it off her frame quicker than she would have ever managed. Her gloves land on the same shiny pile and she hooks her bare fingers into Feyd's belt loops, turning her husband around his tall axis to walk him up the curved stairs. Those pretty eyes could eat her alive, oozing lust like blue honey.

Neither of them take note of the gentle, green fern that line the staircase in tasteful pots.

"Off with that thing." The woman's fingers glide under Feyd's lapels and over his smooth shoulders, slipping his ornamental jacket off his arms. The expensive garment flutters over the banister and he remains in a sleeveless tunic and trousers.

"So, now that you're my wife, will you stop taking that potion?" Feyd leers at her stomach once they've reached the top, his tone playful. The hand that lunges to smack him atop the head is one that he had predicted, and so he dodges it masterfully and dances behind her. Hard, strong arms curl around her middle, lifting her off the ground until she breaks into gasping giggles and demands to be let down with kicking feet. The hem of her gown slides up her shins.

Feyd grins, feeling the plushness of her breasts against his forearms. "What a rare pleasure to have you in a gown, my darling" he purrs.

"For this special occasion, I thought I might as well," she huffs with laughter, accepting her airborne fate.

"I like it. It's practical."

"Practical for you, not for me."

The garment is a classic cut worn by Harkonnen noblewomen, flattering and intricate in the way it curls around her bosom and hips in obsidian black, nothing like the stiff latex and see-through plastic of the former Baron's palace servants.

"Don't worry, you won't have to wear it for the rest of the week, my darling. You'll wear nothing but sweat and cum on your pretty skin. Or maybe some blood. I didn't bring a coffer full of toys for nothing."

"I hope some of them are for you."

"More than you'd think," he purrs, pink lips pressing against her neck. "And some of the blood will be mine."

"Oh? We could start now." The woman twists out of his grasp, turning and grasping his lapels. Her lips find the crescent scar on his clavicle, pretending to delve for a kiss when she really pinches the thin layer of skin over the bone between her teeth. Feyd grunts, shamelessly pressing his confined erection against her navel.

"Let's go, my darling." He seizes her hand, his whole universe, and opens the door.

🎶🎶🎶

"Look, doesn't this remind you of something?" His wife's voice whispers to him excitedly and Feyd-Rautha tilts his head, brows furrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"Look!" Her ringed hand slides out of his grip and he chases after it viscerally, nearly overwhelmed by the sudden discomfort of having no soft palm against his own. She shouldn't be slipping away from him at all on their honeymoon.

But then, recognition carves into him, serrated blades that tear his guts open with a monstrous sense of deja vu. His head spins as he advances into the room.

Feyd's feet step on polished parquet and his gaze swivels around, scanning the surroundings which he thought he would never see again. There are white curtains fluttering by the window, a king-sized bed carved out of white marble, a black comforter tucked around the mattress and blue pillows are lined up against the headboard. A real fern grows in a terracotta pot in the corner.

Horrified, Feyd's head snaps back to his woman, suddenly recognizing the  Harkonnen gown wrapped around her curves. He finds her eyes brimming with meaning. 

She clutches his wrist hard, nails digging into tender skin, and it is like some sense of frantic, mutual understanding settles upon wife and husband. Her features soften and she looks at him, seemingly confused.

"I don't recognize this place," he lies. His heart clamors like a captive beast.

"Me neither." She pulls her hand away and takes a step back, her cheeks hot and her head dizzy as the universe's mysterious gears rotate around them. But she masks it well.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Feyd rumbles, tracing his fingertips over the cool, smooth marble bedpost. It feels so real. It is real and always has been real.

"I don't know. I feel so awake." 

A flash of warmth blossoms in Feyd-Rautha's chest as he regards the woman he has seen so many times before, in visions and reality. Curiously, she moves around the light-flooded bedroom. Sunlight filters through the curtains, temporarily robbing her flesh of color. A frown decorates her brows and she turns back to face him. Years of comfort reside in the way she moves and Feyd chases after her with measured steps.

"What's your name?" He asks. She tells him only a forename, no House, because she has none, unfamiliar sounding, because the name was given to her 24,000 years ago. "I've never heard that name before," Feyd confesses, standing mere inches away from his wife. Her pretty face is craned upwards to meet the alluring gaze of his eyes. She would describe the color as baby blue. The prettiest shade in the world.

"And what's your name?" She breathes. No matter what this is, she has no reason to be nervous. It already happened.

He hesitates at that. Feyd-Rautha Rabban. But ultimately, he stays true to the script. "Feyd." 

The name sparks no judgment on the woman's features and he remembers the flood of immense, stupid relief and how he had concluded that there is probably more than one person in the universe named Feyd, that Harkonnens all look the same to foreigners. To talk to a person who only knows Feyd, not Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had been his lifeline out of the gluttonous maws of death.

"Feyd," she repeats, suddenly giggling.

He too is in the mood for giggling, but he didn't giggle then, so he doesn't giggle now. Feyd leans an inch closer, eyes rapidly dancing across her mirthful face.

"Feyd as in you will fade away when I wake up?" She covers her mouth now, still laughing. Something compels him to laugh as well because all things considered, this is still a funny joke, even though neither of them will wake up. 

Or will they?

No. No, they won't.

The pressure against the apples of his cheeks doesn't feel so unfamiliar anymore, as the corners of his mouth lift into a wide grin. His lips part and what escapes him is a small haha.

Suddenly, the woman flinches and her smile drops. Perhaps she had the same thought as he did. She catches herself quickly and remembers: "Sorry! I just—"

"What? Oh, the black teeth? People usually find them very pretty where I'm from, desirable even.” Feyd closes his mouth. He's still unsure if laughter suits him, but his woman seems to like it. Always has.

"Oh, no, please keep laughing!" She wraps her hand around Feyd's wrist. So smooth, every part of him. She wants to curl against his body and rub her cheek against his pallid flesh. Even now, his features are still outlandish to her, strikingly pretty. The pale skin, so light that it almost looks translucent, the entirely bald head and lack of brows.

She should have always known that he's not a figment of her imagination, because she couldn't have imagined someone so pretty.

Encouraged by her touch, Feyd smiles once more and it has never been easier. It feels so good. He looks away from his woman who still holds his wrist and finds a mirror on the far wall. He looks foreign to himself, his cheeks not in the right place, but he's gotten more used to it.

"If I pinch you, will you wake up?" She teases, pinching his skin without waiting for his answer. She seems fascinated by the small blotch which decorates his wrist where she poked him with her nail, twisting and turning his wrist and hand like he's an interesting specimen. Of course she would look at him like that — his little scientist, life saver, love of his life.

Even though this is not a lucid dream, Feyd knows he doesn't have to worry about what he does, not with her. She has loved even the most unlovable parts of him. He feels compelled to do things he would have never done before her, such as dismantling the walls around his soul with laughter.

Even though this is not a lucid dream, she knows she doesn't have to worry about what she does, not with him. She also feels compelled to do things she would have never done before him. Such as getting married to the apocalyptic soundscape of an erupting volcano and adopting a lovely freak of immoral genetic engineering.

"So, Feyd…" She purrs his name like an exotic, amusing thing. "What would you like to do?"

Feyd pretends to be taken aback by the question, because no one ever used to ask him that. Not like that. "What would you like to do?" He coos, slinking closer with rolling gait and a small smirk on his serpentine features. He knows the way her pupils dilate well.

"There's a bed in the room, so…"

Feyd leers, smile turning wolfish. Yes, he will fuck his wife senseless. He might even fuck her so good that his own climax jostles him awake and out of whatever the fuck this bizarre simulation is. Which, upon second thought, would ruin his life.

She speaks again, moving her lips closer to his, pretty lashes lowering so they almost kiss her cheek bones "...So perhaps that means we should sleep."

Feyd acts baffled, then rumbles: "I won't sleep in my sleep."

"I meant sleeping with each other."

Of course she did. Feyd's hairless brows shoot up and something light flutters in his stomach when she starts giggling again, attempting to turn away as if suddenly bashful about her own words.

"To the bed, you confusing woman," he orders with a low growl and there is not even an ounce of resistance when his hands wrap around his wife's shoulders, nudging her backwards, so her knees bend around the mattress of their honeymoon bed and she sinks down.

Her husband's face hovers directly over her and she admires the dip of his cupid's bow and the soft curve of his jaws. So pretty. She reaches up and cups his cheek and the way his bone structure slots against her palms feels just right, always has.

Feyd pounces on her like a tiger and the strength and weight of the hard muscles concealed by a black tunic and slacks becomes evident. Heat pools into her abdomen instantly, caged under the man of and from her dreams who is made of flesh and blood, smells like it too. A familiar note of something leathery and metallic clings to him.

There is no need for a prelude, because they've loved each other a thousand times, in the past and the future. Feyd's lips kiss her decolletage before they find her throat and by the time they've found her lips, the hard ridge of his cock is pressed against her core which is only covered by the fabric of her dress, ridiculously easy to access.

Practical for him, as he said.

Why not, she thinks. It's not like the world is going to come collapsing down on them. Right?

Why not, he thinks. Even if the world comes collapsing down on them when they're done, it would be worth it.

Her hands curl around the back of his head gently and Feyd wants to weep at how soft her touch is, almost like she's worried of hurting him. He loves her nails in his scalp as much as he loves the loving dance of her fingertips.

She rolls her hips against his pelvis, ever amazed how hard his body is. A small grunt escapes her husband's mouth and mingles with the sloppy kiss which is all soft lips and saliva, leaving her open-mouthed and softly moaning for more as her core yearns for friction.

Feyd-Rautha is ever amazed by how soft and pliant her body is, breasts and stomach like a pillow for him to snuggle. And her little cunt is already grinding against his crotch. Under different circumstances, he might have had his fun right away, but that's his wife and her squirming hips are too tempting not to spoil her rotten before he fucks her. He reaches down, long fingers gliding up the curve of her thigh where the dress has pooled around her hips. Instinctively, her leg curls up higher, knee pressing against his ribs. Feyd works her underwear halfway off her rear, needing to get up to slide it off fully.

"If this is a lucid dream, I should be able to make myself wet with a thought," she muses as Feyd scoots down and freezes halfway, before he can settle down between her thighs, hard cock straining against his trousers.

The brief moment of hesitation is all it takes to throw him off the track of time that has carved its way through the universe.

"But it's not a lucid dream. They were visions all along, weren't they?" Feyd blurts, deviating from God's wicked script. For a moment, they both stare at each other in terror, as if expecting the universe to disintegrate and crush their souls into one smoldering singularity in space-time. 

But nothing happens.

Nothing at all.

The relic shuffles up slowly, tugging her dress down her legs and sitting back on her haunches.

"What is going on?" Feyd hisses, scared that the quantum spirits in the walls are listening. "What the fuck was that?"

He has never been so grateful to see the spark of knowledge in her eyes.

"That was our past, present and future."

"So, are we in a— a fucking time loop? Are we gonna wake up and go through hell again? Will I have to wait another eternity for the Guild to pluck you out of space?!"

"No!" She curls her arms around his shoulders and lays her forehead against his. No, my love… But it is a loop of sorts." Rapt fingertips glide slowly to the crescent scar on Feyd's pallid clavicle, inflicted by herself a few months back, first noticed by her 24,000 years ago, when Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen was not even a spark among the stars. "We could have never ended up together if we hadn't already seen us be together in the past, but what we really saw back then was our future. Weren't we the greatest actors? We were so good, we convinced even ourselves."

The terrible, beautiful Ouroboros has finally come to devour its own, cosmic tail and a shudder of awe passes through the two souls who straddle the starry serpent's undulating neck. From the macroscopic cosmos to the microscopic one within their bodies, it makes even their molecules tremble, even the quantum particles that make up the endless void of every ounce of matter, every brain, every soul.

"But I messed it up," Feyd insists. "I said the wrong thing. Why didn't we see ourselves having this conversation during our first dream? Why didn't we wear our wedding rings then?"

"There's never just one future." She kisses him on the lips, stealing his anxious breath for but a moment.

"How many?"

"Many." The engineer laughs, hands trailing up Feyd's neck to cradle his jaws. Panic fades from his gaze and flows into blue-eyed petulance. "Are your scientists aware of the many-worlds-theory?"

"Do I look like I know?" Strong hands hold his wife's face in a gentle vise.

"In quantum physics, a particle always has two states at once until it is observed. Then, its waveform collapses and it becomes one of the two states. But what happens to the other state?" She pauses, closing her eyes. "It exists too, but in another world. That is the many-worlds-theory.

With every decision we make, every beat of a butterfly's wing, every quiver of a molecule brushing against another, a new world branches off. That makes a tree with infinite branches or a delta with infinite rivers, rolling onwards and onwards since the birth of the first atom. Among this… infinity—" Her breath shudders in trembling reverence. "—there are branches in which we said it just right, because we knew what to say. Branches in which we saw exactly this conversation, or never found each other at all."

"So, why are we in this one where every vision of us acting was aligned perfectly? How probable is that?"

"As probable as any other nexus of visions. One infinity can't be bigger or smaller than another." A small smile plays around her lips. "Some say, the entire universe in itself is a simulation. For all we know, we could just be figments of someone's imagination, or pixels on a computer screen. Perhaps it would have been a less exciting story to tell, if it happened any other way."

The relic briefly turns her head to look at you — yes, you — quantum spirit in the walls.

"And why us?"

She is so happy that her husband's spark for science has finally been ignited, even if just for a few heartbeats — or a few beats of a butterfly's wings.

"When I was with the Bene Gesserit, they called it prescience. They said it's genetic and that my genes allowed me to survive millennia in cryo sleep." She sighs with bitterness. "If my own family has an aberrant sequence in our DNA, we might as well be the ancestors of— of everyone versed in prescience."

And the cause for so much suffering. 

Feyd sees it in her eyes, that flame of intrigue followed by the need to explore and sink into the inland empire of her mind and the ancient technology that's fused with her, a place where he can't follow. So, he tilts her face upwards in both loving hands and kisses her hard before breaking away with a coy grin.

"Are you saying you're my great great great aunt?"

"Yeah!" She blurts out laughing. "I think I am."

Giggling, she goes back in, throws her arms around Feyd's neck and topples him on his back, tangling her legs with his like their threads of fate.

In their angry daydreams, they have pictured themselves in red and gold as the king and queen of a new, better empire, handing out guns and bombs to the revolution.

But in their hearts, they're just a girl and a boy. An astronaut lost in space and a man who has yet to discover his destiny beyond being the unwilling prince of a noble House.

From now on, their future is theirs, and despite all the rights and wrongs, it boils down to a single question.

What do they want? A war to make the universe anew as they see fit? Or maybe just a universe as big as they are. Maybe just—

Peace.

Caught in the riptide I was searching for the truth There was a reason I collided into you Calling your name in the midnight hour Reaching for you from the endless dream So many miles between us then Now you are always here with me Nobody knows (nobody knows) why (why) Nobody knows how, and This feeling begins just like a spark Tossing and turning inside of your heart Exploding in the dark Calling your name in the midnight hour Reaching for you from the endless dream So many miles between us then Now you are always here with me Oh, inside me I find my way Back to you, back to you Calling your name in the midnight hour Reaching for you from the endless dream So many miles between us then Now you are always here with me Two words In your hands, in your heart It′s one (whole) universe You are always here with me

- Here With Me (Two Worlds) by Susie Suh

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

A/N: Thank you from the bottom of my heart for accompanying me on this writing journey ❤️ I'm a little heartbroken that it's over 😭 I had expected to be more relieved, but I'm actually so sad right now. Proud and happy but sad 😭 

If you enjoyed reading this labor of love of mine, please do let me know in a comment, if you can find the time 🫶🏻 No matter if you have or haven't commented before, I'm going to be so grateful about every thought, every reaction. Comments are genuinely the most rewarding thing when publishing my stories, much more so than hits and kudos, because fanfics (in my opinion) are to be relished and not consumed  🫶🏻

I'm not ready to say goodbye to the Dune universe. I have more stories in mind. The idea that I've been mulling over would be the largest, longest and most complex work that I've ever written. I'm talking about heavy world building, an entirely original planet and population, a much more depraved Feyd-Rautha and female protagonist. I've already been teetering at the border of an OC with the reader character in this one. For the next one, I would cross that line for the first time and go for an OC, make the FMC as fleshed out as Feyd is. The story would have a heavy emphasis on religion, corruption kink and cannibalism. It'd be a dove that's almost dead. Basically, all the world building would be my excuse to write deranged, blasphemous, messy smut. It definitely wouldn't be everyone's cup of tea. However, I wouldn't wanna start posting before I've written the entire thing, which might take a long time, so as not to put too much pressure on myself. Can't disappoint anyone if I'm only writing for myself for the time being ❤️

I also have a smutty F/M/M threesome oneshot cooking in my brain, one of the men being Feyd, the other being a surprise 🤭

Annndd I also have two other Feyd oneshots (that have been on ao3 for ages) to upload here, which I'll probably do within the next weeks.

If any of this sounds like something you'd enjoy, feel free to subscribe to me as an author on ao3 to receive email notifications, or follow me here on Tumblr 🫶🏻 I would be so happy to see you again, all of you 💕

[idiopath-fic-smile]

i make no promises, like i genuinely don't have any real ideas for scenes after this one, but uh here is more Singin' in the Rain ot3, continuing from here. they're not even on the honeymoon boat yet! but for whatever it's worth, there are shenanigans.

Here was another thing Cosmo had failed to predict: Don was a nervous flier. 

Cosmo had been up in the air a handful of times; Archibald owned a small personal craft that he flew sometimes on the weekends. And sure, it was cold and noisy and there was no denying that watching the ground disappear below you could give a guy a bad case of the stomach lurches, but it was a thrill all the same. An adventure, he thought, burrowing deeper into the very warm wool coat he’d had the presence of mind to bring. Don was generally up for an adventure; he’d once ridden a motorcycle full speed off a high canyon and fallen ten stories into the water below, for nothing but a day’s wages and an approving nod from the director.

The airplane offered comfortable seats and tables and fashionable cold salads served by very calm stewardesses, but from the moment of liftoff, Don sat there like a man waiting for the electric chair. Now he was clutching the armrests so tightly, the knuckles stood out sharp and white against his normally very appealing hands. 

“We should have taken the train,” said Kathy.

“Nonsense,” Don gritted out. “I’m fine. This is all perfectly fine.”

Belted in on either side of him, Kathy and Cosmo exchanged a look. One of the benefits, thought Cosmo, to being the funny little friend and not the leading man was that you were allowed to admit when you were terrified, at least a little, at least if you could make it a joke.

“I’m so sorry, Don,” Kathy said. “I should have asked if you’ve been in one of these before. Even knowing we’re perfectly safe, a train would’ve been so much more comfortable.”

Don closed his eyes. “Really, Kathy,” he said, a little more sharply. “You don’t need to—” The plane dropped several feet, and he swallowed hard.

Cosmo considered the situation. The facts were these: Don Lockwood was too proud, and too enamored with his wife, to be willing to discuss such a weakness in front of her, and now if somebody didn’t act fast, the three of them were in for an awkward, unpleasant flight. Or rather, series of flights, since the plane was going to need to refuel a couple of times along the way.

There was nothing else for it; Cosmo would have to save the day.

He took in Don’s ashen complexion and Kathy’s guilty face, and then he said cheerfully,

“Y’know, Kathy, for what it’s worth, Don actually has been in one of these before.” When this failed to earn any real response from the man, Cosmo poked him in the cheek. “Haven’t you, Don?”

“What?” said Don distractedly, swatting the finger away. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.”

Don’s tense brow creased for a moment in irritation. “I think I’d remember—” he started.

“It was for one of those early stunting gigs,” said Cosmo. “A little biplane. They gave you goggles and an aviator hat and a brown leather jacket—” The incident stuck in Cosmo’s mind mostly because Don had looked very good in that jacket, but there were half a dozen reasons nobody needed to know that, “—and then they had you crash the plane through a barn.”

“Through a barn?” Kathy repeated, disbelieving, because apparently the fan magazines didn’t tell you everything after all.

“Into, not through,” said Don. “I didn’t come out the other side.” His fingers had relaxed ever so slightly on the poor armrests. “And that doesn’t count, that contraption never got off the ground, I only had to—”

“Into a barn?” Kathy interjected. “Why?”

Cosmo stuck a mock-pensive pose. “The things we do for art. And five dollars. And I think the producers let him keep the jacket.”

They had; Cosmo had suffered that autumn.

“Well, what about common sense,” said Kathy, “and human rights, and basic safety?”

“I said he had goggles on, didn’t I?” 

The truth was, back in those days, no matter how dangerous the feat, how seemingly impossible the stunt, Cosmo had never truly worried. It was Don, and Don could do anything. Except admit to his wife that he needed help, apparently.

“What about—about dignity,” she went on, and Cosmo snorted.

“I regret to inform you that Lady Dignity will not be making an appearance tonight.”

“Cosmo,” said Kathy, slowly, “Why in the world did you let Don do a thing like that?”

“Let?” Don and Cosmo said in unison, Don a little weakly but it was something.

“Don’t pin this on me, madam,” Cosmo added, “I am not my brother’s keeper.”

“Not my brother at all,” Don muttered, which stung a little, but Cosmo decided to let it slide in the face of how his plan was working.

“That’s hardly the worst thing we did for money,” Cosmo said instead. “Has Don told you much about our ignoble days on the road?”

Kathy shook her head, delighted. Don very discreetly kicked Cosmo in the shin. Things were looking up.

.

“So there we are,” said Cosmo, “performing in this tiny hamlet in Nebraska called, I kid you not, Oatmeal—”

“Oatmeal?” Kathy laughed.

Don had freed his fingers from the armrests entirely; he was now resting his entire face in his hands. He was no longer pallid as Nosferatu; in fact, he might have been blushing.

“It was Coyoteville,” Don volunteered without looking up.

“Pal, if you think I’d forget a place with a name like Oatmeal, Nebraska—”

“If you think I’d forget a place with a name like Coyoteville—”

“Coyoteville was in New Mexico!” said Cosmo. “Coyoteville was where we had to bunk with that ventriloquist, remember?” He watched as Don sat up and snuck a look at Kathy, who was clearly having a ball.

“The one who insisted his dummy got its own bed?” Don said with a slight smile.

“Don and me had to sleep on a twin mattress on the floor,” said Cosmo, “Curled up like a pair of puppies, if you can picture that—”

“I think so,” said Kathy, leaning forward, eyes bright, “only what happened in Oatmeal?”

“Wait, was Oatmeal where—” Don started.

“Yes! We’re about halfway through our routine, singing and hoofing our hearts out—fit as a fiddle and ready for love—when we look off to the side, at the next act waiting in the wings and we see—”

Don laughed. “You’re right, we were onstage when we realized it!”

“—at more or less the same time, I think—”

“Yes?” said Kathy.

“—the Amazing Dancing Daisy, the headliner following us—”

“Nobody had bothered to explain to us that she was a trained donkey,” Cosmo explained. “We were literally opening for an ass.”

“How was she?” Kathy managed, once she had more or less gotten her wild laughter under control. “The dancing, I mean?”

“Her footwork was a little sloppy,” said Don.

“Don’s just cross,” said Cosmo confidingly, “because she got much more applause than us.”

“They kept throwing her flowers!” said Don. “What was she meant to do with them? She didn’t even have hands!”

“So listen, Kathy.” Cosmo leaned way over Don to make eye contact with her. “The next time you two are having some sort of petty domestic squabble, if Don tries to act all high and mighty, just remember: I’m pretty sure your lawfully wedded husband is still, deep down, jealous of a donkey.”

Don grabbed Cosmo’s shoulder and flashed him a mock-scowl. “Why, when we get back on solid land…”

“I’m not afraid of you, villain,” said Cosmo, “not with your lady love here.” He stretched out an arm to Kathy. “You’ll protect me, won’t you?”

“Of course, good sir,” said Kathy, genteelly taking his hand and it was a joke, it was ridiculous, it was all completely harmless because Cosmo was hardly a threat to their marriage, and so Cosmo ducked his head and fluttered his lashes at her, and cooed,

“How shall I ever repay you?”

And then, without breaking eye contact, Kathy brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it, just a quick, warm, press of lips, entirely chaste but somehow something different, and Cosmo darted a nervous glance at up Don—he was practically in Don’s lap at this point, to better reach out to Don’s wife—because threat or not, there had to be some kind of line Cosmo was crossing. But Don was just watching them, with parted lips and slightly glazed eyes, as if it was not at all upsetting to see his girl and his best friend doing…whatever it was they were doing, and this moment was rapidly sliding away from any point of reference Cosmo might’ve had. 

Normally, Cosmo liked other people’s eyes on him. That was half the reason anyone was in showbiz, wasn’t it? Nobody might’ve looked at him twice in the street but with the right props and a couple of dance moves, he could be somebody for the length of a number or two, spread a little joy and get a lot of it back. So it wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy Don looking at him and Kathy like that. It was just—it was too much, too close to something he might’ve dreamed up alone in his bed at night. He hadn’t, but that was mostly because he’d lacked the imagination.

Cosmo freed himself, twisted back upright, and coughed. “On second thought,” he said. “I think the ventriloquist was in Dead Man’s Fang, in Arizona? Coyoteville was where that strongman threw up inside Don’s fiddle.”

“How did he manage to—” Kathy sounded sincerely perplexed. She’d left a coral pink lip print on the back of Cosmo’s hand. He tugged his coat sleeves down to his fingertips.

“Sheer determination,” said Cosmo.

[raven-dor]

Could you do a cute fluffy Edmund Pensive, where like he’s been busy with his duties and reader gets lonely and he makes it up with like a cute dinner under the stars and maybe ends in nsfw if you write that

interrupted

In which king edmund the just cannot seem to find a moment alone with his lover

PAIRING: edmund pevensie x reader, lucy pevensie x PLATONIC!reader, peter pevensie x PLATONIC!reader, susan pevensie x PLATONIC!reader

WARNINGS: fluff, young love, horrible timing

WORD COUNT: 1,823

🎶 : photograph - cody fry

AN: This is set during the Golden Age, meaning Edmund is 21, Lucy is 18, Susan is 23, and Peter is 24!! I don't write NSFW, sorry!!

The nymphs played among the trees, floating wherever the wind took them. She sighed. Last time she’d been in the woods Edmund had brought her to the most exquisite waterfall, and they’d- She blushed. 

Aslan, she missed him. 

“Y/N! Are you listening?” Susan sighed, tapping her lady-in-waiting’s shoulder. “Y/N?” 

The girl shook her head, curtsying quickly. “My lady, I apologize.” What was she supposed the say; that she’d been daydreaming about her brother, wishing that she was in his arms rather than this boring conversation. Not that Susan was boring, quite the opposite, but talking about what shade of blue she wanted for a dress was not the highlight of her day. 

The gentle queen smiled, laughing at her friend. “It is alright; I was only talking about what dress I’d like to wear.” 

“May I assume you will wear the gold again?” She raised an eyebrow, teasing the queen. “It is your favorite.” 

“You’d be correct.” Y/N walked over to the wardrobe, pulling out the dress for later that evening. “Perhaps you could do that hairstyle with the flowers…” 

“Whatever you wish, my lady.” 

Susan sat down at her desk, glancing over the stack of papers. “Will you be in attendance?” 

“I would not miss it for the world. Queen Lucy’s birthday has always been the most anticipated event of the season. She has the most exquisite taste.” 

Susan nodded, humming. “And what will you be wearing?” 

Y/N smiled. “I suppose this will do.” 

The dark-haired girl looked up, shaking her head. “Go in the wardrobe, find a dress you like.” 

“Are you quite serious?” 

“Of course.” She looked back down, waving her away. “Now go on.”

Susan kindly gave her the rest of the day off, stating that she would be too wrapped up in responding to all the letters to make use of her time. Y/N knew Susan could tell she was anxious for some time to herself and wished she could thank her for reading her so well. 

She supposed that was what happened when you were around someone for 8 years. 

Often, when Susan let her go and do as she pleased, she found herself in the library. It was large, larger than any library she’d ever seen before. There were ladders for each shelf, every one leading to the second floor. On the second floor, there was a corner that had the perfect view overlooking the town. 

That is where Y/N relaxed every day she could manage. Filled with too much excitement at the prospect of seeing Edmund, she could not find it in her to read, and so she simply stared at the people below, smiling at how peaceful Cair Paravel looked. 

A cough broke the silence. “My lady.” 

Y/N grinned, jumping to her feet. “Your Grace.” 

The young king smiled back. “You look-” 

She ran to him, pressing her lips to his. “Aslan, I missed you.” 

He sighed, pulling her close. “I missed you much more.” 

“Not possible.” 

He sighed, leaning his forehead against hers. “How has your day been, my love?” 

“Your sister let me pick a dress for Lucy’s birthday ball.” She smirked. “I believe you will like it.” 

His cheeks grew red. “Will I?” 

“Most certainly.” She walked out of his hold, sitting down on the couch once more. “Care to join me?” 

He winced. “I would love to, it’s just-” 

She forced herself not to glare at him. “I understand.” She shooed him away. “You have duties. I will see you later this evening.” 

He nodded but looked unsure. “I can stay-” 

“Edmund, I will be fine.” She smiled. “Really.” 

Guests piled into the ballroom, extravagant gowns making it hard to walk through the crowd. Y/N greeted each guest personally, thanking them for coming to the occasion. Lucy’s lady-in-waiting had spearheaded the occasion but was insistent on putting the finishing touches on the young Queen’s hair, so the task fell to Y/N. 

“My lady.” King Peter stood in front of her, a bright grin adorning his face. “Do tell Maria she did excellent work.” 

She nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty.” 

Peter’s wife laughed, teasing him. “Or you could just tell her yourself, my dear.” 

He nodded. “What would I do without you?” 

“Most likely go mad.” She smirked. “Amongst other things.” 

Y/N smiled. She’d remembered their wedding well. It had been a grand occasion, with lords and ladies from all over Narnia visiting. Aslan himself had made an appearance, but what really stood out to her that night was that Edmund had asked her to dance. 

Where was Edmund? 

She scanned the room, locking eyes with him. She blushed, waving, but he did not wave back. Instead, he went back to his conversation with some Telmarine lord. She tried to brush it off, but Peter noticed instantly. He always noticed everything; it was rather annoying at times. “I’m sure he’ll be done soon enough. It’s his sister’s birthday, after all. He can’t work forever.” 

Y/N smiled. “I believe he would work forever if the option was available.” 

“Yes, well…” He sighed. “Perhaps I have been too hard on him. Maybe if-” The horns blared, signaling that Lucy was approaching. The crowd turned towards the two great doors, murmurs echoing. Lucy appeared at the top of the stairs, the picture of beauty in her pink gown. Her hair was long, flowing past her waist, with gems thrown in every so often. Her crown sat perfectly atop her head, and her smile radiated warmth. 

“Queen Lucy the Valiant.” 

Thunderous applause rang throughout the hall. Peter might have been the loudest of all, besides his wife, who had always had a soft spot for the younger girl. She smiled, clapping politely when something tapped her shoulder. She turned, rolling her eyes at Edmund. “So now you have time for me?” 

He tilted his head. “Sorry?” 

She hissed. “I waved at you. Did you not see me?” 

He stepped closer, smiling as he whispered so the nosy noblemen didn’t think something was amiss. “I’m sorry, I was making an arrangement with Lord Sopespian.” 

“I wasn’t aware there was any tension between us and Telmar recently.” 

“There aren’t.” 

She looked at his curiously. “Then what were you-”

“Edmund!” Y/N gasped, sinking into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace. Happy Birthday.” 

Lucy smiled. “Please stand Y/N. You know I hate it when you do that.” 

“Yes, Your Grace.”  

The young girl looked in between the two. “Did I interrupt something?” 

Y/N shook her head. “Not at all Your Grace. I was just leaving.” She turned to Edmund, barely curtsying. “My King.” 

He sighed. “Y/N, please-” 

She walked away, leaving the siblings in silence. Lucy smirked. “What have you done now?” 

The halls of Cair Paravel were bustling, servants, nobles, and the likes walking through. Y/N was on the way to the kitchens to fetch Susan some afternoon tea when she spied Edmund’s black hair in the crowd. She dropped her head, trying to avoid the uncomfortable conversation that was sure to follow. 

She’d almost gotten past him too, but he’d stopped, tilting his head at the sight. “My lady.” 

She kept walking. Edmund tried not to groan. “Y/N.” 

To that she responded, whipping around, her eyes wide. “Your Grace, it is highly inappropriate to-”

He raised an eyebrow. “Follow me, please.” 

“I am meant to be getting your sister tea, Your Grace.” She glared. “If-” 

“It will only take a moment.” He crossed his arms. “Come.” 

“If you insist.” She murmured, following after.

Edmund chose to ignore that, rounding the corner and opening the door to his office. “After you.” 

“People will-” 

“Nothing you haven’t done before.” He waited, and she groaned, walking in.

“What is it that you need Your Grace?” 

“You were right.” 

Y/N tilted her head. “And this is regarding?” 

“Your dress. It was exquisite. You looked like a queen.” 

She fought the blush forming on her cheeks. “Is that all, Your Grace?”

“Stop calling me Your Grace. I understand that my duties have been…” He tried to find the right word. Y/N murmured, staring at the ground. “Interferring.” “Yes, interferring with our plans, but you must understand.” He walked over, grabbing her hands. “It is not of my choosing. I am not purposefully ignoring you.” 

“I never said-” 

“No you did not.” He smiled. “But I feel after two years, I know what you look like when you are upset. My love…” He kissed the back of her hands. “I am sorry. Truly, I am.”

“It’s alright Edmund. I’m sorry for losing my temper, I just-” She sighed. “I enjoy your company. I can’t help but miss spending time with you.” 

He nodded. “Would a midnight dinner under the stars interest you?” 

She grinned. “Edmund, I don’t want you to fuss over me.” 

“You say that, but you’re smiling. Besides, that is my favorite activity.” He smirked. “Would you really deny your king the pleasure of your company?” He leaned in, their lips inches apart. “Please say yes.” 

“Yes.” She whispered, heart beating. “Kiss me.” 

“As you wish.” 

“Edmund?” Y/N called out, waiting where he’d asked her to. “Darling?” 

“Over here.” She followed his voice, gasping. “Oh my-” Her eyes watered. “Edmund, this is too much.” 

“Is it?” He looked at his work, shaking his head. “I think it’s perfect, you deserve all this and more.” 

The blanket was laid out with candles surrounding, rose petals throw haphazardly. The stars shined brightly above them, and he had two baskets of food. She grinned. “Is that-” 

“Honey cake?” He nodded. “Made them myself.” 

She laughed. “I can tell.” She pointed to his cheek. “May I?”

“Please.” She stood on her tiptoes, brushing off the flour he’d forgotten. 

“This is so kind of you.” 

He laughed. “Nonsense. Shall we?” He handed her a honey cake, grinning when she rolled her eyes. “Good?” 

“Perfect.” 

“Peter pulled me aside today.” 

Y/N tilted her head. “Really?” 

“Something about prioritizing myself over work. Said he noticed I was neglecting my personal aspirations, whatever that means.” He raised an eyebrow. “That wouldn’t be your doing, would it?” 

She shook her head. “No, but he’s not wrong.” She put her hand over his. “You work too hard my love.” 

“Is it so bad that I want to ensure Narnia is safe?” 

“No, but to what end? You need to sleep. Don’t act like you do, I know you’ve been staying up lately. It does Narnia no good if you work yourself to death. What will we do then? Do you expect your brother or sisters to take up your role?” 

“Spoken like a true queen.” 

She sighed. “Edmund…” 

“I suppose you’re right.” 

“When am I not?” 

He glared playfully. “You’re rather chipper.” 

“I can’t help it.” She leaned over, kissing his cheek lightly. “You make me happy.” 

[paracosmic-murdock]

i still got love for you

part four: i hope for you

pairing: francesca bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: leaving for bath out of the sudden was the hardest thing you had had to do, not particularly because you had left your parents and home behind, but because your friendship with francesca bridgerton was ripped away from you a sudden summer morning.

five years later, francesca arrived in bath for the season to practice pianoforte with her aunt winnie, and finally, you see her again after thinking you had forever lost her. how much you wanted for your love to live and beat still, how much you wanted for francesca to say so.

warnings/tags: sapphic francesca bridgerton, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, am i gay quiz but make it nineteenth century somehow, smut, minors dni, inspired by an emily dickinson intimate letter to susan hunington dickinson, song: seven (taylor swift)

word count: 3.7K

❁ part one | part two | part three | part five | part six

❁ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

“Susie, will you indeed come home next Saturday, and be my own again, and kiss me as you used to? I hope for you so much, and feel so eager for you, feel that I cannot wait, feel that now I must have you — that the expectation once more to see your face again makes me feel hot and feverish, and my heart beats so fast.” (Excerpt from Open me carefully: Emily Dickinson's intimate letters to Susan Hunington Dickinson by Emily Dickinson)

“That is your favorite breakfast.”

You stopped playing with your fork and looked at him. “I am not hungry.”

He ate the last bite of his dish. “Oh, and why would that be? The last time you ate was for lunch yesterday and it was almost nothing.”

“I do not know. Perhaps I am tragically ill.”

“Clearly,” He scoffed sarcastically. “You miss her.”

“I don't miss anybody, Charles. I just feel unwell.” you stated.

“You, Sister, are a terrible liar.”

“And you, Brother, are delusional.”

He shook his head and stood up, putting the napkin you had embroidered on the table before storming off without any explanation.

You rolled your eyes, drinking your berry tea.

As much as you wanted to deny it, you were pensive because you missed Francesca.

You haven't seen her since dinner a couple of weeks ago, and you couldn't help but feel bad about it.

Three days after that evening, you went to her aunt's home but were told she was not there. You left a message for her: she was invited to join you for tea the next day or whenever she wanted to, for you would be at your home every day.

You canceled quite some plans just in case she went, but she never did. And you were devastated.

It was a lovely evening, and you thought everything went really well. Perhaps it was because you had called her darling. You felt it was proper at the moment, but now, not anymore. Now, in your mind, you have made her feel uncomfortable and lost her forever.

Charles’ mind was known for hardly being made up.

Dilemma was almost his second name, and it was no secret. Always a dilemma, and now wasn't the exception.

He hates to see you upset and hurting. You are his sister, and ever since you were born, he vowed to love you and protect you. And after your parents sent you away, it was his biggest purpose.

Right now, he had no choice but to tell Francesca Bridgerton, in front of him, the reason he was there.

Charles cleared his throat. “I suppose you have an idea as to why I am here.”

“Charles…”

“Frannie, did she do something wrong?”

“No, I just…” She sighed. “I have not been feeling very well lately, that is all.”

“Are you sure?” he questioned, not quite believing her.

“Yes.” She nodded.

“My sister has been punishing herself for your absence, and… it breaks me to see her like this,” he mentioned. Francesca felt her heart break at the thought of you hurting. “Why don't you come for lunch at our home? I shall have the cooks do something you like.”

“Uh, we were invited for lunch at the Maguire's home, I am sorry…” she lied.

Charles sighed. “When can we receive you, then?”

“I do not know.” she said, looking down to her hands.

He stood up. “I really hope you know she is hurting because of your absence. She did those five years, and she has these past weeks. She loves you, and I know you love her too. And no, not in a friendly manner.”

And, just like that, he left.

Francesca sighed and watched him leave, not able to decide what to do. To stop him. To ask him. To do anything.

In truth, the reason Francesca has not visited you in weeks is because she was scared of loving you. Not for being you, but for being a woman.

Her aunt Winnie had asked her if Lord Chadwick was courting her, but she didn't quite know what to say. She just said she did not know, but her aunt was convinced he was.

Understandably so, because no man would just invite a young lady to his home so many times if he didn't have any intention to court her. What she didn't know was that the one interested in her was you. Another lady.

After the implications regarding your brother, Francesca's aunt remarked how important it was for her to marry a gentleman, a good man, wealthy, and with title. The only one Francesca wanted was you.

You, you, you… No one else.

It pained her to know that her actions were affecting you, especially because the last thing she ever wanted was to make you feel bad. She loved you, and she knew that when you love somebody, you want that person to be happy.

But you could never feel fine or happy without Francesca. You couldn't deny that. Nor would she, especially now that you have reunited. And now that she knew that you loved her, too.

In all honesty, you calling her darling was unexpected and spooked her more than she was willing to admit. Maybe because it was a term of endearment and no one had used it on her before, or maybe because you used it, confirming she was your darling. Yours. Oh, how much Francesca longed to be yours.

So she thought about you during the lunch at Chadwick House she was invited to attend but wasn't intending to, during the afternoon she would've spent playing pianoforte instead, and during the evening she was supposed to get ready to sleep but didn't. Her aunt went to sleep, and she did quite the opposite, sneaking to the backyard to get you flowers, and leaving her home for the purpose of finding you.

Francesca did not particularly come up with a plan, so when she saw herself in front of the entrance to Chadwick House without a way to get in, she got worried. However, she didn't have to worry for much longer because Charles opened the door some minutes later.

“Charles!” She flinched and hid her hands behind her back as he suddenly appeared in front of her with a confused frown.

“Francesca?” He grinned. “What are you doing here?”

Francesca shook her head. “I- uh… I came to- nothing! I was just- I am going back.”

“Frannie, with all due respect,” Charles sighed, grabbing her forearm to stop her from leaving. “Shut up. My sister is in her chambers. Third floor, second door to the left.”

“Sorry,” She pouted. “I guess-”

“Lord save me! You two are driving me mad!” he exclaimed as he covered his face with his hands. “Get in there, Francesca, and don't you dare leave before resolving whatever it is that you two have going.”

With that, he left her there and got on the awaiting carriage she had failed to notice before.

Francesca sighed, walking inside the house and following your brother's directions until she reached your door.

She knocked, but received no answer, so she opened the door to find your room empty. Francesca guessed that, perhaps, you had gone out for a walk, so she went downstairs and ended up looking at you from afar.

You were sitting in the swing and looking at the night sky in utter silence, and she almost didn't dare to interrupt you. She, however, had a purpose for her visit and wouldn't let the courage she had gathered go to waste.

Francesca sat silently in the swing beside yours without saying a word.

“Charles, I told you to let me be.” you groaned, looking opposite from 'his' face.

She cleared her throat. “This is not Charles.”

You turned around abruptly to face her.

Dear God.

“Francesca-” you whispered, almost not believing it. “Are you truly here?”

“Yes, I am here,” She smiled, showing you the tulip of an unknown color in the dark. “But, firstly, this is for you.”

You smiled weakly.

At the silence, she spoke. “I, uh- I had to see you.”

“What for?”

“To apologize,” she replied and sighed, getting ready for the speech she had prepared the whole afternoon. “For not coming back after dinner. I… I was scared because you called me darling, and it made me realize that I might not be… alone in these feelings I find impossible to name. It felt real out of the sudden, and I was not prepared for it. I thought about them all those days and reached to a conclusion I was dreading: that I love you. Not like a girl who is fond of her childhood best friend or like a girl who has such dear affection for a sister, no; I love you like one loves the person that is to be their spouse, their love match. I know well enough that this is not something a woman is supposed to feel for another woman, but I do, and I have reasons to believe you do as well. Please, tell me I am not alone in this feeling, for I believe that love could never be as profound as mine for you were it not reciprocated.”

You grabbed the rope of her swing and pulled her close to you. “I love you, my darling. I love you so much that I fear the word love is not enough to grasp all that I feel for you. It is pathetic, the way your proximity makes my whole being combust in yearning; it is alluring, the way your eyes can heal all that chaos when they look into mine. Having you here with me, under the full moon and in a field of violets, is the utmost proof of how sacred this love is. How sacred we must treat it. Being yours is the ultimate purpose of my existence, and I would be beyond grateful to you if you allowed me to honor it by loving you devotedly and cherishing you adoringly.”

Francesca exhaled and hesitated for a single, intrusive second. She, right then and there, kissed your lips softly. There was doubt and insecurity, but you managed to wash it out by kissing her back with a passion she couldn't have even dreamt of.

“Would you like to stay for the night? It is far too late for you to return home by yourself and we do not have another carriage available. I fear Charles will not return until tomorrow.” you proposed, standing up and offering her your hand to do so, too.

Francesca nodded, now standing as well, and staring at your lips.

You smirked, closing the distance promptly.

You did not know how to kiss, but the two of you would certainly learn that night.

Of course there was an extra room, but there was no need for that. Despite the last sleepover being five years ago, there was still this feeling of comfort and intimacy shared between you and her.

“I know that sharing a bed has never been an issue for us,” you began. “But, if you wish, I could have the help bring another bed for you.”

“No!” she exclaimed, regretting the haste and reluctance of her answer. “I mean, no. It is not necessary, for your bed is big enough for the both of us.”

You nodded with a smile. “Would you like for me to get a maid to help you get ready to sleep? I might as well call-”

“No, There should be no need. We could help each other, is that not right?” she answered shyly. You were surprised to hear that, but thought nothing of it, ignoring the warmth taking over your body at the mere idea. “I- well, I- I did not mean it like… if you… if you want to. I do not have a problem. If you do, it is alright if you-”

“Yes, it is alright.” you agreed, approaching her and pointing to the bed with your head. “I had a maid bring a sleeping chemise for you… should you like for me to-?”

She nodded, undoing her coiffure before you got to her. “Yes, I should like for you to help me now.”

Francesca didn't know what was going on in herself. Her words seemed to come out before she could process them and her intentions were rather unclear even to herself.

Now, she was in front of you. Your hesitant hands trembled lightly as you started taking her dress off. Francesca let out a soft gasp when your fingers grazed her skin, noticing your closeness as she leaned closer to you, not creating contact just yet but desiring so, so very anxiously. You started undoing her corset slowly, trying to take in every second of proximity existent between you, the fervid hunger invading the moment.

Francesca let out a shaky breath, leaning toward you and, this time, she was actually resting her weight on you timidly. She whispered your name, almost silently enough for you to not hear.

But you always heard her.

Her head was resting on your shoulder, touching your cheek with her cheekbones. “I love you.”

You kissed her cheek gently and then went to her neck. You left slight bites on her skin and moaned as she pressed herself onto you slightly more.

“I love you, too,” you reminded her, and it felt as if it was the very first time you told her so. “I will never not.”

You kissed her shoulders and put your hands on her hips.

“I think we are…” you whimpered as she intertwined your hands with hers. “We are doing something we most likely should not.”

She exhaled with difficulty. “What would that be?”

“I saw them,” you began. “Anne and Petunia, my maids, they- I saw them doing this.”

“This?”

“Making love.”

Your answer left her in a place between confusion and oblivious understanding. She knew, but also she did not.

“What does it mean?”

“I went for a late night walk in the backyard and heard some noises,” you told her. “Chadwick House is not as big as the Devereaux Manor, so we do not need as much help, nor do we have enough room for more. Some of the help that stays at the house has to share a room, so my two lady maids do. I know where their room is, so, upon hearing the sounds, I peeked through the window in case something had happened. And I saw them… As soon as my shock subsided, I ran back to my chambers, but not without seeing them like we are now. They were kissing and touching each other, nude.”

Francesca frowned. “How do you know what it is called?”

“A few days later, I asked Charles about it, but I never said I had seen them. I told him I had heard it somewhere,” you answered. “He panicked and told me not to speak of such things ever again. Then, he said those are things men and women do after they marry, but that some men do it without marrying and that it was normal, but respectable ladies like me could not do so under any circumstance… So, naturally, I ended up asking Anna about it and blaming it on Charles. She said that it is called making love and that people do it to consummate their marriage. I told her that Charles said some men do, but that ladies like me cannot, so she explained to me that it is said that women lose their worth after doing that and must be valuable for deserving a marriage. Also, we could get pregnant when doing it with a man, but men do not have to worry about themselves being with child; I, then, asked if men did it with men or women with women, and she said it was possible but not well seen at all, so I should not do it unless I love and trust the woman, but that I must be careful and not tell a soul about it because it was a display of love, goodness, and intimacy that deserves to be cherished and not broken by society's discrimination. Anne also said that it is supposed to feel quite pleasurable. That is how I know.”

She nodded, taking a few seconds to think about it and analyze the situation.

“Can we… do that?” Francesca asked, some boldness whose origin she unfortunately ignored.

“Oh,” Your eyes met hers as she turned around. “Well, if you want to… I mean, I want to, but only if you do as well, uh… Do you want to?”

“Yes, I want to make love with you.” She smiled confidently.

“Are you sure?”

“I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” Francesca assured you, giving you a quick kiss on the lips. “Can I take off your gown?”

A soft exhale left your lips at the thought. “You can take all of me, my darling.”

Francesca smiled a little, pressing her forehead to yours. Your noses brushed each other's before you kissed.

And, when it happened, you could only describe it as mystical. With her, everything felt like magic.

You thought, more often than not, that you weren't built for this world. You weren't built for this society because you wanted nothing but her and to be able to dance with her at balls, to just say ‘this is my wife’ to everyone you met, to love her freely.

You weren't built for a society that kept you away from her.

You wanted to be with her like this always, to feel the tip of her fingers brush your skin and cause goosebumps, to stand naked before her and her before you, just like you were now.

“What are we supposed to do now?” she asked.

You shrugged. “Shall we find out?”

She chuckled nervously, feeling like the fire lighting up the room was actually inside of her. Francesca nodded, giving you the needed cue to end the distance between you two and kiss her.

It was hesitant at first. You didn't know what to do with your hands, so you just put her hair behind her ear, deepened the kiss, and then cupped her face. Meanwhile, Francesca freed your hair and rested her hands on your shoulders, not knowing what to do either.

She ended the kiss, looking at you with a glint of need in her shy hazel eyes. She sighed, all her fears leaving her body with that exhale. Her hands went to the back of your neck to pull you close and began kissing there, imitating what you were doing when you helped her undress.

You held her by her waist and her hands traveled your shoulders and her fingers drew burning, irregular shapes on your back. “This feels good.”

“It does.” She smiled against your skin.

In an attempt to get closer, you put your leg between hers and pulled her until your skin was on hers. Which also meant that you were close enough for your thigh to touch her core.

The moan she let out was almost delirious and the way her hips bucked in response caused her thigh to stumble upon you.

Your eyes met, both silently agreeing that what you just did felt, oh, so good.

Francesca swallowed hard and looked down as she bucked her hips to provoke the same feeling to both of you.

“God,” you moaned, holding her tightly against you and moving like she moved. “My bed.”

When you pulled apart to go to the bed, a strange emptiness took over you. It was not only emotional, as if missing each other a bit; it was physical, too. A warm and wet something was left on your thighs as a result of your pleasure, which came as a surprise because neither of you had any idea what any of what you were doing was, but you did know how good it felt.

Once you were finally sitting on your bed, you looked at each other as if asking for permission, but then you realized how absurd it was to ask, to wait, to hesitate, so you kissed, this time hungrily and intensely. The way you clumsily returned to your previous position gave away how much you needed each other.

You were so clumsy and careless, that this time it wasn't your thighs but your cores that met, and you cried out at how terribly delicious that contact felt.

“This… feels so…” Francesca began, not able to come up with the words that could describe how she was feeling, so she just kept moving with you and moaning your name loudly.

“Good?” you panted.

“Better than- than good,” she replied, her breath labored. “Great.”

Hearing her be vocal about this was unexpected to say the least. However, you found it exciting and hot. “How do you feel, Fran?” you encouraged her to speak, craving to hear her say things about this very wonderful moment.

“Great,” she replied, a strange pressure building inside her very being. “This- I like… this.”

You kissed her eagerly, harshly, to then ask. “Do you?”

“Yes…” She nodded, kissing you again as your hands traveled to her hips and then used the contact to guide her to be faster and pull her close enough to apply more pressure.

Francesca broke the kiss, her head falling back and giving you access to her neck. You sucked her skin, beginning to notice how she had some burning red spots on the places your mouth has been to before.

A desperate moan left your lips when a sensation started to form deep inside you, and she was feeling it, too. You could only describe it as if you were running from a great distance to a cliff, and everything you were doing in the earthly world made the inside you run faster and faster until you reached the edge. And there, Francesca was waiting for you to see how you slowed down for a second, only so she could hold your hand and jump with you.

In both the earthly and imaginary world, you moaned her name loudly as you fell off the edge of the cliff, or as you came with her.

She moaned and gasped, and hid her head against your neck to muffle the sounds she was making.

“Do not hold back,” you told her, feeling your orgasm last so very long. “I wish to hear you, please.”

Francesca obeyed you, pressing her forehead to yours and moaning your name against your lips.

It was so innocent, yet so sensual. It felt right, but, oh, so immoral. And carnal. And fascinating. Scandalous, beautiful, mystical, sinful.

You didn't stop until it was too much. Her embrace didn't end, and she wanted anything but.

“I love you.” you whispered, guiding her to lie on the bed with you.

She smiled. “I love you, too.”

“I am so happy that you still had love for me.” You kissed her softly.

“I will always have love for you.” Francesca replied.

You stared at each other in silence. Her hand was on your cheek, caressing it, and yours drew delicate patterns on the soft skin of her hips.

“Can we do this again?” Francesca asked.

You smiled. “Can we?”

“I should like that.”

“Me as well.”

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