#sun beats wax

[the-entity-down-the-street]

If icarus just used flex tape things would've turned out differently

[beaubirds]

Oooh so this is a good post to rant about this a little.

So i grew up moving from place to place, and lived in many different environments. We were in apartments, we were in townhouses, we were in suburbs, and one time we were in a small MANSION. Out of all these places I remember living do you wanna know which one I remember the most? It wasn't the eggshell wall painted apartments with the cream colored too old carpet, or the suburban house in Seattle whose only feature stuck with me was the staircase and how the living room dropped down a step. It certainly wasn't the boxy house with, again, cream colored carpet and eggshell walls (what a staple combo they have going on here).

I remember the mansion. My mom and I still lament over this house to this DAY. Because despite that monster of a house's heating bill and (when we lived in it) it's dangerous back weathered stone porch that dropped off into the yard, this house was GORGEOUS.

The foyer alone is something to gawk at. It had marble pillars and intricate tile floors. The wood was a nice dark red color (oak i think? unsure as I was around 6 to maybe 8 at the time). The kitchen had custom made tile that shimmered. Even the side staircase that had been intended for the house maids and butlers sported a stained glass window that cast amazing shadows.

The piece of glamor the house truly held though was the upstairs bathroom. It was an oval shaped room with once again intricate tiling from the floor to the ceiling, which had a faux skylight installed that was again STAINED GLASS. The centerpiece of this room was a large clawfoot tub that literally took an HOUR to fill. It was great for baths, but you had to earn it damnit.

Of course the rest of the house was a little less glamorous due to our small changes to some rooms on the third floor, but all I can currently recall is the carpet that was put in my sisters room. Every other room had the original wallpaper (as far as I'm aware? or a replacement that happened over the years in approximation to what original was there).

I also remember my room had this little doll bench that I loved to sit and read stories on or line up my stuffed animals. It even had a balcony, though I was not allowed out in it due to its instability and my being a child.

There were only tiny things I remember about the house, like the small closet on the stairs landing that I was convinced a skeleton lived in and would pop out at me. Or how the basement had an eerie feeling due to its bomb shelter in the corner and most of it being unfinished at the time. I remember there being a sun porch but I don't remember going out on it much. There was also the time I was running down the maids staircase after my brother and my sock caught on a nail which sent me tumbling head over heels. Luckily our dad was there at the time and caught me.

This house remains in my head so much. I haven't even mentioned the dining room or the living room, or even the game room and master bedroom (all of which are vague memories at this point for me but I know they were still gorgeous).

And I remember it because of how amazing it was. It was built originally as a showcase house to explore what that neighborhood could have been. It was built with a personality and a style that you just don't see in homes anymore. It wasn't just made to be inhabited it was created to be LIVED IN and remembered the way that I do.

This is why cookie cutter eggshell walls and cream carpet with white fireplaces and led strips should not go into renovated homes. It's why renovated homes shouldn't try to go to that generic style.

A house is supposed to have a soul! A personality! If one wants to have those white style attributes then fine, it's your house, but do that to a house that was made for that! Not a house that still has the chance to show its true colors however faded they may seem.

So believe me, you WANT busy. You want color and style. You want the uniqueness. You won't be able to find that kind of design you got with the home anywhere else for a reason.

I think the thing that makes me the saddest is that the mansion we lived in did eventually get renovated. There were some good renovations for sure, like the back porch absolutely needed more protection rather than the slab of stone that was so worn it was starting to slant. They put in a wooden porch and built up a wonderful garden. They finished the basement and turned the bomb shelter into a home movie theatre.

But they did take down the wallpaper. They repainted the rooms (to their credit they did do colors!) and the moulding along the bottom and the doors were painted white. The clawfoot tub was removed and replaced with a half shower (that to my utter dismay does not stretch from one wall to the other and just cuts off partway {why would you do this it hurts my soul}).

I don't even know if the bench is still there in my old room. I wonder what they put in the skeleton closet. Or which carpet they put in to replace the bowling alley esc carpet my sisters had. I wonder if they fixed the maid stairs. I hope they kept the stained glass.

I remember and miss and love that house more than anywhere I have ever lived. I loved it because it really did have a soul.

[tetzoro]

BLOOM — ༉‧₊˚.

ft. zoro roronoa !

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : after the events of wano take place, you and zoro find yourselves having a slow morning filled with thoughts of your future. (there’s no spoilers dw i just wanted to use the setting lol)

꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ : fluff ; zoro being vulnerable and in love — WC : 1.3k

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : zoro in wano forever altered my brain chemistry so here is a silly lil blurb from my drafts ! enjoy ! dividers by @/cafekitsune ᰔ

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ! (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ᰔ*.ﾟ

in the early morning where the flower capital begins to bloom and the sounds of the bustling street fill with people eager for another day of celebration start to take root, zoro wakes up next to you. in the distance, the faint scent of cherry blossoms begins to fill his nose as the breeze glides through the windows, sending a shiver down his body.

“cm’here.” zoro slurs, his arm easily hooks around your waist, other hand grabbing a hold of your plush thigh as he lifts you over to him. your eyes flutter open for a moment and zoro swears he can see the rising sun in them. but it was a false start — your eyes shutting once again as you nestle yourself against his chest.

“too early.” you complain, the world only just waking up as light starts to lazily spill through the windows and into the room, pouring over you in an angelic glow.

“mhm.” he agrees, running his knuckles along your exposed back, eliciting chills in its wake. he couldn’t help but bask in the warmth of your nature, wanting more than anything to tuck you into his chest and keep you there for safekeeping. “good morning to you too.”

“good morning.” you let the words tumble from your lips after breathing out a soft chuckle. your chin moves, resting upon his chest as you finally look at him.

his breath hitches as he realizes he’ll never get over how pretty you are — sleepy eyes still shining bright even though they fight to stay open, dried up drool endearingly taking residence in the corners of your mouth, hair in slight disarray after a sleep filled with tossing and turning, no doubt already tangled from the activities from the night before. he could never get enough.

zoro leans in and presses his lips against yours, a sweet kiss that you easily melt into like burning wax. your hands crawl up to cradle his cheek ever so softly — packed with all the care in the world it almost makes his heart skip a steady beat.

a part of him wonders if this is what his life will look like after luffy becomes king of the pirates and he himself finally becomes the greatest swordsman in the world.

would he get to lazily wake up with you in his arms every morning — languidly kissing each other until he’s positively drunk off listening to your little sounds of pleasure as they slip out of your mouth and into his? or slowly waking up together by showering the other with affection safely behind closed doors, the privacy allowing all of his walls to fall down around you, where you tenderly move past the vanquished rubble.

these little things have steadily grown on him like the moss that the shitty cook claims grows from his head and he honestly couldn’t imagine not having in his future. there have been too many close calls during the time you’ve known each other and the thought of not being able to love you for the rest of his days sends a spike deep into his core, threatening to take his breath away.

“sleep okay?” you ask, pulling apart from him in favor of kissing his cheek, nuzzling into the side of his face. a small comfort that reels his wandering mind back to you, grounding him back into the present.

“yeah, always.” he gives you a little squeeze, a silent message that he only sleeps so well because you’re here beside him. “you?”

“always.” you parrot back. a smile breaks along your face, cracking through like the sun when it first rises for the day. a shimmering glint before it consumes everything it touches.

zoro’s dumbfounded for a moment, blinded by the force of nature that unfolds before his very eye.

“although,” he starts to tease, a dastardly little smirk dangling on his face. “you’re a damn blanket hog, you were moving around so much i thought you were going to fall off the bed.”

“what!” your eyes widen in shock. zoro humorously watched as the gears in your brain started to speed up at the accusation, harmless irritation puffing steam out of your ears. “no i’m not! you’re just making that up.”

“no.” zoro chuckles, “that’s why i had to pull you onto me. was tired of you being so damn far away.”

“aww, you missed me?” now it’s your turn to tease, poking his cheek with that sweet little grin on your face. so much for riling you up.

“just wanted to catch you before you rolled off the bed.” he grumbles.

“oh really?” you squint at him, not entirely convinced that his intentions were so heroic. “so if i just—“

you go to move off of him, but he’s quicker, flipping you so you’re sprawled under him over the wrinkled sheets. zoro’s palms land by either side of your head, effectively caging you in. even though it was still early, zoro never missed a step.

wordlessly, he shifts onto his elbows, lowering himself down on you until your back sinks into the mattress, tucking you in just like one of the many petals you press into your books. you’re his own version of that he thinks, the pretty flower that got trapped between the harsh lines that write up his pages, sealed with a heavy exterior that you had no problem prying open with loving hands.

“nuh uh, not a chance.” he leans down and kisses you, letting out a soft groan as your sweet hands slide over his bare shoulders and roam along his back.

“knew it.” you whisper against his lips with a giggle. “just admit it, won’t you?”

“just shut up and keep kissing me.” his biting words don’t match the endearing tone in his voice; a bark reduced to a whimper.

zoro grabs your chin, using it as leverage to keep your mouth on his, not letting you get another word out as you spiral into your desires, kissing him like it’s the only thing you were meant to do. now and forever.

after a few moments, he pulls back panting slightly and rests his forehead against yours in an attempt to regain his dizzying thoughts.

“do you ever wonder what’s next?” zoro asks, pulling his head up a little. the question slipping out of his mouth before he had a chance to reel it back in.

“like where we are headed next?” you tilt your head. “wherever the tide takes us, i suppose.”

“i meant you and me.” zoro can feel his face burn with vulnerability, embarrassment licking at his cheeks until they’re a pretty pink. he shifts a bit at the intensity so he can lay on his side, his arm coming up behind your head.

“oh!” your face melts into a smile as you turn toward him and suddenly he doesn’t feel so silly. “i do think about it, actually.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.” you nod, your finger trailing along his bicep, the corded muscles intertwining together such as your fates. “i don’t know what we’ll be doing but all i want is for us to do it together.”

your eyes met his gaze, luring him in as the depths of your devotion pools in your eyes. an expression he was no doubt returning.

together. what a nice word, one that holds so much value to him and eases the tension in his shoulders like the waves on the shore reclaim the sand. for those two years you were apart, during the dead of night when his mind would wander after a grueling day of training, his thoughts would land on you.

thoughts filled with nothing but adoration that soon turned into a steady love once you reunited, side by side once again.

a love that could only be expressed as how the ocean loves the shore. gentle waves lapping against the sand, forever fated to find your way back to each other one way or another whether it be a slow crawl or a violent reunion, destiny had made its decision.

“me too.” he squeezes you, pressing a chaste kiss along your hairline. “together.”

thank you so much for reading ᰔ

[moineauz]

જ⁀ 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 , hsr men !

side comments: i love old jazzy tunes or old songs in general. i usually don't do this kind of fic but i wanted to try something new.

extra: gn reader, fluff, all hsr men except yanqing & misha word count: 434

Other arms reach out to me Other eyes smile tenderly Still in peaceful dreams I see The road leads back to you. 𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐀 𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 / Ray Charles

Despite age the two of you bustle about; committing your duties be it work or another passion. Perhaps either of you transverse the cosmos. However, when Twilight's wings gingerly take you under its folds, the two of you melt into one like candle wax dripping down its holder. No matter what path each of you treads- you are bound no matter the state. Thus, under the duvet covers and the unspoken lullabies of the night, he presses kisses on your wrinkled eyes like gemstones while slowly caressing your furrowed hand with a gentleness only matched by the lightness of a feather and the warmth of a beating heart. It is instinctive like blinking, like drawing air into the lungs. Rest now in silence for neither of you needed to say a word, another day will come and nights of blossoming devotion will echo into eternity.

𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐑 . Dan Heng . 𝐃𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎 . 𝐋𝐔𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐀 . Gepard . 𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍 . 𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 . Blade . 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐓 . + any of your favourites

Just one look at you My heart grew tipsy in me You and you alone Bring out the Gypsy in me I love all the many charms about you Above all, I want my arms about you 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 / Judy Garland

Your limbs might not take you far now, but he'll twirl you in the air like a star and tease you until your cheeks ache from laughter. The glimmer and shine of that first date still trails behind the two of you: stardust in the wind, wings that seldom break. You two still share that hidden kiss in public and search for treasures amongst a sea of rust. Giddy and unfettered, the two of you are like birds spinning in the air; chasing each other in fits of uncontrolled laughter. Blush still brushing against your sagging cheeks and the tipsyness of a night still young, his own heart enthralled as the first time he met you. The throng can stare if they want; asking why not sit down? Would you like some help? That's fine, he'll still banter and pursue adoration as if it's not already tucked in his arms. Because despite his gradually wilting eyes and worn-out knees, he'll still bow down and press his head against your stomach, whispering, "mine."

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 . Argenti . 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐔𝐀𝐍 . 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐎 . 𝐋𝐔𝐊𝐀 . Gallager . 𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 . + any of your favourites

At last My love has come along My lonely days are over And life is like a song 𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 / Etta James

The two of you have mellowed over the years, lost some hair and found comfort in blue skies, the pit pat of rain and sand between your toes. Perhaps the two of you find a house in the countryside or build a home on a distant planet found in cup boards and the warmth of an oven. Perhaps you settle under the blanket of the universe; allowing your eyes to trace the sun inching down the walls of your shared home. The two of you spend your days lying languidly on the couch, days drifting into melodies spent well and arms entangled as one. He never would've thought that his heart could slow and his soul mellow like a distant breeze. His eyes drifted towards your figure, a pleasant smile reaching his lips.

𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄 . Welt . Gepard . 𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 . Dr. Ratio . 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 . 𝐃𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐆 . Jing Yuan . Luocha . + any of your favourites

masterlist.

[bassmars]

submissive! neuvillette x gender neutral reader.

it’s been so long but I am back, I still love neuvillette. Matter in fact I got him a hydro goblet with 35 crit dmg I know I know…. Be jealous.

No proof read sorry if this is all messed up, wrote this pretty late too.. I might start posting more but who should I write about?

—————

Justice served hot

Sub! Neuvillette nsfw.

warnings: semi-public setting, mild exhibitionism, oral sex, penetrative sex (reader can either have a dick or like a strap on I tried)

"Not now, Y/N," Neuvillette murmured, his eyes never leaving the mountain of paperwork that had piled up on his desk. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cluttered room, the only sound being the scratch of his quill against parchment. Y/N, ever the persistent one, leaned against the heavy oak doorframe, arms folded across their chest. Their eyes, filled with a mix of longing and mischief, scanned the room for any signs of weakness.

Neuvillette's desk was a battlefield of legal documents, ink stains spreading like spilled wine across the once pristine surface. The scent of parchment and candle wax filled the air, a stark contrast to the faint hint of incense that usually lingered in the hallways outside. The judge's white hair was slightly disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it in frustration, and the blue underside of his single strand was vivid against his pale skin. His pointed ears twitched slightly as Y/N's footsteps grew closer, the quiet thud of boots on the cold stone floor echoing in the vast chamber.

"Comeee onnnnn," Y/N whined, their voice a sweet symphony of seduction, "You've been buried in this stuff for hours." They stepped closer, the leather of their corset creaking faintly. "We haven't had any...quality time in so long."

Neuvillette sighed, setting down his quill with a delicate clink. He rubbed his eyes with his gloved hand, the blue fabric stretching over his knuckles. "You know how important this is," he said, his voice strained. "The fate of Fontaine is literally in my hands."

Y/N pouted, their eyes scanning the room as they approached the desk. They leaned over, their chest brushing against the papers, and whispered into Neuvillette's ear, "I know, but so is my happiness." Their breath was warm, sending a shiver down the judge's spine.

Neuvillette swiveled his chair to face Y/N, his gaze dropping to their mouth. "And what would make you happy right now?" His voice was low, a challenge wrapped in velvet.

Y/N smirked, their hand sliding down to graze the bulge in Neuvillette's trousers. "Well," they murmured, "since you're already sitting..." They knelt down, pushing aside the chair slightly, and flipped the desk's edge up, giving them the perfect access.

Neuvillette's eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. He looked over his shoulder at the door, then back at Y/N. "Here? Now?" His voice was a mix of surprise and arousal.

Y/N nodded, their grin growing wider. "Why not?" They leaned in, capturing Neuvillette's bottom lip in a teasing nip. "It's not like anyone's going to walk in, right?"

Neuvillette's cheeks flushed a light shade of pink, his pointy ears turning a darker shade of red. He glanced at the clock on the wall, the ticking sound suddenly very loud in the quiet room. "Almost time for the next session," he murmured, trying to regain his composure.

Y/N's pout grew more pronounced, their eyes shimmering with a hint of desperation. "Are you really going to leave me like this?" They whispered, their hand still playing with the fabric of his trousers.

Neuvillette sighed, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. "I have to, Y/N. You know how much is on the line for these cases." He began to stand up, but Y/N's grip tightened, their eyes pleading.

"C'mon," Y/N whined, their voice a siren's call, "Just a quickie, before you go." They leaned in closer, their breath hot against Neuvillette's neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

The judge's resolve wavered, the temptation of a passionate encounter with Y/N almost too much to resist. But he knew he couldn't. "No," he said firmly, pushing back his chair, "We can't." He gently but insistently removed Y/N's hand from his crotch and stood up, straightening his robes.

Y/N pouted even more, their eyes glinting with a hint of annoyance. "You're no fun," they grumbled, crossing their arms over their chest.

Neuvillette chuckled despite himself, reaching out to stroke their cheek with his gloved hand. "I know," he said, "but duty calls." He turned and made his way to the courtroom, the heavy doors looming before him like a final boss in a video game.

Y/N trailed after him, their steps echoing down the hallway. "Fine," they said with a dramatic sigh, "but I'm coming with you."

Neuvillette rolled his eyes but didn't protest. He knew Y/N well enough to know that once they had their mind set on something, there was no changing it. They arrived at the grand courtroom, the air thick with the anticipation of the looming proceedings. The room was eerily empty, the wooden benches untouched by the usual bustle of plaintiffs and defendants.

"Well, this is odd," Neuvillette murmured, checking his pocket watch. "We're not supposed to start for another half an hour."

Y/N snickered, their mood lightening at the sight of the empty room. "Maybe the universe is giving us a little gift," they said, wagging their eyebrows suggestively.

Neuvillette couldn't help but laugh. "Or maybe it's just another one of your jinxes," he teased, pushing the door open with a squeak.

The judge stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the vast space. The high ceilings, adorned with frescoes of ancient battles and legal triumphs, seemed to watch over them like disapproving parents. Y/N followed, their boots clicking against the marble floor.

"Come on," Y/N whispered, sidling up to Neuvillette, "at least give me a kiss. It's been ages."

Neuvillette's resolve was waning, the heat of their earlier encounter still simmering between them. He leaned down, their lips meeting in a soft, chaste kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through his body. But Y/N wasn't satisfied with just a peck. They grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss that left them both breathless.

Their tongues danced together, a silent conversation filled with longing and desire. Y/N's hands roamed down to Neuvillette's waist, fumbling with the knot of his sash. They pushed him backward, the large judge's chair looming behind him like a throne. With a grunt, Neuvillette gave in, his body weight carrying him backward into the plush velvet embrace of the chair.

Y/N's eyes sparkled with triumph as they sank to their knees in front of the chair.

Neuvillette's cock, now free from its confines, stood proud and demanding. Veins bulged with anticipation, tracing a map of pleasure along its length, and the underside was particularly sensitive to the touch, a fact that Y/N knew all too well.

As Y/N leaned in, Neuvillette's hips jerked involuntarily, his hand shooting up to grab a fistful of their hair. He gripped it tightly, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hold back the moan that threatened to escape his lips. The sensation of Y/N's warm breath against his cock was almost too much, and he had to bite his lower lip to keep from crying out.

Y/N, ever the eager participant, took the hint and wrapped their lips around the tip, teasing the slit with their tongue. Neuvillette's grip on their hair tightened, his legs spreading wider as he pushed his hips up slightly to meet their mouth. The feeling of their tongue flicking against his most sensitive spot sent a shiver down his spine, making his toes curl in his boots.

Y/N took him in deeper, their cheeks hollowing as they sucked hard. The sound of wetness filled the quiet courtroom, the only other noise the occasional crackle of the candles that lined the walls. They could feel the judge's thighs trembling, his gloved hands clutching their head, guiding them deeper. The taste of his precum was sweet on their tongue, a promise of the release to come.

Neuvillette's breathing grew ragged, his chest heaving as he fought to keep his composure. He knew that Y/N was a master at this, that they could make him cum in seconds if they wanted to, but he was trying to hold out. The anticipation was part of the thrill, the knowledge that they were about to be caught up in something so deliciously scandalous in the very heart of Fontaine's legal system.

But it was a battle he was quickly losing. The way Y/N's mouth moved, the pressure and rhythm, it was all too much. His hips began to buck, his hand moving to the armrest of the chair to keep from toppling over. He could feel the orgasm building, a storm brewing in his core, threatening to spill over at any moment.

And just as he was about to let go, the doors to the courtroom swung open, the sound echoing through the room like a gavel's final blow.

Y/N and Neuvillette froze, the latter's eyes shooting wide open as a parade of officials and assistants began to file in, their murmurs of greeting and shuffling of papers a stark contrast to the silence that had been moments before. Y/N, ever the quick thinker, ducked under the desk, their heart racing. Neuvillette's cock, still wet from Y/N's eager mouth, twitched in response to the sudden cold air.

The judge took a deep breath, willing his body to behave as he forced himself to sit up straight, the chair creaking ominously beneath him. He smoothed his robes down, trying to look as dignified as possible despite the raging hard-on he was trying to hide. The room grew louder as more people filled in, taking their seats, arranging their notes. Neuvillette could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, a blush that was hopefully just from the exertion and not the embarrassment of being caught.

Y/N, hidden from view, couldn't help but let out a stifled giggle, the sound muffled by the fabric of Neuvillette's robes. The judge shot them a glare, his hand shooting down to grip the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white.

"Thank you all for being here today," Neuvillette began, his voice a little shakier than usual. He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself as he continued, "We have a very important case to discuss." His eyes darted around the room, looking for any signs of suspicion. The attendees nodded and murmured in response, none the wiser to the scandalous scene playing out just out of their line of sight.

Y/N, unable to resist the temptation, leaned back in and took him in their mouth again, their hands moving to stroke the base of his cock. Neuvillette's eyes rolled back in his head, his grip on the desk tightening as he bit down on his knuckle to keep from moaning. The room was a blur, the faces of the officials swimming before his eyes as he tried to focus on the case at hand.

With a Herculean effort, Neuvillette pulled Y/N's head back, their teeth grazing the sensitive skin just before they were fully extracted. "Not now," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice barely above a whisper. Y/N pouted but obeyed— for now, sitting back on their heels and watching him with hungry eyes.

Neuvillette took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to compose himself. He couldn't very well start the session with a raging erection, now could he? He shuffled his papers, hoping that the rustling would cover the sound of his racing heart. The room had filled up, the murmur of conversation growing louder as the minutes ticked by. The tension in the air was palpable, a mix of anticipation for the upcoming case and the unspoken tension between the two lovers.

He took his seat at the bench, adjusting his robes to try and hide his arousal. The first case was brought before him, a dull roar of words that barely registered as he tried to focus. His eyes scanned the pages before him, but the words swam together like ink in water. The pressure of Y/N's mouth was still imprinted on his cock, the ghost of their touch driving him wild. He could feel the wetness of their saliva slowly drying, leaving his skin feeling tight and sensitive.

As the prosecutor began their opening statement, Neuvillette's hand strayed to his mouth, his teeth sinking into his lower lip to keep from groaning. The pressure grew, his cock throbbing with the need for release. He glanced down, trying to be subtle, and found that Y/N's hand had slipped into his lap, their fingers tracing lazy circles around the base of his shaft.

The first time he stuttered, he blamed it on the poor lighting. The second time, he coughed and took a sip of water, his hand shaking slightly as he brought the glass to his lips. The third time, the prosecutor paused, a look of concern flashing across their face. "Your honor, are you feeling quite alright?"

Neuvillette's eyes snapped up, his cheeks burning with a mix of arousal and embarrassment. "I'm fine," he ground out, his voice strained. "Just a... a bit of a cold, I think." He coughed into his fist, hoping it was convincing. The room watched him for a moment before the proceedings continued, the murmur of whispers and shuffling papers resuming.

Y/N took advantage of the distraction, their mouth once again wrapping around Neuvillette's cock. This time, they were more cautious, their movements slow and deliberate. They could feel the judge's thighs tensing, his hips trying to rock up to meet them despite his efforts to remain still. The sound of fabric against skin was almost silent, but to Neuvillette, it was like a symphony in his ears.

He tried to focus on the case, really he did. But every time Y/N hit just the right spot, his eyes would squeeze shut, and a strangled sound would escape his throat. He bit down on his gloved fingers, the leather muffling his moans. The room was so still, so formal, and here he was, on the verge of losing control.

The case droned on, the words a blur as Neuvillette's mind was a whirlwind of pleasure and panic. He could feel the climax building, a crescendo that was all too familiar. Y/N's tongue swirled around the tip of his cock, teasing the slit before plunging back down, taking him in deep.

Neuvillette's body tensed, and he had to bite down on the leather of his gloved hand to keep from crying out. The sudden sharp pain brought him back to reality for a brief moment. He looked up, trying to focus on the defendant standing before him, but all he could see was the swirl of color from the stained glass windows above, casting a kaleidoscope across the room.

"Your honor," the prosecutor's voice cut through the haze, "the defense seems to be... distracted. Is everything alright?" Concerned whispers spread through the courtroom like a ripple in a pond.

Neuvillette coughed, his voice strained. "Just a bit of... allergies, yes. The flowers outside, you know." He cleared his throat and hoped his face wasn't as red as it felt. "Please, continue with your questioning."

The prosecutor looked at him skeptically but carried on. Meanwhile, Y/N had found his sweet spot, licking and sucking with the finesse of a maestro conducting an orchestra. Neuvillette's eyes watered, his hips jerking slightly as he felt the release approaching.

He had to get a grip, literally. He clenched his fists in his robes, the fabric bunching in his grip. "What is your defense?" he managed to ask the defendant, his voice a mix of authority and the beginning of a moan.

The defendant, a burly man with a scruffy beard, looked confused. "I-I was just saying, Your Honor, that I didn't mean to..."

But Neuvillette wasn't listening. Y/N's mouth was like a vise, their tongue a whirlwind of sensation. He could feel the pressure building, the dam about to burst. "I-I need a recess," he blurted out, his voice a strangled whisper.

The room went silent, all eyes on the judge who was clearly not his usual composed self. The prosecutor and defendant exchanged glances, while the bailiff looked like he was about to ask if Neuvillette needed medical attention.

"A... recess?" the prosecutor echoed, looking at the clock. "But we've only just begun."

"Now," Neuvillette snapped, his voice firm despite the tremble in his legs. "This... this case is too important to be rushed." He slammed his gavel down, the sound echoing through the hushed room.

The bailiff stepped forward, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Your Honor, are you feeling... well?"

Neuvillette took a deep breath, willing his body to calm. "I'm fine," he assured, his voice a barely controlled rumble. But Y/N's mouth was like a siren's call, latched onto that spot that made his toes curl and his vision swim. He couldn't ignore the way their tongue danced around the sensitive ridge, the flicks and swirls that sent bolts of pleasure through him.

The prosecutor looked unconvinced, but the defendant's counsel nodded, eager to take advantage of the break. "Very well, Your Honor," the prosecutor said, their voice filled with skepticism. “We'll reconvene in fifteen minutes.”

The room buzzed with whispers as everyone began to stand, their movements a symphony of confusion and curiosity. Y/N didn't waste a second, pulling away from Neuvillette's cock with a final, tantalizing kiss that left him gasping for air. They slipped out from under the desk, smoothing their clothes with a smug grin. "Fifteen minutes, perfect," they murmured, giving Neuvillette's leg a final squeeze before sauntering out of the courtroom.

The judge took a moment to compose himself, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. He adjusted his robes, trying to hide the evidence of their tryst. The room emptied slowly, the murmurs of the crowd fading into the hallway. He waited until the last set of footsteps had disappeared before standing, his legs wobbly with need. He could feel the stickiness on his cock, a testament to how close he'd come.

"Y/N, office," he called out, his voice still a little hoarse. Y/N's eyes lit up with excitement, their hand already on the doorknob. They stepped aside, allowing Neuvillette to pass, their fingers trailing over his lower back as they did so.

Once in the office, Neuvillette's gaze swept over the chaos. Papers littered the floor, ink pots were overturned, and the smell of spilled wine filled the air. He took a deep breath, trying to regain control of his body. "This place is a mess," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement.

Y/N shrugged, a mischievous smile playing on their lips. "It's all part of the ambiance," they said, stepping closer to him. They reached up, untying the knot of his sash with nimble fingers. "Now, where were we?"

Neuvillette's eyes darkened with desire, his hand coming up to cup Y/N's cheek. "We were about to take this somewhere more... private," he murmured, his thumb tracing their jawline. "And then, we're going to make up for lost time."

The door clicked shut behind them, the sound echoing through the cluttered room. Y/N's eyes locked onto his, their hands roaming over his body with a hunger that matched his own. They stepped closer, their bodies pressing together in a delicious dance of heat and want.

"Fuck, you're so hard for me," Y/N growled, their fingers fumbling with the button of his pants. With a swift, brutal motion, they tore open his fly, sending his cock springing free. It jutted out, a testament to his unabated desire, slick with pre-come and begging for release.

Neuvillette's cock sprang free, a testament to his unabated desire. He watched as Y/N took it in their hand, their grip firm and sure. They stroked him slowly, their thumb circling the sensitive tip, sending shivers down his spine.

"Turn over," Y/N ordered, their voice low and commanding.

Neuvillette whimpered at the interruption but reluctantly obeyed, his palms flat on the desk as he bent over, his ass in the air. The cold wood sent a shiver through him, making his skin prickle with anticipation. He was panting and flushed, cock leaking heavily between them as he learned to savor each delicious slide.

Y/N stepped closer, their cock brushing against his thigh. Neuvillette could feel the heat of them, the promise of what was to come. He took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for the onslaught.

The first slick press of Y/N's length against his entrance was like a spark igniting a flame. Neuvillette gasped, his eyes squeezing shut as they pushed inside him. The sensation was almost too much, a mix of pain and pleasure that made his knees wobble, the sensation of their bodies reconnecting after so long almost too much to handle.

Their rhythm grew steadier as they lost themselves in the moment, their movements driven by pure instinct. Neuvillettes nails raked down Y/n’s back, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

"Y/n," Neuvillette moaned, his hips rising to meet each thrust. "Harder."

Y/N didn't give him any time to adjust, their hips snapping forward with a force that made the desk shake. Neuvillette let out a strangled cry, his body taking a moment to accommodate the intrusion.

They set a relentless pace, their length sliding in and out of him with a wet, slapping sound that filled the room. The desk creaked and groaned, a testament to their passion.

Neuvillette's nails dug into the wood, his knuckles white with the effort of holding on. He could feel his orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that washed over him with every thrust.

Y/N leaned over him, their breath hot against his neck. "You're so fucking tight," they murmured, their voice strained with lust. "So good, Neuvillette."

Their words were like a spell, casting a net of desire over him. He pushed back, meeting each thrust with a wantonness that surprised even himself. The need to be filled, to be claimed, was overwhelming.

Y/N's hand slammed down onto the desk beside his head, the sound echoing through the room. "Fuck, yes," they grunted, their hips driving into him with an intensity that bordered on violence.

Neuvillette's eyes watered as Y/N hit that spot, that magical spot deep inside that made his toes curl and his body spasm. He bit down on his gloved hand, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to spill from his lips. The fabric muffled the sound, but the pain only added to his pleasure.

Each slap of their hips against his ass was a symphony of sensation, a crescendo that built and built until he thought he couldn't take it anymore. He could feel his orgasm coiling in his belly, tightening like a spring ready to snap.

Y/N's length slammed into Neuvillette with the force of a storm, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent room. The judge's face was a picture of ecstasy and torment, his eyes squeezed shut as he bit down on his lip to keep from crying out. Each thrust was accompanied by a wet smack, the sound bouncing off the walls like a taunt to their secret.

Neuvillette's legs trembled, his toes curling in his boots as he tried to keep his body from betraying him. He knew the Melusines were just outside, their sensitive hearing attuned to every little noise. The thought of them hearing his desperate gasps and the sloppy sounds of their lovemaking sent a thrill of both fear and excitement through him.

He couldn't help the way his body reacted, his muscles clenching around Y/N's length with every thrust. He was so close, so desperately close to losing control. The pressure was building, a coil in his belly that tightened with every movement. The room swam around him, the candlelight playing across his skin like a lover's caress.

He could feel the tension in Y/N's body, the way their muscles tightened and released with each movement. They were both chasing that elusive high, that sweet release that hovered just out of reach. Neuvillette's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more depraved than the last.

His body arched, his back bowing like a bowstring pulled taut before releasing an arrow. His orgasm hit, sending waves of pure ecstasy crashing through his body. He bit down hard on the leather of his glove, muffling the scream that threatened to rip from his chest.

His cock spasmed, shooting ropes of cum across the desk, painting the once pristine surface with a chaotic pattern of white. The smell of sex filled the room, a musky scent that seemed to cling to every inch of them. Y/N's eyes widened in surprise and delight at the display, their own hand moving faster as they watched him come undone.

The hand over his mouth was almost painful now, but Neuvillette didn't care. He bucked and thrashed beneath Y/N, the world outside the office forgotten. The only thing that mattered was the exquisite pleasure that consumed him, leaving him boneless and panting.

Finally, the storm passed, and he collapsed against the desk, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The hand over his mouth slipped away, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes still closed. The silence was deafening, the only sound the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

Neuvillette's eyes snapped open, his heart dropping into his stomach. He looked at the timepiece, the hands pointing to the number fifteen. "No.”

[idkyetxoxo]

One | Enchanted | Aemond Targaryen

Word count - 2960

Warnings - None

<- prev || masterlist || next ->

"You cannot seriously be considering this," I snapped, my voice laced with venom as I flung the parchment onto the table before my father.

The heavy scroll slid across the polished mahogany with a dull scrape, a symbol of the insult it carried.

"I am," my father replied, his tone calm and unyielding, his eyes never leaving mine as I paced the room. My footsteps echoed, a frantic rhythm of rage until I came to an abrupt halt.

Slamming my palms onto the table, I leaned in, my face mere inches from his.

"Have you forgotten the devastation Aegon the Conqueror left in his wake? The cities burned, innocents slaughtered—all for something that was never rightfully his," I hissed, my anger bubbling over, unchecked.

My father remained impassive, a statue in the storm of my fury, his serenity maddening.

Nymor, my brother, sat beside him, silent but seething. His jaw clenched, eyes blazing with the same fury I felt, yet he managed to keep his composure—something I clearly couldn't do.

"You were the one who said the Targaryens were nothing more than inbred scum, and now you would marry your only daughter off to one of them?" Nymor's voice sliced through the air, cold and sharp.

"Viserys comes in good faith," our father countered, his words measured, smooth as ice. "He seeks to mend the rift between our houses, to explore the possibility of peace."

"Peace? At my expense?" My voice rose, each word laced with bitter defiance.

My father sighed, the first crack in his unbreakable calm, the weight of our defiance pressing on him. But we were his children, and like him, we were made of fire and stubborn will.

"We can refuse," Nymor interjected, his fingers tapping restlessly on the table, matching the tension that electrified the air. "We owe them nothing."

Father shook his head, his patience thinning.

"A second son, a spare—he's not even their first choice," I scoffed, arms crossed tight in a defiant stance. "Why entertain this madness?"

"No decision has been made," my father reminded us, his voice steady. "But think of what this alliance could mean for our people. In the end, the choice is yours."

With that, he rose, the weight of our resistance heavy on his shoulders, and left the room. The door shut softly behind him, an unnervingly quiet end to the storm.

I sank into the chair he had vacated, my body still tense, but the rage slowly unraveling within me. Nymor watched, his fingers continuing their restless beat on the table.

"You're not seriously considering it, are you?" he asked, his voice low.

I tossed my legs onto the table, reclining back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though it might hold the answer.

"After what their ancestors did to our lands? I wouldn't even spit on their graves, let alone marry into their wretched family," I muttered, rubbing my temples in a vain attempt to massage away the lingering fury.

Nymor hummed in agreement, a silent accord between us, before he, too, stood and exited the room leaving me alone with my thoughts, the air heavy with the scent of parchment and candle wax—a bitter reminder of decisions yet to be made.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

"Princess, your father requests your presence," came the steady, unwavering voice of Alaric, my sworn protector, piercing the stillness of my chambers like an unwelcome blade.

I glanced up from my perch by the window, the afternoon light casting a soft glow on the marble floors. 

Outside, the sun bled over the horizon, and yet all I felt was the slow burn of annoyance flickering beneath my skin.

"Oh, does he now?" I drawled, my voice laced with venom. 

"So I can parade about like a pretty trinket, all dolled up and dangled before a family of vipers?" I spat, the words filled with defiance as I swung around to face Alaric.

His face remained unreadable, as always—those keen, calculating eyes revealing no hint of his thoughts. 

It was a skill I envied, that cool, impassive calm that never wavered, no matter the storm brewing before him.

"Fine," I sneered, rising from my seat in a swirl of pent-up frustration. "If it's a pretty princess he wants, then I shall give him one." 

My voice was thick with bitter sarcasm as I crossed the room in a sweep of silken skirts, each step exuding the anger I barely contained.

Without hesitation, I flung open the wardrobe doors, my fingers brushing past the delicate gowns of lavender, rose, and emerald until they settled on the one. 

A gown of inky black, rich and bold, with a plunging neckline that dared the world to underestimate me. Slits ran high along the sides, revealing more skin than modesty might allow—yet modesty was the last thing on my mind.

I stripped off my current attire with quick, sharp motions, letting the dress slip over my frame, the fabric cool and smooth against my skin. 

It clung to my curves like a second skin, a perfect weapon for the game my father seemed all too eager to thrust me into.

Alaric stood in silence, his gaze lingering briefly on the gown before flicking back to the door, his composure never faltering. He knew better than to comment.

"Let's go," I commanded, my voice firm, not waiting for a response as I strode toward the door, the soft rustle of fabric trailing in my wake. 

Alaric fell into step beside me, his presence a steady shadow as we moved through the winding corridors of Sunspear.

The halls, bathed in the amber glow of torches, stretched ahead of us like the calm before a storm. 

Every step I took echoed against the stone, matching the steady rhythm of my heartbeat as we neared the towering doors of the Tower of the Sun.

Inside, they were waiting.

The great hall was thick with tension, though the faces of those gathered remained masked by pleasantries. 

I entered with a deliberate grace, my steps slow and measured, my chin held high as my gaze swept over the assembled royals. 

There they were, in all their lofty grandeur—the King and Queen of Westeros, flanked by their children, their eyes watching, waiting. 

On the opposite end of the room sat my family. My father, ever the stoic, sat beside Nymor, my brother, whose fiery gaze mirrored my own.

But it was not them I was concerned with. It was the Targaryens.

King Viserys turned his kind eyes toward me, but I did not return the sentiment. His warmth was wasted here. 

Beside him, Queen Alicent sat with her spine rigid, her expression a mixture of disdain and judgment as she took in my bold attire. I met her narrowed gaze with a sly smile, relishing the slight flicker of disapproval I had coaxed from her without a word.

To her left, Princess Helaena greeted me with a polite smile—one I returned with a nod, though my attention quickly shifted. I could feel his gaze before I even saw him.

Prince Aegon's eyes, full of lechery, roamed shamelessly over me, his lips curling into a grin that made my stomach twist in disgust. 

But it was the one who stood apart, the one with the single, piercing eye, who truly held my interest.

Prince Aemond.

He observed me with unnerving calm, his posture straight, his hands clasped behind his back. 

Beneath the cool facade of his eyepatch, his lone eye held an intelligence and restraint that set him apart from the rest. He gave nothing away, no flicker of emotion, no hint of what thoughts stirred behind those eyes.

I liked that.

I crossed the room and seated myself beside Nymor, leaning back with a practised nonchalance as I crossed my legs, the dress parting just enough to make its presence known. 

The tension in the room was palpable, the anticipation of what was to come hanging heavy in the air like the scent of a brewing storm.

"Princess, it is wonderful to make your acquaintance," Viserys began, his voice rich with that familiar diplomatic tone. 

He was the kind of man who could soften any blow with sweet words and a smile—yet neither held any sway over me.

"It is true what they say; you are a sight indeed."

"Your words are kind," I replied, my tone flat and unenthused, making no effort to hide the disinterest in my voice. 

Whatever games he intended to play, I had no interest in being a piece on his board.

Viserys, unperturbed, shifted his gaze toward my father. "Prince Qoren, have you given thought to my offer?"

I stiffened, my hands curling into fists beneath the table, though outwardly I remained calm. My father leaned forward, nodding as if considering the matter with the weight it deserved.

"I am in agreement," my father said, his voice echoing through the hall. My brother and I exchanged a quick glance, confusion flickering between us. 

Then my father continued, turning his gaze toward me. "However, the decision ultimately rests with my daughter."

The room's attention swung to me, every eye now watching, waiting. Even Aemond's unreadable gaze lingered on me, though he remained as still as ever.

I leaned forward slightly, the corners of my lips curling into a wicked smile. 

"I do wonder," I began, letting my words drip with calculated amusement, "why am I being offered the second son?"

Viserys inhaled sharply, his patience thinning as a flicker of irritation crossed his face. "My first son is already married," he explained, his voice firm yet patient.

"Yes, to his own sister," I interjected, savouring the way his jaw tightened at the comment. It was a small victory, but one I relished.

"It is our custom," Viserys replied, the restraint in his tone barely holding.

"How quaint," I remarked with false innocence, my voice light. "But I've heard the Targaryens do have... peculiar ways." 

I couldn't help but glance at Alicent, whose face had tightened into a mask of fury. Nymor, beside me, stifled a laugh.

"What exactly are you implying, Princess?" Viserys asked, his patience wearing thin.

I leaned back in my chair, turning to Nymor with a thoughtful look before addressing the Targaryens once more. 

"A tourney, perhaps," I suggested, my voice silk-smooth, "to prove your son is worthy of my hand?"

The room reacted in a sharp intake of breath. Alicent's eyes blazed with indignation as she sat up straighter, her temper fraying.

"Princess, you speak of the King's son," she snapped, her voice cold as ice. "You will show respect."

"I am aware, Your Grace," I replied coolly, not the least bit fazed by her outburst. "But a title alone does not prove worthiness."

"My sister speaks the truth," Nymor added smoothly, backing me up without hesitation. "We must know if your son is truly fit to marry the only daughter of the Prince of Dorne."

Viserys hesitated, weighing the challenge with visible displeasure. 

Alicent's eyes darted between us, her lips pressed into a thin line as if she might explode at any moment. But finally, Viserys nodded, the weight of diplomacy winning out over pride.

"Then it is settled," my father declared, his voice cutting through the tension with finality. "A tourney will be held in honour of my daughter and Prince Aemond."

Alicent's displeasure radiated through the room, but it was too late. The decision had been made.

Across the room, Aemond's eye flickered with something unreadable—a spark of interest, perhaps? A hint of amusement? 

His lips twitched as if suppressing a smirk, and for the first time, he allowed his gaze to lock with mine, unflinching.

I met his gaze, feeling the thrill of the challenge settle deep within me.

This was far from over. And I intended to enjoy every moment of it.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

Dinner that evening was strained, to say the least. The grand dining hall, with its high arched ceilings and towering pillars, was bathed in the flickering glow of countless candles. 

Their light cast a golden sheen over the elaborate feast laid before us—platters of exotic fruits, spiced meats, and goblets filled to the brim with Dorne's finest wine. 

The musicians, stationed at the far end of the room, played soft, lilting tunes that barely cut through the thick tension swirling in the air like smoke.

The royal families of Dorne and Westeros sat at the long, ornately carved table, exchanging hollow pleasantries that did little to ease the charged atmosphere. 

Beneath the surface of forced smiles and polite nods, the room pulsed with the undercurrent of power, ambition, and unspoken conflict.

I sat between my brother, Nymor, and Helaena, who, in stark contrast to the rest of her family, radiated an almost childlike sweetness. 

Her soft features and gentle manner made her seem like a flower growing in a field of thorns—fragile, out of place, but quietly resilient. Her presence, while calming, felt fragile amid the ever-present tension that threatened to break the thin veneer of civility holding the evening together.

The conversations around me washed over my ears—empty words, trivialities exchanged to maintain the illusion of peace. 

My mind drifted as I took a slow sip from my chalice, savouring the rich, bold taste of the Dornish wine. 

The heat of it slid down my throat, grounding me in the moment, even as a servant refilled my cup almost instantly.

"Princess," came Helaena's soft voice, drawing me from my wandering thoughts. I turned to her, catching the delicate light in her eyes as she smiled. "You truly are as beautiful as they say."

I tilted my head slightly, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "You are sweet," I replied, my tone softening. "And you're quite beautiful yourself." 

There was no flattery in my words—Helaena's beauty was real, untouched by the sharp edges of ambition and malice that seemed to define her kin.

For a brief moment, the tension between us dissolved, replaced by a fleeting warmth that felt out of place in the chilly, grand hall. But, like a spark, the moment was short-lived.

Nymor, never one to let silence linger for too long, leaned forward, his gaze settling on the silent figure across from us. 

"Prince Aemond," he said, his voice a touch too loud, laced with feigned curiosity. "You've been remarkably quiet this evening. I don't believe I've heard you say a single word since we sat down."

All eyes seemed to shift subtly toward Aemond, the room holding its collective breath. 

The young prince, seated with the same rigid posture he'd maintained since the moment we arrived, met Nymor's gaze with an unreadable expression. 

I found myself studying him as well—realizing, for the first time, that not a single sound had passed his lips since he'd entered the room. 

There was a stillness to him, an unsettling calm that contrasted sharply with his brother Aegon's brash, drunken arrogance and his mother Alicent's barely contained hostility.

"I haven't had much to say," Aemond finally replied, his voice a low, measured hum that carried effortlessly across the table. 

His tone, though calm, commanded attention, like the quiet before a storm—intense, but controlled.

"What a shame," I interjected, leaning back in my chair, swirling the wine in my cup. My gaze drifted toward him, challenging. "One might think you have nothing of interest to contribute, Prince."

His eye flicked to mine, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw something behind that cool, composed exterior. But Aemond's expression remained steady, unruffled by my jab.

"I find actions speak louder than words, Princess," he replied, his tone devoid of malice, almost respectful. It was as though the game I was trying to play didn't interest him in the slightest.

I couldn't decide if I was impressed or irritated.

Nymor, never one to miss an opportunity for amusement, smirked and leaned forward, his voice dripping with mockery. 

"Ah, a man of few words then. Perhaps that's better than your brother," he added, casting a glance down the table at Aegon, who was too busy indulging in wine and roast to care. "He never seems to know when to shut up."

Aegon, hearing the insult, narrowed his eyes, but merely grunted and took another long drink, uninterested in defending himself.

"And tell me, Prince Aemond," I continued, unable to resist pushing further, "do you always hide behind silence? Or is it just tonight?" 

My words were sharper now, designed to provoke, to pierce through that unyielding calm.

Aemond didn't flinch. He merely shrugged, his demeanour as collected as ever. 

"Some battles are not worth fighting," he said, meeting my gaze with an unwavering calm. "Especially those fought with words."

I raised an eyebrow, more intrigued than annoyed. He wasn't giving me the satisfaction of a reaction. 

Instead, he seemed to be playing an entirely different game—one that didn't rely on the usual back-and-forth of barbed insults and power plays.

Nymor chuckled, leaning in conspiratorially. "But words can be the sharpest weapons of all. You might find that silence does not always shield you."

For the first time that evening, Aemond's lips twitched, almost forming a smile before the expression faded as quickly as it appeared. 

"Silence," he said, his voice carrying a quiet authority, "is the mark of those who do not need to prove themselves with noise."

His eye flicked between Nymor and me, a silent challenge in his gaze. "Or do you disagree?"

I found myself momentarily speechless, unsure of whether to be impressed by his composure or irritated by his refusal to engage. 

Aemond was a puzzle, one wrapped in layers of quiet strength and icy calm. The more I tried to provoke him, the more impenetrable he became. 

There was no bravado, no desperate need to assert dominance. Just quiet, steady control.

As the evening wore on, the tension between us settled into a strange equilibrium. My eyes drifted to Aemond more than once, watching, studying, trying to decipher the enigma that sat across from me. 

He was unlike any prince I had ever encountered, and that, perhaps, was the most dangerous thing about him.

A/n - Very excited to share this, I had sm fun writing it and editing it all together, I am a sucker for a good Dornish reader fic!!

[erwinsvow]

“I want them to like you,” you say, tugging on Rafe’s arm to drag him away from his truck and towards the beach. “I want them to love you.” He’s standing still, feet planted firmly on the pavement. 

You’ve wanted Rafe to meet your friends for the longest time, so much so that it’s the only thing you’ve been thinking about recently. It’s not exactly accurate—he has met them before, many times, actually, but they’ve never been good encounters. You recall a bruise on Pope’s back and JJ’s busted lip, back before they knew Rafe was your boyfriend and he was just public enemy number one.

But things are better now—really, they are. You try to convince yourself all of those incidents are in the past, that everyone’s over it now. You want your friends to like your boyfriend. You want your boyfriend to like your friends. You want it so bad you’re willing to drag Rafe to the beach yourself, if that’s what it takes.

“They can’t stand me,” Rafe replies, scanning the surroundings. He doesn’t like them, but he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings either, if they overhear the two of you right now. “Can’t stand them, either, y’know.”

“But you like me, don’t you?” you ask, smiling wide, all cheery and bright. Like he has to tell you again. He rolls his eyes, making you laugh.

“Not at all. What gave y’that stupid idea?” You roll your own pretty eyes in a matching response.

“C’mon, Rafe, look, they’re already here-” you whine, pointing at the giant, junky thing your Pogue friends call a car. He doesn’t let you anywhere near the thing anymore if he can help it—drops you off and picks you up because that thing is a death trap, even more so with one of the stoned idiots driving it. “I don’t wanna be late, so move-” you start pushing at his chest, but he doesn’t give you an inch. 

You huff, hot sun beating down on you, muscles tired from trying to move your entirely too strong boyfriend. 

“Fine,” you finally let out, giving up. “I’ll just go by myself.”

“Good girl. I’ll swing by to get you in a couple hours and then we can go for dinner-”

“Sounds good,” you interrupt, causing Rafe to look at you with an eyebrow raised—you never interrupt him. “I’ll just have Pope put the sunscreen on my back for me. Since you won’t be there.”

“Wait a minute-”

“And JJ’s been dying to teach me how to surf. Y’know, last time I tried though, my top fell off. But I guess it’s no big deal. I bet John B can put it back on for me.”

Rafe thinks he’s mastered the look of not caring sometimes, face blank, eyes showing nothing but mild disturbance. This is not one of those times. You smile, because you can’t help it, watching your boyfriend’s ears turn bright pink, the muscles in his jaw clench, his fist tighten around your pink beach bag.

You put your hand over his, gently, trying to take the bag so you can walk away with it. You’re not sure if your plan worked until he snatches the bag back, hand holding your wrist tightly. 

“Come on, kid,” he mutters, heading in the direction of the beach. “Pain in my ass,” you hear him say quietly, but you feel giddy that he agreed to join you after all. 

Your friends are set up by the water, towels haphazardly thrown on the sand, a case of beer resting in the shade under the umbrella. JJ is waxing his board, Pope is standing next to him, critiquing his method. John has just crushed a beer can down, and chucks it at Kie, who ducks and starts yelling about how inhumane littering is. 

“Hey!” you hear Pope beam, a smile lighting up your face. “Look who’s here-” and Kie joins in with an excited yell, tossing the empty can back at John B and hitting the back of his head. 

“Thought you’d never come back to us now that you’re a fancy Kook girl. Where’s that-” JJ goes silent, watching Rafe walking behind you, staring blankly, looking pissed. “-asshole boyfriend. Nevermind, I found him.”

“I brought Rafe,” you say, a big smile taking over again. You look expectantly at everyone, and then stare until they give you the reaction you want. They mumble hi and hey, Kook, and you turn back to Rafe, taking your bag and figuring out where to put your towels—pink, like the bag, like your bikini. Rafe’s shorts are white, with little pink stripes to match you. 

You both sit down on the sand before you finally offer him the bottle of sunscreen and lay flat on your stomach so he can put it on. He squirts some onto his hands, rubbing them together to spread it out and then first slaps your ass, leaving a sandy, white handprint on the skin. Your body jerks, whining against the towel.

“Had to. Practically asking for it. M’not apologizing,” he says, quiet enough that only the two of you can hear. His hands rub the sunscreen onto your back and arms, but then you decide everything he does is too erotic for public, so you turn back, insisting that’s enough sun protection. You just got here and you don’t want to leave because you can’t resist your boyfriend just yet.

You turn your head, noticing Kie walking towards you with a can of hard seltzer, the fruity kind she knows you prefer. The boys are by the other umbrella, tossing beers at each other. You tug on Rafe’s arm again.

“Why don’t you go get a beer with them. You can talk. It’ll be nice!” 

There’s nothing he’d rather do less. 

“Came here to hang with you, not them,” he says curtly, head resting back on the towel.

“Rafe!” The things he does for you. “Please?” He shouldn’t have looked at you—that was his mistake. Five seconds of your pout and your sincere eyes is enough to make him do whatever you want.

“Five minutes, then I’m coming back. That’s it.”

“Thank you,” you sing sweetly. Kiara comes and settles down next to you. “Is it strawberry? My favorite!” he hears you say, followed by the hiss of you opening the can, as he gets up and stalks towards your friends.

Their conversation dies when Rafe steps up—something he doesn’t like. He could care less about these idiots, but he really doesn’t want you to get caught in the middle of this shit. He can see it already—your pretty face covered in tears, crying because you care too much about him, care too much about your friends.

Rafe knows you’d pick him over them, he just doesn’t want to force you to make that choice.

“What’re you drinking?” he questions. Three pairs of eyes stare at him blankly. A retort bubbles inside him angrily—Stupid and deaf? You losers can’t catch a break, huh? He turns to look at you, hoping you’re in conversation with Kie and sipping your sugary drink. You’re not. You’re staring at the four of them with a hopeful smile.

He swallows the comment and turns with a forced, hard smile. “Beer? That’s great. Toss me one.” Pope does as he says, and then goes back to drinking his own. 

“S���like weird, to see you smile. Didn’t know you could do that,” JJ comments, crushing his own beer can up now that it was empty. Rafe wishes you were here, listening, because-

“What the hell am I supposed to say to that?” John B lets out a laugh at that, Pope joins in. Rafe cracks another smile, they’re pretty goofy, just like you had said. “Nah, I’m just saying, like, didn’t think you could be nice. Must be, if she likes you.”

Rafe turns to look back at you again, quickly. You’re talking to Kie now, head thrown back, laughing. You look prettiest like this, when you’re happy. 

“Yeah, for her.” Then he takes another long chug of the beer, looking back at them. “You idiots don’t make it easy.”

“It’s not easy for us, either,” Pope interjects. “I mean, you did hit me with a golf club.” Rafe runs a hand through his hair, unsure what to say, because he did do that. 

“Yeah, I, uh-” he trails off. “Sorry, sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” JJ says.

“All in the past,” John B tacks on. 

It must be several beers later, because you hear the boys laughing and… getting along? You decide to walk over, just to make sure your eyes and ears aren’t deceiving you. The box they had just bought earlier today was filled with the empties, the unmistakable sound of your boyfriend’s laugh filling your ears, your friends all engaged in conversations. You decide to turn back rather than interrupt, giddiness filling your heart that everything worked out. You don’t catch the end of their conversation, already back to your towel and opening another drink with Kie.

“And then I went there,” JJ starts, “-and I was like should I leave, because then her parents might wake up, because I forgot the condom-”

JJ stops to take another sip of the beer, and Rafe cuts him off.

“Wait, you guys use condoms?” 

Three pairs of eyes turn on him.

When you two walk back to his truck a little later, he swings his arm around you and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“What was that for?” you ask, happy and tired.

“Yeah, I don’t think they like me much.”

[nvuy]

dulcet — sunday

summary. it is within the safest parts of the world that sunday loses himself, and it seems that only you can provide him the salvation he desperately searches for.

notes. i wrote this for mags :)))) hiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!! confiteor part three THATS IT. DONT ASK ME FOR ANOTHER ONE. you can read part one and two here or on tumblr if you want. i'd recommend because this series is mind boggling. i wish you all an open mind, because if this confuses you, that's the point.

warnings. mdni, 18+, gn reader with fem anatomy, you are implied to do street work, crazy freaky shit, long ass 11k post, whatever form of body worship this counts as, sunday needs to be medicated asap and needs therapy, angst if you look at it with your eyes open, religious guilt & themes, and again its literally just a dirty smashing session. nobody is surprised.

Sunday laid and simply waited for sleep to come. It was dark now, and the clock on the other side of his room was ticking and ticking with each minute that passed. Something twitched with every noise; a finger, his eye, his lips. 

Exhaustion crept behind his eyes, and yet they refused to remain shut. Every tick of the clock, every creak of the bed, every single noise he heard put him on edge. He stiffened like a corpse when the sheets moved. 

It’s just him. 

It was just him and nobody else. It had become harder and harder to convince himself that he was alone. This was his bedroom; the same four walls he surrendered himself to every night and prayed to see tomorrow morning. A home such as his didn’t warrant nor promise his safety when he laid his head to rest. 

And that was what had scared him. The window to his bedroom was cracked open just a tad; he had his rhythm. All the windows shut and the door locked tight from the inside. Any draft of wind from outside would stir him awake in an instant, as well as the fact that anyone would contort through the gap and come forth and touch him and– 

Sunday only clutched at the neckline of his shirt to calm himself. Usually, he’d twist his hand into the pendant he wore around his throat, but that was stowed away in its jewellery box — and Robin had highly discouraged the bad habit because he was growing ghastly scars on his palm from repeatedly splitting the skin open on the white gold charm. 

He swallowed hard, and the lump in his throat remained. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tight in frustration. He tried to relax, loosening the tension in his shoulders and stiffness in his legs, but he locked up again almost immediately.

Like a corpse. 

He could hear tapping outside of his room again. Clicking of heels, footsteps trailing back and forth down the hall. There was no light bleeding beneath the door, but shadows passed beneath as if someone was standing outside. Waiting. 

Sunday turned over and faced the window. It’s open. He stiffened up even more and swallowed even harder. It shouldn’t be open. He found no courage to stand up and close it himself; the floor would be too cold. His feet are bare. The wind picked up hastily and the silk curtains drifted lazily like the breeze did not freeze him to his bones. 

At the same time, he felt hot in his skin. Burning like the sun, like hot wax and sweat glittering down his skin. Like rain and sand and molten metal mixed into his chest, ready to burst through the flesh and leave him without a heart. The pathetic muscle beat frantically despite having to convince himself there was nobody here. 

He knew there was nobody in the room with him. He knows this. There’s never anyone with him. 

And yet, he felt as if one thousand different eyes were peering down from the shadowed corners and staring and peeling back every layer of his skin and delving into his very being. And it hurt. Like lead weighed down his bones. Like he couldn’t move a single muscle in his body. 

So he laid there and hurt. 

He tried to breathe as the feeling entrenched through his veins and twisted against the walls of his organs until he was swallowed whole by whatever this was. Stabbing and burning and bruising blossomed in his legs. Breathe. Just breathe. 

He tried to think of birds. The old small doves outside of the window that used to visit him when he was very, very small. Small enough that he remembered being accompanied by his mother, and too little that Robin wasn’t even in the picture yet. He would lean over the windowsill and reach out a small hand to one of them. Usually, they’d run away, but he found if he remained still for long enough, they’d curiously come close and use his hand as a branch. 

That was years ago. 

He shook harder and pressed his lips together. He couldn’t tell if he could see something in the corner of the bedroom, but he couldn’t move his head to affirm it. He felt eyes. Eyes and mouths and hands and they reach lower and lower and beneath his clothes and he can’t breathe. 

He felt claws. 

The pointed ends of them sank deep into his stomach, the flesh denting and daring to tear beneath the tips. He swallowed hard, hard enough that the lump in his throat cut into his jugular. 

And that familiar sensation of heat began to return. Again. He finally found the strength to let a finger by his side twitch, and he realised then the hand delving towards his navel was his own. His nails tap at the skin again and again as if waiting, as if his hand had its own mind. He felt it did. 

He felt it was yours. 

He finally turned over to face away from the window and tucked his hands beneath the pillow underneath his head. The clock in his room ticked away. His heart beat in tune. 

Why does it hurt? 

Paranoia set its teeth into his neck, and he had the love bites to show for it. He remembered the feeling of sharp canines digging into his flesh and ruining his throat. And he remembered crying out, not from fear as he did now, but from the pain, the rushing of blood through his veins, and the hot press of skin against skin. And that feeling. 

Alive. 

That’s what it was. His blood boiled, and he was afraid, but he felt alive. Above this plain, and the next, and in your arms instead. 

The paranoia persisted. 

He finally sat up and stared at the back wall of his room. The walls were barren, stripped of character, and his room was something of the same. There isn’t much on display. That’s too much clutter. There’s a jewellery box for his earrings in front of the mirror he refuses to look into. He doesn’t own a lot of things — and what is there to own? Other than a few books he has at his disposal, they tell nothing of his character. 

If he had it his way, the bookshelf would be filled with romance novels. The terrible kind. The ones that were so over the top that he simply had to put them down and stare at nothing for five minutes before turning to the next page. 

And then he’d think of you. 

Idiot. 

He pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the bed, careful to readjust his shirt. A light sheen of sweat stuck to his skin like hot glue as he stood up. The floor was freezing, and he promptly made it over to shut his window and lock it tight. He did it quietly, tip-toeing across the floorboards with shaking fingers. 

He ignored the pain in his limbs, tugging on the window until he was sure the lock wouldn’t slip free. He did this hours ago before he tried to sleep. His mind was muddied. 

He closed the curtains swiftly before trudging towards the bathroom. He locked that door, too, and tried to cool his face with water. It seemed to work for only a second before the burning returned. That sweltering heat lingered again and again, and the bruise on his neck was only growing darker. 

The only thing on the bench is his toothbrush and a pair of scissors. There were bits of leftover blue feather tufts on the sharp ends. 

He doesn’t look at his reflection, afraid of the silhouette forming behind him. 

And then there was a creak from outside the door. 

He choked on his breath before he held it silently. The window. He recognised that sound; the dry hard rubbing of the sill against the joints. His teeth gritted hard, and he swore the shells cracked in his mouth. And that is pain. Pain and pain and pain and fear and it swallows him whole and he feels small still. Like he’s little. Like he’s that little boy who cried with a scraped knee for his mother. 

And that hurt. 

His heart ached and his stomach dropped. He held onto the bench, leaning his weight against it, afraid he’d double over and dry heave — when’s the last time he ate anything? 

Breathe. 

It’s nothing. This has happened before. Many times. 

He stood up straighter and pushed off of the bench. He ignored the pain shooting up his legs, and he grew lightheaded as he tried to move towards the door. The blood rushed to his head and his vision dimmed into nothing for a moment. 

His hand rested against the door handle, and his fingers wrapped tight around the cold steel. It bit at his fingers like ice and he fought the urge to retreat and stay locked inside of the bathroom. It was too cold here. He was already shaking just staying in here for three minutes. 

He swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing. 

And then, and only then, did Sunday swing open the door as quick as he could and shut it briskly behind him. He rested his back against the hardwood of the door and held his breath. Hold. Hold. Breathe. 

The window was open. 

He could’ve sworn he closed it. 

He could’ve sworn he–

He could still feel the cold wood of the sill on his fingers. He did. He can’t do this again because he knew he closed it and he remembered closing it and why is it so hard to breathe–

He barreled toward the window sill and shut it again. His stomach twisted and his lips parted to try and suck in more air. He only succeeded in accelerating his heartbeat. 

He stepped away. Closed. It’s closed. It’s closed it’s closed. He closed it. He knew it now. He breathed out again, this time slower, trying to calm himself down. The back of his heels hit the foot of his bed and he sat down on top of the blankets. It’s cold. 

It’s cold but the window was closed. He knew it. He knew it, he knew it. 

He heard a knock from the wardrobe. 

The inside. 

His breathing stuttered and stirred in his chest, and it felt like small animals crawling through his lungs and clogging his throat. Like rats. Creeping rodents clawing into the weak muscle tissue and tearing through his bronchi. Violating. 

It was dark. So dark he couldn’t see the figures in the corners of the bedroom. His feet were cold from the floorboards. The acid in his stomach churned and burned, and feared the worst. He scanned over the room once, twice, before he slowly took a step towards the wardrobe. 

It knocked again, and this time the door jolted on its hinges as if something were trying to break out. 

Another step. 

He hurt. 

Just go back to sleep. 

He opened the closet. 

Two shadowy figures, one hunching over the other, too close for comfort, and ants wedged themselves through every pore and blemish in his skin. It’s him, and you. You’re half undressed, and he looks worse for wear, covered in stains and spit and taking it all in stride. His clothes were a mess; pants ruffled and loose, his hair was wild from being tugged on, and despite your hands roaming dangerously low around his hips, his own hands drew around your face and pulled your lips onto his again and again. 

One blink, and he was there. In the church again, in the back in a storage cupboard, and he was startled. He’s dreaming. He had to be. His clothes were different; his usual attire, though he’s shedded his overcoat and you were busying yourself undoing the buttons of his shirt. 

“I told you not to come back,” he remembered whispering defeatedly. 

Your hands dipped lower down his navel. 

“Getting cold feet, priest?” 

And, yes. His feet were cold, because now the closet was empty, and he was standing in his bedroom again with his hand on the knob. The bruises on his neck ached with the memory. 

He shut the door. 

Then, he turned, almost like less of a person and more of a shell, and stumbled back to bed. The sheets were still warm from the imprint of him, and he held the blankets to his chest defensively as his eyes searched around the bedroom again. 

Nothing to see. All empty and dark and neat. 

His eyes flitted toward the window. 

It’s open again. 

His heart skipped a beat, but he made no move. The draft froze him stiff. He contemplated leaving and searching for Robin’s room; he was sure she’d understand — and she would. She’d make room on her bed instantly for him. 

But he’s not a child anymore. Humiliation stirred in his stomach like acid, and he swallowed the fear rising in his throat. It’s closed, he reminded himself. He has closed it. Twice now. It’s just all tricks of the light, or his own mind, or you. 

There was the familiar rhythmic tapping of heeled shoes from outside his door. They sounded louder than before, but he knew they weren’t really there. He had heard the same footsteps for weeks now, bordering close to months. He had purple rings beneath his eyes to show the constant dreams he’d been forced to endure. 

Ignore it. He laid down again, curling beneath the blankets. Pain withered and whittled his bones like frostbite, and the wind that blew through the gap in the window made him shiver. 

The blankets were still warm, at least. It must have been only just past midnight. He still had hours to hold onto and toss and turn. 

“What have you done?” he asked you one day, the only soul remaining on the podium in the church. “What did you do?” 

You stood quickly. “Nothing, sire,” you answered. “What are you talking about?” 

“You play dumb when the sun is out and crawl on your knees at night.” 

You stood, stiffening like a corpse. “What are you–” You cut yourself off, frantically searching around the room for some sort of answer to your question. 

He stepped forward, finding a somewhat semblance of strength to face you fully. He wanted to scream, or fight, or flee, or do something other than gape like a fish. 

Lying. Bearing false witness. It’s all the same cardinal treachery he knows too well. He saw it now on your face like you were carved permanently in the stone of the statue behind him on the podium. 

“It’s my job, sir,” you responded meekly. “I didn’t willingly–” 

“I don’t care whether this is a job. You don’t understand,” he snapped quickly. “I am not paying you to torment me.” 

“‘Paying me?’” you repeated. “Sire, you have not asked me for my service.” You took a step back, closer to the entrance of the church, but the aisle was long, and you had an even longer way to go until you reached the exit. “I only attend here because I am guilty of where my life has led me.” 

“I did not ask for your service, nor did I ask you to lead me down your path of destruction.” 

“We have not slept together, Reverend.” 

Sunday stirred again. The same thing. His pendant being discarded left him only to clutch the neckline of his shirt and breathe harder. He’d already torn his palm to shreds. The cut through the bandage around his hand still stung, but it was no longer bleeding. 

Maybe he is losing his mind. Maybe he’d be locked away again and forced into confinement until he was finally let out. Maybe he’d be brought to his death; he’d wake up standing on a chair with his hands tied and a rope around his neck. 

And you’d be the one standing by his side with your foot ready to nudge the chair out beneath his feet. 

He swallowed hard, and his hand moved to soothe the ache around his neck. Like rope burn. He’d already been shunned from church today for an inadequate morning service. One of the priests had commented on his behaviour. 

Sunday had thought nothing of it at first. He hadn’t been sleeping properly for weeks, and any sleep he did achieve was plagued with you, your scent, and your legs, and his fingers twisted into the soft and warm flesh of your breasts. And he’d woken up without failure after every single one with his hands clammy, sweat pouring down his neck, and a flaming ache between his legs. 

Liar. It’s just shame and guilt that wracked your rotten guts. He wanted to rip your organs from you and tie your neck with them. And the fear ate at him again, and again, and again until his bones were gnawed to their limits. 

“Y’know, Rev,” he started slowly. “You’ve been… distant.” 

Sunday’s eyes flitted away from you quietly chatting to another attendee on the pew. He said nothing but only gave the priest a strange look. 

“Are you feeling okay?” The priest placed a hand on his shoulder after a moment. “If you need to talk, or… confess…” 

“‘Confess,’” Sunday echoed quietly. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” His eyes searched for you again, and you were still attentively listening to the other person with your hands laced together in your lap. 

Beautiful. 

You glanced up and found his eyes as if you’d impeded through his head and gotten to his mind. 

He sneered. 

Your face twisted with confusion for a moment, maybe even guilt, before you offered a small nod of your head and an awkward smile before you turned back to continue your conversation. 

“I am only looking out for you.” The priest’s eyes followed Sunday’s gaze. He grimaced. “Perhaps you should go home and rest. You look tired.” 

Robin thought the same, that poor girl. She’d sit by him before service and try to coax him with some encouraging words, maybe even singing if he allowed it. She couldn’t get through. She couldn’t understand what was going on. She tried with all her might, and all the care in her small frail little heart to find the strength to make his beat again, but nothing would work. 

Because nothing was going on. 

It’s just him. 

There was another creak from the window. He stiffened up harder to the point where his limbs threatened to snap from their tendons. 

He doesn’t understand what it is. Attraction, fear, interest, connection, loneliness. If this is love, he doesn’t want it. It hurt, like a rope around his neck, like being pelted with stones until his skin and bone caved, like being tied and burned, like being nailed through the hands and feet and left for dead. 

Just him. Just him. 

“Are you lonely?” 

He lost his breath. 

There were arms wrapped around his middle from behind, and there was hot breath running down his neck. And it’s so familiar, and it’s so warm, and he startled a gasp from his throat. 

Sunday tried not to throw his head back as he’d done so many times before. Instead, his hands almost immediately found yours, as they had so many times before. 

His tongue failed him. 

There were lips on his neck. Gentle, warm, and so so familiar he grew breathless within an instant. The bed was soft, and he melted into the mattress, and the warmth. He swallowed hard, and he was so exhausted he must have been dreaming. He mumbled under his breath, and his hands instinctively moved to yours. 

They’re yours, right? 

“‘Lonely?’” he murmured. 

You hummed in acknowledgement. “You look lonely.” 

He’s just tired. 

His hands wrapped securely around yours, holding tight. Let this be okay. He dreamed it for so long. This is what he wants. He wants your warmth, and you, and your devotion. To use whatever faith he has in the church, in THEM, and everything you’ve ever worshipped, and spin all these twisted lies into him. Him and only him. 

Just love him. 

That’s all. 

He couldn’t admit it then. “Your concerns are appreciated,” he mumbled. “I’m just tired.” 

“I can help you sleep,” you promised. Your hands grazed over his hips. 

“I beg your pardon?” His teeth dug into his lips hard enough to draw blood. But he knew what you meant because it is what he meant. It’s just him. He refused to turn around and face you, and thus found content with the disillusion of your warmth draped over his back. It was comfortable, as two lovers should be, but it was all the more wicked when, through your body, he felt the breeze from the window. 

His breathing shook when your lips returned to his neck. 

Vile, this is. He had admitted it so many times before. All of this was vile and disgusting, and wretched and wrong. 

And he loved it. He loved the traitorous words that spilled from your lips, and the trembling of your fingers, unsure — just as his were — as they delved beneath his clothes as they had done so many times before. He remembered every other second he’d spent with you. 

Where he’d met you, where you’d returned again and again before you’d pulled open the confessional door and had taken him in the booth, and where you’d pried and delved deep into his head, up when you sat innocently during service and refused to look at him. 

Where you’d forced his head down between your legs and ordered his tongue, or he’d stood frozen stiff as your hands delved over his thighs, or when you’d touched him in all the places he never used to dare venture. 

Because it is real. 

He found himself unable to ask if it was, much too afraid of the answer. 

“Tire you out,” you explained softly. “Make you dizzy.” 

He already was. He was grateful he was already lying down, for he was sure he’d have fallen to the floor by now. 

He hummed lightly and your teeth set softly below his jaw. He hoped in some twisted part of him that you’d leave scars upon his flesh. 

Then, he mewled when your teeth grazed over the joint where his wing protruded below his ear. Sensitive things, the feathers. The bones were brittle too, and thin enough to snap with one wrong move. 

This wasn’t right. 

It wasn’t right to convince himself he’d be fine if you cracked every bone in his body and left if you’d touched him all over and kept him yours to do as you pleased, or if you did nothing but bite and tear into his skin until he was nothing but shredded flesh and bone. And still yours. That’s what mattered. 

He had been raised to climb above personal desires, much less his own carnal ones. This shouldn’t be what he wants — he should want nothing. It’s selfish of him to think of you like this, and to feel your hands on him every night, and to indulge in your touch. It was sin like hot wax dripping down his stomach, and it tasted like warm sugar. 

He hummed lightly, heart fluttering as you kissed another bruise onto his throat. His thighs ached to part and to grab your hand and move your fingers between his legs. He was already throbbing with need and it made his stomach churn. 

Your lips were warm, and they served well to block off the wind blowing in from the cracked window. 

Your lips grazed down over his shoulder before your hands slowly slid over his throat and reached from behind to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He let it happen. Because he wanted it to. Anxiety jittered in his limbs and his throat, but he helped you in undoing his buttons. He was much too afraid to shed the item off entirely, terrified of judgment and his willing vulnerability. 

Terrified of his own skin, he shut his eyes tight and turned his head to kiss you properly. 

His stomach exploded, he felt. Warm lips and an even hotter tongue that slid past his mouth. He wanted to choke and swallow your spit, and as disgusting as it felt to realise all of these thoughts, it only made him dizzier. 

And he fell in love. 

He felt warmth burst in his chest. His hands trembled before they wandered. They settled hesitantly on your hips, and he was pushed roughly onto his back. His chest pressed against yours, and he felt your heart race against his skin. The familiar pulse put his mind at ease and his head pounded with the scent of your flesh. 

He grew dizzier as the time passed. His lips refused to part from yours, spit stuck like glue. His face grew hot, and his cheeks flushed a gorgeous pink. Sweat pooled down his throat and his hands and he gripped harder at your hips and felt the world spin. Vertigo grabbed at the chains clasped around his wrists and ankles and pulled, and he spun around again and again with you until he pressed you into his mattress, and one of your knees lifted to rub between his legs. 

His breathing stuttered and he gasped out your name, as ridiculous as it was. 

This was pathetic. He knew it so. His stomach twisted with pleasure and panic and the dizziness surged so hard in his head he had to stop for a moment and bury his lips into your shoulder. 

Your hands were busy pushing past the waistband of his pants and venturing low between his legs. Your hands were hot, palms tracing the smooth skin of his hips before your thumbs brushed over the side of his cock. He shuddered, already hard and growing worse with every second. 

He moaned. Moaned. Him. The Head of the Oak Family. That simple touch made his knees buckle, and he almost toppled on top of you. 

Instead, you shoved him over, and you weighed him down onto the mattress. He let out a startled noise when your hand abandoned his cock. Instead, your nails trailed upwards. Up and up and up until your fingers grasped at his neckline and pulled him up from the bed. 

“You seek reverence,” he murmured against your lips. “At a time like this.” 

“Surely you can fight it this time?” you asked. 

He tried to kiss you again, but your grip held strong and your other hand twisted into his face, holding him still. 

He swallowed hard. Anxiety bubbled in his veins like boiling water. “This happens every night.” 

“And you’re still pining?” 

He’s sick. That’s what this is. Sick and in love. 

His father had told him that to love is to give in. Giving in was not a part of him; he wasn’t supposed to cut open his chest and offer you his beating heart on a silver platter. That was the consequence of obsession. 

“This is your fault,” he tried. 

“Is that what you tell yourself while you fuck your own hand every night?” 

The humiliation stirred deep within his chest. He hadn’t even realised his hand had snuck beneath his pants to tease the head of his cock, flushed a furious red and weeping. He wanted you to ruin him and scar him and make him yours and– 

“I’m in love,” he admitted to nobody. His words were muffled as you grabbed his face harder. He looked to the left. The window was closed. “And I’m a heretic.” 

His heart leapt through his throat. 

He understood it now. He knew then a nightingale was watching from the window. He knew it. This would taint him if whatever was left of his purity was not already stained the shade of your skin. 

His wings fluttered. Fear. It crawled back up his spine. 

He fought through your grip and kissed you again, this time with that newfound anger that had been boiling in his blood. His nerves and fury mixed to create some sort of poison that fueled him forward, grabbing your face and ignoring his twitching cock with a frustrated sound. He ended up sprawled on top of you, desperately trying to smother you with his lips, and pressing his hips to yours slowly. So slowly. 

His kisses were frantic, uncertain. He wasn’t sure where to touch, what to do, how to respond when you nipped at his lip or your tongue crawled to press against his teeth teasingly. He found you tasted of nothing, but that was to be expected. Because it’s not–

His hands found the buttons of your shirt. That same shirt you wore when he first laid his eyes on you. All buttons and silk, and that awful embroidered stocking pattern ran up your legs. 

Sunday slotted himself between your thighs, and his bedroom spun in a circle. The mattress dipped as he leaned against you, his hand sprawling across your chest to feel the rhythmic muscle beat frantically. He was sure he was in a worse condition; he felt as though the pathetic heart beneath his ribs would give out any second. 

His cock twitched in his pants. 

But he was a patient, patient man. He’d been drilled with this mindset, this front since he was little. So little he couldn’t think for himself. Now, he could, and he was distracted and losing sleep every night touching himself to the curve of your legs. Gopher Wood would be laughing in his grave, he’s sure. Laughing and jeering and shaming. 

“What do you want, Reverend?” 

He didn’t know. 

He couldn’t answer. 

Instead, he chose to kiss downwards from your throat, following the intricate lines of the bones and trying to remember what the scent of your skin was like. And it hurt to try because it was a reminder. 

He decided to ignore it. Ignore everything entirely and focus on you, and solely you, and nothing else. It helped, if only a little. 

Reverend Sunday worshipped like no other. It was instilled in him for so long that it was second nature, but never in his life had he been at the mercy of something much more important than a God. He’d never believed it to be true, but the way your breath hitched and you squirmed when his thumbs brushed over your nipples riled him further than he would have thought. He sighed, overwhelmed, and his teeth ran over the expanse of your breast, desperately coaxing that same noise from you again and again. 

His heart spiked once, twice, and when he was convinced the muscle was truly about to stop, his lips continued downwards, centring lower to your navel. You squirmed, but his heart fluttered at the feeling. 

“I want this to be–” He stopped himself, lips and nose squashed against the soft skin between your hips. “I’m–” 

His father would be laughing at him. 

Misery plagued his bones, and his halo flickered quickly the lower his lips dragged. Devotion. In and out. Pure, unbridled devotion. Taste and touch and blood and sweat. He breathed out finally, and his teeth came forth to pull at the waistband of your skirt. His canines caught on your stockings, and the fabric was dry on his tongue. He tugged downwards, snagging the wiring between his teeth. 

He wanted to tear through the rose pattern, but he decided otherwise. 

Instead, he pulled them down past your thighs, to your knees, and then your ankles, careful with the thin and delicate material. You kicked what remained off. 

He grinned, but it was shaky and uncertain. It was suddenly cold. Another draft he felt from the window. He couldn’t undo the button of your skirt with his mouth, so his trembling fingers pulled their weight and decided to just shuck it upwards to your hips. Your bones splayed so nicely all for him, and his mind ventured elsewhere for a moment. 

How many others have seen you like this? All pliant and pretty, covered in sweat and his spit and the marks from his teeth. His thumb pressed to the sensitive skin of your stomach.

Maybe it was twisted, the image of you both. A poor pining priest and the object of his desires. A scared little boy looming over the image of an Aeon. The scent of your skin and the touch of your hands. He pulled back for a moment, simply leaning over to admire you.

You reached up towards him and grabbed the bottom of his shirt. You tugged once, twice, before you said, “come, Reverend. Make this one real.” 

“You cannot tempt me like this,” he argued weakly. Still, his hands splayed over your thighs, soothing over them. He couldn’t bear to look down past your hips. 

“Scared?” you asked him. 

And he was. Very, very scared. 

When he glanced down at his hands, he noticed his fingers warped. 

He ignored it. 

He followed his hands then to your hips again, careful with his movements, slow and unsure. He moved between your thighs, watching closely for any twitches. His cock throbbed when he brushed his hips against the mattress. 

He wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t sure about anything, really. But your thighs parted wide to accommodate his shoulders, then his head and his heart almost burst when you swung a leg over his shoulder. It pinned him further into the mattress, and a soft pull at his left wing closer to your hips made his cock twitch. 

Devotion. 

His unsteady hands held on tight to your hips, and one of yours found solace in interlacing your fingers with his. 

Hesitantly, he brought himself forward to taste. 

The mind plays funny tricks on its victims. Sunday knows he’s no stranger to disillusions, illusions, and the like. To the decayed mind, all things seem real. His tongue tasted, his hands felt, and he heard your breathing and your quiet mewls, and yet his eyes couldn’t seem to stay open for more than seconds at a time. 

Funny. 

Sunday lost his breath at the noise you made. It was a stir in his stomach like fine wine, and your hips encouragingly ground back on his lips when he reeled back for a moment. His mind grew foggy, and his eyes fluttered shut again. 

Oh, is he a man in love. 

His tongue moved slowly over your cunt, languidly stroking up and down with wet passes to test the waters. The tip of the muscle inched upwards slightly, curling over the small bump of nerves. That managed a sharp inhale, to which he curiously tried again. Any noise that escaped your lips, he chased it, over and over again like an addict. 

The taste was, again, nothing. 

Because it’s–

He shut his eyes tight. 

Your hand found the back of his head, fingers curling in soft locks before you pulled him forward, closer, until his nose bumped against your clit and his lips were smushed against you. 

His wings fluttered again, and the feathers tickled your thighs. His hands wanted to wander and touch himself, and he could have sobbed out at the relief he sought when his hips ground up against the mattress, but he couldn’t. Selfishness wasn’t a part of him. It never truly had been. He’d have much rathered to feel your legs wind tight around his face before anything else. 

His tongue tried again, the flat of the muscle grazing along your clit until you twitched at the sensitivity and pulled his head back for a moment. 

Sunday’s hand splayed on your hip moved to your cunt, and his thumb pulled back the wet plush skin until your hole stretched wide. He swallowed and his lips pulled taut and he kissed at the entrance once, twice, until you were giggling like an idiot, and a newfound delirium grew haze in his brain. 

Your free hand pushed the hair from his face when he delved in again, tonguing at your clit before he decided to kiss there as well. Devotion. It is worship. It is the sight of you writhing—it’s everything. 

His mouth followed you as your hips twisted and squirmed, teeth lightly sinking in around your clit in warning. He was still in control, for the most part. Maybe not of himself, but for how he kept you on his bed. He sucked lightly, feeling you jolt and squirm, and a smile grew on his lips at the sight. 

He wanted to burn the imprint of his lips on your thighs, and he tried. He abandoned your cunt, now slick with his saliva, to try and mark your legs as his. He hummed to try and release the pressure of his nerves gathering inside of him, but it didn’t do much to help. Your thighs bruised easily. He could bite and tear if he wanted to. 

He pressed his lips to the new bruise before his nose pressed against your clit again and he mouthed at your entrance. He held you firmly, enough to scar with his nails, and tasted again and again and found nothing and everything in all of the wrong places. Perhaps he was too enamoured, for when you grew too sensitive and attempted to push him away, he held stronger and tilted his head to push harder with his tongue. 

Your clit swelled, and he felt it all the way. His hips stuttered against the mattress. His eyes remained screwed tight, even when your fingers petted his head gently. 

He was being good. He knew it, and his heart thrummed at the idea. That was his job, his entire life. To be good, and to understand, and to please. He fell in love with every mumble and moan that left your lips. Every babble of praise, or every time you pushed his hair behind his ears. His cock grew harder somehow, despite his resistance. 

His skin was growing cold again. 

You were growing wetter with every pass of his tongue, and every flit of his lashes against your thighs when he tilted his head downwards to taste. His longing had grown into overdrive. He never should have been tempted like this. He was beyond temptations and desires and wants. He did not want anything. He had no need for things and love and music and art. 

And yet, what’s it to a man of the church who falls in love with something as wretchedly beautiful as you? 

All ruined and sweaty and mangled and all his to enjoy. That’s what you were — all his. 

His mouth was slow, lips wrapping delicately around your clit to suck hard. It made you shiver without fail, and your hips bucked upwards at the feeling over and over again. The entire premise that it was him, and nobody else, that had you as you were now, almost made him cry out at that very moment. 

It hurt to breathe and think and feel, but his fingers pulled at your skin to ground himself and press his tongue into your entrance. You clenched instinctively around him, and he tried again and again, forcing his tongue as deep as it would go. Your legs squeezed around his head and the warmth of your pulse and your blood beneath your skin only aided further in making his head spin. 

He was sure his face was red to match. 

Your legs wrapped tighter around him, enough to keep him still and his tongue on you as he returned his attention to your clit. You mumbled a spiel of praise he barely picked up on, and it went straight to his cock. 

It would stay and remain devotion the more he ruined your cunt with his lips, but he couldn’t think straight. The world spun on its irregular axes, his hips winded quicker into the mattress, and your breathing was slowly growing into something heavier and harder. 

He couldn’t hear your thoughts — he needn’t try. He was sure he’d be able to see pink and white and stars and nothing but the vile image of his head between your legs and your slick coating his face. Some priest. Lowly and unserving. He did not deserve any praise, nor nothing he received. If anything, he was born to remain here, by your side, and grabbed at the throat and the hips until he could think of nothing but your hand twisting around his cock again and again. 

Complete pain and humiliation climbed up his spine when he pressed his cock hard into the mattress. It was instinctive at this point. His mind wasn’t working, and his hips moved of their own accord again and again until he came and still tortured himself with it. The fabric of his pants only made everything seem hotter and tighter, and as his hips twitched with every brush against the mattress, he moaned or whimpered, or made whatever other pathetic noise he didn’t realise he could. 

You said nothing comprehensible, murmuring whispers of pleasure that only served to make him hard again. And so quickly, too, that he throbbed and outwardly cried out at the feeling, though it was muffled.

Curse his stupid tongue that was so smart and silver for tiring when he needed it working more than ever. Never could he exhaust himself of words, but he pushed and pushed now with whatever fleeting strength he had, and the blood rushed to his face when you stirred and pulled on his hair to lessen the distance. Grateful for some sort of grounding, Sunday nosed at your clit while his lips kept busy teasing more slick from your hole. 

In love. 

Funny how it works. It torments and shames and lusts and ruins. 

He lost his mind. 

The want to taste your cum grew stronger, as did the press of his tongue against your clit until you were mewling and squirming at the pressure. A finger brushed up against your thigh before it sank deep into your cunt. You clenched instinctively, and he rubbed at that sweet little spot that made you writhe around him. 

He ached and ached and felt you twitch and tremble and he could have cum again if he wasn’t so distracted by the feeling of your legs squeezing around his head. 

This isn’t how this was supposed to happen. He should be resting and trying to get better. He’s sick. He hasn’t taken his medication in so long. He shouldn’t be trapped in a confessional booth with a whore, or locked away in the wine cellar and brought to his knees, or– 

You came, then, and his heart fluttered and stammered and stopped and started anew. You coated his tongue with slick, and his heart raced so quickly he was worried it would burst from his chest and run. 

He was so enamoured and frazzled with how his mind could do this to him. How he’d been trapped in his own head for so long and curled in his blankets with all the doors in his room shut and the window closed and blinds pulled over. 

A terrible blush painted his face when you weakly reached down to pet his hair again. His halo shimmered. He’s so well behaved. So, so good to you, and good for you, and he can be your everything if you’d let him. 

Your thigh rubbed against his cheek, warm and trembling. 

He reeled back after overstaying, and your clit throbbed when his lips kissed the poor bud one last time. Your hole clenched desperately for more of him, and his heart jolted. 

His hands remained between your legs as you found the strength to grab his shirt and pull him upwards and over you. His heart pressed to yours and he kissed you again, this time intent on making his lips bruise. Eyes wound shut, he ground his hips up against yours. 

You kissed at his jaw. 

“Wretch,” he mumbled. His halo flickered again. His blood burned beneath his skin. He hummed, pleased at the warmth of your flesh. His hands wandered to yours and gripped your fingers tight. Another shove and his legs were entangled with yours in his side. 

“You’re in love,” you whispered. 

And he kissed you, again and again and again until he was breathless. Until his heart warmed and burst, until he was sure he could taste and smell nothing but you, and feel only you. 

His lips were still unsure. His teeth clicked against yours, and perhaps his heart was thrumming so loudly in his chest it deafened him, but he pulled you harder against him. His hips were rough against yours, dragging his cock through his pants against your cunt in languid strokes. It hurt. The friction was too much for him, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. 

And he was moaning and moaning and it was disgusting what terrible sounds ripped from his throat. He mewled and flustered and breathed so heavily that his lungs were about to combust. 

That feeling was slowly returning. That guilt and fury and humiliation burned horribly in his stomach. You did this. All of you. He was not at fault for this. For the way you sat pretty in the church and kept your gaze locked onto the floor. How your hands would hesitantly touch the donation baskets as if you were unsure if it was worth the precious pennies you had left. 

And he would watch silently. As he always did. 

He’d watch silently, and then he’d go home that night and cum on his own hands with his eyes shut tight, trying to imagine they’re your fingers instead. 

His hand rested in its rightful place between your legs, and his fingers returned wet. Soaked, even. And he realised then he’s brought upon much more than a twisted version of romance; this is desolate, and this is Hell. He is home in all of the Nine Circles, blown about in an endless storm with no hope of rest, a heretic victim to the clutches of flames, and he burns and burns and burns and burns but the pain never dulls, nor ends. 

His pants were ruined with his cum and your own, and as vile as it was, he desperately clawed until he found leverage to finally be selfish and free the stupid awful thing and grind his cock up against you. The skin was already wet, and yet grew wetter and warmer with the friction. Slippery and grotesque, and yet he felt you clench every time the tip slipped around your hole, enticing him. 

A fog grew heavy in his mind, and he went blind for a moment. He witnessed pure white and burning. And it was Hell. 

Despite the incessant grinding, his fingers slid and slipped over your clit, desperate to hear your voice again. His free hand searched for the pendant that was usually strung around his neck. He found nothing. 

Still, his eyes were shut. 

He felt as though he was somewhere else. In the church again, where you’d ridiculed him as if this was his fault, and then you’d fucked him over the altar. Or maybe back in the confessional booth where you both had barely fit inside, and you bounced on his lap until he grew dizzy. Or maybe when you’d mouthed at his cock in the bathroom at a dinner to celebrate his sister’s success. Or maybe when you’d thrown him in the backseat of his own car and made him see stars. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

But this was different. This was his bed, his four walls, his private quarters, his everything, and you were his, and this was the intimacy he’d been craving since he was a child. He’d been denied the closeness of another person, anyone, for so long he had forgotten the feeling of skin. Even his own skin, which he’d hidden away each day beneath layers of clothing. 

Because he wasn’t a person, really. He did not think his own thoughts. He did not have the passion and desires others had; he had no interest in the mundane—not anymore, at least—like art and music and literature. He had no end goal that was his and his alone. The money he used to purchase things was not his. Nothing he had in his bedroom was really his. 

But you. 

He held tight onto your thighs and stopped.

His heart melted into mush when he realised you were still lazily grinding upon his cock, and the veins throbbed desperately. 

You. Imperfect and terrible and everything he shouldn’t have loved in another person. And so disastrously awful for him, and all of the subtle changes of this face, and your real one. He can’t truly remember everything—there’s a small glint in your eyes when you’re perplexed, and there are few patches of colour across your features, and perhaps your eyes are a tad too light, but this is what he remembered. 

And as imperfect as it was, and as unsatisfying as it was, and ignoring the fact that it gnawed at his insides, he was okay with this. He was okay, somewhat, with what he felt. 

His palms were embarrassingly wet when he held you open, and guided the tip of his cock towards your hole. He swallowed hard before he softly canted his hips forward and drowned. He held tight, anxiety shooting up his veins and bursting at the seams. 

He felt you tighten instinctively, trying to swallow him whole while he panted like a hellhound and pushed his hips deeper until the bones were pressed to yours. He stuttered, heat encircling his cock like a vice, and then swallowed as hard as he could to mask his voice. 

He should be used to this feeling now. He’s done this before — has he really? Everything felt so familiar, yet so so strange, and so so foreign he held his breath and wished it all to be real. He held on so tightly he grew breathless. 

His forehead pressed to yours.

You hummed. 

He felt his lips twitch. “This is wrong.” 

“But you keep doing it.” 

He had no excuse then, and he still had no excuse now. 

He’s just like his father. 

He gritted his teeth. “I’m in love.” 

You laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “There it is.” His hips twitched forward and he buried himself deep inside of you. “You’re doing so well.” 

Oh. The wings below his ears fluttered. His face burned hot like the sun, and a hand dropped low to grasp yours tight. You squeezed his fingers in affirmation, maybe even encouragement to move. He was stuck, frozen, twitching, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. 

He simply nodded along like an idiot.  

Warm. So disgusting and warm and his breath grew staggered and uneven with every twitch of his hips. His stomach felt odd, but maybe that was the sickness that warped in his guts. Something so extremely nauseating that he felt alive. He swallowed hard and his fingers moved to your arms to steady himself. He buried his face in your neck. Pear and jasmine and vanilla. He recognised that scent every time he was given that sacramental wine. It was almost the same, yet so so different. 

He laughed, then, right into your shoulder. It was much more of a huff of hot air against your skin. Because this was insanity. His knees sank further into the mattress, and his pillows were tossed askew. Hurt and pain and heat. It was all the same, for he knew no better. 

It was so good. Cardinal sin and blood and skin. Good. Great, even. Greater than anything he'd ever tried before. You tasted amazing, better than the flesh of an Aeon. So soft and warm and all his. 

Something to call his. 

His stomach turned. 

He couldn’t get enough. His hips bucked slow, so excruciatingly slow, as if to savour. He wasn’t sure when he’d ever feel like this again, if he ever would. If his body would ever want him to do this again. 

His arms shook with his own weight, and he tried not to double over. Good. So, so good. His hips twitched impossibly closer to you and he breathed upon your lips. He melted when you kissed him, as chaste as it was. He hadn’t felt this way ever in his measly, putrid existence. 

All for you. 

He pulled away slowly, attempting to forget the feeling of you, only to stuff himself back inside, rocking his hips hard until his own met your bone. 

His heart warmed. How twisted. Your tongue prodded out to poke at the corner of his lip and he buried his nose into your shoulder afterwards, trying to muffle the disgusting noises that snuck from his mouth. He wanted to cry; that familiar prickling behind his eyes teased him. 

His stomach jolted when he rocked his hips softly. He was sure a tear slipped down his cheek, and it dropped silently on the marred sheets of his bed. He’d have to clean it later. 

Slowly taking what he needed. He continued, slowly, slowly, slowly, because he was a thief,

and he did not deserve to force his pleasure upon you. Not like this. Not with you pressed down onto his bed and waiting. 

He understood the addiction of scent, and blood, and skin, and why he would hear the same telltale stories through the mesh of the confessional booth. He used to scrunch his nose up at the topic—how could someone be so insistent that carnal cravings were a cure to anger, and hate, and treachery, and violence, and everything? 

Your lip pressed to his ear gently. 

It can’t be a cure. It’s not. He certainly didn’t feel fixed, or any better. For the moment, maybe, he felt as though he was in Heaven, but it was much more warped than that. Heaven was not a feeling; Heaven is not a place, or a person, or cardinal sin. 

Truly, he’s not sure what it is. It can’t be you. You’re different, maybe even the opposite. You didn’t make him feel beyond the clouds. You made him feel… terrible. 

Infatuated, but terrible. 

You were whispering something in his ear, and he laughed softly, but he wasn’t quite sure what he heard. If anything, he’s relieved for the attention. You could have blatantly insulted him, and his skin would’ve melted like hot wax. 

“You’re overthinking again,” you reminded him. Your voice was strangely steady. 

His hand tightened around his sleeves. “You come for…” 

“Salvation, I suppose.” That was you. You came here. To see him. Or hear him. And seek his guidance and better judgement. He wasn’t sure if he could offer you much of himself, seeing that his brain had short circuited the moment he’d heard your voice through the booth. 

He had imagined this all before. If anything, he remained silent to see if he could listen to anything vulgar. 

Seconds passed and Sunday swallowed hard. 

“Reverend?” 

“Of course,” he forced out. You’re not going to do anything—it’s all in his head. You’re not going to plead for him to open the booth and let you have his way with him. You don’t even know him, and he doesn’t even know you. 

It’s all in his head. 

“Just try to enjoy it,” you told him. 

His hips thrusted harder and he could hear the awful noises that escaped from your throat, and he wanted to tear the vocal cords free so you would never sing again, and also kiss you until you were breathless and bruised. Just try to enjoy it. Just stay in your head. It’s better that way. 

He could feel himself snapping at the seams. 

You were probably in your own home, wherever you lived, sleeping soundly. Maybe you were doing the same as him, or maybe you were fucking another man and enjoying him rather than—

He had a headache. A blazing pounding behind his eyes. 

Yet, he persisted. He held you tight against his chest, hoisting you upwards from his bed so your heart could press against his. He fell in love with how he felt around you, even if it made him ill and horrible. Even if it disfigured his mind; even if you killed him. 

He kissed you again, this time harder. He tried to ground himself firmer to remain on this terrible planet with you, but his mind continued to wander. Overworking, overthinking. 

Sunday couldn’t find himself to care about it anymore. He strangely welcomed the feeling of you attempting to suck on his tongue. He held onto your throat now, only gently, and his finger pressed to your jaw to keep you still. 

He panted once, twice, and then his breath hitched when he managed to move into you with an increased pace. He tried to keep his rocking even, but he was quickly losing his strength again. 

How vile. One of your legs was slotted nicely around his own, calf rubbing against his hip as he slammed his own against you. Hard enough to burn and bleed, and his cock twitched and twitched and twitched and twitched. 

“What…” He leaned against the side of the booth. “What troubles you?” 

He heard you laugh, though it wasn’t at all mirthful. Still, it may have been the most beautiful sound he’d ever been blessed to hear. “Everything.” You paused to take a breath. “My job… my life… my everything.” 

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. He knew exactly how you felt. 

“I don’t think I was made to live in a world like this.” 

You’re the same. Maybe that’s why he had developed this estranged one-sided affection; this sickening obsession that’s torn through every working cell in his brain. That’s left him a horrible, shaken mess of a person. 

The sounds are abhorrent. The way you wriggled in his grasp to force him deeper inside of you, and the sighs and whispers that left your lips are somehow worse. 

Sunday lost his strength in one of his wrists, and he almost toppled over you. That only stirred him harder, and his hips winded and jolted when you squeezed tight around him. He could certainly get used to this. One day. With you. 

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked. 

He was enjoying you, but he refused to voice it. He understood. He understood the need to escape, to run to somebody else’s bedroom, to fix everything this way. 

He kissed you impossibly harder, his lips purpling at the pressure, and that mere feeling brought him so close to the edge he stammered on his own breath. His thrusts grew sloppier by the second, and he cared less about how you felt, and more of that edge he was chasing and trying to grab by the reins. 

So good. He could feel his cock bubbling at the tip, squishing up against your walls and the skin stretched and ached and warmth burst through his stomach. He wanted to fill you up again, and eventually, one day. He’d imagined this so many times before; the way you’d sound, or beg, or do whatever you really did. Whatever you did, he’d embrace it, and he’d thank you for a thousand years. 

He’d cum again and again and he’d let you use him as your own personal toy to play with if it satisfied you. Even if you tossed him aside when you grew bored—he was used to that. 

He’d feel this terrible feeling forever if you would just love him. 

He hoped. 

His stomach burned, and his cock was throbbing. 

His bones grew tired, but he persisted, in and out and in and out until nothing left his lips but babbles of worship as he swung his arms around your neck and traced his lips along your ear. You’re so good to him. So good. 

You would sit there all pliant and pretty and he’d take and take and take until the only thing left of you was the part that only cared for him, and nothing else. And then you’d watch as he was dragged down below the ground, while you would rise above the clouds. Because that’s what he deserved, and you and him did not share the same fate. 

The clutches of a Sinner’s hands rest on his face, and they’re yours, just for a moment. 

His hips stuttered. 

“C’mon,” you whispered. His nose was cold against yours. 

“I–” 

“–Close?” you finished. 

He frantically nodded his head like an idiot. 

His lips twitched in some sort of pathetic smile. 

You reciprocated. “I know.” 

He couldn’t handle the teasing. If anything, it only made the headache worse. He wanted to cum. That was the only thing that mattered at this point. He wanted to ruin you, as you did to him. 

He couldn’t afford to choke in the air as his cock twitched. He was right there, and his hip bones were aching as they smacked against your skin. 

“I’ll be all yours, Priest,” you told him. “One day.” 

Sunday’s eyes shot open in horror as he came, and he clutched desperately onto some semblance of skin—whatever his brain could attempt to conjure in a last-ditch effort to make this nightmare real. 

His hand was twisted tight around his cock, covered in spit and sweat and his own filth, and he wretched the treacherous limb away as if it had developed a mind of his own.

He was trembling, layered in cold sweat as he shivered, his stomach convulsing as his cock slid against the mattress, an angry red flush enveloping the tip. 

He couldn’t develop a coherent thought, nor movement, for when he felt around blindly for you, you were nowhere, and he was alive and awake again. 

He choked on his own saliva as he tried to sit up. His pillows were soaked with drool, and his clothes were askew. He rested his back against his head and tried to breathe. 

He glanced at the window. Closed. 

Because he had closed it. He’d locked the bedroom door, too, and the bathroom. How would he have forgotten? That had been his routine for almost sixteen years. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Not ever. If anything, he’d have grown well aware of the old habit being missed that he’d scratch at his skin until he’d forced himself to get up and fix the window. 

He heaved at what he had done. 

He swallowed hard as if there were rocks stuck in his throat. His lungs refused to take in air. He kicked off the tangled blankets and they fell in a pathetic heap onto the floor. Dizziness surged in his mind, and the back of his eyes pounded and pounded the longer he sat there staring blankly at the wall.

His heart swelled horribly. 

Oh. 

His eyes slowly dragged over to the bedroom door.

Closed. No light bleeding beneath the door. No footsteps in the hall. Not Robin’s, certainly not yours. He faintly heard the echo of your heels, but that was drowned out by the aching in his head. 

“Your services…” the priest started quietly. The booth creaked. “What do they entail?” 

You didn’t answer for the moment. Perhaps you were nervous, or apprehensive, or a strange string of both. Maybe, even, your hands were busying themselves around the waistband of your pants, slowly unbuckling the belt and then–

“Men, sire,” you responded quickly, honestly. You tapped the mesh wiring of the confessional window in a strange rhythm. “I’ve never been proud. It’s dirty work.” 

Sunday blinked awake. His hands were pulled tight at his sleeves. 

“But you don’t have a choice?” 

You made a noise. “Did you have a choice to be in the position you are now?” 

“My position is very different from yours,” Sunday reminded lightly. 

“Is it? We both serve to please the worst of people.” 

And, in some sort of twisted way, you were right. 

Just as if he was made to please you. That is his sole purpose; to be yours. It is why he felt this way. It’s why he was put in this terrible position; to meet you, and be yours, and nobody else’s, and escape off this treacherous planet and kiss you until he couldn’t bear to breathe the air that wasn’t yours. 

That’s love, right? 

Devotion. 

He found it in himself to peel away from his bed and trudge to the bathroom. 

He couldn’t bear to see his reflection.

He was afraid he’d see you standing behind him. 

*ೃ༄

The next evening was like every other. He leaned against the confessional booth, eyelids slowly drooping shut as he listened and listened until his feathers shrivelled and his ears picked up on nothing but static. 

Please the public. 

He nodded along mindlessly to whoever was speaking to him through the wiring. He was grateful the booth was dark, and cold, for he was forming a sweat. His mind was running in circles, and though he responded to the lone soul through the window, he felt as though what he said was automated, and not at all a production from his heart. 

That being said, he was thanked anyway, and they left.

That must have been the final one, for when he called for the next churchgoer, he was met with silence. There were no hushed shuffles of feet against the floor, nor the rustle of clothing, or breathing. 

Nothing. 

Alone again. 

Sunday unlocked the door to the booth and stepped out, grateful he could stretch his limbs properly. He’d been cramped inside for what felt like days, but was only a few hours. Still, he felt his bones pop and crack as he exited. 

He took the keys from his pocket and locked the small door. 

Another day. 

He could endure. It was what he was made for. He knew no better. 

To breathe and feel for others. 

That was all.

Now what? 

Now, he’d go home. He’d go home, do the same mundane routine in order as he had always done for every day of his life—get changed, maybe have dinner, fill out forms until he was almost asleep at his desk, and then he’d try and sleep. And the same as always, he’d toss and turn and whine that it was too hot and then it was too cold, and all the while you’d mouth at his neck and strip him of his clothes. 

He inwardly shuddered at the thought. 

He grew sick with worry as he stared helplessly at the confessional. 

“Room for one more?” 

His heart leapt out of his throat, and he froze. His fingers tightened around the window of the booth and the material of his gloves stretched and squeaked. 

He swallowed, unable to turn around. He pulled out the keys again. “Of course.” His hands were shaking. 

He heard you let out a troubled hum. “You don’t have to–” 

Sunday stopped you short, perhaps too quickly. “Nonsense. This is my job.” 

“–We can talk face to face,” you finished. “If… if that’s easier.” 

Right. He certainly could. It wasn’t so much easier for him, but if it pleased you. If that’s what you wanted. 

Truly, you didn’t care too much about his final decision. But he was pretty in the face, and it was nice to speak to him properly for a change. 

Sunday stepped away from the booth finally and turned to look at you. 

He lost his breath almost instantly. 

You grinned. “Hi.” 

His lips managed to twitch into a smile. “Hi.” 

Your feet shuffled against the tiled floor. He recognised the sound of your heels clicking quietly. The same noise he heard in his hallway, and he still heard it every night. 

He held the keys tight in his clenched fist. The jagged ends punctured a hole through the palm of his glove. The scar that remained from his incessant habit would be opened soon. 

Your eyes were slightly lighter than he’d imagined, and you wore your clothes neater, and you didn’t run your tongue rampant with terrible sullied words. That wasn’t you. That was his idea of you. 

And now, reality sets itself upon him, and he still cannot grasp what is untrue. 

“You haven’t visited the confessional in a while,” he started softly. 

You shook your head. “No.” You glanced back towards the door, perhaps wondering whether it was locked, or maybe even contemplating running for it. “But I do sometimes attend service.” 

He knows this because he’s searched and waited for you every morning. 

Sunday was simply staring at you. “And what has prompted your change of heart?” 

A laugh bubbled from your throat, and the sun bled through the stained-glass windows of the church, and flashes of green and yellow and pink and blue dotted along your face. 

“You do generous and kind work, Reverend,” you whispered to him. “I hope it makes you happy.” 

The offer of praise made him sit up slightly in the seat in the booth. Nothing made him quite as happy as your voice, and he’d hear you sing again and again until he grew deaf. Even then, he was sure he could remember the way your lips formed every syllable that spilled from your throat. 

If anything, he remembered your sound, because your words were what mattered.  

If anything, he hopes he can make you happy. 

“I fell in love with a man.” 

And he’d never let go of that hope for as long as he lived. 

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

imagining ghoul just being completely dazzled by vaultie reader….their beauty, their clean teeth and nails, their skin…the softest, smoothest skin he’s seen in hundreds of years. he could hardly remember how it looked til now.

he’d watch over you while you slept by the fire he made with such fascination, studying your features like this when he knew you wouldn’t be able to raise an eyebrow at him and he could allow himself to be relaxed and let down his tough guy wall (after all, you only just met a few days before).

and when you roll up the pants of your suit one day in the heat and expose your legs…he sees they’re perfectly waxed (who knew they had that in the vaults?) and it takes everything he has not to just reach out and touch them.

Smooth Skin

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Female Vault Dweller

Word Count: 3,109

Warnings: smut (18+), sexual tension, masturbation (male), mild somnophilia, very mild angst.

Summary: Cooper's new companion is beyond distracting.

Notes: Another excellent submission! I have had VERY similar thoughts about how people in the vaults would still adhere to so many old grooming practices that had long disappeared from most of the Wasteland. It would be such a weird thing for non-vault dwellers to see, and not being able to maintain them would be quite the shock for vault dwellers.

Also, this poor old man wouldn't consciously recognize the feeling of "arousal inspired by a specific person" if you beat him over the head with it. It's been about 200 years since he felt it.

Cooper was beginning to wonder if he'd been screwed.

Holding the deeply familiar vial up to the light once more, he gave the liquid contents a shake, examining the consistency, the color, the weight. For the half dozenth time that hour, he lifted it to the open cavity in his face where his nose once sat, inhaling deeply, testing for any unfamiliar odors, ultimately finding none. Lifting the solution to his lips, he tasted it, once, twice, rolling it around in his mouth with deep suspicion.

Everything seemed to be normal about the latest bunch of vials he'd acquired, at least on the surface. However, he was beginning to worry that he'd been given some sort of dud batch, and now he was starting to dissolve into some sort of ferality.

But this didn't feel like the dozens of other times he'd cut it close over the years, when his chest constricted, fighting for every breath as his mind began to cloud with aggressive thoughts, making him feel ready to lash out at anything that moved. No, he could breathe just fine, and he didn't necessarily feel aggressive, but he did feel oddly tense and ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. It didn't seem like anything had changed about his treatment.

Then again, something else had changed pretty drastically over the last few days.

Standing in the baking sun, he waited impatiently for the little vault-dweller he'd inexplicably managed to become attached to to finish her business, infinitely more fidgety than usual. He scanned the horizon with uncharacteristically anxious eyes, his boot tapping in the dirt.

"C'mon, Vaultie! Move your ass!" he called, harsher than he intended, but when the girl came scurrying up out of the ditch, he offered no apology, simply jerking his head in the direction they'd already been headed down the road, waiting for her to get a step or two ahead of him so he could follow, watching her closely.

Very closely.

The old cowboy prided himself on his ability to analyze people, to figure things out about them long before they were disclosed. It had proved an immensely useful skill over and over again. This girl, however, confused him. The pristine cheeriness of her was unsettling, making her stand out clear as day against the dingy, angry, consuming Wasteland.

He didn't trust it, frankly. It had been a long time since he'd met anyone who was genuinely selfless and kind simply because they felt it the right thing to do. She was definitely hiding something, concealing her true nature, but at least she was good at it. Besides, he'd be lying to himself if he said part of the reason he allowed her to tag along with him wasn't that he didn't want to walk past her pretty little corpse on the side of the road in a few days...as if there would be a corpse leftover. At least, a recognizable one.

Ahead of him, the girl caught her boot on a crack in the ancient asphalt, sending her stumbling; his quick reflexes kicked in almost instantly, and he yanked her back by her suit sleeve, sighing when she cast a sheepishly apologetic glance his way. He rolled his eyes and gave her a small push to keep it moving, watching as her hair swished back and forth with her movements.

How many decades had it been since he'd seen a woman with long hair? Maybe it had even been a century, or more. Most women in the Wasteland kept their hair cropped fairly short; easier to care for, less for someone to grab onto if you were attacked. Shampoo was still fairly easy to acquire, but only because most people didn't have consistent access to enough clean water to bathe with. Hair could also be sold in some cases, and many people found themselves desperate enough to do something like that in this world, unfortunate as it was.

But this girl, her dark curls hung down to her waist, flowing down her back and shoulders elegantly, or laid along her spine in a neat braid when she got especially red and sweaty. It was so shiny; he wanted to run his fingers through it for some reason, so badly that when she'd bumped into him their first day of travel, her view obscured by the dark curtain, he didn't even think to scold her, too busy willing himself to not thread his fingers into the soft strands. When he was close enough, he noticed that it smelled like wildflowers.

He'd met her just outside Filly. Where she was headed, a few settlements northwest to find an aunt or a sister or a grandmother or something, wasn't the most perilous route she'd shown him on her Pip Boy (in a very surreal conversation where she'd treated him like he was any other man), but she was already showing that she wasn't truly equipped to make it there intact. Hell, she had flagged him down for directions, in a move that had made him genuinely wonder if he hadn't done too much Jet that morning. That little maneuver wouldn't get her killed with him (at least, on the right day) but it would quickly get her robbed or worse with many others.

His first instinct had been to leave her to her fate, but he found that he just couldn't leave her there on the side of the road, that blinding white smile, those big, round eyes, her basically pristine vault suit making her stand out like a sore thumb. Begrudgingly, he had agreed to let her walk with him to where she was going.

She tired rather quickly compared to him, his condition making thermoregulation much less of a concern. His soft new companion, however, was unaccustomed to the sun, to the heat, and was often too exhausted to continue in any real capacity by the time the sun set. The nights got cold, colder than it seemed she'd anticipated, and she chattered her way through that whole first evening; each subsequent night, he'd built a small fire to keep her warm through the coldest part. It annoyed him immensely, having to expose them in the dark like that, but, oddly, he found that he equally disliked watching her shiver on the ground.

"Do you think we could stop for a while?" she asked suddenly, stopping in her tracks to turn to him and nearly slamming into his chest in the process. His hand braced on her shoulder, slightly shoving her aside so they didn't collide; the hand that touched her tingled when he pulled it away, and he cast a quick glance at his palm.

"You're really pushin' it today, kid. You know that?" he growled, his tone dripping with unconcealed irritation. They could easily get at least a few more hours of walking in before the sun went down, and once she stopped walking for the day, it was hard to get her going again.

The way her eyes widened at him before dropping to the ground actually made him feel guilty, flooring him just a little. He held his face in its usual neutral mask.

"I'm sorry." she murmured, chastened. "I'm just not used to walking so long in the heat."

Immediately, he rolled his eyes, though whether he was rolling them at her or at himself, he genuinely didn't know. Casting his eyes further down the road, then around where they'd stopped, they fell onto a clutch of old, dead trees and rocks, a small amount of shade gathering there. It was well concealed enough, he supposed.

"Fine. We can stop over there. But we're gonna get a few more miles in today, at least, so don't get comfy."

Flashing him those perfect teeth again, she quickly made her way off the road and threw herself down at the base of the largest tree, hiding from the sun as best as she could. He took the opportunity to dig some food out of his bag, have another smoke or two, and reflect on his choices, his back to her by and large as he watched the road.

"I didn't know the sun was so bright." she huffed after while, her tone almost petulant. "Or so hot."

He turned back to her, a slick reply about her general naivete locked and loaded, but he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of her sat there on the ground, tugging off her boots and socks. Folding each sock into a neat little ball, she tucked them into their corresponding mate and sat them aside, stretching her legs out in front of her. Quiet, he watched her roll up each pant leg to her knee, as high as the cut of the material would allow, reclining back in the small patch of shade she'd found.

Those toned, smooth calves that peeked out at him were the most intriguing thing he'd seen in a minute, his eyes practically glued to the exposed skin. There was a softness to her that he thought didn't exist anymore; in her supple body, the way she actually held a little extra fat from years of being fed and safe in a vault, the soft, clear expanse of her skin, her clean, manicured fingernails. Oddly enough, he found himself deeply wanting to reach out and wrap one of his hands around her ankle, the other running up the taut muscle of her leg. He shoved the feeling down and turned back to the road, fidgeting.

A while later, the sun was dipping behind the horizon, but still frying everything it touched when she finally spoke again.

"Do you wanna get going soon?" she called, tone much more relaxed than before.

He turned to look at her again, having avoided doing so for over an hour, her sleeves rucked up to her elbows as well, and shook his head.

"Nah. Might as well just bed down here and get some sleep. Good a place as any, I guess. I wanna cover some real ground tomorrow." he replied, keeping his tone noncommittal. "Get your rest, princess. If you can't keep up tomorrow, I'm leaving your ass behind."

She shot him a look, somewhere between evaluating whether or not he was serious and rolling her eyes at his continued unpleasantness, but she didn't respond outside of a simple nod, sinking back down onto the ground and closing her eyes. Once the sun went down fully, he went around gathering up dried sticks and brush to build a small fire, setting up near where she was obviously quickly falling asleep, curled up on her side and using her backpack as a pillow.

Cooper kept watch for a few hours as it quickly darkened, the girl falling soundly asleep as he sat polishing his guns. Eventually, he grew bored of weapon maintenance, and his eyes were drawn to the vault dweller lying a few feet to his side.

He leaned closer, allowing himself to inspect her face closer than he'd had a chance to thus far. Walking behind her all day allowed him plenty of time to study her silhouette, her gait, the dancing length of her hair. But her face was always hidden, and when she turned to face him, he felt unable to look her in the eye for too long without that itch creeping into his brain, sending him searching through his pockets for his inhaler.

Now that he could take a long, uninterrupted look at her without worrying about being caught, it finally dawned on him, though, not immediately:

Fuck, she was beautiful.

And she was, and would have been if he'd met her in another life, too, each feature of her more appealing than the next. That long hair had been braided back away from her face, the length of it coiled like a snake along her back as she snored ever-so-lightly, her head sitting crookedly against her backpack. Before he could even think about it, his hand had already been tugged loose of his glove and reached out to softly pet at it, the strands silken under his bare fingers.

When did he get so close to her?

He thought back to her exposed legs, now hidden back away beneath her pant legs, kicked most of the way back down to assist in keeping her warm, and thought about how there had been no hair there. Many aspects of grooming that had once been normal were long lost to him, but that was certainly one of the biggest ones. He had completely forgotten that women once generally shaved the hair from their legs, and how big a deal it was considered when they didn't. He'd thought it was a silly thing to expect then; now, it just seemed like a sad thing to fixate on, with all that had been going on at the time.

However, that didn't stop him from imagining how smooth, how silky her legs would feel if he ran his hands along them, how high the smoothness would go until he would be able to feel the presence of downy little body hairs, the likes of which he hadn't had himself in centuries. Would they start at her knees? Or would he have to feel all the way up to the tops of her pillowy thighs to feel them? He remembered, vaguely, that some women would shave between their legs, too, and wondered if she did that as well.

Why was he thinking about what was between her legs?

His brain was so foggy the longer he looked at her, his one free hand quickly moving to dig his inhaler out of his pocket, taking the longest drag he could take off of it. It didn't clear his mind, didn't stop him from feeling like he wanted to touch more of her, to lean close and smell her, taste her. A hard shudder broke down his spine, and his cock set to throbbing in his pinstriped pants, his teeth gnashing. He was anxious to get to the next big settlement so he could buy new vials; he was convinced there was something wrong with these ones.

Regardless, he could breathe fine and didn't feel like a threat to the girl, necessarily...so his attention shifted, rather sourly, to his aching erection, now straining against his thigh.

It wasn't that he never masturbated; he was still a man beneath all the rads and rot, and his sex drive had never fully died, only dwindled down to a single flame whose presence didn't usually draw any attention from him. But it wasn't something he relished in, no more than eating food he couldn't really taste anymore to sustain himself or feigning sleep to allow his legs and back to rest. It was simply another need that had to be met on occasion; a quick tug at himself, not thinking of anything in particular, until he spilled onto the ground and went on with his life. It never needed to be more than that.

Now, however, his entire gut was aflame, the smell of her filling the air and further intoxicating him, his still-gloved hand moving to press against his cock through the fabric, the feeling leaving him arching his hips slightly up into his own touch. He wanted so badly to touch more than her hair, but knew that it wasn't advisable; the girl slept more soundly than anyone in the Wasteland, it seemed, but if she were to wake up and find him touching himself beside her, who knows what trouble there would be?

He couldn't touch her, but that didn't mean he couldn't study her, running his eyes over each part of her over and over again as the light and warmth of the fire slowly died down. He was tracing curve of her breasts and the way it flowed into the little roll of her belly for the umpteenth time, grinding hard against his hand, by the time the flames died down completely. She'd curled almost completely in on herself, hiding her face against her hands, and he wished he could look closer at it again as he slunk closer and closer to the edge.

As if she could read his mind, she suddenly rolled onto her back, resettling quickly as her head slid fully off of the bag. The mild highlights of the moon played along her face and torso, her plush lips parting in a soft, dreamy sigh. Fleetingly, he wondered if she would make that sound for him if he touched her just right, and, embarrassingly, that thought was enough to put an end to him.

The orgasm that washed over him granted some mild relief, his spend pooling in a sticky mess in his pant leg as he let out a few quiet heavy breaths, the hand that had been touching her hair scratching lines into the dirt, but it was bittersweet. In the haze afterwards, for the first time in a long, long time, he thought about Barb, about the way she would sigh his name when she came apart, about how soft and warm she would feel against him when he held her close after they made love. The deeply buried pain behind his breastbone that had started the day he'd found out the truth about her kicked up once more.

Sitting in the dark silence, a hard edge of discomfort and annoyance steeled up his spine, leaving him still in his ruminations until the uncomfortable feeling of the mess in his pants became intolerable. Letting out a huff, he shifted away from her and walked a few steps away as quietly as possible to clean himself up as best as he could, shame thick in the crisp air. When he finished, he dug into his pocket for an angry cigarette, jamming it between his thin lips and turning back towards her to face away from the breeze as he lit it.

But when he looked at her once more, really let himself look at her, he felt that pain in his breast soften, her soft skin almost glowing in the moonlight as she slept, peacefully unaware of anything but her blissful rest. It wasn't something he saw often. When he sat back down beside her, grabbing for his loose glove in the dark, he sat close enough that the outside of his thigh touched the arm under her head, pulling on his lit smoke absentmindedly as he continued to study his little companion. Her even, steady breathing was quite soothing to him, actually.

He was still going to buy a new set of vials.

[atlaswav]

EMPYREAN ☾

INFO: 4385 words, dr ratio x gn!reader, college au SYNOPSIS: Art is the practice of capturing life in still motion, and yet Dr Ratio can never seem to capture your beauty in its entirety in his sketches. His waking thoughts are clouded by images of you, the bane of his existence. He hates it, but can't resist. The Gods - if there are any - are cruel. WARNINGS: none! for once! except attempted kiss. AUTHOR'S NOTE: my head hurts so bad rn and i need sleep but there were thoughts in my mind. also i think its really boring lowkey but hey! i said i'd publish something by sunday! also i think his characterisation is really off today but oh well.

Divinity wasn’t real. There were no real Gods, they didn’t exist – couldn’t. Science proved such. Miracles were situations of insurmountable luck, and no one’s fate was “ordained” like astrology maniacs liked to think. 

But when Icarus fell from the great skies of myth, reaching for the sun and Gods and the heavens beyond, Veritas Ratio was sure that the gnawing terror and morbid awe that seized that man at the sight below was familiar to him. That sprawling city touched by the sublime sun, smiled upon with the benevolent God peering through the clouds whose gaze melted fragile wax. 

He was sure that that fear and unprecedented awe was the same as when he first glimpsed you. 

His fall, however, wasn’t graceful or worthy of any legend. 

“Oh– you alright?” 

“My apologies, I–” he glanced up, leaning down to immediately pick up his sketchbook which had fallen to the ground, then he froze. 

“...Are you okay?”

This, he wasn’t certain. You helped him gather his supplies again, and he thought he’d never see you again – there were so many buildings and so many classes, why would he? But as if fate was stringing him along, he wound up sitting next to you for his art studies class. The class he convinced himself he needed to take for a proper education.

Icarus’ fall was met with swift demise, and he was so sure that he would too. But who was he to compare himself to legends? Even still, why else would he be stricken by the malady of your existence, if you weren’t some overwhelming beauty that his greed desired to capture? 

Art, however, could not capture life as any man would like. It could never catch the way light reflected in the eyes, illuminating the soul. Neither the delicate intricacies of a smile, a twitch of muscle, a beating of a butterfly’s wings, the delicacy of life.

Try as one might, however, Dr Ratio aimed to do this, anyway. Charcoal was his chosen medium, pervading clean paper, marking intent, focus and desperation. 

He remembered you casting him a smile before seating yourself beside him, and all his doubts in taking the art course dissipated from his mind – despite your literal run in moments before. 

You became immersed in the artwork at your fingertips as the professor chirped about something he should’ve probably been attentive to, but to him, it was now entirely meaningless. Your cheeks lifted when you smiled, creasing the corners of your eyes. Your hair fell over your face in graceful lines that framed your features, and your hands moved with such gentle dexterity that he yearned to capture them in his drawings. Your eyes narrowed in the slightest as your brush met the canvas, mouth agape with your fixation on your art. 

The charcoal snapped, and Veritas Ratio likewise snapped from his immersion, frowning at the dark lines that marred the page. 

In his sketch, your eyes were obscured by a wall of smudged black ash instead of the curtain of hair that covered your features. Ratio sighed, leaning back from the desk. Your eyes were now downcast on your palette as you mixed paints. 

There was a divinity in you that he yearned to capture, like sunlight in a jar. Futile, but with noble intention, he swore to himself. 

Then, there were more classes. More days that passed, more instances where he observed your habits, your artwork that had you enrapt, just as he imagined his own perverse captivation with you. There were more charcoal sketches in sketchbooks that never saw the light of day, ones where your smile was too wide, didn’t meet your eyes, or didn’t carry the exact expression that yours projected. 

Art could never imitate life – Veritas was simply mortal. But mortals could always dream of something divine.

There were times where he left the classroom for a moment, and he feared you might glance over at his sketchbook to see the hundreds of sketches of yourself. Smiling and frowning and focused, the end of your paintbrush sitting absently between your lips, your gaze cast to the side, small splatters of paint smudged under your eyes and on your fingers. It was unsettling. He knew it himself. There had to be an extent to his observation when it became invasive, yet he feared losing your presence without ever capturing it in still motion. 

This is when a man grows desperate. 

“May I draw you?”

“...draw me?” you glanced towards him, reluctantly tearing your gaze from your own work. “Why?”

“A study.”

You smiled a half smile. An expression that he was familiar with, given that you were already halfway through the semester. Still, there was nothing to your encounters but smiles of courtesy and niceties (he’d never admit that he so desired more).

“Sure. Show it to me later.”

Now, Dr Ratio discovers, there are few things that may disturb a man’s endeavours when he is enrapt in his studies. None of which affected Veritas in the slightest as his charcoal became dust on his fingers and he clicked his tongue at the material’s reluctance to bend at his will. 

None of which can successfully capture the being that is you, and he isn’t sure he wants to, anymore. Art isn’t made for the eyes of greed, it’s made for the soul that yearns for the cure of the senses. Or so the greats all say, but he thinks he cannot be one of them. He couldn’t imitate life, he was versed in the calculations of life instead. 

Caught in his thoughts, he taps his – new – stick of charcoal on the edge of the drawing pad, frowning at the new sketch he was pondering. 

“You’re really good.” your voice echoes from behind him. 

He turns abruptly to find you standing behind him, head tilted as you examine his sketches. Your nose scrunches the tiniest bit, and your eyes crinkle with a hint of mirth.

“Does my nose really look like that?”

“Of course.”

You laugh at his blunt reply. “Can I see your other drawings?”

There are over seven thousand languages that still exist in the world, and Veritas Ratio cannot think of a better, more dire way to say no than to agree completely. 

“Of course.” He flips through his sketchbook quietly, letting you glimpse his insanity. You were making him lose his mind, really. He watches your expression – how your eyes widen, your lips part, your brows furrow. 

“Did you do all of this since the last lesson?”

No, but he wouldn’t say that – 

“No, I've been studying you for a while.”

– Or maybe he would. 

Your laugh is another divine thing that he wishes he can capture. “Oh God, I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. You make a good muse.” 

“Do I?”

He nods, biting his tongue. He doesn’t want to incriminate himself any further than he already has, and he’s already become a stalker to you. 

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yes. Undoubtedly.” 

“Consider me flattered, then…” 

“Dr Ratio. Veritas. Veritas Ratio.”

“...Veritas.” 

He loves the way your lips mouth his name. He’d never say it to your face, though. This, at least, would die with him. 

“Well, thank you. You may return to your painting.”

You huff a laugh. “So formal. I’m nearly done, so I don’t really have anything urgent to worry about. Meanwhile you…”

He’s inclined to agree. The professor was checking everyone’s progress the next lesson, and he still hadn’t grasped what he thought to have been perfect. 

“Ah. Right.”

“Do you want me to like… pose for you or something?”

He hesitates. Why? He doesn’t know. Maybe something about morality and art and the truth, but he doesn’t care anymore. “That… would be ideal.”

“Alright, but you’ll owe me as well. Deal?”

This is how Veritas Ratio finds himself pacing his apartment, fixing his hair in the mirror, dusting the tops of the bookshelves that line the walls and polishing the kitchen counter so that each surface is devoid of any evidence of his own guilty conscience. 

His anxieties were immediately multiplied hundredfold when you knocked. He waited a couple of seconds – to not seem too desperate, with his heart racing out of his chest – then finally opened the door. 

You stood there, smiling with such casual ease that he found himself wanting to know everything about you. 

It was absurd. 

A tiny, suppressed part of him welcomed it. 

“Hey, Veritas,” 

There it was again, the unfamiliar way you said his name, smile widening. He decided against a verbal reply, instead nodding and guiding you into his living room. 

“You’re so… clean.” you glanced about the apartment, marvelling at how almost every surface had a shine to it. But it made sense, once you saw him sitting at the couch, already observing you with the unshakeable gaze you’d felt since that first class. 

You weren’t entirely oblivious to his stare, just as you weren’t unobservant with the way his cheeks dusted with pink the day before – and today, it seemed – as he made eye contact. 

You smiled, and watched him blink a couple of times before turning away with a cleared throat. 

“Yes. I can’t stand a mess of any sort.”

“Figured.” you shrugged, standing next to him. “So, where do you want to start? What should I do?”

He hesitated for a second before directing you to the armchair across from him. “Just sit there for now. We’ll start here.”

You complied, allowing him to hurriedly arrange the folds of your clothes and angle of your limbs with fleeting touches. 

He appeared nervous, but it was endearing. 

Minutes pass by in silence, faint scratching of charcoal on paper filling the space between you. The sunset’s light poured in through the balcony behind you, casting a dramatic shadow over the armchair. Purple, orange, yellow – you wondered if that scrutinising look he gave you was disapproval or awe. There was no way of telling, with his complex set of facial-expressions. 

But interpreting him through guesses wasn’t how you envisioned this would play out. 

You cleared your throat, but he didn't glance up. He held the sketchbook up next to you, but quickly returned to the page, making harsh lines across the page. 

“So… Veritas?”

His head snapped up, stray strands of violet hair splayed across his forehead. “Yes?”

“Why did you take art?”

His eyes narrowed on you. Examining, maybe. “I felt as if I needed to. For a well rounded study, of course.”

You laughed. “Of course you did.”

At this, he paused. “What do you mean by this?”

“Your reputation on campus. You have… what, four degrees? You’re famous.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, never putting down the charcoal, but tapping it against his fingers instead. “Oh? What else have you heard?”

“Well, they say you’re insanely smart, but you’re also pretentious.”

He frowned. The way his brows scrunched was endearing. “I’m not pretentious. Everyone else is simply far underqualified.”

“They also say that you’re an elitist.” you laughed. 

Concern only grew on his expression. “Do you think this of me?”

You shrugged. “I’m yet to form an opinion.”

He nodded. “Good. Wise.” he said, almost as if reassuring himself. 

“...How long will this be, though? I can only sit still for so long.”

He blinked, turning to the sketchpad again. “Not too long. I promise.”

“Can we go out to dinner, afterwards?” 

At this, he choked. You stifled a laugh at the renewed blush on his cheeks. 

“Dinner? Why?”

“You owe me, don’t you?”

This is when he realises that he was a fool in allowing you in, to allow the muse of his most divine visions to become human. 

He’s greedy, though. No one and nothing can change this. He wanted more of you. He wanted to hear each thought that crossed your mind and know each little item that occupied your attention. He wanted to dissect your mind and examine your memories and behaviours like an insect splayed under a glass, and he wanted to understand you so well that he became sick with the thought of you. But in his mind, you could do no wrong. You were so divine; with your secret smiles that held secret thoughts, and knowing glances that examined his frame with an artist’s scrutinising eye. 

“Fine. Just let me finish up.”

So you stay put, and you return to the thick silence that envelops the room. The clock ticking above the armchair only taunts you as your limbs begin to ache from lack of movement. 

Scratching on paper, huffs of exasperation, the occasional tearing of a page, and he finally sighs, rising from the couch. The sun had long since set, only remnants of daylight still lingering on the sky’s deep blue. The light was gone. You wondered if he’d captured the sun in his drawing, as well. 

“It’s done. Not good as the professor would like, but it will do for now.” he said, running a hand – dusted with black – through his hair. His forehead was coated in splotches of black thumb prints. 

You similarly rose from the armchair, stretching, and walked over to the drawing on the coffee table. 

You didn’t realise this was how you looked to him. Your features were only emphasised in the dramatics of the sunset, the slight turn of your lips and curve of your cheekbones accentuated with the shadows. He’d taken artistic liberty, you realised, in painting you within the sun’s dying light. 

You almost looked divine. 

“Holy shit.”

“Does that hold a negative connotation?”

“Veritas, you’re crazy.”

“...negative?”

“It’s so…” you met his gaze which was already searching yours for a reaction. “It’s brilliant. It’s so, so good.”

His shoulders relaxed as he sighed. “Good. Let’s go to dinner, then.” he turns to leave, but you stop him, grabbing his arm. You found that it was hard as chiselled marble, and almost want to find out exactly what’s underneath, but you dismiss the thought. 

“You have something on your forehead.” you point. 

He frowned, rubbing his forehead with the same hand that had been gripping the charcoal for the past hour. Smudged it even further. His forehead was thinly coated in black ash.

You sighed. “Here, let me.” 

He leaned down for you to wipe the stains, hair hanging over his eyes. He smelled faintly of the library with its old books, and partly of ink with something deeper. His eyes darted around to meet anything but your gaze, long lashes fluttering, crimson red eyes matching the shade of his complexion. 

You make him nervous, you confirm with delight. 

“There. That’s the most of it.” you withdrew, and he stood back up quicker than you thought possible. 

“Alright, dinner, then.” 

“Dinner.”

“I’ll go and… wash up.”

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

He realised how much he was doomed as the sky started to pour with rain, just as the two of you stepped outdoors, beyond his apartment complex. 

“How far is the place you wanted to go?” he asked you.

“Not too far. Let’s just keep walking.”

He shrugged, falling into step beside you. His steps were terrifyingly large, as would make sense with his tall frame. 

“So what are your interests?” he blurts out, staring at the ground as he walks. 

“Well, art, obviously,”

“Yes, of course, do you think I’m dense?”

“Maybe a little.” 

“I will interpret that as sarcasm.”

You laugh, and as if the heavens had heard you, the rain began to fall heavier, darkening the landscape, tingeing the air with smells of petrichor and a cold that wasn’t there before. 

Ratio thought it was ironic. A pathetic fallacy of his doomed fate. 

“You have to be kidding me.”

He sighed, massaging his temples with his fingers. “We are unfortuitous.”

“...You could’ve said unlucky.”

“I choose not to associate myself with idiots.”

You chuckle as you attempt to cover your head with your arms, running to the nearest block for shelter. The rain, however, doesn’t desist. It continues to pour until you’re both soaked through – his hair soaking wet, sticking to his forehead, white shirt clinging to his carved abdomen that you desperately try to avoid looking at. 

“Should we just go back?” you move your hair out of your eyes, squinting in the relentless downpour. Through the slight shelter of the building behind you two, the rain pours heavy as ever, unlikely to cease soon. 

“I was waiting for you to come to that conclusion.”

“...Why didn’t you offer it first?”

Because he thought you looked good in the rain with wet hair. He wanted to remember the image – burn it into his eyelids – before he returned to sketch it. Number of things he’d never say aloud: two.

“I was waiting for you to come to that conclusion yourself.”

“Pretentious.”

“Thank you. Now can we hurry? It’s only getting heavier.”

His situation, ironically, then becomes even more perilous. A series of unfortunate events, unfolding like a train of misfortunes. First, your meeting – strikingly uncomfortable for both of you, he imagined (it certainly was for him) – then your failed attempt at dinner, interrupted by an unforgiving rain storm. He didn’t think it could get much worse. But there was always room for improvement, as he knows better than anyone, the academic that he is. 

There are, now, puddles of water throughout Dr Ratio’s apartment that he hadn’t bothered to clean since you got into his shower.

You, in his shower. 

He wonders if there is a God, somewhere out there, delighting in his torment. It was never supposed to devolve into such interactions, only observing you long enough to capture your beauty on the page. 

He wonders if you know he is thinking about you often as he does. Thinks you’d be completely repulsed by him. This is what frightens him. 

“Veritas?” your voice echoes from within the house. 

He gets up from where he’s sitting in a puddle near the kitchen, racing to the bathroom at your call. Did he manage to miss something incriminating in his bathroom? He’d made sure that every surface was bare before you entered, had he not?

“Yes?”

“...This is embarrassing. Can you please get me a towel?” 

This felt like one of those cliches in romantic comedies that Ratio’s colleagues liked to watch. Mindless scenes of dry humour and burlesque attempts at “comedy” he found appalling. It was happening to him, now. Spiting his academic rigidity. 

“Of course. One moment.”

He tries not to think about you, standing completely bare behind the door, as he sticks a hand into the bathroom, head turned away. If you looked closer, you’d have seen the bright red shade of his ears – but to his merit, you take the towel, shutting the door, a muffled “thank you” audible through the door. 

He sighs, sitting on the floor beside the bathroom. 

Whatever Gods there were, were bestowing great suffering on him today. 

It takes a couple minutes for you to finish up in the bathroom. Another few more for him to wash up, and another handful of minutes for you both to be seated on the couch together in awkward silence. 

You wear one of Ratio’s old shirts and shorts, scrolling on your phone, and he is sitting, arms crossed, on the opposite end of the couch, staring at you again. Outside, the rain still pours in unceasing rivulets, dissipating any ideas for going out for dinner. 

He thinks his clothes look far better on you than on him. Thinks that you were made for this world and its inhabitants, crafted so perfectly. Wonders what wouldn’t suit your wear, because he can’t imagine anything that you couldn’t look good in. 

“Okay,” you say, turning off your phone to stare back at him, “I ordered. Should be here in about ten minutes.” 

He nods, and averts his gaze. 

You smile. His behaviour is amusing.  

“Veritas?”

“Yes?”

“What are your greatest fears?”

“Excuse me?”

You shuffle closer, and he notes a glint in your eye that suggests mischief. Teasing, as he’d seen before. “What are you afraid of? Like, the dark?”

“Nothing.”

“Boring. Come on, there’s gotta be something.” 

He frowns, brows bunching together as he stares at the wall. An easy, natural habit. “Nothing. Fear is irrational.”

“Right.” you laugh at his blatant refusal to cooperate with you. 

“Am I being funny?”

“No,”

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re being so… unexpectedly childish.”

“What?” he seems to prickle up with indignation. “What do you mean?”

“Your stubbornness to just answer my question, and the way you’re…” you gesture to his posture, the way his arms are folded and he glares at the wall. “Behaving. It’s childish.”

“Well, what are you afraid of? Nothing, right? It’s a stupid question.”

“I’m afraid of insects, the dark, I could go on, really,”

Veritas glares at you, meeting your eyes for a second. “Fear is stupid.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you scared of holding eye contact?”

At this, he blinks. He turns to face you, still frowning, but his gaze flickers between your eyes and the rest of your face. Your laugh only makes him roll his eyes. 

“You really can’t hold eye contact, can you?” you say through a fit of giggles. “Have you ever dated?”

“Yes, I can hold eye contact,” – but not with you, it seemed. You intimidated him – “And no, I haven’t, it’s a distraction.”

“From what I’m seeing, you can barely even be near me without blushing.”

He blushes, breathing a sigh of exasperation. 

“Dr Veritas Ratio’s one fear is making eye–”

Then he grabs your shoulders, forcing you closer, and holds your gaze with such intensity that the words disappear from your lips. You blink as his stare bores into yours, crimson eyes deep, shining with something unfamiliar to you that you realise you want to decipher. 

People like to say that eyes are the windows to the soul, and Veritas Ratio’s was ridden with something that burned like the sun's dying light. 

It’s then that you realise how close you are to him, how his firm grip on your shoulders softens and his touch drifts to hover above your jaw, how he smelled so inviting, familiar and distant all at once, and how his lips were slightly parted, how they looked so soft –

Knocking, at the front door. 

You both tear away, and he stumbles to the front door to collect your delivery. 

You never regret anything more than this moment. 

“Delivery.”

You nod, obscuring your face with your hair as he sets down your meal on the coffee table. 

You’re both back to silence, pleasantries and common niceties as the meal passes. 

Neither of you meet the other’s eye. 

Time ticks away as you finish your food and clean up, wiled away by carefully weighed words and half-met glances. 

He hates it. 

He hates how you were looking at him with such curiosity, and he hates how he let you tease him. He also hates the delivery man for not being delayed by the rain, but he also hates himself for not ignoring the knocks on his front door. 

“I think I should go now.”

Yes, that would be best. “Why? It’s still raining, you could stay.”

“Well…”

He knows your dorm is far from his apartment complex. He knows that you’ll have to trek through the rain, and yet he also knows that if you stay, he won't be able to sleep. He still has images of you – fresh in his mind – to sketch onto the page. 

“It’s no trouble.”

“Okay. I’ll stay the night.”

“You can sleep in my room.”

“But–”

“Don’t argue.”

Somehow, you’re inclined to do as he says. 

Time, like all things, passes too quickly and too slowly all at once. Without time, nothing exists, but with it, it’s all too agonising to live through. 

This is exactly how Dr Ratio feels as he sits at the coffee table, the small space dimly illuminated by a lamp, as the entire apartment is still. You’re probably sleeping, as he reminds himself, tearing another page out of his sketchbook, unsatisfied with his own hand. 

The rain was now tame, a steady rhythm to his never-ending endeavours to capture your beauty on the page. 

Maybe it’s when the charcoal snaps in his hands, or maybe it’s when his lamplight flickers that he decides that capturing life in still motion is helpless – a pointless and impossible venture that can never succeed. 

You’re too deific to fit into a world of his creation. 

What are supposed to be your eyes – painted with fervour, but lacking depth – stare up into the ceiling as he dozes off, charcoal falling from his hand, eyes drooping closed. Slivers of moonlight cut across your painted face as he slumps onto the table, snoring softly.

—

You wake to sunlight in your eyes, blinding and harsh, and realise where you are. 

It all smells like him – that scent that you can’t place that smells good, and a lingering smell of the library with all its papers. It all smells like him, and when you walk into the living room, you find that his own apartment is completely devoid of any sense of himself. 

But when you find him slumped at the coffee table, lamplight still illuminating the space with its curtains drawn and rays of sunlight peering through, he’s obsessed with you. 

You’re unsure what, exactly, to feel. There are abandoned pages scattered all throughout the space, and unfurling one, you recognise your own face staring back at you. 

Each and every drawing is of you – your hair wet, clinging to your skin, you drowning in his clothes far too large for you, or your face painted with curiosity and entrapment. 

It’s you through Veritas’ gaze, and you think that beyond all else, he made you look divine. 

When Veritas Ratio wakes to his papers – all wrinkled and partly torn – sitting in front of him, neatly arranged with a note on top, realisation hits him, but he can only laugh. 

“Veritas Ratio’s greatest fear: eye contact with the person he’s obsessed with. Completely irrational – even though he can draw me perfectly from memory. A shame, really. Looks like you’ll have to invite me over to pose for you again.

So you can get my eyes right, of course.”

written by @atlaswav , published 26th of August 2024

[luminique]

wrio x you pt. 2 because the people (me too) asked for it

you’re the only exception of people who were in his past that he’d try reconnecting with. he swore to himself that he never would but the memory of you haunted him every day and night.

working in the fortress didn’t even make it easier. he’d reminisce the past during his daily checks, filled with fights, scratches and blood, but you were each other’s rock in this cold and dark prison. sleepless nights where he’d go over to your bunk, you’d both be talking and laughing about the future until other inmates woke up to give both of you a good beating.

a letter wouldn’t hurt. signed and sealed, ‘Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, Wriothesley’ with the wolf insignia on the wax seal. he read the letter multiple times until he got sick of it and threw it in the trash. any and every free time he had, it was spent to write the perfect letter to you.

he even consulted sigewinne, clorinde and neuvillette for more opinions. it was honestly humorous to see the Duke be this… frustrated over something as trivial as a letter. his trash basket was overflowing with crumpled up pieces of paper.

“wriothesley, this letter feels too formal.” was a comment by clorinde about his 10th attempt. “you should add more emotion!” sigewinne responded after reading his 27th attempt. “i am not too familiar with matters relating to human love however i do believe that you have not conveyed that in this letter,” said by neuvillette regarding his 59th attempt.

he lost count of how many letters he had written, how many ink bottles he had opened, how many seals he had stamped. it was eating at him, and now the heavy weight of whether you’d even feel the same way back was beginning to creep in.

the ink pooled on the paper. he had run out of ideas, his hand shaking from the fear of it being imperfect. he couldn’t handle it anymore and let his emotions take over him. every word he wrote that night came straight from his heart instead of his brain, putting aside his own formality and rules for you. it’d be another scrapped attempt anyway…

‘With all my love, Wriothesley’, signed off with no wax seal. he had read somewhere that colored wax was used by sculptors when they made mistakes. this letter was no mistake, his love for you was no mistake.

he used his connections, specifically neuvillette and the maison gardiennage, to find where you had decided to settle down. he originally intended to have it sent to you by courier, but here he was, standing in front of your front door. to have the Duke come all the way up to the surface and hand deliver you his letter, oh how smitten he was over you. a quick fix of his outfit, brushed off any dust and fixed his hair before he knocked on the door.

he could hear your footsteps as you scurried over to the door, your voice behind it.

“i didn’t order anything. why is there a-“

you were cut off by the sight in front of you. his charming smile and blue-grey eyes that captivated you the moment you became friends in the fortress. he straightened up his posture, clearly taken aback by how much you’ve changed but it seemed to go both ways.

“good morning, i believe we have some catching up to do.” he said before holding out the letter for you to take. the sun was still out, there was tea in the kitchen and you had time to spare. next thing you know, you were sitting next to each other on the sofa and chatting about each other’s new lives, times changed yet feelings stayed the same.

[reds-writings]

bird in a cage

(pairing: crash!rust cohle x f!reader)

word count: 1.5k

a/n: a bit of a concept fic surrounding rust in his crash era i've had in the drafts. if you would like more let me know 🫣. y'know i love me some feedback

warnings: men being gross, ginger, hints at prostitution, ginger, language, sexism, etc (let me know if i missed anything!)

There was something almost eerie about Crash whenever you got the chance to be in actual proximity to him. Something lost. 

Something broken. 

It made you want to hide away anytime those tortured eyes met yours. Like you were in the wrong, an intruder of some extreme fortitude of privacy. Heavy and asphyxiating.

Despite your trepidation around Ginger’s righthand man, there was always an underlying thirst to know more. 

He was a handsome fella. You’d be stupid to deny it. All the other girls around knew it too and had no shame in chittering every chance they got ever since he manifested into your lives in the extreme bore that was East Texas.  

Ginger wouldn’t let you speak much to him. Although, that wasn’t entirely uncommon since the fucker wouldn’t let you speak to anyone much at all.

Just sit there and look pretty, doll. You’re ass ain’t good for much the fuck else. He’d say. Damning you to be some cheap whore in an even cheaper cage til the day you got ugly or died.

You’d never anticipated this is where you would end up in life. You’re sure not many girls do but thanks to your pathetic shit-heel of a brother who got himself tied up in some irreversible mess you’re now indebted to a gang leader who thought doing you a mercy was enslaving you to work for him for the rest of your days. 

Some nights you dreamed of putting one right between his bloodshot baby blues. God knows the world could do with one less of a son of a bitch like him. Gruesome consequences that’d be sure to follow be damned. 

The night air was cooler than usual, offering a small reprieve to your sun-tightened skin. You’re sure by age 40 you’d look no better than some beat-up leather couch left on the side of the road. Any money you did get to keep wasn’t prioritized for shit like sunscreen or maybe even fancy aloe like those girly cosmetic magazines you’d sneak mentioned. 

The bonfire tonight was a busy affair. Ginger made some big steal so that granted cause for some hearty celebration. Most of the men seemed to be in a nicer mood than usual, but you made no effort to leave your post on an old bourbon crate in the background. Any peace to oneself around here was a blessing and you were gonna take as much of it in as you could. 

Tired fingers fumbled with your lighter, you’d been meaning to get a new one but finding a moment to step away from the Crusaders was harder to come by than one probably thought.

By the look of your chipped nails, you could do with swiping that new shade of OPI that caught your eye in the corner store some weeks ago too.

“Didn’t peg you as a wallflower.” Your solitude was shattered by the presence of a rumbled drawl. Nearly having your poor soul shooting out your body. Whipping your head in the direction of the unfamiliar timbre you almost did a double take. 

There Crash stood, looking almost indifferent despite being the one to walk up to you in the first place. He wore some weathered-looking muscle tank repping a band you had no knowledge of and a pair of jeans that had definitely seen better days. Up close you got to take in just how well-built he was. Sure, Ginger was a hefty man, but Crash had definition to him. Like something out of a poster blushing teens would have of some heartthrob idol shamelessly plastered on their bedroom wall. 

His face was a whole other story, one you wouldn’t bother getting all wax poetic about. As pretty as it was. 

Snapping out of your short-lived reverie you huffed something resembling a scoff, 

“Didn’t know you could speak. Let alone leave Ginger’s side for more than a few minutes.”

In the dim lighting, you couldn’t initially make out whether or not that had amused him, but the glowing orange hue from the tip of his own cigarette highlighted the ghost of a smirk adorning the corner of his thin lips. It had you picking at the frayed edge of your shorts to not look so childishly in awe. 

“You got a light?” You pushed forward and asked. He shook his head no but instead offered his cigarette wordlessly. The act stilled you, but you took the small offering nonetheless, inexplicably entranced after only a few words from the man. 

Those eyes of his tracked your every move as you brought the cigarette to your lips. You tried with every fiber of your being not to be affected by this strangely intimate ripple of time you’ve just stepped into. To not let your thoughts drift to the fact that those same lips were just where yours are currently as you inhale acrid smoke.

You don’t feel all that successful.

“Camels. That’s surprising.” You exhale, flicking the ash as casually as one could in this scenario. You prayed Ginger wouldn’t notice his absence any time soon. Something resembling greed regarding Crash’s attention sinking its claws into you.

“Hm…how so.” He took it back from your grasp, the action strikingly gentle. 

“All you rough boys out here smoke Reds. Hell, you even look like one of those Marlboro cowboys in the ads.” 

“Should I be flattered?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know about all the girls around here just positively gushing over you. You don’t strike me as the naive type.” 

“You know cause you one of em’?”

That shut you right up. Though only for a second. If he could feel the growing heat radiating from your cheeks he made no sign of it.

“Careful now, wouldn’t wanna sound too cocky.” You sassed, looking past him at the partygoers. His gaze felt penetrating and you couldn’t figure out for the life of you where this sudden interest to talk to you came from. There was no chance in hell of entertaining a single thing with Crash. Ginger would skin you alive for even catching you like this, as plain of an encounter as it was. This was more trouble than it’d ever be worth. 

But there was not a fathomable force that could seem to pull you away. 

“You’re different. Than the others I mean. You stand out.” Was what clambered from your mouth as you looked back at him. 

It was true despite its clumsy admittance. Even though you’d never said so much as a hello to each other Crash was different. He never bothered you. Never jumped at the chance to use you like some piece of meat. You wouldn’t say he went as far to outright show blatant respect, but he gave you space to exist unlike anyone else had. 

He didn’t so much as flinch at the statement. 

“Could say the same about you.” That alone had a cold shock similar to that of an ice bath encasing your entire being. It was a casual reply, but between the lines, you knew what he was saying. 

He saw you. 

No one ever saw you. You were a nobody. Just a warm vessel to sacrifice to the selfish woes of pigs disguised as men. You weren’t meant to have thoughts or feelings. Likes or dislikes. You were just there. 

Yet he noticed you regardless and you hadn’t ever brought attention to the possibility that he could in the first place.

You didn’t know something so small and noncommittal could make the sting of saline burn at the backs of your eyes. You felt like every existing nerve within you had been exposed but when continuing to stare at him, he held no judgment. That brokenness that took home in his stare was replaced by something else. A curiosity. 

Much akin to the same type you let fester for him over these past several months. 

The smoldering cigarette dangled from his lips, though you didn’t dare let yourself catch a glimpse, as a large hand hesitantly reached towards your face. The rough pad of his thumb scarcely graced the fragile skin beneath your eye to brace a blooming tear. 

The simple touch was indescribable. Something you never thought you could know for yourself. 

All you could think about was how warm he was.

“Birdy! Where the hell are you, girl? Get over here!” Came Ginger’s sudden drunken hollering, the moment doused in the shroud of reality as you all but jumped away. Crash’s arm stayed frozen in mid-air, his once prodding stare almost muted in agitation at the Crusader’s crude interruption. 

You shakily wiped at any reminisce of emotion, fiddling with your hair as if you’d been caught doing something more than just simply talking. Guilt and fear bore onto your shoulders like a burdensome cloak in record time. You needed to go before Ginger got too antsy. 

Looking back up at Crash, you were met with that same indifference as if the moment was just some figment of your imagination. Stewing in the sudden change would only lead to unnecessary embarrassment so all you could do was utter a quick ‘bye’ as you stumbled off towards the bonfire, heart racing something worrisome. Off to where you’d be reduced back to feeling like the piece of nothing you always were. 

It took all the willpower in you to ignore the lingering burn of the lost man’s stare and keep on toward everything you’d come to detest in your life. 

[steviewashere]

I Don't Wanna Leave Him Now

Rating: General CW: None Tags: Post-Canon, Future Fic, Set in the '90s, Fluff, Tooth Rotting Fluff, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Marriage Proposal, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson is a Sap, This is Really Sweet, Romantic Eddie Munson, Engagement, Nervous Eddie Munson, Happy Ending Guaranteed, Listened to The Beatles While Writing This Title from "Something" by The Beatles, but make it gay.

💍—————💍 Eddie's nervous. The most nervous he believes he's ever been in his entire life—which is saying something, a lot of somethings. He's put himself in front of crowds, of classmates who have never wanted to hear a single vocal from his lips, walked on tables and shouted profanities, placed himself in the dungeon master chair, and screeched with laughter as he deemed fit. But here, in an apartment he's made with love—with Steve by his side, unexpected and bright like sun on a gloomy, fall day—he's the most nervous he's ever felt.

When he first realized he liked men, could even view men as a possibility, he never thought of a future in it all. Never thought much of what comes after the dating phase. Of sharing a bed with a man, let alone a life. He didn't put himself in the shoes of somebody a partner is excited to come home to. A life of warm stew in the kitchen and low lights and mosaics of lives coming together like stained glass in the Catholic church he and Wayne used to frequent. Of a whole within a heart so beaten and battered, he never thought to consider it beating alongside another's.

Steve started his heart with the tenacity and urgency crackling in his palms. With parted lips and swimmer's lungs. Pleads and cries under a desolate sky, in a darkness burdened upon their shoulders, blood soaked fingers skittering over his pale cheeks. Tears that he could never piece being poured for him like the tap leaking from a broken pipe—one more incident and it may just burst, explode and flood and damage. And yet he lived, woke up in a hospital bruised and stitched to all hell, fluorescents beating down on him in nauseous buzzes, sweaty hands still crackling around one of his own. "Steve?" he had croaked and those tears arose once more, this time coming down like God's flood.

And now he paces the carpet of their apartment's living room. Up and down as if marching through pews, brightened by the mosaic that is their lives—crisp magazines and peeling books and a couch ready to collapse from how worn it's become through their midday cuddles. There's a candle dancing and flickering before him on the coffee table, some linen scent that Steve has sworn by his entire growing up. Its off-white wax and orange on the wick, ablaze and coating the room. He inhales and places Steve ahead of him in his brain, smiling gooey before he left for the day, hair swooped away from his forehead still eternally seventeen, and an ochre polo ironed over his shoulders because it's his favorite color—so, of course, it's Eddie's favorite, too.

He's warm under his layers. A sweater Steve knitted him, this deep pink thing that scrunches at his hips and gently lays over the base of his neck—because screw the sweater curse, he'll cherish this falling apart masterpiece until it's nothing but spooled yarn once more. And a t-shirt to prevent the sweater from rubbing his healed scars raw, it's a plan shirt, black and fitting. Grey sweatpants because he wasn't sure what kind of pants to wear for what he's going to do. At least his hair is tied back with a tired elastic band, he isn't sweating there.

But he holds his breath and waits. Waits for Steve to come through their front door. With his overflowing college bag because he's a determined college boy now. For his shoes to be set aligned with the other sneakers they bunny ear tie for one another. Keys to be hung up with a soft click. His drooping dog eyes, heavy with the day, but alight with love anyway.

There'll be snow on Steve's shoulders. White and melting and sticky for a few seconds before the radiator catches up. He'll smile with all his teeth in that gentle, kind way he does. Where his whole face radiates and his eyebrows shoot up in excitement and his eyes pool with reverence. Eddie will kiss him, despite his nerves. Trembling and soft, almost as if they were new, but he'll kiss him.

Kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

There are tires against pavement and he shakes his already shaking hands out at his sides. Jumps up and down like he's seen Steve do a million times before, right before the big playoffs, right before the World Series airs, before he's determined to win. He leaves the living room and stands in the entryway, merely two feet from the door, and waits. Patiently impatient, he waits.

Steve bounds in after his key clicks the lock loose. Tosses his book-bag to the ground with little care, arms stretched and plucked from the snowed-on jacket sleeves, shoes stepped out of after the laces are undone, and the key goes on the hook. He turns and finds Eddie with those puppy back soft eyes of his, hazel and bright and fresh even after all this time, and he smiles. God he smiles.

It's a gentle peck. A reminder of lips against lips.

"Hey, baby," Eddie purrs.

Crinkling eyes. Mm. "Hey, Eds." And the way he says those words, all sweet and dripping, affected by the push of his smile, of his lips pulled wide and pink and just crackling from the cold air, cheeks flushed and bulbous. He sways further into Eddie's space, love colored across him in pinks and reds and gentle peaches. His hands are cold in Eddie's palms, warming slowly from the radiator, from the body heat they exchange, from words and gooeyness and stew in the kitchen and linen candles and mosaics. "You look comfy," Steve says, murmured hot and cold over Eddie's own grinning mouth.

"I look like a million bucks, thanks to you," he whispers.

"Mm. Mhm. You look so good in pink."

He smiles bigger, his own teeth showing, Steve's eyes dropping down to where he's missing one on the left side—still droopy and in love, caught up. "Why don't you go in and get comfy? I made us some dinner, I'll dish you up."

"Yeah?" Steve's eyes are still on his mouth. Voice still low and stirring. "It smells good."

"It'll be even better on your tongue, sweetheart. Go get changed, m'kay?"

Another peck. And then Steve disappears into their bedroom with a gentle click behind him.

Eddie's hands shake, but he jumps further into action. Diving behind their sofa for a bouquet of roses he hopes he hid well enough. Places them on the coffee table so that they're right in the open. He does as he intended, pours them two bowls of steaming stew—turkey stew he made with leftovers at Thanksgiving, using the scraps just as he's been taught by Wayne's guiding hands. Puts those on the coffee table, too, the candlelight dancing off the porcelain bowl edges. The last piece of his not-so-over-the-top puzzle is his acoustic, banged up and still shiny, resting in his lap.

His breath comes fuzzy and his heart jumps and spins behind his ribcage like ribbon dancing in the wind. Sanity spilling out his ears, but he holds on. Listening in as Steve shuffles back down their hallway, poising himself at the ready with his fingers angled on the gently taut strings, watching Steve come around the corner in his own sweatpants and another sweater he made—this one a light cherry red, slightly messier with its strings, but put together and comfy.

The surprise on Steve's face makes Eddie giddy.

Eyes wide and eyebrows scrunching, mouth gaping, but still at ease and pleasant. He breathes out some half-humorous, half-shocked sound—a chuckle or something like. But he sits down next to Eddie on the sofa, sinking into the middle cushion with practiced ease, right where he usually leans himself into Eddie's side to watch reruns and talk gossip.

Tonight, Steve smiles at him all the same, but scrunches his fingers into his own knees. Just as a kid does when they're getting the thing they wanted the most for Christmas, trying not to wiggle too much out of their seat.

He strums down with his thumb, plucking out the notes as he places the tips of his fingers over the frets. Sings, in his husky rasp:

"Something in the way he moves, Attracts me like no other lover"—

The shock doesn't really leave Steve's face, but there's this calm that settles over his features. Leaves his eyes shiny and curious and warm. His mouth settled in this soft, all lips, shy smile. And a light pink flush to his wonderful, full, mole-dotted cheeks.

—"Something in the way he woos me I don't wanna leave him now You know I believe and how"—

Steve begins to wriggle more in his seat, swaying gently back and forth to the music. Just as he does when he's standing in the kitchen, focused on the dinner he makes or the dishes he may do. The way he does when he's nose deep in his homework and Eddie comes up behind him to soothe his tense shoulders. And just as he does with ear protection deep in his ears, at the front of their local bar, weeping beer in his hand, watching on as Eddie performs for him and only him—despite the crowd, despite the nerves set deep in his bones.

—"Somewhere in his smile, he knows That I don't need no other lover Something in his style that shows me I don't wanna leave him now You know I believe and how"—

He finishes out the song, his eyes down at his own fingers, but he knows Steve is still looking on directly at him. At his thumb plucking dutifully over the strings, the scrunch he slowly produces between his eyebrows as he focuses more and more, and every single time he licks his lips before singing the next line. But his gaze remains the same, gooey as the brownies he bakes around Christmas, as passionate as he ever is.

And by the end, Eddie is no longer trembling, putting aside the guitar. Steve gives him easy, soft applause. "That was so beautiful, Eds," he compliments.

Eddie, no longer nervous, but still shy, rubs the back of his neck bashfully. "Thanks," he says quietly, "I learned it just for you, sweetheart." He takes a deep breath, and before he lets Steve respond, he's digging deep into the left pocket of his sweatpants. "I have...I have a question to ask you, though."

"Sounds serious," Steve comments. "Whatcha need to know, babe?"

Of course he's nonchalant after something like that. It makes some of the nerves come back, timid and tepid. Eddie's way of wooing probably isn't all that original, he's aware of that at least, but Steve doesn't seem bothered by it. If anything, his face is open and expectant, soft and still curious.

He takes a deep breath, lunges his shaking hands forward, and props the lid of the little box he's holding.

Inside is a shiny gold band. It's not the best of the best, that's for another time. But it's a hefty ring, fit for Steve's left ring finger, and engraved with their initials on the inside of the band. When he received the finished ring to place inside the yellow velvet box he found, a part of him flourished and bloomed like newborn roses. He wept that night, staring down at it. Something was finally settling into place.

He was one step closer to getting a future he never expected.

One step closer to a happy ending he never thought he'd get.

Steve gasps quietly between his parted lips, eyes darting down to the ring, up to Eddie's, and back down. He's still gently swaying in his seat, happy and vibrant and beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous, it makes Eddie blaze like the candle, warm and dancing.

"Eds..." Steve breathes. "Oh my gosh, Eds."

"Steve," he speaks softly, "I know we can't do anything legal about this yet, but I guess my heart's too eager for a lifetime with you. You started that heart, kept it cherished and going, wrapped up and safe in your hands, and now I'm here, offering it to you all over again. Offering to you a life we already share, with your excitement over sports games that I may never understand, our music tastes both daunting and similar, and all these soft moments we have.

"I know that how we started isn't the most wonderful of stories, but I wake up everyday to make it better and better—you somehow outdo yourself day in and day out. And I'm ready, if you are, to take the next step. No matter how long it takes until we can get the gaudy, giant wedding of our dreams. I still want this with you, all of you—as you are, as you will be.

"So...

"Steve Harrington, the love of my life I never expected, but cherish anyway, will you marry me?"

"Eds," Steve breathes again.

Instead of saying anything more, Eddie swallows down his words with a gentle gulp. Grips the box tighter, trying to keep his shaking at bay. The bundle, of every emotion he's ever felt, pulsing and tight deep in his stomach. But he's patient. And he's sure.

"Of course, oh my god," Steve answers, "of course I'll marry you. This is...this is...wow."

Eddie pries the ring free of its little white cushion. He takes Steve's left hand in his own, fingers gripping to soft skin. And he smooths the ring down Steve's ring finger. It sits bright and pretty on him. Just as Eddie imagined it to be. He tightens his hold on Steve's hand, wrangling them so they're fully holding onto each other.

When he looks back up from their tangled fingers, Steve kisses him. All encompassing, devouring, with fervor. He kisses with words, all the words Eddie's read, with every what-if and eventually, and every soft memory they'll make in the near future. A love that coats and soothes and flames; a love that's kept Eddie's heart beating after all these years.

He gasps for breath when they pull apart. And is reminded, endearingly, of all their breathless make-out sessions years ago—when they were in their early twenties, tentative, and nervous.

When Eddie asked Robin for permission to date Steve.

And now, in their early thirties, the permission to marry Steve sitting heavy in him—welcomed fully and tight by Robin's squeezing arms. That's a story for another time, though.

"I love you, Eddie. I love you so much," Steve whispers, "you beat me to it."

"You might'a been the jock, but I had to make sure I was faster than you on this. I like to jump the gun when I know what I want."

"And you want me forever," he says in awe.

Eddie nods once, a sure thing. "I want you forever, Steve Harrington. Just as I promised in the beginning, sweetheart."

"You're such a sap, Eds."

"For you, sweetheart. Just for you."

Their stew needs to be reheated. And they'll cuddle into each other to watch their reruns. Maybe do some other exciting things tonight.

For now, though, Eddie holds onto Steve's engaged hand. Gazes at him. And continues to promise forever.

A forever after that he's always dreamed about—made real in those honey drenched eyes.

💍—————💍

[therethatstar]

truly an insane scene. to have someone who takes your bad day and turns it something good. the way peem visibly melts into phum’s touch. looking at phum like he puts all of the stars in the sky for him, forming an entire constellation. and he’s leaning into phum’s touch like it’s the only natural thing to do. just something that makes sense. something so inevitable. like the gravitational pull of the wind and water, drawing the tidal waves to the shores. and when phum smiles at him, everything feels irreversible, the heart that beats in his chest is no longer his. phum smiles and peem feels it, the way the sun has surpassed its warmth. i am not waxing poetic about them i AM NOT-

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2024: October 14th

Day 14: Gangbang // Collaring // Candle - Wax Play

Max Lord x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: Sex club, insecurities, anonymous sex, voyeurism, multiple partners, split roasting, protected sex

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

He shouldn’t be here. Swallowing harshly, he squares his shoulders and shakes his head slightly, plastering a confident smile on his face. As if he belongs here. The card had been a gift, an admission to the coveted underground club that everyone whispered about and no one confirmed.

He’s inside. The music is not at an ear pounding level, letting the moans and groans of the participants fill the air. His skin tingles and he halfway wishes that he had taken the time to go home and change out of the bulky, boxy power suit that he secretly detests. It’s suffocating at times and he just wishes that he was wearing normal clothes. The suit seems like a coat of armor to him at times and that might be why he doesn’t like it. It’s not real. It’s a layer of division between him and the real world. Real connections. 

His eyes widen slightly as he walks around. The rules had been explained, anyone can watch or join if they so choose. Bodies are tangled up in pairs, groups, arms and legs wrapped around others. Holding them in place and the lewdest acts are being watched as if it were a ballet. 

Max Lord slowly peruses the room, wondering if he should just go home. He has no clue how to approach someone, until he catches her eyes. 

She’s gorgeous, her mouth stretched wide around a cock, taking it deep and then pulling back to kiss the flushed tip before it sinks back down her throat. On her hands and knees with her tits swaying beneath her. A cock buried in her cunt from behind while the man pumps into her furiously. 

He’s fixed to the spot on the floor, watching as she’s railed from both ends, filled with cock and yet her eyes are watching him. Lifting one hand from the cushion she’s propped up on to crook her finger to him. Beckoning him to her. 

You see him walk in. Busy with the men that are inside you, but you had seen the suit and it had caught your interest. Few walk into this club as professionally dressed as him. He’s handsome, in a square, clean cut kind of way. The type of man who has a bleach blonde wife at home, two perfect kids and never - ever puts his clothes on the floor. He’s stiff and it makes you even more interested to find out why he is here. 

When he looks over at you, his eyes dilate. He’s interested, wanting. You watch him watching you for a moment before you motion him over. Calling him to you if he’s interested and waiting to see if he will move. 

When he’s called over, Max almost wants to look around but he knows you are calling to him. Swallowing and reaching up to pull his tie loose, waiting for just a beat before he starts to move. 

He’s coming over. You can see that he is handsome. His hair is an unnatural shade of blondish brown for his complexion, he would look better if he didn’t put Sun-In in his hair. His lips look soft and his brown eyes are filled with repressed desire and hesitation. He needs this, probably more than you do. 

He walks over to the small group, there are others watching, not undressing around you. Reaching out when he’s close enough to cup your cheek, feeling your throat move as you engulf the other man’s cock. His pinky ring cold as he touches your skin. 

He starts to undress, slowly, methodically. Stripping away the layers of fabric, armor in the form of suspenders and buttons, shined loafers and socks. Laid bare and his cock is already throbbing as it juts from his body. Aroused by the rawness, the lack of judgment and the lust that is swimming in your eyes as you drink him in. He doesn’t even know your name, but he will be a part of you. He will sink into you and feel you from the inside. Know you more intimately than a random stranger on the bus. 

It is only a few more minutes before the man fucking you cums, groaning as he fills the condom he’s wearing and slaps your ass as he pulls out of you. It’s the newcomers' turn. No one else has undressed or sidled up to you, so you reach for the bowl of prophylactics and hand him a rubber to put on. You don’t mind someone cumming in your mouth, but they won’t fuck your pussy or ass without a condom. He’s got a good cock, and you hope that he will be willing to go two rounds with you. You wouldn’t mind sucking him off. 

Your mouth is still busy, but you manage to twist your neck and roll onto your back for a different position as Max tears the condom open and rolls it down his cock after pulling his foreskin back. He’s groaning as he pumps himself, watching your throat distend around the length of the other man and admiring the way you don’t flinch away as he crams his cock down your esophagus. His balls are tapping your forehead, but you are spreading your thighs for him and he can see that you are slick with arousal. 

Your pussy is pretty, wet, and ready for him, all he has to do is line up and sink into you. Still, his hands caress your thighs as he shuffles closer, his cock in hand as he slides the head through your folds. His heart is pounding in his chest as he pushes inside you and feels the hot clutch of your cunt suck him in. 

Others join you, a nipple being pinched by a stray hand, a squeeze of your other tit. Slapping your thigh as the man starts to rock his hips and fuck you. The pulsing of the other man’s cock on your tongue captures your attention and you have to start swallowing as he begins to pump rope after sticky rope of cum down your throat.

Max has seen porn, he’s watched the low quality videos in the dark like a dirty secret, his hand around his cock and profound sense of shame after he’s done. Now, he’s in a porn. One that is being acted out live and he doesn’t have anything but pride puffing up his chest as he thrusts into you, pushing your mouth onto the cock that is pulsing in your throat before the man that is well drained and groaning happily is pulling his hips back. Another magically takes his place and caresses your lips before feeding you his cock. 

It’s intoxicating and arousing. Never imagining himself in a situation like this in his wildest dreams. Your cunt is clenching around him like a vice, fluttering wildly as he rocks into you. Your hand reaches down, grabbing his hand from your thigh and sliding it up to your tit, encouraging him to touch you, to immerse himself in this experience. 

It’s been so goddamn long since someone has wanted him to touch them. His personal pitfalls prevent him from making a connection and that small movement is like a balm to his bruised and weary soul. Cock twitching inside you, he grits his teeth and rocks harder, hearing the encouragement of the crowd around you. Goading him on until your body is jiggling, jarring forward from his thrusts and the other man starts to match his tempo, spearing his cock into your mouth right when Max is bottoming out inside you. 

You apparently love it, moaning and gargling around the length, body arching in pleasure and your hands touching both of them as much as you can from your helpless pose. All you can do is take what they give you, and you take it so well. 

Max hisses, eyes slipping closed as others touch you, the other man gasps and groans like crazy from the workings of your mouth. He’s getting close and he doesn’t want it to end. He wants this feeling forever. This high. 

Your body twitches and starts to shake, your legs tightening around his hips and Max chokes when you clamp down on him. Unable to stop himself from thrusting deep and grinding his hips while the shudders run down his spine and his body erupts in pleasure. Riding out the sensations as you flutter around him with the aftershocks of your own orgasm, making it even better since he knows you came. 

He rocks his hips until he starts to soften, unable to stop himself from caressing your thighs as he pauses for a moment before he pulls out of you, carefully holding the base of the condom. Another immediately steps into his place as he shuffles off the cushion, but he catches your eyes again, seeing the pleasure and acceptance in them. 

It might have been his first experience in a club dedicated to debauchery and gangbangs, but it won’t be his last. Max Lord will be back. 

[roguelov]

Hob and Morpheus would make their soulmate be so flustered with all of their fancy, old time flirting and compliments 🤭

They would! It’s their favorite past time to fluster you and the two of them are waxing poetry over you (also also Hob definitely didn’t learn poetry and how to write romantic stuff after the whole Shakespeare incident 😂)

“Well you certainly are radiant today, love,” Hob whispered into your ear as his arms wrapped around your waist.

Your body flushed at his sweet words. “Oh um thank you.”

Hob kissed your temple. “You are so very welcome.”

“Hello, my beloveds,” Morpheus strolled up to the pair of you. He first kissed Hob’s temple, then he swiftly took your hand kissing your knuckles. His eyes locked with yours as he pulled back. The sensation of his lips lingered on your skin.

“Are they not stunning today?” Hob purred.

“Very much,” Morpheus hummed. His thumb traced over your knuckles, unwilling to let you go. “But aren’t they always?”

“True, so very true.”

You turned your head. Heat wanted to steam off of your ears. You mumbled, “You two are awful.”

Hob chuckled. “How so? We are just in awe of you and your beauty?”

“Indeed,” Morpheus added. “Is it so wrong to comment on it?”

“You know what you’re doing,” you huffed.

“And what would that be,” Hob asked, smiling.

You grumbled, “Making me all flustered.”

Morpheus hummed with a smirk. He stepped closer, sandwiching you between the two men. With your hand still in his, he brought it up again placing another chaste kiss. “My love we simply are showering you in affection, nothing more.”

Your knees wobbled a bit at his other kiss, and the intensity in his eyes. You were suddenly very grateful that Hob held you so close to his chest.

Morpheus smirked at your bashful nature. “If you believe these measly comments are intended to fluster you then we have done an injustice. We can truly make you feel - as you may put it - ‘hot and bothered’.”

Hob hummed. “Oh yes such as -“ he dropped his head gently nibbling on your ear, “- love, your beauty rivals the sun, nothing can never beat its radiance.”

You immediately dropped your head, hiding your embarrassment.

Morpheus grabbed your chin, tilting your head up again. “Or say things as ‘your voice is a melody my heart yearns to hear every second, I cannot bare a day without such a sweet song’.”

Your eyes widened. You jerked your head out of his grip, turning to hide your face. The pair smiled, laughing under their breath. “You’re both still awful,” you whispered, trying to fight back on the heat ready to consume your being.

“Sorry, love,” Hob whispered still with a teasing tone.

“It’s fine,” you sighed. Yet, your heart raced at their poetic words. Such simple words and somehow they weaved them in such ways that left you breathless.

“We’ll stop,” Morpheus said softly.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

“For just a short time.”

Your head snapped up, seeing Morpheus’s sly smile. Hob burst out in laughter, while you’re left shaking your head. Yes, they were awful but it was more so incredibly sweet. Each compliment left you whirling and you loved the dizzying feeling, even if you need just a moment to breathe.