#thank you sun for reminding me how beautiful brown eyes can be

[princeturnip]

Golden hour

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

devotion. l General Marcus Acacius

Summary:  he returned to Rome in glory, he returned to you

Warnings:  smut, angst, unprotected sex (don't do it!), fingering, mention of pregnancy, a few nasty words

A/N: that was a quick shot. i hope you'll be gentle with me. your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

You saw perfectly how his brown eyes widened when he saw you in the crowd of guests in the Emperor's palace. The golden wreath on his curly dark hair, the sun-kissed body dressed in white and gold - he looked like one of the Gods you could worship in a temple. 

And wasn't he one of them? One of those legendary heroes? The one who brought glory to the Roman Empire. One of your Emperor's favorites.

Wasn't he the man you had loved for so long?

When he crossed the threshold of your home late in the evening, you could finally fall into each other's arms. In that moment, he was your Marcus, the man you loved more than life, to whom you had promised loyalty, to whom you had promised eternal devotion and faithfulness.

His warm, plush lips crushed against yours in a kiss full of longing and love that you had to keep so far from each other. Strong arms wrapped around you like vines, but you clung to him with your whole body, yearning for his closeness so much.

"Almost four years..." he sighed as he rested his forehead against yours "I counted every day, my love. And every day was unimaginable torture."

Your hand stroked his bearded cheek "I knew you would return. The Gods promised to give you back to me, and here you are. Safe and sound." Your fingers tenderly stroked the scar on his cheek, slipping into his hair interwoven with silver threads "I can't believe you're finally here."

Marcus' hands tightened around your waist "Tell me you're not just a beautiful dream..."

"I'm here, my love." You whispered, tenderly touching his lips "All yours." He pressed his lips to yours as if he had to make sure that you weren't a dream, laughing, you pulled away from him slightly "Marcus, we need to talk, so much has happened..."

"We have the whole next day, our whole lives for this. Please... Let's not talk tonight. I want to love you, adore you, caress your body." He sounded like a man possessed, hungry for your body "I need to remind myself of every curve of your body. I want to taste you and immerse myself in your sweetness. I beg you, my beloved..."

You couldn't refuse him, you didn't want to. The dream of the warmth and closeness of his body had haunted you almost since he left for that cursed war. You couldn't wait any longer.

The heavy door of your chamber closed, and after a moment you were both taking off your robes. Hands craving a familiar touch, lips searching for each other. Hot lips wandered around your neck when you felt the cool sheet under your fingers. Marcus raised himself on his shoulders, his dark as night eyes roaming your body.

"Give me a moment..." he said as you tried to pull him closer to you. "You're more beautiful than I remember you."

You laughed quietly, a little embarrassed by his confession. "I'm definitely older."

"As am I. But to me you'll always be equal to the goddesses."

"Don't say that, Marcus. Don't incur the wrath of the Gods, they can be jealous."

A mocking smile appeared on his face. "I'm not afraid! The earth could open up beneath me and swallow me alive, but I won't stop repeating it. You are a goddess, my love. I dedicate my life to serving you. Only you."

"Then do it. Use your body and all your strength to do it."

You didn't have to repeat it twice. Your lips connected again in a strong and deep kiss. His tongue invaded between your lips, extracting from you those sweet moans that returned to him during sleepless nights. 

His hard cock rested on your thigh, and you felt excitement and fear, it had been so long since you felt him inside but  you wanted him so much.

Marcus' lips slid down to your sternum, then your breast. He kissed it and bit it lightly, despite the time he still remembered everything that made your body tremble. When the nipple disappeared in his mouth you felt your walls tighten slightly, giving you a signal that you couldn't wait any longer. But it was Marcus who dominated you, doing whatever he wanted with your body.

When his long fingers moved over your slippery folds you moaned shamelessly.

"So thirsty..." he whispered, his lips brushing your belly "Let me prepare you first, love. Let me..." two fingers slid inside you with incredible ease, all the way to his knuckles "I've got you."

Your body arched like a string, the stretch felt so good. Marcus pulled his fingers out and after a moment he pushed them back in, watching your reaction with great pleasure.

"If you could see it." he kissed the inside of your thigh tenderly "So hungry, so greedy."

"Harder..." you moaned, grabbing his wrist and trying to take control, but he wouldn't let you.

He grabbed yours with his other hand, quickly brushed it with his lips, and then his fingers started moving faster and harder. You heard that lewd sound that showed how wet you were and how your body reacted to his caresses.

"Give me everything. Cum on my fingers, love." Marcus panted, feeling his hard cock throb at the sight of your body. "Don't torture yourself like that, love. Cum."

And you did. Your thighs clenched as a shiver of pleasure ran through your body, and a sweet moan escaped your throat. You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling your head buzzing, but suddenly Marcus took control again. 

His strong arms spread your thighs, and his hard cock slid inside you without warning. You lost your breath. Your eyes rolled back under your eyelids, and when his strong body pinned you to the bed, you knew there was no escape.

"Fuck..." he moaned loudly, dazed by the feeling. "You're so tight, so warm..."

"Marcus... I feel like you're going to tear me apart..." you moaned, taking his face in your hands and kissing him. "Gods!"

"Don't summon them, love." he mumbled quietly, brushing your lips "They'll be jealous of us."

His hand grabbed your leg under the knee and he lifted it slightly, thrusting into you even deeper. You didn't know how on earth it was possible, but his cock seemed to dig into you even more with each thrust. 

His body, his strength intoxicated you. Your beloved transformed under your fingers into a barbarian who came to your bed just to fuck you and use your body as he wished.

You felt another orgasm building inside you and you wanted to tell him that, but in an instant Marcus lifted himself up. Without leaving you he pulled you with him and sat on his heels, you fell onto his thighs, impaling yourself on him even more.

Your arms wrapped around his neck tighter, fingers entangled in his hair as he lifted your body and used it as he wanted to, to get what he came for.

"I'm so close, so close." he breathed into your ear. "I want to feel you again, give it to me. Give it to me!"

As if on command, your body gave in. Your walls trembled and squeezed around his manhood, you clung to him tighter as he now pressed you hard and violently against his cock. But Marcus was close too and soon you felt his body tense up and he poured into you, filling you up with his warm seed.

You were both panting, your bodies still sweaty and hot. His heartbeat mixed with yours and no matter how many breaths you took, it still wasn't enough.

"You're definitely not a dream." he murmured, kissing your shoulder gently.

"How can you be so sure?" you giggled, looking fondly at his blissful face.

"The Gods would have to be incredibly cruel if they let me experience immortality with you and then ordered me to return to mortal life." his fingers tenderly stroked your back "You have to be real." 

You kissed him tenderly feeling indescribable love for this man. At the same time, however, a small flame of anxiety rose in your heart thinking about the upcoming day.

He was torn from his sleep by the quiet sound of the door closing, and then your footsteps on the stone floor. He lazily rubbed his eyelids and opened them, noticing you pouring yourself a glass of water.

"Why did you get dressed?" His voice was hoarse, and it gave you shivers "I didn't say I was done with you."

You smiled, walking over to the bed and sitting on its edge "You were done with me at least three times last night, General." you noticed, leaning down and kissing his soft lips "You should rest your loins."

"I'll rest after death. Right now, I just want to keep my cock between your thighs, where it belongs." he replied "I've been thinking about it for almost four years and I have no intention of giving you up now."

Marcus noticed the smile disappearing from your face, and your gaze wandered to the window open to the garden. He knew that look. Something was worrying you and occupying your mind.

He sat down on the bed, his hand tenderly stroking your arm. "What's wrong, my dear? Something's on your mind."

"Marcus... So much has happened since you left." You said quietly. "I don't even know where to start... It all scares me so much."

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Tell me, because I can see how much you're struggling."

He saw you nervously squeezing your fingers, and your eyes avoiding his gaze. Finally, you stood up and took a few steps. Marcus watched you carefully as he put on his robe, a strange fear growing in his heart. 

What if this was all just a dream? What if you tell him to wake up now?

You were already opening your mouth to say something when a commotion in the hallway and quick footsteps tore your attention away. The door opened wide and a small boy rushed into the room.

"Mommy!" he called, running up to you and wrapping his small arms around your legs. 

Right behind him, a woman in a servant's robe ran in, apologizing from the entrance. "My lady, he wanted to see you so much. I told him you had a guest, but he..."

"Nothing happened, Tullia." You replied, smiling faintly, clearly embarrassed. "Please, take him to the garden." You ran your fingers through the boy's dark, curly hair. "I'll see you in a moment, okay, little bug?"

The boy smiled and grabbed the servant's hand, gave Marcus a quick glance with his brown eyes, and left the room, leaving you in complete silence.

You could clearly feel the tension that had grown between you. You wrapped your arms around yourself, as if you wanted to hide, and looked up at Marcus. Surprise was written on his face. His dark eyebrows furrowed, and his jaw clenched. He stared at the door, and only your voice made him look at you.

"I didn't know how to tell you this..." you whispered "I've been planning this in my head for almost four years, and now I'm standing in front of you and I'm speechless."

"You're a mother." His voice was low, you nodded "All this time I thought you were waiting for me, and you..."

"Marcus, let me explain, please." You wanted to approach him, but he just raised his hand, and you froze.

He swallowed, and his dark eyes were fixed on you like daggers ready to attack "Before I left we promised each other... You promised me that you would wait for me. That you would be faithful to me."

"And I was." You groaned.

"Don't lie to me!" he roared, and you stepped back, scared "For four years I lived only thanks to the thought that you were waiting for me, that you loved me despite everything. And now? You promised me!"

"Let me explain, Marcus." Your eyes stung from the tears that were seeping into your eyelids. "You don't understand..."

He was like a beast locked in a cage. His eyes darkened and his hands clenched into fists. It was the first time he looked at you with such contempt and disappointment, and your heart was breaking with every passing second.

"I thought you were devoted to me. That you committed to waiting for me, if I knew you were just a whore..."

These words were the last straw that broke the camel's back. You suddenly straightened up and raised your head, looking at Marcus defiantly.

"Don't talk to me about commitment, devotion and loyalty when that's what I've been doing for four years." you said sharply, you saw that he opened his mouth, but this time you didn't let him get a word in. "I was pregnant when you left Rome with the army. For many months I hid it from my surroundings, but I still heard the whispers and gossip. I carried him under my heart, gave birth to him and I raised him alone, despite everything. Despite the lack of guarantee that you'll come back. So you have no right to talk to me about commitment and loyalty, or judge me without knowing everything! Julius is your son. You can either accept it or leave." 

Marcus looked as if you had stabbed him at that moment. There was silence and only the laughter coming from the garden tore you out of this freeze. The General approached the door leading to the garden. Between the bushes and flowers he saw the silhouettes of a few boys playing, including the one who called you mother.

"I didn't know..." he said quietly, his eyes following the boy carefully.

"How were you supposed to know?"

"Call him."

"Marcus, please..." you whispered, a cold shiver running down your spine.

He looked at you, but you couldn't read anything on his face. "Call him, please. Or I will." He could see, however, that you were unable to utter a word. "Julius! Come here, boy."

The sounds of fun faded away and after a moment you heard the shuffling of sandals as the boy approached you, dragging a wooden sword behind him. He stopped in front of Marcus, but his frightened gaze went straight to you, afraid that he had done something wrong.

Marcus looked at him carefully, towering over the boy. Finally, he spoke.

"Do you know who I am?"

Julius's eyes went to the man's face. He nodded.

"A general. Mom told me." he said quietly. "A soldier. Like my dad."

You saw Marcus give you a quick look, but he couldn't resist asking another question. "Where's your father, boy?"

"At war. Far away." He looked down and shuffled his shoes. "Mom says he's brave."

"And are you brave?"

You covered your mouth with your hand to hold back a sob as Julius shook his head.

"I'm not. Sometimes I'm scared, so then I go to mom."

Marcus crouched down in front of the boy so that their faces were at the same height. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of the resemblance between them.

"Where did you get that sword?" Marcus continued.

Julius visibly perked up. "Mom gave it to me. To make me brave."

"Will you show it to me?"

The boy handed him his wooden sword and Marcus looked at it. "It's a very good sword." Julius' face lit up with a smile.

He accepted the sword back from the General and you had the impression that he stood more straight and proud. Marcus looked at him for a moment longer, then ruffled his hair asking him to go back to playing.

"I didn't know what to tell him when he started asking about his father." You started quietly as Marcus watched the boy who had already run after his friends. "I didn't know if you'd ever come back... I wanted to believe it, but he needed answers. That's all I could give him."

"He is..."

"Perfect." You finished for him. "He's smart, empathetic, sensitive and not at all as cowardly as he says. He's afraid of storms, so he comes to me at night."

Marcus turned around looking at you with tenderness. You noticed tears in his eyes and after a moment they ran down your cheeks.

"I wanted him to be safe." You sobbed. "I thought that when you came back and saw him... Every day I saw you in his eyes."

Warm hands grabbed your face as Marcus put his forehead to yours. You placed your hands on his, trying to calm your breathing.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered "I beg you, forgive me for doubting you. I didn't expect this. The thought that you could marry someone else, give him children..."

"How could I do that? I gave my heart to you, Marcus. For eternity."

Warm lips brushed yours.

"You gave me a son. You're so brave. Too good for me... I don’t deserve you and him." he whispered "I'm sorry I doubted you, my love."

"Please, don't talk about it anymore. Just get to know him, and you'll surely love him too."

"But will he love me?" doubt sounded in his voice "Julius doesn't know his father."

You tenderly stroked his face, wanting to erase all worries from him.

"Julius knows his father is brave, strong, and that he loved me more than anything in his life. He will welcome you with open arms, Marcus. Just give yourself a chance. Give us all a chance." 

He nodded and snuggled up to you with all his might. When he returned to Rome in glory, his greatest dream was to see you again. And you gave him so much more. You gave him more than the Emperor could.

You gave him life.

☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[pellucid-constellations]

If It All Fell

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Nothing big in this one. Memory loss?? Overprotectiveness?? Azriel losing it (but not that much just yet)??

a/n: Hi this is going to be a series :) thank you for reading <3

Part 2 ♡

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

As you blinked through the haziness, a dull throb echoed along the base of your skull. You sat up abruptly, feeling rocks and twigs digging into the backs of your legs, and winced as several shouts attacked your senses. You recognized none of them.

Gods, your head hurt. 

A few more blinks and the sun made an appearance, light assaulting your too-sensitive eyes. The leaves beneath your hands crunched and blew away in the balmy breeze, a few flecks of green still stuck to your palm as you brought it up to rub your head. 

“Don’t,” a feminine voice warned, and it was then that you pinpointed one of the shouts from earlier. But it was warmer now, calm. “Don’t touch your head, y/n. Azriel and Cas are getting help.”

You scrunched your face up but obeyed the command, taking steady breaths to try and manage the pain. The woman in front of you—blonde hair, brown eyes, a fierce expression—was like no one you had ever seen before. She was so incredibly beautiful you weren’t sure if you were actually awake. 

You took a pause. 

And then another. 

Who was the last person you had seen? 

“Where am I?” you asked instead, trying to appear sane. Your voice sounded unfamiliar. 

The woman’s expression pinched. “You’re in Spring Court. You remember that, don’t you? Rhysand sent us.” 

“Rhysand?” you repeated, the name foreign on your tongue. “Sent us for what?” 

“Well, we were supposed to be rallying Tamlin into re-fortifying his borders to win back the Summer Court’s good graces, but that beast is an idiot. Forging agreements with witches was quite possibly the worst move he could have made.” 

“Witches?” 

“I know, unbelievable,” the blonde ranted, sitting back on her heels beside you. “We came to help only to find out he had helped himself to the wicked. I knew he was distraught after Feyre, but to turn to this?” 

The pounding in your head was making it increasingly difficult to follow the tale the woman was spinning. Perhaps if you had more backstory, more information, you would understand what she was talking about. 

Desperate for that connection, you winced as you asked, “Um, not to offend, but… who are you?” 

Her aggravated expression crumpled into one of shock and concern. Her mouth parted, her brows came together at a point, and then she shifted, bringing her hands to your shoulders. When you flinched at the touch, the woman pulled her hands back, her fingers curling into her palms. “You don’t recognize me?” she asked, trepidation lining her tone. 

You shook your head, immediately regretting the action as pain shot up your neck. 

“Not at all?” she whispered. When your face remained blank, she pulled her hands into her lap. “Do you know who you are?” 

Another lapse in silence. 

“My Gods…” 

Darkness materialized nearby—swirling darkness. It reminded you of shadows and brought you a sense of peace for the first time since you opened your eyes. 

But then people started emerging from the darkness, taking up space in the vast forest, and that peace collapsed. Two large men with wings stomped against the twig-covered floor, causing a raucous disturbance as they began hurrying an older woman out from behind them. They both spoke in low, rushed tones and you wanted all the sound to stop. 

You ignored the woman’s directions from before and squeezed your head in your hands, your eyes snapping shut. It didn’t work, and you hadn’t expected it to, but Gods did your head hurt. It hurt and it was plagued by an impossible pressure that wouldn’t seem to let up.

“Mor, how long has she been awake?” one of the men asked. You felt him kneel beside you, felt him place rough, textured hands on your wrists in an attempt to pry your hands down. But he was gentle���so very gentle. 

“Azriel, she—” 

“Mor, if you could move aside. I need to look at her,” a much older voice chimed in. 

There was shuffling around you, new hands pressing to your face. You heard whispering that you couldn’t make out, and then the panic set in. 

You didn’t know these people. When you first woke up, the disorientation was focal; you were concerned about the pounding in your head and your whereabouts and that was it. But there were so many people here now, and you didn’t know any of them. 

You didn’t know who you were. Did they know who you were? They had to. 

“Majda, stop. You’re scaring her,” the man beside you, Azriel you’d heard him be called, practically hissed. 

Majda only hummed. “I am doing the job you brought me here to do. If I can’t work around a mating bond I will send you away, Shadowsinger.” 

Your breath came out in faster huffs, each one deeper than the last. You opened your eyes to try and gain some footing in the situation, still keeping your hands glued to your head. 

Your gaze went out before it went in, and you saw the blonde woman, Mor, beside a much larger man. His shoulder-length hair was messy and windswept, and he sent you a bittersweet, sympathetic smile that you couldn’t replicate. He watched with furrowed brows as your eyes darted from him, to Mor, to the wide forest around you. 

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t take her home first,” the man standing by the trees grumbled. “She would be more comfortable there.”  

“We didn’t want to move her with a head injury,” Azriel growled. “Not one from a witch.” 

His voice sent your attention towards him. Azriel was on his knees beside you, holding your wrists with his thumb circling the back of your hand in delicate strokes. He was painfully beautiful and you were left to wonder, yet again, if you were truly awake. When your gazes met, something foreign pulled at your ribs and the pressure sent an unexpected scream past your lips. You hunched over in a panic, yanking yourself away from those beside you.

That wasn’t right. None of this felt right. 

The older woman, Majda, cursed, staring after you as you pushed yourself further and further away. Each movement sent a new ache aflame in your head, but that didn’t stop you because you needed to get away. Your feet kicked up dirt and rocks and your hands tore with the effort but this wasn’t right. 

Azriel reached you before you could hit the tree just inches from your back. He held your head in his own hands and locked you in his gaze, keeping you trapped in the yellows and browns and the flecks that joined them. He took exaggerated breaths, wings flared out to block out the sun, and then he began whispering. 

It took a moment for you to understand the words, your heavy breaths mostly drowning them out. 

Something swished in the distance. More whispering, more secrets. 

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.” 

When Azriel’s voice finally came through, it was like a lifeline. 

“I’m here, my love. You’re safe. I know it hurts, I know.” 

It was odd, finding peace in a stranger. The shadows that seemed to dance around him swirled into shapes that framed your skin, and some of the panic felt foolish in their presence. They twisted and curved, somehow amplifying the cool tone of Azriel’s voice as he promised you things you had no capacity to understand. 

But he never stopped talking, not even when your gaze left his to follow his shadows instead. If anything, the action seemed to spur on the small beings more, and you wondered—for a brief moment—if he was controlling them. 

Something like amazement seeped into your panic as you whispered, “Who are you?” 

You didn’t know the man in front of you, that much was true, but he looked so… broken at your words. Something akin to pain clashed with his beautiful features as his jaw clenched to an unnatural degree. You were surprised that his teeth didn’t crack beneath the pressure. You wondered what else he could withstand—what atrocities he’d seen to make his eyes turn so dark when you spoke your words out loud. 

“No,” Azriel growled, chin hooking over his shoulder. His wings pulled back to reveal a new man, but this one looked slightly different from the others. No wings, different eyes. “You stay out of her head, Rhysand.” 

Rhysand. He was the one that had sent you here.

The concern on Rhysand’s face looked unnatural, like it didn’t belong there. “Az, it could help. Let me help her.” 

“You could make it worse. We have no idea what that witch did to her.” As Azriel spoke, shadows began to cover you more and more. Your sight became dim, your body camouflaged in darkness. 

“Looking in could be the only way to figure that out.” The next bout of silence was uncomfortable. The pounding in your head persisted, exacerbating to the point of tears along your waterline. “I know what you’re feeling, Azriel. I get it. But I want to help her, brother. You know I would never hurt her.” 

A twig snapped beneath a boot.

Azriel growled low in his chest. 

The pounding gave way to a sharp pain, and it made your senses lighter, less focused. 

You couldn't remember ever passing out before, but you thought it might feel like this. 

“Stay away from her.” 

“She doesn’t remember you, Azriel.” 

A choked breath. “Don’t touch my mate.” 

Darkness that surpassed the shadows finally granted you a reprieve from the pain. 

Maybe you'd wake up and this would all make sense.

Part 2 ♡

[farfromstrange]

Fictober Day 1: Baking Cookies

Fictober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Prompt: Baking Cookies (🌼)

Summary: You convince Matt to bake cookies with you, and it’s a rather… domestic scene.

Warnings: Tooth-rotting fluff. That’s it. That’s the post.

Word Count: 1.6k

A/n: Day 1 of Fictober and we’re starting with something sweet! The -ber months always get me in the mood for cookies, especially chai tea or matcha cookies, so that’s what inspired me. Who wouldn’t want to bake cookies with Matt on a cold and rainy day? I know I would. If you want to be tagged for all fics of this event, let me know. Other than that, I am using my respective fluff and smut tag lists that I use for just about everything I write. But if you want to be tagged for both and aren't already on my tag list, feel free to tell me in the comments! Now, I’m so happy we all get to do another October together, and I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve got cooking for you! May you all come out of this sufficiently satisfied.

Read Me On AO3!

The streets of New York are bathed in a disarray of colors as dead leaves continue to fall off the half-green trees. Before you knew it, summer had slipped away into a moment in time. The heatwave that had terrorized the city turned colder with the end of September, and then suddenly, October was knocking on your door. 

You watch the rain trickle down the kitchen windows. The air smells of roasted cinnamon and coffee beans. The billboard outside shines brighter than the afternoon sun stuck behind a sky of gray, throwing a blanket of dark purple over the apartment, and the radio has been playing the same Beach House song on repeat for the past hour. But as you look over at the love of your life, his rough fingers delicately dancing over the label on the sugar jar to figure out what’s inside, there is no doubt in your mind that this is where you belong.

Matt is wearing the maroon sweater you knitted for him last Christmas. Once the seasons start changing, he pulls it out of the closet like he couldn’t wait to wear it again. Your hands crafted something for him to wear so he wouldn’t have to suffer through the cold anymore; there are not enough words in the English language to describe how much that means to him, but you know. You always know.

He looks almost content, standing there with his hair tousled, glasses discarded somewhere in the living room, and a faint smile on his lips. His brown eyes are so soft they remind you of the hazelnut coffee you shared before you suggested, “You want to bake some cookies?”

Much to your surprise, Matt didn’t argue. You expected him to tell you that it’s not Christmas yet, and you were prepared to tell him that cookies don’t need a specific season to be baked. But his face lit up as soon as the words had left your mouth, and he was more than eager to spend the rest of the afternoon in the kitchen with you. 

“How much sugar do we need?” he asks. 

You look down at the handwritten chai cookie recipe he picked out. “Uh, half a cup,” you say. 

He nods, eyebrows furrowing in utmost concentration as his hands feel around the countertop for the measuring cups. You gently place your hand over yours and guide it to the cold plastic. 

His smile widens. “Thank you.”

You look at him like he’s the only man in the world, and to you, he is. It’s not often the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen lets someone into his heart, you learned, but you only fell harder for him when he finally did. He’s beautiful and not at all perfect, but he is all you want.

“Sugar?” Matt snaps you out of your thoughts. 

“Right,” you murmur. “Half a cup.”

He can probably hear your heart racing, hammering against your ribcage. You guide your joined hands into the sugar, filling it only half before moving over to the bowl with the other dry ingredients. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even comment on how flustered you are, he just holds on tightly to your hands as though he is afraid you might slip away if he doesn’t. 

It is a different kind of intimacy that’s almost sensual, bodies brushing as you get a whisk to mix it all together, your hand over his and the rain pattering against the window in tune with the radio. 

The cinnamon and the chai tea mix with the faint note of Matt’s cologne on your body, on his shirt, and the scent is unlike anything you could possibly describe. You find yourself leaning closer, impossibly closer, barely stirring anymore. He’s home. He’s your home. 

“Is this part of the recipe?” Matt murmurs. 

You hum. “This step is called stirring the batter.”

He smiles against your temple. “Mh. I like this step.”

“Me too.”

One of his hands slips from yours and comes to rest around your waist, swaying you to the music. You wouldn’t dare break this magic.

“Is there a step called ‘Kiss my future Mrs. Murdock’?” he asks then.

Blood rushes to your head. You’re so fucking happy. A giggle slips past your lips. “I think that’s the next step,” you say. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He bridges the gap between you like a man starved, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that knocks the air right out of your fragile lungs. His hand tugs you just a little closer. You belong to me, the action screams. And while you would never allow yourself to be considered someone’s property, it is nice to be wanted. To be needed. To be desired like you are the only thing on his mind, and treated right. Because you deserve it.

After a moment, he pulls away. His unfocused eyes roam your face, but you know he is only listening to your heartbeat, smelling you, feeling you—that’s how he sees you. 

“What’s next?” he asks softly. 

You peek down at the batter, then look back at him. Your mind is still reeling from the kiss, but you manage to pull yourself together enough to say, “Wet ingredients.”

“Oh?”

“Not like that, you pervert!” 

Matt chuckles, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking about it.” You swat his chest. “I wanted to bake cookies, so let’s bake some damn cookies.”

If you don’t pull away now, you’re sure you won’t get anywhere tonight. 

“Is that what we’re doing?” he teases. 

You nod. “That’s what we’re doing.”

He takes whatever you give him, and does whatever you tell him to until the cookies are finally in the oven. He doesn’t waste another second before pulling you back into his arms.

“Hi,” he says. 

You smile back at him. “Hi to you, too.”

“You forgot this…” You watch as he reaches into his pocket to pull out a ring—your ring.

It was only natural for him to ask you to marry him. He’d been waiting an eternity to do so. No one knows him like you do. No one sees him like you do, and no one loves him quite like you. You’ve seen him at his best and his worst, and you love him not despite but regardless of all of his demons. He doesn’t know what he did to ever deserve you. Quite frankly, he’s not sure he will ever be worthy, but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try.

Matt had gotten so used to people walking out on him before you came along that he truly believed he was beyond redemption. Beyond saving. But then you tore open the manifest of his soul, read all the pages, and you gave him your heart anyway. He has not let a day go by where he hasn’t at least tried to do right by you. To take care of you. To love you. To carry you in his very hands like the fucking ethereal being that you are. He’s so scared of losing you, he sometimes loses sight of what he wants just to make you happy, but it’s worth seeing the smile on your face when he brings you flowers he thinks smell like you, or when he gets dinner from your favorite restaurant to surprise you after a long day at work. 

Matt’s only purpose in life is to make you happy because he knows you give him the world in return, a kind of love he never thought he would get to experience. It’s unconditional, it’s deep, and at times, it hurts, but he’s learning what it is like to appreciate the life he was given.

He would steal the stars for you if you wanted them. He would die for you, and sometimes he thinks he might even kill for you. Break all of his rules just to make sure you stay unharmed. He would go up against God, even, if it meant you wouldn’t have to suffer. He would not survive losing you, and sometimes, that scares him.

It has been a long road for him, and at times it felt like he was carrying a wooden cross on his back like Jesus did, but all the suffering eventually led to a sense of peace. He learned how to love again—to love you. After Elektra, after putting Fisk away, after everything, he allowed himself to settle down. And he knew shortly after he met you that he was going to marry you. 

You wrap your hand around the ring in his hand, and he gasps softly as he returns to reality. “Didn’t want it to get dirty,” you whisper. 

Matt slips it on your finger, and it feels again like the first time he did it. “I know. I kept it safe for you,” he says. A pause, and then, “I love you… Mrs. Murdock.”

He will never tire of saying it. Not even when you’re old and gray and you can’t remember where you put your godforsaken glasses. 

You wrap your arms around his neck. “I love you, Mr. Murdock. And I can’t wait to marry you.”

The honesty in your voice overwhelms him. “You mean that?” 

“With all my heart,” you promise.

The words take a second to seep in, to withstand the doubts that are always raging inside of him, but then he pulls you in, and he kisses you again. He kisses you like his life depends on it, the delicious smell of chai tea cookies filling the air, and it’s the safest you know you are ever going to be—here, with him, and in his arms. 

@ebathory997 @the-b33skn33s @scoliobean @drmeghanjones @lanae111 @gpenguin666 @linamarr @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @ethereal-blaze @littleagxs @lucienofthelakes

[mxstellatayte]

OSCAR AND ACTION 2 !! POLITE OSCAT !! IM A FIEND >:D

nsfw under the cut <3 minors can lurk but please do not interact!

this one's a bit long because it's for victoria my beloved <3 love you bestie

the melbourne sun shines through the windows, and you slowly open your eyes, smiling when you're met with a familiar sight. your sleep-stiff hands reach up to gently move oscar's hair away from his face, the brown locks still somehow maintaining the annoyingly perfect swoop even in his sleep. he's beautiful. your legs are tangled with his below the sheets, the t-shirt you'd thrown on before falling asleep smells like him, and you don't have a care in the world thanks to the f1 winter break being in full swing.

oscar's eyebrows twitch when your fingertips accidentally brush his cheekbone, and he inhales deeply as he shifts. he groans, slowly opening his eyes and smiling at you sleepily. "good morning, baby," he says, his scratchy and deep morning voice setting off alarms in your brain.

"good morning, osc," you reply with a smile, wiggling your way up to press a kiss to his lips, but groan a bit when your thighs press together and the bruises that oscar had bitten into the soft meat of your legs the night before. the pain sets off more alarms in your brain, and you feel heat pooling in your tummy. "do we have anything going on today?"

"not that I'm aware of. why, do you have something up your sleeve that I'm unaware of?" you grin and shake your head, untangling your legs from him and stretching out your stiff muscles. oscar, realizing that he's stiff as well, mirrors you, stretching his entire body in a way that reminds you of the memes you're seen on twitter and tiktok comparing him to a polite cat. every time you've woken up with oscar, he's always stretched in the same way: he rolls onto his back, reaches his arms over his head, (holy muscles, wow,) and presses at the headboard to find some resistance for his torso to elongate. the groan that rumbles from his chest and out of his mouth as his eyes scrunch closed reminds you of how he'd looked the right before, his hands grabbing desperately at your hips, less so to guide you and more to ground himself, as you rocked your hips against him and filled you up so perfectly. "you alright, baby?" you whine in response, burying your face in his bicep before your invasive thoughts win and you bite down. hard.

you were expecting oscar to yelp or shore you off or maybe even laugh- your oral fixation is no surprise, and it's the reason oscar has a baby teeter in his backpack. what you weren't expecting, however, was for him to moan.

"scar?"

"fuck, baby, do that again, please." who would you be to refuse when he asked so nicely?so you bite down again, this time on a different part of his bicep you've careful to not bite hard enough for it to bruise but still add enough pressure to provide oscar some pleasure. the sounds he's making would be sinful normally, but with the addition of his sleep-deepened voice, you can't help but heave yourself up so that you're straddling oscar's hips the way you were last night.

oh.

he's hard.

"oscar," you mumble between bites, this time on his thick neck, "need you inside me. please."

"yeah." oscar nods below you, his breath heavy and his hips already wiggling beneath your cunt, seeking any friction they can get. "yeah. wanna fuck you" moments later, oscar's t-shirt is shoved up to your armpits and his mouth is attached to your right nipple as his hand grasps at your left breast and his hips thrust in and out of you at a perfectly lazy and unhurried pace. his cam from last night forms a milky ring around the base of his cock, and when oscar looks down to where you've joined and sees that, he thinks his heart stops a little bit.

"osc..." he's pulled back to reality by the feeling of your legs around his waist and the sounds of your high-pitched whines, sounding so perfectly fucked-out.

"yeah? what's up, baby? you okay?" he slows his pace momentarily and you almost sob, the loss of stimulation nearly painful.

"'m okay, just... so close. need to cum, please, oscar, please, can i cum?"

"yeah, baby. cum for me." oscar's fingers find your clit, and the combination of the added stimulation and his sleepy voice mumbling praises into your ear as he follows you into his own orgasm has you unable to form a single coherent thought, the only thing in your mind screaming "oscar, oscar, oscar."

[softsturn]

the beach - m.s

⩩ pairing: matt x fem!reader

⩩ summary: matt is caught jerking off to his best friend (inspired by @heartstreet !! full creds to them for this idea)

⩩ warnings: masturbation, handjob, p-in-v, half assed writing at the end.

⩩ a/n: sorry i haven’t posted much, its been so hard to think of ideas. i wanted to make a part two of what i last posted but i literally don’t know how to continue it😭 thank you for all the likes and follows!! pls leave me requests :)

Describing the bond between you and Matt exceeds the simplicity a mere friendship. Growing up, you lived only a few houses away from his, you shared the same schools, and practically every experience was a joint venture. It wasn't just common knowledge; it was an undeniable truth that wherever you went, a blue-eyed boy with brown hair was sure to follow, mirroring your every step like a lost puppy. The invisible tie binding you two seemed unbreakable, preventing you from straying far apart.

Now, at Cape Cod, a destination woven into the fabric of your cherished summer memories, you eagerly await Matt and his family’s arrival. Setting up foldable chairs and towels on the sandy shores, you can hardly contain your anticipation, eager to continue the tradition of shared moments under the sun.

As if on cue, his family strolled towards the beach, carrying an assortment of towels, bags, chairs, and a cooler. Your face lit up with a vibrant smile upon spotting the three identical boys approaching with palpable excitement. They placed their belongings on the sand, and you greeted them eagerly.

Matt's eyes widened noticeably, practically popping out of his sockets as he unabashedly drank in the sight of you. While you maintained your usual level of beauty, his gaze lingered on your figure. Stepping out of your comfort zone, you had chosen a two-piece bikini opposed to a one piece like you normally wore, showcasing newfound confidence in your evolving body. The swimsuit hugged you in all the right places, baring your torso and clinging snugly to your curves. Matt found himself caught in a momentary, lustful gaze, slightly zoning out as Nick and Chris enthusiastically hyped you up in the background.

"You look so good girl!" exclaimed Nick, with Chris joining in laughter, while you, feeling a bit shy, crossed your arms over your stomach.

Coming back to reality from his fleeting thoughts, Matt nodded and offered you a small, genuine smile. "You look..." he hesitated, carefully choosing his words to avoid any discomfort for you. "Pretty," he mumbled sheepishly, prompting a soft blush to grace your face. Matt's compliments held a unique significance, seeming to carry more weight than others, his opinion reigning supreme in your mind.

"Thank you," you replied with a shy giggle, while Nick and Chris exchanged amused glances, furrowing their brows at the subtle dynamics unfolding between the two of you. The unspoken connection, the palpable undercurrent of something more than friendship, was evident to everyone around. Jokes from your parents about an impending marriage and teasing from Matt's brothers were constant reminders of the unspoken truth – you and Matt shared a love that transcended platonic feelings, even if the explicit words hadn't been uttered.

After a few hours under the warm sun, the faint emergence of sunburn and light freckles adorned your face, telling tales of days spent soaking up the heat. Meanwhile, Matt wrestled with his thoughts, a delicate balance between loyalty to your friendship and the desire that threatened to breach inappropriate territories. He harbored a profound fear of jeopardizing the trust you shared or causing any discomfort, acutely aware that losing you was a risk he couldn't fathom.

As you stood, engrossed in gathering your belongings and bending over slightly, Matt couldn't suppress the way his gaze involuntarily traced the curves of your figure, particularly fixating on your ass. His mind danced with forbidden scenarios, imagining actions he both longed for and felt conflicted about. Sensing a warmth spreading through him, he nervously looked away, trying to prevent any telltale signs of his internal struggle.

You straightened up, holding your possessions with a toothy grin, completely oblivious to the subtle turmoil in Matt's mind. "I'll see you back at the house," you said softly. Matt offered a slight nod and joined his brothers in packing up their belongings. As you made your way to your car, your parents loading up the trunk, you settled into the back seat, succumbing slowly to sleep, the exhaustion of the day catching up with you.

Waking up with a groan, you found your parents' car parked by the side of the road in front of the triplets' house, just a few doors down from your own. The plan was to spend the night at their place, a routine that had become usual given your inclination to seek comfort in their home over your own. Extracting yourself from the car, you grabbed your overnight bag, bidding farewells to your parents as you watched them drive away.

Your bathing suit clung persistently to your body, your hair still damp, and the weariness in your limbs yearning for the promise of relaxation. Shuffling into Matt's home without bothering to knock, the unspoken familiarity of years spent together allowed you the privilege of simply letting yourself in. Passing through the kitchen, Matt's parents greeted you with warm smiles as you entered the living room.

There, Matt, Nick, and Chris were sprawled on the couch, engrossed in a movie that you were sure they had seen at least a thousand times. When Matt's eyes met yours, a soft expression played on his face, evident in the effort to maintain eye contact with your face rather than letting his gaze wander.

"Hey," he murmured, and you returned the greeting with a gentle smile, playfully ruffling his hair as you stood over him. "Hey, I'm gonna go shower. I'll join you guys if you're still out here when I'm done." With that, you ventured down the hall, heading toward the guest bedroom.

In the midst of a hot shower, as you washed away the residue of salty water and sand, Matt and his brothers grew disinterested in the movie, dispersing to their separate bedrooms. Collapsing onto his bed with a weary sigh, exhaustion permeated Matt's body. Turning to his phone, he absentmindedly scrolled through various social media apps. Refreshing his Instagram feed, he stumbled upon a recent post you had shared before stepping into the shower.

The post featured a series of photos taken by Nick during your beach outing. One image captured you from the side, accentuating your ass and curves, while another showcased the contours of your cleavage and perky boobs from the front. Although the intention behind the pictures was innocent, Matt's mind became inundated with impure thoughts. Consumed by a sense of guilt, he recognized the inappropriateness of his desires, grappling with conflicting emotions. You were his best friend, and he was acutely aware that such lascivious thoughts were unwarranted. It was more than mere lust; he harbored genuine love for you and a desire to be a person deserving of your affection.

As Matt stared at his screen, a warmth enveloped his body, and he found himself unable to suppress the physical reaction, a boner forming in his pants. He felt conflicted, but it wasn’t like you knew what he was thinking, or doing. Succumbing to the intensity of his desire, he pulled his pants down enough to free himself, his cock springing out of his boxers. He took his cock into his right hand, phone in his left hand, and he began to stroke himself, allowing his imagination to run wild with scenarios that had occupied his dreams. The room echoed with subtle grunts and whimpers as he finally started to release the pent-up feelings that had plagued him throughout the day.

You emerged from the invigorating shower, enveloped in a towel, the sensation of cleanliness and renewal coursing through you. Exiting the bathroom, you ventured into the guest bedroom designated for your night's rest, shutting the door behind you. As you delved into your bag, extracting essentials like panties, shorts, and a tank top, the soft fabrics embraced you once you shed the towel. Nighttime rituals of hair brushing, skincare, and teeth cleaning completed, you settled into the guest bedroom, a sanctuary that had become almost like your own.

The tranquility was fleeting, interrupted by a shiver that prompted a quest for warmth. Rummaging through your bag, you discovered the absence of a hoodie – an oversight that led you down the hall to Matt's bedroom. Assuming he'd still be awake, you envisioned a simple request to borrow one of his hoodies. Little did you anticipate the unexpected scene awaiting you.

Without bothering to knock, a habit formed over years of friendship, you barged into Matt's room, focused on your hoodie mission. "I need to borrow a hoodie; it's freezing—" your words trailed off as your gaze absorbed the shocking sight. Matt, in his bed, his hand pumping up and down his cock, his phone displaying pictures of you. A gasp escaped him as your presence registered, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of surprise and guilt. "Y/N..." he uttered, his phone slipping from his hand onto the bed, his hand movements abruptly halted in the realization of the awkward situation.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry; I didn't think—I should've knocked. I'll just go get one from Nick," you mumbled nervously, ready to retreat. The air hung heavy with the unspoken tension, both of you grappling with the potential ramifications on your friendship. Before you could exit, Matt called to you, conflicted between wanting you to stay and the desire to erase this awkward moment.

"Don't go," he uttered, wincing at his own words, attempting to clarify that he wasn't making advances or asking for anything. You stood there, caught in a surreal tableau, uncertain about how to navigate this unexpected revelation. Blinking in an attempt to regain composure, you voiced a question laden with curiosity and awkwardness.

"Do you... do this often?" your brows furrowed, your gaze drifting toward his needy cock. Matt sighed, grappling with shame, attempting to rein in his emotions. "Jerk off? Or jerk off to you..." he replied, injecting a hint of humor to alleviate the palpable tension.

"Jerk off to me," you clarified, offering a sheepish smile, grateful for his attempt to inject some levity. Matt, in a vulnerable admission, stumbled through an explanation, striving to avoid sounding like a creep. The guilt weighed heavily on him, sensing that he had betrayed the sanctity of your friendship.

"This is the first time—I'm sorry. You just looked so pretty all day, and I couldn't... I don't know," he rambled, his remorse evident. Expecting you to recoil, Matt braced for the consequences of his impure thoughts. Yet, to his surprise, you stepped closer, the bed dipping as you sat on the edge near his legs. Your eyes danced everywhere but on his throbbing cock.

"It's okay; I'm not mad," you reassured, the tension easing with your understanding words. In that moment, you appreciated the side of Matt that could inject humor even into the most awkward situations, and despite the strangeness of the circumstance, a reassuring smile graced your lips.

"You're not?" he asked, confusion etching his face as his gaze reached the end of the bed where you were. The bewilderment stemmed from the expectation of your anger; he believed he deserved your fury. You shook your head, dispelling any doubts that lingered in his mind. "I'm not mad," you affirmed, inhaling deeply before contemplating the weight of your next words. The undeniable truth of their mutual feelings lay bare, an unignorable reality that both had been evading.

"Do you want me to help you?" you inquired, addressing the underlying tension. Matt hesitated, shaking his head in a refusal. Your offer, though tempting, made him reluctant, not wanting you to feel obliged, and questioning his own worthiness of such an intimate gesture. “Y/N… you don’t have to.”

Sighing, you crawled to sit on his knees, his cock twitching right before you, aching for release. It wasn't about obligation; it was about love. You wanted to be the one to bring him pleasure. "I know, I want to," you reassured, meeting his gaze as he deliberated. "Please," he whimpered, desperation evident on his face. Taking it as a signal, you palmed him, your hand trembling slightly as you sought confirmation in his eyes, ensuring every move was met with consent.

As you encountered nothing but longing in his gaze, your hand tentatively began to move, gliding up and down his length. The unspoken revelation that you were not very experienced was apparent to him, and a twinge of guilt crept in as he allowed you to pleasure him. Determined not to make this solely about his satisfaction, he seized the moment, grasping your wrist and redirecting your hand away from his arousal, prompting you to lean forward.

In an impulsive move, he pressed his lips forcefully against yours, his tongue seeking entry, savoring the taste of your chapstick. The kiss bore neither aggression nor softness; instead, it carried the weight of years filled with tension, prolonged gazes, and lingering touches, finally unfurling in this shared moment. Pulling back slightly, he noticed your lips chasing after his, seeking more contact with his lips.

"I want to make you feel good too," he murmured against your lips, his words flushing your face with heat, a wetness growing between your legs. The dynamics shifted, and now it was you yearning for him. His hands found your hips, drawing you closer until you straddled his waist, your clothed pussy pressing against his cock. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your pajama shorts and panties, seeking consent as he looked up at you.

"Can I take these off, baby?" he asked, and in response, you nodded, lifting yourself to allow him to slide them down your legs before resuming the straddled position, anticipation hanging thick in the air.

You took a sharp breath, nerves tingling as you ventured into unfamiliar territory with Matt. As he ran a finger through your wet folds, he licked his lips, captivated by the sight of your pretty pussy. In that moment, Matt would have done anything and everything you asked, he was completely at your mercy. Firmly holding your hips, he allowed your wet cunt to hover over his cock. While his desires tempted him to force you down and make you take it, his deep care for you held him back, especially given the significance of this being your first time.

"Go slow, okay? It's going to hurt a little, but I'm right here," he said. Nodding, you began the descent, wincing as his tip slipped into your enterance. "Oh my god, Matt," you moaned, your words interrupted as Matt leaned up, pressing his lips to yours to stifle your sweet sounds, mindful of his brothers sleeping down the hall.

Gradually, you took more of him in, whimpering at the initial stinging sensation as his cock stretched your tight walls. Eventually, you lowered yourself completely onto him, pausing to adjust to the sensation of him buried deep inside you. "Such a good girl, taking me so well," he cooed.

“Feels so good,” you murmured, the words escaping on a breath as you began to move your hips against him, keeping a steady rhythm. He gripped your hips firmly, and you were sure there would be red marks left behind. His kisses trailed down your neck, lips brushing over your collarbones and shoulders, marking you with purposeful hickeys that finally declared you as his, even though you had always belonged to him.

Slowly, he lifted your tank top over your head, tossing it aside in the room's shadows. "So fucking pretty," he mumbled, his gaze lingering on you through half-lidded eyes. His mouth descended, lavishing much-needed attention on your boobs, kissing and licking your sensitive nipples with devotion. In his eyes, your body was a masterpiece, and he aimed to ensure you knew just how perfect you were. Every gesture was a testament to his worship, eliciting small moans of pleasure as you succumbed to the sensations he bestowed upon you.

"Faster, please," he choked out, a desperate need cracking his voice as he trailed kisses down the valley of your breasts. Swiftly obeying, you quickened the pace, moaning as you rocked back and forth on his cock. Yet, the soreness lingering from your day at the beach made it challenging. Matt noticed, his hands helping to move your hips, orchestrating a rhythm that heightened the pleasure. He began to thrust into you, hips meeting yours, intensifying the sensation.

Throwing your head back, eyes rolling, pleasure consumed you, a knot tightening in your stomach. One of his hands left your hip, moving downward, his thumb expertly circling your swollen clit. Overwhelmed, words escaped you, your mind consumed by him. "Fuck, Matt," you managed to whimper in your love-drunk state, a proud smirk gracing his lips as he witnessed you lost in pleasure, knowing he was the only one to evoke such a response.

"Cum for me, princess," he urged in a whiny, broken voice, his own release imminent. His words triggered your climax, a stream of mumbled curses and whines escaping you as pleasure saturated every inch of your being. Surrendering to the intensity, you abandoned your movements, letting him guide and sway you through the waves of orgasmic ecstasy. His release followed suit, white streams of cum shooting into you, accompanied by his whimpering and grunting.

As the movements ceased, he lay beneath you, both of you attempting to catch your breath. Gingerly lifting yourself off him, a wince accompanied the sensitivity as his cock withdrew from your cunt. Rolling over, you nestled next to him, curling into his side, a lazy hand draped over his waist. His hand found its way to your head, tenderly stroking your hair as you rested against his chest, syncing your breathing with his.

"Get some rest; I'm taking you on a date tomorrow," he grinned mischievously, planting light kisses on your forehead. Raising your head, curiosity piqued, you questioned, "A date?" He nodded, gently pushing your head back to his chest, his fingers continuing to stroke your hair in a soothing rhythm.

"A date. So I can ask you to be my girlfriend," he chuckled, of course Matt wanted to do things right despite having just fucked you dumb. You chuckled in response, appreciating Matt's intent. "Okay, I can't wait to say yes," you declared, both of you closing your eyes, eager for the embrace of sleep and the beginning of this new chapter in your relationship.

[mrs-murder-daddy]

A/N: It's finally here, and it's only part one! I'm so sorry everyone but I've been fucking miserable for the last few months. But I'm here, I promise!

Requests are also open for BoB and MotA!

The Heart of the Ocean (Part One)

Gale "Buck" Cleven x Reader

The stateroom is much smaller than you anticipated, though perhaps your expectations were too high. After all, this is just a boat with a lot of people on it.

It feels suffocating, though perhaps that’s a consequence of your circumstances more than your room. 

You stare at yourself in the vanity’s mirror. You look tired, but maybe you should cut yourself some slack. You’re getting married in a few weeks. Every bride looks this sallow before their wedding day.

There’s a knock on the door, gentle and polite. You haven’t even responded when it opens. Caledon Hockley, your fiance, walks in. If you had never spoken to the man, you’d say that smile on his face is genuine.

He brandishes a velvet jewellery box and presents it to you with all the showmanship of a salesman. You’re not sure why. You’re marrying the bastard, not buying a house from him.

Cal crowds up behind you, opening the box, expecting you to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over it. He gives you some long speech about how the diamond used to belong to some long dead king. All you can do is stare. It’s so… big. It’s gaudy and awful. At least it matches your engagement ring.

He clasps the necklace, the chain feeling rather literal. He kisses your temple and grins at his most prized possession. You paste on a smile and thank him for his kindness. As he leaves, reminding you of the lunch you were already supposed to be at, you wrap a hand around the massive blue diamond. It’ll at least weigh me down, you joke.

Despite your mother’s hatred of her, Mrs Margaret “my-friends-call-me-Molly” Brown is the only person you can talk to that actually listens. You walk into the dining room for lunch, hands gently wrapped around one of Cal’s arms and the first thing you hear is, “that necklace is gorgeous darling!”

Your mother fawns over it and you almost tell her to just take it if she wants it so bad. 

Molly says, “Not as beautiful as the woman wearing it.”

Her beaming smile is not enough to distract you from your mother’s eye roll, but it is enough for you to respond with a genuine thanks. You can’t remember the last time you got a compliment.

Stuck at a table between a rock (Cal) and a hard place (your mother), you wait anxiously to eat. You would listen to the conversations around you, but it’s mostly your mother bragging about the family you’re marrying into, and the men discussing which type of cigar they’ll smoke next or other trivial nonsense.

When the waiter approaches, you perk up. but Cal takes over. “We'll both have the lamb, medium-rare with very little mint sauce.” He turns to you and pats your hand, “You like lamb, don't you sweet-pea?”

You stare at him silently, god his face was just so punchable. A pinch on your thigh reminds you that there’s an audience. “Of course, darling.”

Molly jumps in, noticing the distinct pinch of your mouth. “You gonna cut her meat for her, too, Cal?” The table bursts into laughter and even your fiance forces a tight smile.

The food is not quite to your taste, the bitterness of Cal’s mistreatment tainting your meal. But the conversation takes a turn for the better.

Molly posits, “So, how do ya reckon they got to the name Titanic?”

An older fellow married to a woman 3 years your junior speaks up, “Well the name obviously conveys size, thus it also conveys strength.”

You jump in, “Perhaps Dr Freud’s ideas about the male preoccupation with size will interest you, Mr Higginbotham.”

Your mother pinches your thigh again and you jolt. The conversation changes once more and even Molly’s boisterous laughter can’t calm your temper. You excuse yourself and race outside for some fresh air.

The ocean breeze cools you down somewhat. You bask in the sun’s rays, gripping the rail in front of you and leaning back just a little.

Your reverie is interrupted by a loud shout of “Miss!”

You look down to see two brunets wrestling playfully. Their blonde friend shakes his head before looking up at you. Your knees turn to butter. He’s quite possibly the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your life. 

The two of you stare at each other for so long, his friends have stopped wrestling, instead looking between you two like a tennis match. The Greek statue below only stops the staring contest when a frown takes over.

Your own face falls when you realise why: Cal. Your fiance grips your arm and begins to berate you quietly while dragging you back inside.

But the beautiful blonde man is all you see. His smile as his friends begin to tease is enough to feed you for a lifetime.

Dinner is much the same, only your noose feels tighter than before. Your newfound wealth is still the only topic of conversation your mother cares about and your fiance is content to make every little decision for you.

Of all your companions, at least Molly Brown tries to reach out with some gentle questions about the wedding. Cal fields all of them, he and your mother having planned everything to the very flowers of your bouquet.

Your ears begin to ring. Your mother over one shoulder, your fiance over the other. A hand touches yours lightly. It’s gloved but still warm. Molly’s Southern accent cuts through the rest of the conversation.

“You okay darling?”

You nod and beam brightly. “Of course, just excited for the wedding.”

It’s clearly not enough for her. Then an icy glare from the people either side of you reminds her of your precarious position.

“Well who wouldn’t be? It all sounds so beautiful!”

You power through dinner, Cal ordered the beef for you both, though you would rather have eaten dirt.

He kisses your gloved hand as the men retire to the smoking room. Molly rubs your shoulder gently as she bids you goodbye. 

Your mother hisses at you for acting up. You simply smile apologetically and ask to get some fresh air. She waves you off with an angry “I’ll see you later.”

Thankfully, no one else is on deck as you sprint across the wood. Your chest is heaving with panicked breaths and barely concealed sobs. The theatrics catch the attention of a man laying on a bench staring up at the stars.

You crash into the rail at the stern of the ship and hastily climb over. Your breath gets stuck in your throat as the wind brushes past your face, cooling the tears on your cheeks.

The skin over your knuckles stretches as you cling to the only tether you have left. The water looks cold but so inviting.

Then a voice. It’s quiet and gentle, but it nearly startles you into letting go. 

“Easy, easy, didn’t mean to scare you.” He approaches, palms up in surrender.

“Go away.” You’re beyond embarrassed to have someone witness your breakdown. Your consideration of the unthinkable.

“Well that I’m not gonna do.” He creeps closer like you’re a wounded animal. It’s perhaps a cliche, but you imagine that’s what you are. Hunted for your beauty and trapped in the snare of a loveless marriage.

“You should leave. If you know what’s good for you.” You wish your voice sounds stronger. The creaking of your throat doesn’t make you sound very intimidating.

He just sighs and sits down on the deck. He begins to… remove his shoes? You frown and look over your shoulder as much as you can.

“What are you doing?”

“If you’re going down there,” he nods to the water below you, “I’m coming after you. And these are a new pair. Can’t get ‘em all soggy.”

You begin to laugh, a little hysterically. “That water’s freezing. There’s no way you’ll jump after me.”

“That’s not the part I’m worried about.” He stands up and begins to remove his jacket. Your face grows serious once more. His shoulders are broad, he must be a steel worker or something. But his face is too pretty for that kind of work. “You know a fall from this height into water, it’s like hitting pavement. Then you add the freezing water and-“ he hissed through his teeth.

You take another look, it is a very long way down. How did you not notice that before? A few moments of contemplative silence pass and the broad shouldered man moves closer.

You look over your shoulder at him. “You ever feel alone? Like truly alone in the world.”

He frowns sympathetically, “Can’t say I have, ma’am.”

You smile sadly. “That’s good.” Your hands begin to loosen their grip. 

His voice now sounds like it’s right next to you, but you can’t bring yourself to look. “Maybe you should come back over this rail and tell me all about it. Maybe I can help you.”

A sad little smile appears on your face. “I wish you could.” 

Then warmth wraps around your wrist. The man’s hands are calloused but much softer than you expected. 

“You never know if you don’t try.” He’s practically begging, anxiously waiting for your response.

You turn your head to look at him, tears threatening to choke you. You realise just who this man is. “Okay.”

He wraps a gentle but firm arm around your waist and helps you pull yourself back over the rail. When you finally set your heeled feet on the deck, your body feels like it’s going to collapse. The man leads you to a bench and wraps his jacket tight around you.

“I’m Gale by the way, Gale Cleven.”

You introduce yourself, still feeling rather defeated.

“Now tell me about what happened just now.” The words imply an interrogation, but looking into those baby blues you see… concern. What is with the people on this boat?

You’ll know them for only about a week and yet they’re the only ones in your life who seem to actually care for you.

“I know what you must be thinking.” You sigh, “Poor little rich girl. What does she know about misery?”

Gale leans his head forward to make eye contact, “Not at all. What I’m thinking is what could have happened to this girl to make her think she has no way out?”

You flash the giant ring on your finger, “I’m getting married next month.”

He jokes, “Wow! You would have gone straight to the bottom.” 

But you can’t laugh, you just stare at it. “All of Boston society will be there. 500 invitations.”

You finally look at his face, counting his freckles subconsciously, “Sometimes I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of my lungs and no one even looks up.”

He frowns and you’re hit with a sudden wave of shame. “Thank you for your help, Gale.” You take his jacket off hastily and drop it in his lap.

“Wait-” He tries to process the abrupt end to your conversation but you’re already halfway down the deck, surreptitiously wiping away tears.

The next morning, you beg your mother to let you have some space and fresh air. Really, you want to find the handsome blond from the night before. To apologise and to assure him that you will be just fine.

It’s not difficult to spot his incredibly handsome profile. He’s hunched over a sketchbook, head bobbing as he looks to his reference then back down. Trying to follow his eyeline, you see a sweet looking older man dancing with his little daughter. She stands on his feet as they sway to nothing in particular.

You approach carefully, worried you’d break the warm quiet, or disturb the family’s moment. You decide to just sit next to Gale. He tilts his head in acknowledgment but continues his work.

“I wanted to apologise for my behaviour last night,” you begin, “it was inappropriate for a woman of my station.”

He gives a little half-smile and looks up at you. His stare is like looking into the sun. “You’re allowed to feel how you feel. And I felt honoured you trusted me enough to share your pain.”

Your face warms, you’re not sure if it’s shame or those baby blues trained on yours. The girl and her dad are still dancing, but he’s picked her up. Her curls swish around as he twirls them and her giggles almost bring a tear to your eye. You can’t remember the last time your parents showed you any affection, let alone danced with you just to make you laugh. 

Gale clears his throat and holds his sketchbook out. His work is incredible. Not only is his technical work beautiful but he’s captured the loving glint in the father’s eyes and the little girl’s missing tooth. You can’t help your beaming smile.

“This is incredible work! You should be proud. Is this what you plan to do back in the States?” You brush a gentle finger over the drawing’s finer details.

He blushes and shakes his head, “I’m going back to my tiny hometown to see my family. Where I go from there, I don’t know.”

“You have a real talent here, Gale! You should explore this.” You hand the drawing back to him.

His plush lips part like he wants to respond, but you’re interrupted. The sweet little girl taps your shoulder, her tiny hand covered in freckles. She introduces herself as Niamh, and asks if you’re some kind of fairy. You frown, confused, but hear Gale chuckle behind you.

“She absolutely is, Miss Niamh.” When you turn your head to look at him, he winks. You look back at Niamh and smile.

“He’s right, I am a fairy! And I have a gift for you, little one.” You pull out one of the many pins in your hair, a bejewelled butterfly on the end. You hold it out to her; she seems hesitant to take it.

Niamh looks back at her dad who nods in her direction. She takes the pin and gives it a little kiss, “I promise, I’ll take care of it.” She runs back to her dad, giggling.

“I gotta go soon,” Gale’s voice draws you back to your previous conversation. “It’s almost lunchtime, but I wanted to ask.” He closes his sketchbook and faces you head on. “You ever been to a party?”

You had assumed when Gale asked you about a party there would be drinking and music, but nothing to this level.

The small parlour is packed to the brim with warm bodies and free-flowing drinks. Gale is up on a makeshift stage dancing with a cat in one arm and Niamh on the other. You remember his two brunet friends from yesterday and search for their faces, hopefully one of them will remember you.

One is preparing to arm wrestle a big bald man while the other claps him on the shoulder for support. A pregnant woman stands behind them, arms folded and a big grin on her face. You make your way through everyone, feeling very overdressed. By the time you reach them, the arm wrestling match is done and everyone cheers for “Curt”. By the big smile on his face, you assume Curt is one of Gale’s friends.

You can’t quite find a way to interject yourself into the celebrations so you find yourself leaning against the wall awkwardly. Gale finally notices you and tries to wave, only he has no hands free. So he quickly gestures to his friends.

“Hey!” The taller brunet shouts, holding his arms out for a hug. You shake your head, not quite there in your acquaintanceship with him. Instead the pregnant woman wraps her arms around him instead. “You’re the dame who Buck can’t stop talking about.”

“Buck?” You look over his shoulder at Gale whose attention is divided between you and Niamh. “Oh Gale!” Your face heats up, “I hope he’s been kind.”

Curt butts in, “Darling you’ve got nothing to worry about, the man is already picking out a ring for ya.”

The tall brunet holds his hand out to shake yours, introducing himself as John, “But my friends call me Bucky.” He also introduces the woman under his arm as Angel. She gives you her real name but says she prefers the nickname.

Curt gives you an official introduction, and Gale peels himself away from Niamh and the cat long enough to come join you all.

“I’m glad to see you here, sweetheart.” Gale smiles and wraps an arm around your shoulder. You lose yourself in his eyes again.

“Glad to be here.” Your voice is breathy, but for once you’re saying what you truly mean.

The night is long and restless, you drink and you dance and you laugh and you dream. This is the life you’d sorely missed, friends, fun, and blossoming love.

The night winds down, Curt has passed out on a bench near the makeshift stage. There’s only one fiddle player left, the rest of his musician family gone to bed. Niamh is asleep in her dad’s arms while her mother dances around them.

Bucky and Angel dance together, looking more in love than anyone you’ve ever seen. He whispers sweet nothings in a low tone just to see her blush. Gale clears his throat next to you and you snap your eyes towards him. He holds his large hand out, inviting you to dance. As you join him, slow dancing next to your new friends, you wonder. Maybe you can learn to love Gale like Angel loves her Bucky.

It’s late when you return to your room. A familiar face greets you. Cal sits on his reading chair with a whiskey in one hand and your massive blue diamond necklace in the other.

“Where were you?” He doesn’t look at you, only the necklace.

“Out.”

“And what, precisely, does that mean?”

“I… was with friends.” 

“Is that why you smell like a brewery?”

You roll your eyes, but choose just the wrong time to do as his eyes shift to you.

His voice is dark and angry, and your palms begin to sweat. “You are my fiance, and you are to be my wife. You will wear this gift at all times and you will not leave my side without my express permission. In fact, I’ve come to an agreement with your mother.” He stands, looming over you. “You will stay in this room and share this bed with me.”

Your eyes widen, “That would be inappropriate, we’re unmarried.”

“You are still mine.” He clasps the necklace around your throat once more.

[vampireloverz]

dancing with the devil

pairing: john wick x fem! reader

words: 2.5k

cw/tw: established relationship, age gap (vague but implied, more than a decade), size difference, reader wears a dress and heels, reader and john drink alcohol, public fingering, unprotected sex, au where reader basically takes helen's place, reader knows about john’s previous job, pre canon

You don’t know how you convinced John to go out dancing after dinner, maybe it was the bourbon that loosened him up, maybe it was the trail of kisses you left along his throat as you waited for a taxi. Either way, when the driver asked where to, John had said the name of some club nearby and you’d kissed him as a thank you.

Before long, you’re dancing to garish techno music, drink in hand. Bass rattling in your chest and your heartbeat in your throat as you sway and bob to the booming rhythm, all the while John keeps an eye on you from his seat at the bar. The neon lights strobing above occasionally illuminate him, drawing your focus to him past the throng of club goers every so often. 

A few people come up and dance with you; a pretty woman with dark lipstick and a wicked smile, someone wearing a shimmery top you like so much you make the effort to all but scream over the music to ask where they got it, a man who offers you one of his glow-stick bracelets with such drunken enthusiasm you have to accept, laughing.

Eventually jumping in place and bobbing your head to the beat has sobered you up a little, but you’re still pleasantly warm and fuzzy around the edges, smiling as you head back to John. He reaches for you as you approach and you take his hand, squeezing it as a silent thank you for indulging you and waiting so patiently while you had your fun.

“Hello, handsome,” you lean in so close your lips brush his ear as you greet him, “Care to buy me a drink?”

You pull back in time to watch his lips tick up almost imperceptibly as he nods, signaling the bartender over and ordering your drink of choice. You kiss John’s cheek as a thank you and sit on the stool beside him, his heavy hand finding its place on your thigh, curving around you easily. The drink goes down smooth as you curl your free arm around his, suddenly giddy with happiness. 

John turns your face to his with two fingers on the side of your chin, saying something you can’t quite hear but you can read his lips. You’re beautiful.

You let out a breathy little laugh that’s swallowed up by the music, heat rising to your cheeks as if it's the first time he’s ever complimented you. But you can’t help it, you cling to every carefully chosen word that falls from his lips. 

“Thank you,” you don’t bother projecting, he knows, and he leans forward to kiss you.

The flavor of bourbon is still strong on his tongue but you don’t mind the sting. His hand on your waist reminds you of the same sensation earlier today. Both of you tangled in his expensive sheets, the sun hitting his face just right to light up his dark eyes into rich brown, his lips leaving kisses further and further down your body…

You break the kiss to press your cheek against his, “Wanna get out of here?”

John pulls back and gives you a look, almost amused, and you laugh as you watch the cogs turn in his mind. He takes a long, thoughtful sip of his drink, emptying the glass and setting it down along with enough bills to pay for your drinks and then some. A thrill of excitement runs through you as you hop down from the barstool and John takes your hand. 

The crowd is dense but they seem to instinctively part for you two, a sea of drunken dancing split by nothing more than John Wick’s presence.

John rounds a corner out of nowhere right as you spot the exit, turning into somewhere quieter where the pounding bass turns into a pleasant thrum. You stumble into his back, disoriented by the sudden stop, but before you can question him, he spins, crowding you against the wall and kissing you. He kisses you with a surprising ferocity, a hot, hard press of lips with a small slip of tongue before he moves downward, kissing along the column of your neck as he palms your chest over your dress.

“John, what are you—?”

His hand is suddenly on your mouth, his palm to your lips as he orders, “Quiet,” as if anyone would hear.

Being cornered by John Wick sends a thrill down your spine, you suddenly feel high on adrenaline, and you know that this is only a minute fraction of what the people he dealt with at work feel. Felt. 

It’s not often you’re reminded he was out killing scores of people when you’d barely started high school. It’s a callus on his palm from gripping a gun, it’s old scars from blades and bullets, it’s the tattoos. The knowledge of it all, his strength, his age, makes this feel dangerous. Despite his past, maybe even because of it, you trust him. He’s never turned his deadly hands to you beyond giving you pleasure. 

You purse your lips to kiss his palm and his eyes soften just a touch, his hand pulling back to trace your mouth with his thumb. You kiss the pad of it, both your eyes locked as you part your lips, pink tongue barely peeking over your bottom lip. 

John lets out a small laugh as he feeds his thumb into your mouth, gently pressing down to feel the grooves of your teeth, the soft give of your tongue, “Don’t be too loud,” he whispers as his other hand pushes up your dress. 

You squirm when he cups your pussy, deft fingers tracing the line of your slit over the fabric before he slips his hand into your underwear. The warmth of his fingers as he slides them between your folds makes you gasp. John never takes long to find your clit, he’s always been impatient when it comes to your pleasure.

“You’re wet,” he comments, a little breathy and pleased.

“It's your fault,” you whine around his thumb.

Both of you make a pleased noise when he slides two fingers inside you, slow enough to have you squirming with impatience. John relents easily, pumping into you a few times to find his rhythm of slow, steady pulses before curling his fingers just the way you like it, the way you always beg for, you have to hold your breath to stop an indecent noise from flying out of your mouth. 

The laughs of some people passing by suddenly makes you remember you’re not alone. In fact, the two of you are quite exposed if someone takes a turn into the half-hidden halfway John had slipped you into. You gasp and lift your head to look at him, ignoring the fact that you feel yourself tighten up. John maintains eye contact as the voices draw closer and you blink, alarmed and aroused all at once. He stops pumping his fingers and you watch him make a decision. His fingers stay inside you, curled against the sensitive spot there as he presses the heel of his palm into your clit, giving you a single nod as you grind down into him.

“Yea,” he grunts, “That’s it.”

He takes his finger out of your mouth to cradle your head and press closer to you, hiding and muffling you as best he can as you shudder and press your face into his collar, moaning into it and breathing in his spiced cologne. The voices pass, leaving you both in semi silence and false seclusion. Your knees buckle, adrenaline making it feel all the more intense when your orgasm slices through you, shuddering and panting open-mouthed with your lips pressed onto whatever expensive fabric his suit is made of. 

He murmurs something you can’t quite catch over the ringing in your ears before he pulls out of your still throbbing pussy, circling your clit a few times with soaked fingers until you whine. The loss of his fingers makes you feel impossibly empty but watching him lick his fingers clean of you is a fair consolation. He lets out a small laugh at the expression on your face but you can tell he’s got it bad too. You’re half sure that if no one had walked by he would’ve fucked you here, or at least could’ve been persuaded to in the club’s bathroom.

“Let's go home,” John says, leaning down to kiss you. His dark hair falling around both your faces gives the illusion of privacy as you taste yourself on his tongue.

The look he gives you when you palm him over his pants makes you sure that you can get away with fooling around in the back of the cab ride back to your shared apartment. A new song starts in the club as the two of you leave and it feels like heavy bass pours onto the street, sticking in your chest until your cab is hailed and you both slip inside.

It’s late and traffic is to be expected, but you don’t mind because you can curl into John’s side and have your fun. He lets out a soft hum and drapes an arm around your waist, his hand around you tightening when you begin to loosen his tie. You play innocent at first, trailing your fingers along the column of his neck and down his chest, kissing his jaw when he shoots you a curious look. The cab jumps on an uneven patch of the road and your hand slips further down, past his belt until you’re palming him over his dark pants. 

You press a kiss to his neck when he stiffens, his strong hand tightening around your waist. A warning but not a sign to stop. His free hand curls into a fist as you trace the outline of his cock, rubbing your palm back and forth until he groans, low and deep enough for a car horn somewhere outside to drown the sound out.

John leans into you and utters a single word into your hairline, “Behave.”

Firm but not angry, far from it. You can’t help the smile that spreads on your face, but you obey and move your hand away, placing it onto a more appropriate position on your thigh until your ride is over.

John’s hand is a heavy comfort on the back of your neck as you walk into your building, at this hour you’re the only people in the lobby besides the doorman. The elevator ride up is mercifully quick and it feels like it only takes a blink for you and John to be stumbling into the bedroom, neither of you willing to break the kiss.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, scratching at his scalp when he slides his tongue along yours. He pulls away panting and presses his forehead to yours, both of you breathing each other’s air. One of his hands follows the shape of your body upwards until he can touch your chest, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You let out a mix of a laugh and a moan as he pulls down the front of your dress, “I have some idea.”

John smiles against your lips as you kiss and he takes your tits in hand, holding the weight of them and squeezing gently. You sigh into his mouth when a callus scrapes your nipple, hardening it with each pass of his palm. 

“John,” you moan, shifting in place as the throb in your clit becomes insistent.

He hums thoughtfully, “Turn around.”

You do without question, looking over your shoulder as he kneels behind you, his hands steady on your hips. When you feel his lips on the back of your knee, you jolt a little, his beard lightly scratching at the sensitive skin there, but you’re more prepared when he kisses your other leg. John follows the curves and lines of your legs with his hands first, kissing your skin every few inches and only stopping when he reaches the hem of your dress. When he stands and touches your shoulder blade you think he’s going to unzip you, but instead he pushes you forward onto the bed, bending you over as he bunches and pulls your dress up over your hips.

“John!” you gasp, a short laugh bursting from your lips.

“What?” he asks like he’s not peeling your underwear down until it drops around your ankles.

You make a noncommittal noise and wiggle your hips, the emptiness in your core beginning to become almost unbearable.

“You’re beautiful,” you can’t tell if it’s because of your heels, your dress bunched around your hips, or just the way your ass looks when you’re bent over— but you decide you don’t care when you feel his cock glide through your folds, gathering your slick and nudging your clit, “Fuck, look at you.”

“Please, John,” you plea softly, “Fuck me.”

That punches a groan out of him, you feel the head of his cock push inside as he takes your hand. He slides himself to the hilt inside you in one slick thrust and it knocks the wind from you both. 

He sucks in a breath behind you and grips your hip with his free hand, his grasp firm as he starts to fuck you. John fucks into you deep and hard, rutting into you as pleasure washes over you both. You feel involuntary noises spilling from your mouth but you can’t think to stop yourself as you lose yourself in the rhythm of his thrusts. 

“I love you,” he grunts, fingers tightening on your hip as he goes rigid, his cock kicking inside you.

You groan into the pillows when you feel the hot spill of cum fill you, twitching every time his hips roll forward and his cock knocks against something tender inside you. It feels like forever before he finally slides out. You both give twin groans at the feeling, but you’re placated by his kisses along your shoulders. You drop your weight onto the bed, ignoring the way John laughs under his breath, and mumble something in half hearted protest as he starts to unzip and slide your dress off you, unclasping your bra and slipping your heels off your feet before he lays in the space beside you.

“Let’s clean up,” he suggests, reaching for you as you shimmy closer to him.

“In a minute.”

Resting in the easy silence, John traces your hairline and you feel the mess between your legs spill onto your inner thighs, hot and sticky and satisfying. You sling your arm over him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt with uncoordinated fingers so you can feel him. Your fingertips follow old scars until your eyelids droop and you rest your hand on him, the beat of his heart comfortingly steady beneath your palm.

“We should go out dancing more often,” you sleepily murmur.

John kisses the top of your head, “Whatever you want.”

[stayinlimbo]

Overgrown

pairing: kim seungmin x f!reader genre/warnings: somewhat angsty, familial issues, mentions of previous grandparent death, implied unrequited love, late high school age, mc is kinda a middleman the entire time ngl, i wrote mc as a girl but gender isn't important, horrible symbolism word count: 1.7k note: this fic is bad but it's genuinely the best i could do after not writing something this length in a while. tell me how awful it is in the comments, please and thank you ♡

The garden is overgrown again, a tangled mess of thick vines choking the once-tidy rows of flowers and weeds sprouting between the old cobblestone path of the unkempt backyard. 

Seungmin couldn’t believe it. This was the third time this month his grandma had ruined his weekend. He could have been gaming with his friends or riding his bike across town, wind whipping in his hair, instead of being stuck helping with boring household chores. But no—he’s been “promoted” from scrubbing the bathroom’s tile floor to pulling weeds and trimming bushes in the scorching sun. 

Seungmin tugs the last weed from the soil with a strained grunt, uprooting its stubborn hold on the earth, and almost falls on his ass (again). The weed is quickly tossed into the overflowing trash can he lugged beside him. Finally, after hours of grueling labor, he has finished. Panting in relief, he stumbles towards the backyard’s wooden fence and squats underneath the only tree offering shade from the heat. 

Seungmin peels his gloves off his hands and drops them, along with his garden fork, into the dirt. The gardener’s hat his grandma let him borrow, one he suspects belonged to his grandfather from the loose fit, offers little comfort as the beads of sweat built above his brow drip down the sides of his face. He removes the hat, wipes his forehead with his arm, and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. God, he can’t wait to shower when he gets home. 

“You have dirt on your face,” a voice suddenly calls behind him. 

Seungmin yelps in surprise. Swinging his arms wildly, he loses his footing, barely catching himself with the heels of his palms. He pushes himself up, groaning, and ignores his aching muscles as he slowly stands to full height. Inspecting his hands, he frowns at the dirt caked onto the skin, wedged into the lines of his palms and buried beneath his fingernails—his efforts to keep his hands clean, utterly pointless. 

Seungmin dusts his hands on his jeans with a resigned sigh and turns towards the fence. “You can’t even see me,” he grumbles, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe the rest of the sweat off his face. Pulling back the fabric, he grimaces at the brown stain smudged in stark contrast against his white t-shirt. 

“But I was right, wasn’t I?” you snicker, peeking your head over the fence. 

It’s been a while since Seungmin last saw you, maybe even since graduation, but he can already see how kind summer’s been to you. The dark circles beneath your eyes finally faded to their normal color, no longer burdened by the pressure of all-nighters to finish schoolwork. Your skin even glows, healthy and free from the dulling effect of high school’s suffocating air. 

Your smile is unrestrained, and you remind him of the girl who moved next door to his grandparents’ house all those years ago—the girl he grew up with, now a beautiful young woman, still the same person he’s admired for almost a decade. He has to remind himself that he is supposed to have outgrown the crush he once nurtured, like the roses you planted in a small pot together, now an overgrown bush, sprouting pink flowers in the far corner of the garden. At least he can blame the red flush creeping up his ears and his fluttering heartbeat on the unforgiving sun.

Seungmin tears his gaze from your playful one, hiding the warmth spreading across his cheeks. “What do you want?” he asks, ignoring your (correct) remark. 

“Nothing, just watching you work,” you reply, leaning forward and draping your arms over the wooden posts. You scan the backyard, humming in satisfaction at the tended landscape. “It’s nice of you to help your grandma with this.”

Seungmin simply shrugs. “I guess.” 

“She talks about you all the time to anyone who will listen, you know?” you continue, fanning your face and picking at the small strips of wood splintering off the fence. 

“Let me guess, you’re one of them?” he mutters while rolling his eyes. Seungmin quickly glances back at you, noticing your smile widen even more, and his swelling heart—

“Of course,” you affirm with a nod. “How else would I get access to your baby pictures? 

—plummets to his feet. “No.” 

“My favorite one is you in the bathtub with all your dinosaurs and—”

“Nope! Stop right there, I get it!” Seungmin waves his hands in front of him, shaking his head to clear the embarrassing mental image. His face burns as he shuffles his feet, kicking a small rock and imagining himself as it rolls away. It doesn’t help that you’re doubled over in laughter, using the fence for support. 

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, wiping away invisible tears.

You aren’t, and normally, Seungmin wouldn’t mind the light teasing at his expense—he was used to it, after all. Years of being the reason for your uncontrollable giggles, your silent laughter, and gasps for breath were worth every second of his clothes sticking uncomfortably against his skin. He’d usually counter with a quip of his own about some embarrassing thing you’d done. You’d laugh it off like you always do, and he’d join you in a lighthearted moment shared between two friends.

Except this time, Seungmin isn’t laughing. 

“Whatever,” he huffs as your breathing finally evens out. He doesn’t miss the falter in your smile at his dismissal, and for a moment he feels a pang of guilt. But that emotion quickly morphs into simmering anger. 

No, not anger. Frustration. Towards you. Towards himself. Towards his grandma. 

God, his grandma. The mere thought of her makes Seungmin want to rip his hair out. Even in his relationships, she won’t stop hovering—won’t give him the space he so desperately needs. She burrows deeper into his life, crossing all his carefully laid boundaries and clinging to him like he’s the last lifeline tying her to the earth. 

Seungmin's stomach churns; he hates how he probably is.

He hates being her closest living kin. He resents the pseudo-caretaker role forced upon him, strangling him like a vice grip. He can’t pry the suffocating fingers squeezing his throat, no matter how much he thrashes against the pressure and pleads for air. His frustration is finally boiling over, and now it’s bleeding into his friendship with you.

“But seriously, she thinks you’re a sweet kid, and she’s so happy to spend time with you while you’re here,” your voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, snapping him back to reality. 

There’s a gentleness to it he hasn’t heard since his grandfather’s funeral after he refused to set foot into the depressing house where so many joyful memories had been made—now tainted by the absence of one of its vital contributors. Your softened eyes ensnare his turmoil, once privy to no one but himself. He’s exposed, laid bare and vulnerable to your delicate scrutinization, and it’s too late to rebury what you’ve surfaced. 

“Yeah, some quality time this is,” Seungmin manages, avoiding your gaze. 

“I think she’s just going to miss you,” you say carefully. 

Seungmin looks back at you in confusion, and it takes him a second to register what you’re referring to when you raise your eyebrows expectantly. Oh, right. He’s leaving for college soon. What he slaved away his teenage years for, hours away to live in the bustling city, far from the only home he’s ever known. 

Far from you, from his friends, from his quiet life, from this quiet house. 

Freedom, his hubris screams. Loneliness, his humility whispers. It doesn’t matter who is louder—he can hear them both. 

“You’ll still be here for another year though, right?” he asks, a weird sense of urgency pulsating in his chest.

You shake your head. “It’s not the same.”

“It is when she only calls me if she needs something.”

“Maybe it’s the only way she can reach you,” you argue, standing straighter and undraping yourself from the posts. “How would you know if you don’t talk to her before it’s too late?”

The rickety fence creaks, and Seungmin flinches, his breath catching in his throat. Your words scrape the anxiety wired into his brain, waking it from its restless slumber. The fear that you’re right worms its way to the forefront of his mind, settling right beside his shame because he knows you are. He knows he’s not the best grandson and hasn’t been for quite some time, but he doesn’t want to stop being one. 

“Also, you missed one,” you say, pointing behind him.

“Huh?” 

Following your finger, Seungmin swivels his head to the far corner of the garden. In front of the overgrown rose bush, sprouting from a small crack in the center of the last stone in the weathered path, a dandelion stands proudly out of place. A weed disguised as a flower, its pillowy tufts sway slightly in the warm breeze circulating the garden. Your footsteps fade into the background as you back away from the fence, the extra heat imploring you to retreat inside. But, for once, he pays no mind, instead walking out from under the tree and treading towards the lone white weed. 

As a child, he didn’t—couldn’t—understand the difference of how something so beautiful could do such harm, just that if he blew the seeds and made a wish it would come true. He knows better now, from his grandparents’ gentle scolding when dandelions ravaged the garden and stole water from the other dying plants. Still, he bends down and carefully plucks the stem from the ground.

It’s funny, he thinks as he raises the dandelion, about how much he sympathizes with this stupid weed. He’s made countless wishes in the garden over the years, ranging from toys to you one day liking (loving) him back. Not all have come true, of course, and they likely never will, but that’s not the dandelion’s fault. It didn’t ask to germinate beneath the hard soil, chasing small rays of sunlight and breaking through stone cracks to reach the surface.

The dandelion’s soft cloud of seeds is held in Seungmin’s hand, but its roots remain buried beneath the cobblestone. He takes a deep breath, makes a wish, and blows. The seeds dance in the wind, slowly floating back down to the earth and settling across the small expanse of the lawn.

Seungmin smiles wistfully. He’ll take his grandma’s scolding tomorrow. 

liked this work? want to let me know how i did? please like, comment, and/or reblog; they are greatly appreciated my asks are always open ♡

taglist : @linospuddin @linocz @spicyhyunn @inlovewithstraykids @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21

@hwangism143 @feelikecinderella @celebration88 @ssickmagnolia8

[whorediaries-09]

Hi! if you still taking requests I'd love to make another one about the love of my life, James Potter.

I know it might be super cliche but I was thinking about professor! James forgetting his lunch or maybe reader is a sweetheart who brings lunch to him and everyone at Hogwarts it's obsessed with them because they're sooo cute and they're like their cool school parents

Please and thank u, muak right to youuu.

ugghh this is so cute!! i loved writing this one!! i hope you like it!

labyrinth;

pairing- professor!james potter x professor!reader warning(s)- fluff. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- i literally changed a lot but it's low-key similar?? i'm sorry though i hope you understand, my brain could only come up with this.

little train.

' you would break your back to make me break a smile you know how much I hate that everybody just expects me to bounce back '

'good morning students! i hope you've got your models ready for today.' you say, walking into the class. the curtains have been rolled up perfectly by your plethora of eager art students, who chant a good morning, staring at you as your steps fall into the classroom. they know you like to work with the sunlight.

they scramble around their canvases and models, the soles of their shoes rubbing against the newly polished tiles. they look at you with eager faces, waiting for your model to appear. you raise your hands, addressing them.

'okay so this the first class is for realism - which annoys a lot of people over here, i know. but everybody has to pass these few assignments okay? i've to send them for supervision to the higher authorities so that they can ensure i've put on the correct grades according to the quality of the work.'

'because unlike you, they don't care about the creativity,' the political science professor enters the classroom, wearing his dazzling white smile. the students turn their heads, watching him enter the room. among the few students who know both him and you, there's rumbling. and among those who know you, there's questions rising of the cause of the sudden rumbling.

'quieten down kids, no more talking. this is a very important class. you'll learn the basics and the importance of this branch of art. mr. potter,' you look him in the eye. he visibly tones down his raised arms and shoulders, 'i need you to bring me two tools and a canvas.' he nods.

*-

james is sitting directly under the rays of the sun. they are golden, reflecting upon his beautiful dusky brown skin. it hits him in the eye, but he's still, letting you take your sweet time while you explain the theories and the basics of the art.

he likes how patiently you teach them the correct ways and methods while also consoling them by reminding them every other artist has a unique style and shouldn't be bound by some rules. you stay to teaching them the outlines of color theories, which couldn't be modified much when this art style was practiced.

he's also never felt this nervous and giddy. he's usually a very confident man, but within your presence, a few ties of his uptight confidence break, and all hell loses free. he's turns into a puddle right under your piercing gaze, which is unusual for a man like james potter. he would still remember the day you'd asked him to model for you. he'd gone home and giggled into the pillow like a high school high on hormones.

'hi, mr. potter,' you'd whispered behind him. he'd been talking to sirius. he'd been taken aback by your sudden appearance- and sirius' lack of reaction, considering he'd been sitting facing james.

he turned around, and by habit ruffled his already messy hair. he smiled, trying to hide the pleasant shock behind his eyes. he felt his cheeks warming up with the way you looked at him. sliding him a paper cup, you stood, twiddling with your thumbs.

'this is?-'

'chai! masala chai! consider it a bribe for the awkward question i'm about to ask.'

'nothing is awkward james, love. i think you'll be fine.' sirius said. he slipped his fingers within the crook of his jacket that had been hanging on the edge of the chair. he smiled, a mischievous uplift of his lips. 'but just in case,' he said, walking out of the room, leaving you and james alone. james gulped, following his friend's silhouette.

'so...'

'yeah, uhm so i was wondering whether you'd model for me? only if you're comfortable though!' james was sure the red hot blood rush into his cheeks was extremely was visible. he felt his nerves turn mush and stomach flip with giddiness.

'i don't particularly mind it no,' he said. he took the burning cup into his grip, taking a slow sip. he only hoped it wouldn't be too spicy.

'so you're up for it?' you asked. he saw the tension from your back literally lift up, and a glee float in your eyes.

'i am up for it,' he said taking another sip of the tea. 'but you need to tell me why me,' you rubbed the back of your head, laughing nervously.

'uhh... i think you've gorgeously complicated features which would allow me to teach my students with enthusiasm because i teach the best with complicated features. i don't mean it in a harsh way, i also think you're beautiful so...' he nodded letting your words sink into his brain and stop himself from taking you by your neck and press his lips onto yours.

'is it any good? the tea?' you asked, breaking the awkward tension and the lack of his response. you wondered whether you made him uncomfortable with your answer.

'it's perfect. the sweetness and the spiciness.'

it was not.

*-

'okay so carefully outline your vision for the model, and let your brains take over your mind! this has been a boring class i realize but please submit your homework by the deadline so i'll suggest ways for improving your work-'

'-because this is extremely important for your grades students. now the kids over here who are also in my class, i'll deduct grades if you all don't take her words seriously.' james completed for you, cracking his back and rolling his shoulders. the students booed mockingly. one of them, a fiery person too raised her voice,

'you're barely serious in your own classes!' james knitted his eyebrows.

'are you questioning my abilities of teaching?'

'no, i'm not. i'm saying you're not serious in your own lessons sometimes- and you're a pretty much of a goofball yourself.'

'that's fine, i can be a goofball and be a good professor too. ms. grace, please mind your tone, or i'll be obliged to turn into an insufferable old prat.'

'okay come on let's not create an unnecessary drama over here, you have theatres and mr. pettigrew to help with that.' you said, trying to calm down bubbling waters. the students picked up their bags, walking away. yet again, leaving the both of you alone.

james helped you put on your coat. he wondered whether his part was done. he wondered why he cared so much about whether his part was done or not. the question lingered at the tip of his tongue before he spat it out.

'is my work done now?' he asks. you linger, your back faced towards him. he feels a wave of heat from your body crumple over his senses. you turn around, facing him. the remnants of the sun rays surround him, filtering out his outline. there's something in his eyes. a string of vulnerability you've never seen in his eyes. a string of vulnerability he's never felt within his.

'no.' you say. your breath is hot, which falls on his lips. he gulps, noticing how close you are. somehow it feels natural. in your piercing gaze he feels his beating heart stop. it's as if your features are one hell of a drug, reeking him into a spiral of things he's never felt before. your beauty is surreal, captured within his memories and his heart. he wishes he'd capture the way he sees you onto the canvas.

'are you bored of me, james?' you ask. you've never said his name before. it sets his senses on fire, a creeping hotness melting onto his nerves.

'no,' he says. he moves closer, his mouth so close to yours. he wants to touch them, get drunk upon the reminiscent taste he's never tasted before.

'are you sure, james?' you ask, your eyes falling onto his lips. he nods, unable to answer. in your eyes, he sees his portrait in a beauty he's never seen before. his fingers slips into yours, and he feels them.

and he wonders, when your fingers work on the canvas, how you conceive him, how you decipher him. all he's sure of is that he's the most beautiful when you portray him.

*************************************

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

(if you want to be tagged please send a request through my inbox.)

****************************************

[daydreaming136]

Kili Durin x F!READER (Modern female)

Pairings: Kili x Reader slight Fili x Reader if you squint lol

Tags: modern reader female, isekai, waking up in the hobbit, death, romance, adventure, magic, dwarves, elves, everyone lives AU!, eventual smut,

Author notes: hi this is my first time writing for the hobbit hopefully someone will like it ❤️ please be kind in the comments and don’t be afraid to message me any questions ❤️

When I opened my eyes I saw a beautiful blue sky and the sun shining bright there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I sat up suddenly there was a pain in my stomach I winced and hissed. I lifted my shirt to look for any injury and didn’t find any. Then I realized the pain went away, I blinked a few times and thought back about my day and how I got here. The day went on as usual woke up spent some time to myself, which includes coffee and some gaming. Got ready for work, shower, brushed teeth, a pair of jeans and a button down shirt, a pair of shoes which were dirty from working in them. I drove to work, clocked in, put my Home Depot apron on, got stabbed by some crazed customer, clocked out, drove home…wait what? Let me back up a bit. I got stabbed by some crazed customer?? I lifted my shirt up again but didn’t see a stab mark. I huffed and got up. “Did I die? Is this heaven?” I chuckled. “Well I didn’t think I’d end up in heaven.” I looked around but didn’t see a person or angel in sight. I looked for any sign of life and saw smoke a few miles away. “I guess I’ll start there.” I walked towards where the smoke was residing. I walked into a small village. I mean literally small because the people were small and everything in the village was small. The people reminded me of hobbits with their pointy ears and big hairy feet. I walked to what looked like a market place. I thought I saw Bilbo baggins from the hobbit at one point but decided to kept walking. Til I recognized a familiar gray pointy hat. I sped up my pace and grabbed the persons sleeve. “Excuse me.” Once the man turned around I immediately recognized the man. “Yes my lady?” I felt my eyes go wide from shock. “Um I-I…” my words died from my mouth as I looked at his face longer. Gandalf raised his brow, “are you alright my dear?” I blinked realizing I’ve been staring at him. “You’re Gandalf the grey, right?” He looked at me up and down, staring at me questioning. “Indeed I am, and you are?” I realized I was making a fool out of myself I shook my head and cleared my throat. “Mr. Gandalf my name is Y/N and i know I’m going to sound crazy but I believe I ended up in either The Hobbit or Lord Of The Rings. Please believe me when I say that I’m not trying to do any harm to you or Bilbo or Frodo or Thorin.” He stared at me hard then he started to smile. “Well my dear why don’t we walk and talk.” I nodded and began to walk beside him. “So let’s start from the beginning.” I swallowed and started my tale of the hobbit careful enough to not give anything important away. “Hm. Well I do believe you my lady for I just talked to Bilbo not too long ago.” I smiled. “Thank goodness. Please let me join you and the company to take back the lonely mountain, with my knowledge I can help.” He thought for a moment and nodded. “Alright. Let’s get you some supplies for the journey ahead.” We hit the market again getting me a bedroll and some feminine products I’ll need. Then he lead me to a familiar hole in the ground. “This is bilbos place isn’t it?” Gandalf nodded. “I need to do something for a bit wait for me here til I return.” I nodded. “Okay.” He began to walk away. “Oh and Y/N do stay out of trouble.” I chuckled. “You got it.”

Hours went by I ended up on the grass and took a nap. It was hard not to when the sun felt nice on my skin and the grass felt comfortable. I was startled awake by a shake to my shoulder. When I opened my eyes I was met with brown and blue eyes. “Miss why are you sleeping out here?” I blinked and sat up. “Oh sorry I must’ve dozed off waiting for Gandalf.”

“Gandalf? Are you the new member uncle was telling us?” I nodded. “Probably, Gandalf told me to wait here for him, are you heading to Mr. Baggins?” They nodded. “He should be here soon why don’t we head in while we wait?” I bit my lip and nodded. “Okay I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m Y/N by the way.”

“I’m Fili and this is my brother Kili.” I nodded to Kili noticing him not saying anything. The three of us walked toward Bilbos home. Fili rang the doorbell. And we waited for the hobbit to open the door. Bilbo opened the door. Bilbo whimpered when he saw the three of us. “Fili.” Fili introduced himself “Kili.” Kili finally spoke. “And Y/N.” I introduced myself. The two dwarves bowed their heads. “At your service.” I nodded towards Bilbo. “You must be Mr. Boggins.”

“Nope! You can’t come in. You’ve come to the wrong house.” Bilbo went to close the door but Kili stopped him. “What? Has it been canceled?” The door was pushed back open a bit. “No one told us.” Fili walking close behind his brother. “No, nothings been canceled.” Bilbo said confused about what the dwarves were implying. “That’s a relief.” Kili pushed the door open more and walked in Fili and I followed after. “Sorry Mr. Baggins.”I say give him a sympathetic look. I could tell he was already getting frustrated. “Careful with these. I just had ‘em sharpened.” Fili began to take off his weapons. I walked in looking around the hobbits home. “The movies really didn’t do this place justice.” I muttered under my breath. Kili walking around. “It’s nice, this place. Did you do it yourself?” Kili asked. Without Bilbo paying attention Kili began to take the mud off his shoes on Bilbos mother’s chest. I bit the inside of my cheek wanting to tell him not to do that because it is Bilbos mother’s chest. “What? No, it’s been in the family for years.” Bilbo finally realized what Kili was doing. “That’s my mother’s glory box! Can you please not do that?” Bilbo was angry. Then Dwalin walked in and grabbing Kili’s shoulder leading him farther in the house. “Fili, Kili. Come on. Give us a hand.” All of us walked into what looked like a dining room. “Let’s shove this in the hallway, otherwise we’ll never get everyone in.” Bilbo stammered. “Everyone? How many more are there?” I grabbed Fili’s weapons. “Here I’ll take these Mr. Baggins.”

“Th-thank you. Do you know what’s going on.” I smiled slyly and put Fili’s weapons somewhere out of the way. Suddenly the doorbell rang again. Bilbo feeling very frustrated walked towards the door. “Oh, no. No. No. There’s nobody home! Go away and bother somebody else! There’s far too many dwarves in my dining room as it is. If this is some clot-heads idea of a joke…ha! Ha! I can only say it is in poor taste.” He opened the door I could hear the dwarves falling on the floor in the entrance of the hobbits home. I followed after Bilbo. Seeing the dwarves on the floor I giggled watching them grunt and groan. “Ah. There you are my lady I thought I told you to stay put.” I smiled. “Sorry I ran into Fili and Kili they said you would be here soon and well here you are.” Bilbo looked at Gandalf. “Gandalf.”

Soon everyone was in the dining room they were passing ales and food. Having a grand old time, I ate a bit myself. I grabbed a jug of ale and took a few gulps. I giggled some more seeing poor Bilbo tell the dwarves to put his food back from his pantry. Food was going left and right the dwarves drinking and eating. “Ale! Going one, two, three!” They were all chugging their drinks. A few letting out some burps. I laughed amongst them. Once they all finished eating they began to clean up I joined in obviously. “‘Scuse me but where do I put my plate?” Ori asked Bilbo. Fili walked up grabbing the plate from him. “Here you go, ori. Give it to me.” He tossed it to Kili who caught it without a problem and tossing it to Bifur. They were tossing all the dishes to get cleaned. I heard the dwarves clatter the silverware. “And can—can you not do that? You’ll blunt them.”

“Ooh, do you hear that, lads? He says we’ll blunt the knives.” They began to bang their shoes amongst the floor, making a beat. “ Blunt the knives, bend the forks.” Kili began to sing. “Smash the bottles and burn the corks.” Fili followed. “Chip the glasses and crack the plates.”

“That’s what Bilbo baggins hates!” They all sang together. I danced a bit to their song. “Cut the cloth tread on the fat. Leave the bones on the bedroom mat. Pour the milk on the pantry floor. Smash the wine on every door. Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl. Pound them up with a thumping pole. When you’re finished, if they are whole. Send them down the hall to roll. That’s what Bilbo baggins hates!” They all laughed after the song was finished. Suddenly there was a loud banging on the door everyone quieted down. I looked at Gandalf. “He is here.” Bilbo and Gandalf walked to the door, I followed them. Gandalf opened the door for Thorin. “Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way. Twice. I wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”

“Mark? There’s no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago.” Gandalf closed the door after Thorin walked in. “There is a mark. I put it there myself. Bilbo Baggins. Y/N. Allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield.” I bowed my head a bit to be polite. “So..this is the hobbit and Gandalfs assistant. Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?” Thorin circled Bilbo. “Pardon me?”

“Axe or sword? What’s your weapon of choice?”

“Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know.” I crinkled a bit. “But I fail to see why that’s relevant.”

“I thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.” The dwarves laughed at Thorins comment. I felt a little sympathy for Bilbo. The dwarves all walked to the dining room it was just Bilbo, Gandalf, and I. “Your assistant aye.” I crossed my arms under my chest. Gandalf smiled. “Well I couldn’t just tell them you’re from another world now could I.” I nodded. “Alright, I guess it could work for now.”

I sat next to Fili and Kili at the dining table. “What need from the meeting in Ered Luin?” Balin asked Thorin. “Did they all come?”

“Aye. Envoys from all seven kingdoms.”

“And what did the dwarves of the iron hills say? Is Dain with us?” Dwalin asked. “They will not come.” Thorin answered.

“They say this quest is ours and ours alone.”

“You’re going on a quest?” Bilbo asked standing behind Gandalf. “Y/N, help my dear fellow Bilbo, let us have a little more light.” I nodded helping Bilbo bring some candles out. “Far to the east…over ranges and rivers… beyond woodlands and wastelands… lies a single, solitary peak.”

“The lonely mountain.”

“Aye, Oin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time!” Glóin said. “Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold. When the birds of yore return to erebor, the reign of the beast will end.”

“What beast?” Bilbo asked curiously. “That would be a reference to Smaug the terrible. Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire breather. Teeth like razors. Claws like meat hooks. Extremely fond of precious metals.” Bofur described Smaug. “Yes, I know what a dragon is.” Suddenly Oir stood up. “I’m not afraid. I’m up for it. I’ll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksie!”

“Good lad, Ori!” Nori cheered on the dwarf. “Sit down.” Dori told him. “The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us..but we number in just 16. And not 16 of the best…nor brightest.” That gave a bit of commotion. “We may be few in number… but we’re fighters. All of us! To the last dwarf.” Fili cheered on. “And you forget, we have a wizard in our company along with his assistant. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time.” I bit back a laugh. “Oh, well, no. I-I-I wouldn’t say—,”

“How many, then?” Dori asked. “What?”

“How many dragons have you killed?” All the dwarves looked at Gandalf as he choked on his smoke. “Go on. Give us a number.” I watched as they fought amongst themselves. I pushed myself against the wall. “Uh, excuse me. Please.” Bilbo tried to talk to the dwarves when Thorin spoke up. “No more!” They all went silent. “If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for 60 years. Eyes look west to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast of our wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back erebor?!” They all cheer til Balin cuts in. “You forget: the front gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain.”

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true.” Gandalf brought out a key showing it to the dwarves. “How came you by this?” Thorin asked. “It was given to me by your father. By Thrain. For safekeeping. It is yours now.” Gandalf handed Thorin the key. “If there is a key…there must be a door.” Fili thought out loud. Gandalf showed them the writing on the map. “These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls.”

“There’s another way in.” Kili spoke happily. “Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map, and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in middle earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage. But if we are careful and clever, I believer that it can be done.”

“That’s why we need a burglar.” Ori concluded. “Hmm. And a good one too.” All eyes were on Bilbo. “An expert, I’d imagine.”

“And are you?” Glóin asked. Bilbo looked around realizing that he asked him. “Am I what?”

“He said he’s an expert! Hey!”

“Me? No. No, no. I’m not a burglar. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.”

“Well, I’m afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He’s hardly burglar material.” Balin replied.

“Aye, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.” Dwalin looked at bilbo and I. I felt a little offended. “C’mon Dwalin they’ll manage just fine.” Bilbo agreed what the dwarf said while I bit my tongue holding back insults. The dwarves talked amongst themselves. Then Gandalf made the house grow dark. Gandalf stood as tall as he could in the small hobbits house and in a loud and scary voice, “Enough! If I say Bilbo baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is. And you will talk to my assistant with more respect. Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most, if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him. My assistant here also has some insight about our quest which will be useful in taking back the lonely mountain. Smaug will not see us coming. You asked me to find the 14th member of this company, and I have found 2. There’s a lot more to them than appearances suggest. And they both got a great deal more to offer than any of you know. Including themselves.” I could tell he was mainly talking to Bilbo. “You must trust me on this.” Gandalf finished. Thorin seemed to take Gandalfs words seriously. “Very well. We will do it your way.” Bilbo doesn’t seem convinced though. “No.no.”

“Give them the contract.” Thorin looked at Balin. Balin took out a folded paper and handed it to Bilbo. “It’s just the usual. Summary of out of pocket expenses…time required, remuneration…funeral arrangements, so forth.” Bilbo seemed stunned by the words ‘funeral arrangements.’

“Funeral arrangements?” I placed my hand on bilbos shoulder, “it’ll be alright.” He opened the folded contract. Bilbo walked off to read the contract. Thorin leaned close to Gandalf talking about something important no doubt. “Terms: cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding 1/14th of total profit, if any. Seems fair. Present company shall not be liable for any injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including, but not limited to lacerations…evisceration…incineration?” I giggled a bit at bilbos reaction. “Oh, aye. He’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.” Bilbo seemed to pause at that. All the dwarves took notice, “are you all right, laddie?” Balin asked the small hobbit. Bilbo put his hands on his knees,” yeah.” Bilbo seemed to try to process this, taking a few deep breaths. “Feel a bit faint.” I felt a bit sympathetic for poor Bilbo besides knowing he’ll be alright. “Bilbo?” I asked concerned for the hobbit, but it seems another dwarf had other intentions. “Think furnace with wings.” Bofur got up from his seat. I looked at the dwarf with eyes to plead to him to stop. “Air. I-I-I need air.” Bilbo looked like he was going to get sick. “Flash of light, searing pain, then poof! You’re nothing more than a pile of ash.” I bit my lip watching the scene play out. Bilbo tried his best to keep calm and to not faint, but he failed. “Nope.” And he went down. I closed my eyes and sighed, “now you’ve done it. Good going Bofur.” I put my hands on my hips. “Oh, very helpful, Bofur.” Gandalf sarcastically said. I grabbed the contract picked up a quill and signed my name, handing it to Balin. “There you go.” Balin looked at the signature. “Welcome to the company, my lady.” I bowed my head and he did the same. The company helped poor Bilbo up and onto his comfy armchair. He was well awake and holding a cup of tea. “I’ll be all right. Just let me sit quietly for a moment.” Gandalf smoking his pipe seemed to get angry at the small hobbit. “You’ve been sitting quietly for far too long. Tell me, when did doilies and your mother’s dishes become so important to you?” Remembering this moment I decided to leave Gandalf and Bilbo to their conversation joining the dwarves in the other room. Fili and Kili walked up to me,” is Mr. Boggins all right?” I nodded. “Yes but he and Gandalf are having a serious conversation so I’d wait if you want to talk to him.” Kili nodded. “Do you think he’ll come?”

“No way brother, Mr. Boggins is way too comfortable here.” Fili responded. “I think he’ll come.” I smiled a little. “Why did you not faint, don’t dragons scare you?” Kili asked, I chuckled a bit, “of course they do but I also think dragons are cool. Seeing one up close sure would be a story to tell one day, that’s if I make it.” I know the story of them but what of me technically I died who knows what’ll happen to me here. “Cool? Dragons are not cool, remember what Bofur said. Furnace with wings.” Fili reminded me, I laughed. “Yes, yes. I remember I just meant they’re majestic, and also terrifying.” I have to remind myself that ‘cool’ isn’t a normal slang term in this world. In that moment Bilbo was walking past us going to what I believe is his bedroom. Kili and Fili suddenly left me to join the other dwarves in the living room. I began to hear humming and singing from the living room, remembering Thorin singing the misty mountain. I sat outside of the room listening to the beautiful sound but also hearing the mournful sound in Thorins voice. I vowed to myself I’ll make sure the durin line will survive once we arrived at the lonely mountain. Leaving my place in the hobbits home I walked outside took a place near the entrance of the hobbits home and fell asleep.

[harringtonswriting]

Omg Bree that list!! I would love to read 25. goodnight kisses with Bradley?🥺

ahhhh thank you so much Nova!! <3 i am SO sorry it took me so long to get this finished, but i hope you enjoy it!! god this was so adorable to write and i really, REALLY appreciate you picking this one bc it was such a cute idea <3

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This was the best first date you’d had in a long time. Probably the best first date you’ve ever been on, if you’re being honest, but that’s not something you’re going to admit to your date. You didn’t want to give his ego that big of a boost this early, and also didn’t want him to think about your dating history being any sadder than he might already think it is.

Bradley Bradshaw had asked you out the night you met him at the Hard Deck, where he was drinking with his friends and you’d been convinced by yours to come out for some drinks and the promise of some very pretty Naval officers to look at. Which, you were happy to find, there were plenty of. Bradley included.

You’d thought he was just another good-looking flyboy when he’d walked up to you at the bar top, though his endearing smile and his outrageous taste in fashion had you intrigued enough to say yes; you had no idea how he still managed to look attractive wearing bright blue and magenta, but that coupled with his 70s-esque mustache and very pretty, big brown eyes ended up winning you over. You’d put your number in his phone, let him buy you a drink, and your friends teased you for the better part of an hour about giving your number to the first pilot who talked to you. But there was something special about Bradley, something genuine and funny and maybe you were a little tipsy, but you didn’t regret giving him your number.

Bradley messaged you the following afternoon to ask you to dinner this coming Friday night, and after the initial awkwardness (he’d responded to you with just a thumbs up emoji and you’d used maybe a few too many exclamation points), the two of you fell into an easy rhythm of texting back and forth. You find yourself enjoying talking with him, and looking forward to seeing his name pop up on your phone.

All too quickly, though, Friday night arrives and he picks you up in what is obviously a very old, but very well loved, truck. He’s got sunglasses on, big mirrored aviators, but no Hawaiian shirt tonight (he’d later tell you that he’d received advice that he should wear something a little more toned down for the first date, and you couldn’t say that a black t-shirt and jeans didn’t suit him just as well as what he’d been wearing the night you met him). He’d lifted his sunglasses off his face, clipping them on the front of his shirt as he got out of his truck, and a wide grin split across his face as he caught sight of you coming out of your house.

“You look amazing,” he says, and the words come out loud and earnest–it’s a genuine compliment, and his smile is infectious to boot. You smile as you return the sentiment.

“Not so bad yourself. I like this look,” you tell him, and you see him puff his chest out just a bit. As you walk towards him, he reaches into his truck and comes back out with a bouquet of sunflowers tied with a yellow ribbon. He holds them out to you, and you take them from his hands.

“These are for you,” he says, and you look down at the flowers. They’re beautiful, the loveliest shade of yellow from soaking up the warmth and love of the sun. “I didn’t know what you liked, but they reminded me of your smile, so I hope these are okay.” Bradley’s just a little bashful, and you rest one hand on his forearm.

“They’re beautiful,” you tell him, and it’s the truth. They are, and the fact that they reminded him of you? You don’t know how he can say that with a straight face, and if it came from anyone else you might be embarrassed. You still are, a little, but you’re just a little pleased, too, that he’s been thinking about you. You take the flowers inside, quickly putting them in a tall glass of water before heading back out to where Bradley and the Bronco are waiting. You head around to the passenger side door to pull it open… but it won’t budge. You try again, but still no dice. Oh, god, did you break his car? This is a classic, right? That’s what a lot of older cars are. He gets you beautiful flowers and you break his car. Wonderful. You look at Bradley, and he grimaces. Oh no.

“The, uh, the door sticks sometimes. Lemme get it for you,” he says, coming around to fiddle with the handle before the door pops open. You feel some relief, then, knowing that you didn’t just bust his car, and you climb in and he shuts it behind you. Then he’s getting in on his side, and the two of you head out to the restaurant he’d told you about for dinner.

It was a place that Hangman had recommended, Bradley told you, but he only decided to take that recommendation seriously when Phoenix, Payback, and Fanboy had all confirmed it was good. And you’d have to remember to thank Bradley’s friends the next time you see them, because they were right. It was a small place, not too far from the Hard Deck, with the best food you’d had in a while. The atmosphere was friendly and it was busy enough that you and Bradley had plenty of time to talk between your server’s check ups, but not too busy that you felt rushed or couldn’t get a table.

The two of you got through the basic first date talk pretty quickly; he’s a much better listener than the last few guys you’d gone out with, and actually asked you some questions when you were telling him about some work drama you’d been dealing with. You enjoy the way his big, beautiful brown eyes crinkle at the corners with crows feet when he smiles, and how he scrunches his nose when he laughs. He also talks with his hands, you’ve come to realize, and he nearly knocks his glass of water off the table no less than four times as he’s telling you a story about what had happened at work earlier today.

“Anyway, so the radio was totally shot, right? So I’m inverted above Coyote, Phoenix and Bob are freaking out, there’s no way to communicate and we still have half a training exercise to complete. Can you believe that?” Bradley has his hands in an awkward position, trying to give you a visual as to what things had looked like. You can tell by the way he talks that he absolutely loves what he does, and he loves being able to fly. And there are very few things more attractive than seeing a man get so excited to tell you all about how he managed to get his plane upside down and scare the shit out of his friends and co-workers when no one was able to talk to each other in the air.

Dinner is over all too quickly after that, though, but thankfully nothing gets spilled during the rest of Bradley’s animated descriptions of his completely serious job duties. After you’d left the restaurant, since it was still light out, Bradley suggested that the two of you take a walk together along the beach behind the Hard Deck. He swore up and down that watching the sunsets from there were phenomenal, and, not wanting the date to end just yet, you agreed to go with him. He drove you there, and the two of you left your shoes in the back of his truck while you walked along the sand, continuing your conversation from dinner.

Bradley was absolutely right about the sunset, too; it was gorgeous, seeing all the blues and pinks and oranges, and every colour in-between, painting the sky in front of you and the water softly splashing against the shore. The two of you stop walking and talking as the sun hits the horizon, the cool water gently lapping against your feet and washing the sand all around. You swear you feel the back of Bradley’s hand ghost against the back of yours as the two of you stand there, side by side.

There’s a soft breeze blowing, putting a little chill in the air, and you find yourself shuffling a little closer to Bradley. Warmth radiates off of him, and as you look at him out of the corner of your eye and see him bathed in the burnished glow of the setting sun and how it gleams in his eyes, you think all the warmth and light of that sun must have been soaked up into him. And the more time you spend here with him on the beach, the happier you are that you didn’t let the date end after dinner–and that you gave him your number in the first place.

Once the sun has fully dipped below the horizon, the two of you make your way back to Bradley’s truck as the night sky faded from dusky twilight to a deep blue. You do keep a few steps behind him, though, to admire the way he fills out his t-shirt and jeans from the back. He’d once again popped the passenger door open for you, and closed it for you before he made his way back over to the driver’s side. Then, once he’s situated in the driver’s seat, he’s peeling out of the parking lot and heading back to your place.

The windows are rolled down as Bradley’s truck speeds along the road, and the cool breeze from earlier is back and blowing through the cab of the truck. The drive passes by all too quickly, with you needing to give Bradley directions the closer you get, and before you know it he’s pulling into your driveway. He parks the truck and turns the engine off. A beat of silence passes between the two of you before you turn to him and smile.

“Thank you for tonight,” you tell him, and you catch a flash of his teeth as he smiles.

“I should be thanking you. I’m glad you let me take you out.” He’s so earnest, maybe just a bit too earnest, but you have a feeling that he’s not quite as slick as some of his friends had been at the bar when you’d met. Which wasn’t entirely a bad thing; as pretty as the green eyed blond who’d been chatting up your best friend had been, he seemed just a little too full of himself. Bradley was much more your type (though you’d probably wait to admit that, that’s more of a post-third date kind of thing, if you got a third date, that is. You hope you do).

Though you don’t really want to date to end, judging by the time glowing on the dashboard of the truck (which Bradley had insisted was only thirteen minutes behind and it had been since his father owned it, and was lovingly referred to as running on ‘Goose time’, which you hoped he’d explain in the future), it was getting pretty late and you weren’t sure if he had to work in the morning. If he did, then he probably should have been at home a while ago.

“I should probably let you get going.” You unbuckle your seatbelt and grab your bag, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think you almost saw a pout cross Bradley’s face. But he nods, unbuckling his own seatbelt.

“At least let me walk you to your door,” he says, and before you can protest he’s popping open his door and you watch him jog around the front of his truck to your side. He fiddles with the door handle for a minute before he gets it open, and when he does he offers you his other hand to help you out of the Bronco. You take it, and once you’re clear he closes the truck door–and doesn’t let go of your hand as he walks all the way down the driveway, up your front steps, and stops in front of your door.

The two of you stand on the porch, his calloused hand still clasped around your own as the dim, yellow light shining above your door illuminates the space around you. A few moths are bobbing and weaving around said light, a few of them getting a bit too close and dropping down before flying back up again in an endless cycle.

“Is it alright if I kiss you goodnight?” he asks, voice a little huskier than it had been all night as he breaks the silence, and you feel cool relief flood through you when you nod because yes, absolutely, you definitely want this man to kiss you, and it feels good to know he wants to kiss you, too.

You hadn’t been quite sure what to expect, though; would he be eager? Pushy? Sloppy?

Thankfully he’s none of those things–sure, Bradley’s lips are more than a little chapped, but that’s not surprising given what he does for work. But they’re also warm, and the gentle pressure behind the kiss has you closing your eyes and leaning into him. His mustache tickles against your skin, brushing against it as his mouth works against yours.

When you pull back due to the rather unfortunate need that your body has for oxygen, you take a moment to scan his face in the dim porch light. He’s got scars on his cheek, chin, and neck, you realize, and they gleam almost silver as you take them in. There’s a tiny smattering of barely there freckles that dot his nose, and one of his deep brown curls is hanging loose and slightly over his forehead. You wonder what it would be like to reach up and brush it away, but decide that the first date maybe isn’t the right time for that. His eyes are crinkled at the corner, crow’s feet softening his deep brown eyes as he looks down at you.

“That was… wow,” he tells you, which is probably pretty close to what you’d have said, because he’s not wrong. “I mean, better than just wow, but this is probably where I should get going before I make a total fool of myself. Thanks again for tonight.” He squeezes your hand one more time before he’s turning and stepping back off your porch to head towards his truck. You dig your keys out of your bag and unlock your door.

“Get home safe,” you call after him, and he waves back at you over his shoulder with a loud laugh. You step inside after you watch him get into the driver’s side, and close and lock your door as you hear the Bronco speed off into the night.

And about half an hour later, while you’re laying in bed, your phone screen lights up with a notification from Bradley–he’s home safe, he just wanted to let you know so that you don’t worry about him, and he’d love to take you out again, if that’s something you want. You look over at the sunflowers on your dresser, yellow ribbon still tied around them, and you can’t help the smile on your face as you tell him a second date is more than alright with you.

[velidewrites]

When the Goddess of the Underworld grants a mortal General an extended stay in the land of the living, she doesn’t expect him to come back with another deal — one she has no idea will ruin her life forever.

Pairing: Hades!Nesta x Cassian

Word Count: 14k

Notes: This is Part I of my follower celebration project, Divinity! Thank you for being here <3

Warnings (please read before proceeding): Graphic depictions of blood, injury and death; 18+, explicit sexual content, return of the monsterfucking agenda, this means monster sex; monster cocks; yes cocks plural; Cassian has three of them let's just get that out of the way now; are you reading the tags?; let me just repeat it: there is monsterfucking in this fic; proceed at your own discretion

Beta'd by @melting-houses-of-gold <3

Read on AO3 || Check out this BEAUTIFUL art commissioned by @melphss inspired by this fic! 🥹💕

When Hades appears, the earth beneath her erupts in flames.

They are not the hot, blazing kind the mortals burn for the Gods kind in their temples. Their fire is passion, wild and impossible to tame. It molds the stone to its will and consumes everything in its path, threatening to blind and scorch and hurt anyone who crosses it. It is a living breath—a sign that one day, like everything else, its fervour will fade away, leaving nothing but ash as a reminder of its former glory. A fire that begins to die the moment it is born—the moment it dares to lick, to taste.

It is a mortal fire. A human fire.

It is nothing like hers.

The silver flames surrounding her are made to repel. A display of her power—of the risks involved in getting too close. They swirl around her like pets at all times but when she steps into the Overworld—it is too hot, too volatile to sustain their icy touch. When Hades enters, they slither up her form, the cold pleasant against flesh, and take their rest in the pits of her eyes, where they make her gaze burn with a reminder of what she truly is.

Death.

Thanatos smirks at it sometimes—at the fear reflected in the mortals’ eyes as they meet her own. He is the only one who seems to understand—understand that Hades is not the Harbinger of Death, but its Nurturer. The Underworld is where it thrives, devoid of the passions and distractions above, yet full of a different sort of beauty. Peace. Quiet.

But Hades is not mortal. And sometimes, Death gets too quiet to bear.

Today is that day, and, like always, she makes her way upward until sunlight seeps its roots deep into her bones.

There is a downside to the Overworld, though, one she has no idea how the others stand to endure. For to walk among the mortals, the Gods must become one of them—in flesh, if nothing else. Down in her kingdom, she is allowed to roam free, the same as Olympus—although even there, she is not entirely without restraints. Hades grimaces slightly at the thought, but discards it just as quickly. She did not come here without a purpose—she never does—and it would be foolish to slip into unnecessary distractions.

Besides, she thinks as the flames around her begin their ascent at last, this mortal body is not without a purpose. Right now, if she is to be completely honest, she can’t exactly remember why she despises it so. Today’s form is perhaps her favourite of all, every inch of it revealed to her as the silver flames trail up her legs, her breasts, her neck. Once they settle in her eyes, she can finally appreciate what she has become.

She likes the softness of her skin underneath the pads of her fingers, and the sensuous sway of her hips as she takes her first step. Her hair, a golden shade of brown, falls in part down her back with the rest of it draped over her shoulders, the cascading waves cupping the curve of her exposed breasts.

What pretty sight, she thinks, then smooths a hand over her thigh. Her power responds instantly, its gentle hum weaving the earth, wind and sun into a silky thread. It doesn’t stop until the gown is complete and hugging her body with a fabric of the darkest black. Hades’s mouth ticks up in a smile at that—it seems that no matter what body she chooses, the colour suits her every time. The gown is sleeveless, and she stretches her arm, admiring the contrast of her milky skin against the fabric. She is the paling moon hung over the midnight sky—a light that shines most beautifully in the darkness.

The rest of the garment gathers at her hips before falling loosely to the ground, covering what she thinks is too much of her supple form. She’ll have to amend that later—she may be a Goddess, but she still wants to make a good first impression.

A breathless sound somewhere behind her tells her she has nothing to worry about, and Hades smirks to herself before turning to its source. A mortal man gapes at her openly, his eyes holding nothing but pure, unrestrained awe. He is old, she thinks, taking in his hunched form and wrinkled skin with a raised brow. A part of her is glad her beauty is one of the last things he will see.

There is no hope for him left when his gaze moves up to meet her own. Only the strongest of mortal minds can withstand the deathly fire in her stare—and this man no longer possesses the resolve of his younger counterparts.

She says nothing—does not even move when he finally understands what kind of creature he stumbled upon in this forest. Not a lost, wandering maiden, but a Goddess.

The worst Goddess this world has to offer.

The awe in his gaze freezes into fear, and his jaw hangs open for the last time before his knees buckle and he falls to the mossy ground. The elderly fog in his eyes chills and becomes frost, a thin veil of cold death. Hades sighs at the scene.

This is inconvenient.

She does not wish to see Thanatos today—not when it means another, long lecture and a hundred reasons against her coming here again. He is perhaps the only one who even dares to contradict her, and she appreciates that at times, but with this—with this, she is certain. Thanatos will say she’d lost her senses, to be sure. It wouldn’t be the first time, and just like all the times before, she would deal with him later.

The barest tinge of guilt passes over her, and she silently curses this mortal flesh for submitting to such foolish, such human impulses. Thanatos, after all, is her most valued friend, even if everyone on Olympus believes him her servant. The truth is, Thanatos is no more than her guest in the Underworld, for his presence is undesired anywhere else.

It is why she does not mind when the less astute of the mortals mistake her for Thanatos—for the God of Death. He lives out his eternal life in the shadows, appearing only when situations like the man before her require it. She is content to take the blame, the hatred—she repays it tenfold when their souls arrive in her kingdom.

Thanatos may be Death, but Hades is its ruler. Its Queen.

Still, whatever compassion she holds for her companion in the Underworld is of no use to her now, and so she shoves it away and makes her way to the edge of the forest. Thanatos will know what caused the old human’s death, but Hades will not be there when he arrives.

The moss is soft beneath her feet, dampened by the rainy days succeeding the summertime. She despises the dry heat, the heavy air and the scorching rays of sunlight. It is why she only visits later in the year, when the climate is more welcoming. When there is…more to be seen.

Hades can see him now, in fact, as she looks out to the fields from behind the wide oak that borders the forest. Demeter keeps him hidden almost all year, like a secret she does not want known to the rest of the world—not even to the Gods. Especially not to the Gods, Hades thinks. Though, of course, there is no hiding from them no matter how hard she tries.

She’d been watching him long enough to understand why. Her son’s power is raw and untamed—it is unlike anything she’d ever seen. Hades can’t quite comprehend how a being so impressive in his skill had managed to come out of a woman so gentle as the Goddess of the Harvest. There’s no denying it, though—he is part of her, no matter how much his power differs from hers. Their auburn hair and russet eyes are one and the same, even the placement of freckles on his toned arms mirrors that of Demeter’s. He shines like the fire that burns under his gaze—bright and hungry and unstoppable. Perhaps that is why he intrigues her—his flames complement her own, their passion a balance to her peace. It is not the same kind of mortal passion that fills her with such distaste—he will never die out. He will burn alongside her for as long as she wants it.

He is a God, just as she is. Eternal. Demeter claims she’d crafted him from the autumn leaves that had once fallen over her crops, but Hades sees the lie for what it is. A man like him cannot be anything but the fruit of pleasure and the joining of flesh—though whose, Hades does not know. Another God, to be certain. One shameful enough for Demeter to remain in her cottage amongst humans—a place so pathetic that no self-respecting God would bother looking at it twice.

But not Hades. Hades comes every year.

Every year, she watches the God of Autumn and wonders if he feels her fire, too. If he does, he says nothing—and so Hades chooses to believe he is not aware of her presence at all. He leaves Demeter’s stead on the dawn of the first autumn day, and the season erupts around him in a symphony of bronze, crimson and gold, glistening even in the most rainy of days. He roams the lands then, admiring his work until Demeter appears at the doorstep again, urging him inside with a worried look on her face. He abides every time, and every time, Hades is too late to stop him.

She will not fail this year. This year, he will be hers at last. She will grab him before he returns to his mother’s side and take him to her kingdom with her—show him what true power means. What being a God means.

She has a few months before the time comes, but she had come today to admire him from afar. Eris. A beautiful name, she must admit, for a beautiful man.

Soon, you will be mine.

He will make a fine consort—he is exactly what she needs in the Underworld. A flicker of light, of fervour, a cackling fire to disturb the quiet. At last, she will—

Hades sucks in a sharp breath, her mortal lungs contracting violently in answer. She whirls on her feet, expecting to find someone behind her—another mortal, perhaps, who strayed too far on their evening hunt. But she finds the forest empty.

It is then that she realises the disturbance came from within her—that her power set every nerve in her body on alert, knocked the air from her chest, stirred by whatever dared to come near it. And since there is no one beside her…

A low snarl slips past her throat.

Someone entered one of her temples—and defiled it.

Hades takes one, final look at her betrothed before the earth beneath her cracks and the silver flames swallow her again.

***

The temple shakes as it signals her arrival, the pile of ruined marble a testament to her anger. Hades feels no remorse—she has hardly any worshippers here, if the spiderwebs draped over the large columns are any indication. This is a village of warriors, and fierce ones at that—they do not accept death even as they march bloodied into battle. She’s been seeing more and more of them in the Underworld lately, souls defeated by the neighbouring legion on the other side of the mountain. A pointless, petty war, Thanatos had told her, though Hades had no interest in hearing the rest of the details.

Through the fractured roof, she can make out the dusk slowly melting into a greyish night. The last remnant of daylight is the pale beam of the sun, illuminating one of her ruined statues. Hades recognises this face—it is one she took on ten years prior. One of her least favourites, but pretty nonetheless.

Pretty enough that the sight of blood on her marble cheek fills her with rage.

Defiled, the word thrums through her again. Degraded by mortal touch.

The crimson smudge gleams fresh, its iron scent brushing her nose without permission. She scrunches it in distaste—yet another violation of her divinity. Whoever did this would not leave her temple again. She would see to their punishment personally.

A gargled cough echoes through the stone, and Hades whips toward the sound.

There you are.

The man’s body is curled up on the floor, but no rubble surrounds him—whatever caused him pain, it happened before her arrival. Blood pools at his side, tainting the pristine marble and reeking of him. There is no doubt left in her mind—this is the man who did this.

And he is already dying.

It seems that her job here is done—perhaps Thanatos is already on his way. Hades turns her back to him and gathers her power again—if she hurries, she might still catch a glimpse of Eris before darkness breaks over the sky once more.

But then the cough reaches her again, and this time, it is followed by a strangled sound.

“Please…”

She halts, though she isn’t sure why.

“Please,” the man rasps again.

If he does not die on his own, her fiery gaze might hurry things along.

Hades turns.

Somehow, he managed to pull himself up to his knees despite the open slice across his navel. Whatever sword had caused this, it was no average one—this man is nearly severed in half, blood pouring out of his squelching flesh in a thick, ruthless current. He holds a large hand over his guts, and Hades wonders if it is the only thing still keeping them in place. This is no ordinary man, she realises, no ordinary warrior—he will not die until he’s exhausted every path, every resource, the very last resort he can think of.

His last resort appears to be her.

Interesting.

“What will you give me?” she asks him, her voice dropping an octave. He tilts his head up to meet her gaze, and Hades considers that perhaps she does not need anything in return at all.

He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful man she’s ever seen. Breathtaking in every sense of the word. So breathtaking that she searches her mind for any Gods who might have sired him—she had never seen a mortal this exquisite. A son of Ares, perhaps, or Athena, even, but he has no resemblance to either of them—there is nothing polished about him that she’d seen up on Olympus, nothing refined into that sleek, eternal perfection her kind likes to boast of. No, he is as wild as the howling wind in the harshest of winters, as rough and hardened as the frozen earth at the foot of the mountain towering over her temple. 

His hazel eyes blaze with want, but it is not the hunger she so often sees in the eyes of her betrothed. He wants to survive, to live, but his reasons have nothing to do with him.

“Anything,” he says, and there is new strength in his voice, one Hades did not expect in a man on the threshold of Death. “I will give you anything.”

She doesn’t want to admit this, not out loud at least, but he intrigues her immensely. A man with the face and stare of a God—and yet still, just a mortal, dying man.

She realises then that he’s holding her own stare directly—that he’s taking in all that silver fire and his answering gaze holds not even a shred of fear.

“Your name,” Hades decides. “Your name in exchange for your life.”

His dark brows furrow, and she knows he is turning her words over in his mind until he finds the trap, the secret motive she surely plants underneath her request. A thought crosses her mind that whoever he is, he has been trained to deal with deception, to recognise threat before it even comes to life. But the only threat here is her curiosity, and so, when he looks up at her again, she already knows he has found nothing.

“Cassian,” he tells her, and Hades breathes again.

Somewhere deep inside her, she hears the fading voice of Thanatos, a final voice of reason before she succumbs into this bargain with no hopes of return. Forget his name. Go home. Do not think of him again—destroy the temple, if you must.

She does not have to. Hades is a Goddess, a Queen—she will be damned before she let this distraction ruin the plan she’s been crafting for decades.

Thanatos will honour this bargain—he will not come for this man, and will defy the Fates in doing so. The least Hades can do is listen.

“Do not seek me out again, mortal,” she warns.

And with that, she is gone forever.

***

Forever does not last long enough.

“Ignore it,” the shadows tell her, and she turns to meet their face.

Thanatos’s expression is grave, though that does little to stop her—he always looks this way, after all, pained and somber even in the quiet reprieve that the Underworld allows him.

“I cannot,” Hades says, and her friend’s lips only press tighter together.

She wonders if it is her friend trying to shield her, or the God of Death. Perhaps he is merely trying to spare her—to keep her from making the same mistake he had. Thanatos has never quite recovered from Athena’s rejection, or Aphrodite’s heartbreak, the romance brief as it was. But this—she—is different. This has nothing to with risk, or with romance—only curiosity, burning somewhere deep inside her chest, and brighter than the silver fire in her eyes.

Right now, that curiosity is fuelled by anger, because the man—Cassian—dared to disobey her command.

She felt him the moment he touched one of the statues in her temple, his touch roughened by the calloused skin of his open palm and tainted with battle yet again. To think that this man, this mortal, has now dared to summon her twice—it makes her want to rage for the rest of eternity.

“You ask too much of me,” Thanatos accuses, his words pulling her out of her thoughts yet again.

Hades waves a hand. “I do not ask of anything yet.”

His gaze narrows on her, and she can practically feel his scrutiny clawing at her skin. “Your temple reeks of his blood—surely you’ve felt it, too.” The shadows swirl around him eagerly, like a child mindlessly nodding along to its parent’s words. “You know where this path will lead you.”

“Precisely,” Hades hisses. “I forbade him from ever returning there again, and yet, not even a month later, he came back—no doubt with more demands.” Her anger simmers inside her again, but she manages to keep it contained. The time to unleash it will come later—soon, if Thanatos would just get over himself and let her pass.

The God of Death angles his head slightly. “You intend to punish him, then.”

“Of course,” Hades says, trying her hardest not to take offence at the disbelief in his tone. She knows Thanatos’s faith in her has been shaken, that he disapproves of her plans, her determination. That he disapproves of the Overworld, and of Eris, and—

“You’re wrong,” he interrupts. She didn’t realise she said the words out loud, though perhaps Thanatos could simply read them on her face. “I only want you to understand. This God of Autumn, and now this…this human—they will never be enough for you here.”

Her eyes flare silver. “You mean you will never be enough.”

Hades regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth, but it is already too late. She let her anger get the best of her—to strike where she knew would hurt him the most. She can tell she succeeded from the way his eyes darken, from the way his shadows curl at his sides like snakes ready to defend their master, to fight venom with venom.

Thanatos is not her master, though—and even though down here they may only have each other, she is still the Queen. His Queen, for as long as he chooses to remain in the Underworld. His opinions, his jealousy, she decides, are not welcome here.

Her body relaxes as the momentary guilt lifts from her shoulders, and when she speaks again, her voice is colder than the silver fire pooling at her feet. “I am leaving for the temple.”

Silence falls between them, and when she no longer believes Thanatos has anything of value left to say, she turns her back to him at last.

She’s about to disappear when she hears his voice again. “This will be the last favour, Hades,” he warns her.

Good. She will not need any more.

Still, the words echo in her head the entirety of her journey upward, fading only when the temple comes into view. The ground trembles under the weight of her fury, the stone walls crumbling inch by inch with her every step. She has no idea how the temple still stands, frankly. She was expecting it to collapse after her last visit.

She was also expecting to see Cassian amidst all that rubble, drenched in his own blood and his guts slowly spilling out of his body. Instead, she finds him in perfect health, his chin held up high as he meets her gaze from beneath her statue where he waits.

Kneeling.

Hades is not one to be easily taken by surprise, but the sight of him on his knees before her makes her breath hitch in her throat. He’s cloaked in a warrior’s leathers, traditional to his region, dark and ridged and tight, and Hades can’t help it when her traitorous eyes trail down to admire their work. She can make out the defined muscle of his thick thighs, wondering how they’d feel under the touch of her human hands. She wants to dig her nails into the golden-brown skin—wants to pierce those leathers and find out just how hard those muscles are.

She hears his breath turn ragged when her gaze settles on the bulge at their apex, and the thought crosses her mind that, perhaps, he’d be more than willing to answer all her questions had she only asked. Her form seems to please him as much as he pleases her—though that, at least, comes as no surprise.

The gown she’d selected would no doubt make Thanatos choke in disbelief. The black lace is sheer and hugs her body in all the right places, revealing her smooth skin from the collar at her neck down to the lean muscle of her calves. The thread forms intricate patterns over her nipples before descending to her navel in a V-like shape, covering just enough of her cunt beneath to make any God drop to his knees.

Any mortal, too, of course, she reminded herself as her gaze lifted to the male before her once again.

“I thought you’d like to see me this way,” Cassian says, his voice low and deep and reverberating through her in a slow, shuddering wave. “Hades.”

The moment shatters like glass.

Hades straightens, silently cursing Thanatos, the Fates and, above all, herself for giving into his beauty, to the temptations of this mortal flesh. She is Hades, the Goddess of the Underworld, and this pathetic, mortal male had nearly made her knees buckle at the sound of his sultry baritone. Her anger is renewed, a flame brought to life once again as it replaces the pleasant heat that has somehow managed to pool at her core. Hades reminds herself then that she has come here to exact punishment, not…whatever this is. Whatever he makes her feel.

After all, Hades has plans. In two months or so, she will finally be joined in the Underworld by her betrothed. Her consort. Her equal.

Cassian is none of those things.

“You disobeyed me, General,” she says, because she does not dare to say his name out loud. Besides, she is certain that’s exactly who Cassian is—a male of such strength, such size, cannot be anything lesser than. “I ordered you to never seek me out again.”

Their gazes lock and hold.

Cassian does not even flinch. “I’m afraid I’m in need of your favour once again, Goddess.”

The ground shakes again—then stops as Hades takes a levelling breath. “What makes you think you will have it?”

He shifts his weight from one leg to another, and Hades’s eyes dart to the movement, to this new, exciting position his muscles arranged themselves into. She can swear he kneels wider now, as though he knows, as though he smells the curiosity, the arousal on her.

Cassian shrugs. “I suppose I can only hope.”

“What is it you want?” Hades asks. “You don’t seem injured to me.”

His entire body tenses, and she catches a shadow passing through his features. “It’s not me,” he tells her, his shoulders rolling back and inch as he looks up to meet her eyes again. “It’s my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“She’s dying,” he says, and there is the smallest hint of strain in his voice now. She must be important to him, then, Hades realises. She never understood how humans feel so deeply.

So she tells him, “All things die eventually, General.”

Cassian’s jaw clenches hard. “It’s too soon,” he says. “She was taken by illness none of our healers understand.”

“It is the will of the Fates, then.”

Lightning flares in his hazel eyes at that. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

Hades barks a laugh. “You?” she asks, “or me?”

A muscle juts in his jaw, and she wonders if he bit hard enough to draw blood. “I put myself at your mercy,” he says before adding quickly, “Your Majesty.”

Something about the title pleases her immensely, and so she doesn’t kill him right on the spot. “You would give yourself to me?” she asks instead. She can already hear Thanatos’s protests in her head, but her mind wanders anyway. Cassian in her kingdom like a pet she could keep at her disposal, curled by her lap and ready to serve. Pretty. Obedient.

Hers.

He would entertain her—her consort, too, perhaps, when he joined her side at last. A lovely sight to admire in the morning and play with at night.

Hades hums lowly, and Cassian’s eyes flare up again—with a different light, this time, and she swears she can see specks of gold in those endless pools of hazel.

“You propose a bargain, then,” she begins, surveying him head to toe once more.

So beautiful.

Cassian nods. “Save my mother’s life, and my life, my heart, my soul—is in your hands.”

Hades considers.

Kill him, the raging fire inside her says.

But the golden light staring back at her pleads, Take me.

Hades steps forward and reaches out a hand. “Come with me.”

***

They arrive at the Gates of the Underworld hand in hand.

“Am I…” Cassian starts, taking in the sight around him. “Dead?”

Hades smirks to herself.

“No,” she tells him. “You will live for as long as I need you to.”

His eyes widen, as if struggling to grasp the immortality she’s just laid out before him. “And my mother?” he asks.

“You will never see her again, if that is what you’re asking.”

Cassian releases a long, long breath. “Lead the way.”

The only way into the Underworld is through the Acheron river, and though Hades can come and go as she pleases without the unnecessary ordeal, she decides to accompany Cassian anyway—this time, at least. She tells herself she simply doesn’t want him to drown—after all, this is his first time in the Kingdom of the Dead, and it would be a shame to lose a pet she’d only just acquired.

Cassian sways as they step onto the small, wooden ferry, but Hades only looks ahead. “So,” she begins. “You survived.”

His confusion is almost palpable, rolling off of him in waves and leaving creases in the dark water. How strange it is to have someone in the Underworld feel so strongly, Hades thinks. There is only peace and quiet in these lands, and he is a disturbance—Thanatos would surely say so, at least. He might be a disturbance, yes—but to Hades, it is a welcome one.

A useful one, too.

“Oh,” he suddenly says, ripping Hades free from her racing mind as she thinks of all the ways her new guest could be used. “You mean the battle. The first time you saved me.”

Hades stills at that.

The first time?

She would hardly call their bargain saving. His companionship was his price, not…not some kind of gift. The General is chained to her now, to the Underworld—he belongs to her just as the darkness here does.

This is his punishment, and yet…and yet his words ring of salvation, and it makes Hades wonder.

And so she says, “Tell me more of this…battle.”

A step behind her, she hears him loose a breath. “We stood no chance. We…I lost almost all my men,” he says, and Hades feels the Underworld purr in delight at his words. It will feed on this guilt, this regret of a survivor until its endless hunger is appeased. “We defended our village in the end, but at a cost.” His voice breaks as he adds, “So many of us—gone. They took our women, our children…”

And, Hades realises, these fallen souls—they all belong to her now. They all rest here, roaming the quiet darkness—the warriors, the children…The women.

The question escapes her the moment it crosses her mind. “And you?” she asks. “Did you have a…a woman?”

There is only silence between them—silence and the Acheron’s gentle current as they make way toward Hades’s fortress.

When he answers, Cassian’s voice is hoarse. “No, Your Majesty,” he says. “I did not.”

And Hades…Hades no longer knows what to feel.

She shouldn’t feel, she reminds herself. She has spent too much time in this body, this mortal prison of emotion and softness and pain, its flesh strong enough to subdue that silver fire within her that’s used to killing everything that dares cross her path. Once they reach the shore, she will leave his side for a while—will find a place to unleash those flames, if only to remind herself of who she really is.

Of who she’s supposed to be .

But they’re still crammed on the ferry now, the shore nowhere in sight, and so, for the last time, Hades indulges in her curiosity. “Why me?” she asks, still not turning to meet his gaze. “Why not Thanatos, or Athena, or Ares, even?”

She feels his hazel gaze on her back, his presence stronger now, somehow—but this time, there is no confusion filling it, and she knows he understands exactly what she’s asking.

So Hades finally turns.

“Perhaps,” Cassian grins, “I thought you could use some company.”

For the first time in her eternal life, Hades laughs.

***

She returns the next day, deep from where she dwells in her fortress, and finds Cassian looking out to the dark waves washing up on shore.

She took on her human form once again, though for reasons she can’t exactly justify. She doesn’t need this body, not here—but this is how Cassian knows her, and she likes the hunger flickering in his eyes as they sweep over its every curve.

This is merely for her enjoyment, Hades tells herself. He is, after all, to be her entertainment—company, as he called it earlier. She doesn’t really care what he thinks of her—but an inflated sense of an ego is true to any God, and, mortal or not, he seems like the right person to stroke it.

Something heats deep inside her as she thinks of all the places he could stroke her, all the wet, sinful pleasure he could help her coax out of this flesh—

“You’re back,” Cassian says, turning to meet her silver gaze.

Compose yourself, the fire within her hisses.

“Not exactly,” she tells him, thankful for the coolness in her tone despite the heat still shooting through her body. “I was just about to leave.”

His brows knit over his eyes, and he tilts his head slightly, dark hair spilling over his shoulder. “Leave?” he asks. “What for?”

Hades crosses her arms. “Contrary to what you might think, I have pressing matters to attend to.”

“In the mortal lands?”

“Yes,” she says, then waves a hand to urge him closer. “I have something for you, General.”

Cassian’s eyes flash, a glimmer of light in the dim space of the Underworld, and he takes a step toward her. “Oh?”

Hades nods, and lays out her hand to reveal her gift.

“I…don’t understand,” Cassian says, but his gaze remains fixed on the seven crimson stones, gleaming gently in Hades’s palm.

“They are called siphons,” she explains, then waves a hand again. The stones are now edged in his leather armour, the two largest ones resting proudly atop the strong muscles of his arms, and Hades smiles at the sight. They look as thought they’ve always belonged here, as though they’ve been part of him forever. “They’re meant to amplify your power—your speed, your strength, your precision. You may be a formidable warrior in the Overworld, General, but down here, you will need these to keep the more…defiant souls at bay.”

Cassian’s fingers brush over the siphon at the back of his palm, its bleeding light reflected in his marvelling stare. “So…” he begins quietly, then clenches his fist—as if testing the newfound power of his grip, “I’m to be your…guard?”

Hades’s smile curls into a smirk. “Think of yourself as more of a helpful guest, General.”

His eyes finally lift to meet her own. “And are your guests allowed to ever return home?”

The Goddess’s smile sours. “This is your home now.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“If you so wish,” she continues, not really wanting to hear the rest of it, “You are welcome to wander to the Overworld whenever I’m…otherwise occupied.” Then, she adds, “As long as you remember that no matter where you are, you belong to me.”

She half expects him to cower—even Thanatos gives in to the icy bite in her tone from time to time—but Cassian appears relaxed, his siphons still glistening quietly atop his armour. “I am yours to command, Goddess.”

“We’ll see,” Hades only says, then brushes past him and toward the river.

He moves so fast she does not even see his hand dart for hers—and when his fingers lace with her own, Hades is so stunned she freezes entirely in her trail.

She has never been touched like this—not by a mortal, at least. She had taken lovers before, Gods—those of a grand status and those of lesser significance—but they felt nothing like this, and this has nothing to do with the trap of her mortal flesh. His golden-brown hand is warm, and every roughened bit of his calloused skin tells her of him—the battles he’d won and the battles he’d lost, the spirit they crafted like the strongest steel. It sinks into her, as if searching for her own, hidden so deep within her she’d never thought it existed until this very moment.

In a land of eternal dreams, Hades feels awake.

“I’ve offended you,” Cassian says quietly.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Hades replies, but her voice is distant now, still buried with the soul she didn’t know she possessed.

“I have not forgotten what you’ve done for me,” he continues, as though unaware that the world has just tilted beneath their feet. “You saved me—before I met you, I knew only of war and bloodshed and pain.”

“What makes you think you’ll find anything better here?” she asks, the question no more than a breath. “What are you hoping to find?”

The peace, the quiet darkness of the Underworld…Hades knows better than anyone that it will never be enough, not unless the passing soul is already dead—and Cassian’s soul practically sings with life, like the wind ruffling the snow-capped trees, like the gallop of hooves cracking the rocky earth. 

But when his fingers wrap tighter around her own, she realises Cassian doesn’t seek peace. 

“Understanding,” he tells her softly. “I think you seek it, too.”

Hades’s gaze drops to where their hands are joined, life and death, and she is no longer sure where one ends and the other begins.

“I do not wish to return,” Cassian continues when she stays quiet, “My place is here.” His thumb brushes over her knuckles, and the thin hairs on her arms rise at the barest touch. “My place is here with you, Hades.”

Hades blinks.

You know where this path will lead you, Thanatos’s voice practically screams in her head, and finally, finally, Hades realises—this is all wrong. 

Cassian’s place may be at her side as the bargain deemed it—but her place is nowhere near him at all.

Suddenly, Hades is grateful Thanatos, or any of the Gods for that matter, weren’t here to witness this—whatever this thing between them is. She is Hades, after all, a Goddess and a Queen, and Cassian—this man—has no say in where she belongs.

Besides, Hades has already decided—she belongs here, with Eris. With the God of Autumn, the season where everything dies—the perfect consort to the Queen of Death itself. They are going to live in her kingdom exactly as she planned, burning together for all eternity. Death and Decay.

Hades frees herself from Cassian’s eyes, and if there is any hurt in his eyes, she does not stay long enough to see it.

“I’ll return soon,” she says as she once again makes way toward the river. “I must hurry if I am to catch my consort before the dusk breaks.”

Every soul in the Underworld goes utterly still.

Hades smiles to herself.

That ought to keep him at bay.

But when Cassian speaks again, his voice dips so low she swears it makes the ground shake. “Your what?”

He takes a step toward her, the crimson light of his siphons blazing on the river’s surface. Hades doesn’t grace him with a look, her back straight to him as she explains, “My betrothed—the God of Autumn. He will join us once the season ends—at the sight of the first snowfall.”

“You didn’t tell me,” he says, and it’s almost an accusation.

Hades’s smile becomes cruel, and she turns to face him at last. “This matter does not concern you,” she answers, and watches his siphons flare even brighter.

“The God of Autumn.” Cassian chews the words as if the taste is not to his liking. “And you love this man?”

Hades almost laughs. “Love has nothing to do with it, General—he is my consort. My equal in every way that matters.”

“Is power all that matters to you?”

“Yes.” A half-lie, since power is the only thing that matters to Hades.

Cassian hums, mulling over her words. “And if…” he starts, and Hades only keeps listening because this is the entertainment she has been hoping for. His confusion, his anger—they were expected. Jealousy, on the other hand…

“And if there was someone more powerful than him?” he finally asks. “More powerful than your God?”

Hades scoffs. “I have no interest in concerning myself with Olympus ever again.”

“I don’t—”

“Enough,” Hades says, because as entertaining as this is, she knows the sun has already begun to set in the Overworld. “I expect to see you at the Gates upon my return.” She turns her back to him again. “You are to remain here until then.”

How utterly lovely it feels to see the warrior ignite within him again. He is once again reminded of their bargain, of the Goddess standing before him, and the flames inside her purr at the control she’s regained. He’d thrown her off, she can admit that, with the warmth of his skin and the softness of his touch—but this anger, this roughness…This is a language Hades understands. Her immortal skin tingles deliciously under his gaze, under the fury burning underneath. She’d never met a human so…defiant.

It is no matter. One way or another, he will be tamed by her hand. By her cunt, if that does not work. Gods or men, males always seem particularly susceptible to those.

She steps to the edge of the shore, surveying her reflection in the murky water. The black silk clings to her body like the thickest shadows, exposing her bare skin in places she’d carefully selected in her quarters earlier. The curve of her breasts is revealed by a deep cut in the top of her gown—another slit in the fabric teases her bare thigh, all the way down to where it pools at her feet. With each passing day, she enjoys the curves of this body more—human, yet so deliciously divine.

A low, guttural sound somewhere behind her tells her the General shares the sentiment.

A flicker of her power places something heavy atop her neatly braided hair, and gaze moves to admire the onyx jewels when she hears his voice again, his large frame appearing on the river’s surface.

“I will not.”

Her smile fades, but she does not grace him with a look. “You dare disobey me again, General?”

“I am coming with you,” he says, that anger creeping into his tone again.

She scoffs again. “You will do no such thing. Your presence would only disturb me.”

He moves in closer, the warmth of his chest nearly sinking into her back now. “Oh?” he muses, his eyes fixed on their reflection as he leans over her shoulder. “Do you find me distracting, Majesty?”

Cassian’s breath is hot on her neck, teasing her skin, the sensitive spot below her ear. Hades fights the urge to shudder, forbids her body from reacting to the emotion rolling off him without restraint.

His powerful arms come around her then, hands resting heavily on her waist, and her body leans instantly into the touch. Hades gasps out in protest, a small, exasperated sound at the blatant display of the effect he has on her. This body keeps betraying her, keeps answering his call with a song of its own, one Hades isn’t sure she ever wants to hear.

Cassian brushes his thumb over her skin—somehow, she can feel the warmth of his touch beneath the silk—and their gazes meet in the reflection of the Acheron, his eyes shining brighter than the flames in her own. The message is clear.

Don’t you see it? Don’t you see how good we look together?

“Stay,” Cassian murmurs, his soft mouth brushing the shell of her ear. Hades watches the movement in the water, and she’s not entirely sure she’s even breathing as he says again, “Stay here—stay with me.”

Hades closes her eyes, and, for just a moment, she lets herself imagine what would happen if she obliged. She wonders how those hands, that mouth would worship her—the way a Goddess deserves to be worshipped. Maybe his tongue would trail a path down her neck—place wet kisses on her exposed skin until it reached her breasts, already heavy and aching for his touch. Maybe she’d let him flick one of her nipples—trace lazy circles over the pebbled spot as he took it into his hungry mouth. Maybe…maybe she’d let his hands slide downwards, let them feel the slickness they’ve already begun to coax from her. Maybe she’d let his tongue taste it, too.

And then Cassian’s fingers brush her waist again. “You don’t need him.”

Hades opens her eyes.

She whirls to face him again, to face the man who was meant to be no more than a momentary distraction, the man who now thought it acceptable to touch her, tease her as though she belonged to him.

No, Hades thinks. He belongs to her.

“You,” she tells him, “have no idea what I need.”

When he opens his mouth to protest, Hades is already gone.

***

The island is warm and filled with sunlight.

It is so unlike the Underworld that Hades finds herself blinking a couple times before her immortal gaze adjusts to the sight. The sea is bright and turquoise, and its waves foam into a pearly white as they crash against the shore. Even the sand glimmers under the light like dusted gold.

It is exactly the kind of place Hades expected to find her.

She knows Aphrodite is staying over at the palace, towering over the water in an opalescent kind of stone. The small kingdom seems untouched by autumn’s decay, not yet at least, and Hades suspects one of the Gods must hold it in their favour—Helios, perhaps, judging by the sun hanging high up in the sky despite the late hour of the evening.

The island is a beautiful place, though Hades has little interest in staying—she’s here with a purpose, one pressing enough that it cannot wait for her to fully take her surroundings in. Besides, she knows Aphrodite has sensed her arrival from the way the seafoam stiffened as it washed up on shore. It makes Hades smirk—she wonders what, exactly, her presence here has interrupted.

“I wasn’t expecting you for another month.”

The voice behind her is like fresh, sweet honey dripping over her skin, and the first instinct of her human body is to take her fingers into her mouth and lick them just to get a taste. Hades hisses sharply in response—Aphrodite’s always set her traps well. She could only pity whatever mortals she’d chosen to ensnare this time.

Hades turns, the sand molding itself to her feet. “You know I hate leaving things until the last minute,” she says, the words enough of a greeting as the two Goddesses face each other at last.

Aphrodite chuckles. “Of course you do.”

Hades knows she should have expected perfection from the Goddess of Love and Beauty, but seeing Aphrodite’s face makes that fire inside her stir with jealousy anyway. Her face is so impeccable it almost hurts—the mortals, no doubt, fall to their knees at a mere glimpse of it. Full, rosy lips and eyes of a fawn’s coat, gazing upon her from beneath long, dark lashes—the portrait of innocence hiding an ancient, cruel soul.

Aphrodite smirks, as though she can tell exactly what Hades is thinking, and brushes a loose curl off her shoulder. The colour mirrors that of Hades’s, but Aphrodite’s hair is even lovelier, somehow, with a luminescence to it that seems to rival the very sun itself. She’s woven pearls into the small braids tied at the crown of her hair—her preferred symbol of her divinity. Except, of course, for the brief period of time when she’d opted for sapphires as her favourite jewellery. Hades’s scowl deepens even more at the thought.

“Thanatos sends his regards,” she says, if only to wipe that stupid smirk off her pretty face.

Instead, her golden brows shoot up with amusement. “No, I don’t think he does.”

Hades rolls her eyes before they flicker to the grand structure ahead. The palace nearly beams with Aphrodite’s presence—even the wind here seems to carry her scent. Jasmine and honey—a poison too many to count had mistaken for nectar.

Perhaps that is why Hades can’t help herself again. “So,” she muses, “the rumours are true, then.” She looks at Aphrodite again. “Will I be invited to the wedding this time?”

Hades is more than certain Aphrodite hadn’t come to this island for a holiday. The beautiful Goddess never does anything without purpose—that, at least, the two of them have in common. If she resides here, at the palace, Hades can guess well enough who her next victim is.

So she adds, her lip curling slightly, “A coronation, perhaps?”

Finally, that grimace Hades knows all too well blooms upon Aphrodite’s perfect features. For something to rattle her enough to drop her sultry mask…Hades can’t help but be impressed.

“There might not be either,” Aphrodite says, crossing her arms over her pearly white dress. “He’s proving…especially difficult.”

Now that piques Hades’s interest. A mortal immune to Aphrodite’s charms? It seems impossible—Hades had seen the Gods themselves trip over their feet for as much as a shred of Aphrodite’s attention. That whoever this prince was hasn’t yet made her his wife was…

Intriguing.

Still, Hades isn’t here to gossip about Aphrodite’s latest conquest. She’s got her own mission on her hands, and one far too important to indulge in irrelevant chitchat.

She waves a dismissive hand. “Did you bring what I asked you?”

Aphrodite reaches out a hand. “You doubt me, Hades?”

“Always.”

She laughs, the sound weaving into the soft whoosh of the sea. “So mistrustful,” she scolds playfully. “How will you keep your loved one, my dear Hades, with your heart guarded so closely?”

“That’s what I have you for,” Hades says, then takes the seeds from Aphrodite’s open palm.

Aphrodite only hums.

Hades takes that moment to examine what she’d come here for. Four, singular seeds—pomegranate, she realises—shining a gentle ruby in the slowly dying sunlight. An untrained eye would mistake them for merely that—but Hades feels the power thrumming inside. Wicked. Forbidden.

She looks up to meet those brown eyes again. “How does it work?”

“The power contained within the seeds shall bind your lover to your side—simply feed him one of them at the beginning of each season for the spell to be renewed.”

Hades’s eyes narrow. “You only gave me four seeds.” They would only last a year—a year to keep Eris in the Underworld.

Aphrodite smirks again. “Perhaps you’ll have to consider opening your heart then.”

A low snarl slips past Hades’s teeth. “This was not our deal—”

And then she feels it.

A shift in the wind—and a fire blown out.

The same fire she thought would burn until the end of time—the same fire she thought would burn with her.

Aphrodite’s brows furrow as she, too, feels it—and her sneer returns when realisation dawns upon her. “Or perhaps you won’t,” she says, and with that, she’s gone.

Hades allows herself one breath as she stands alone at the beach.

Then her flames erupt, and her fury is unleashed.

***

Divine blood has many forms.

Thanatos’s blood, for example, is the darkest shade of black, thick and viscous and reminding her of tar. Once it slithers down his body, upon its first contact with the ground, its still into obsidian—there are still remnants of it scattered atop Olympus, glinting ominously even in the most starless of nights. They serve as Thanatos’s personal reminder: Don’t ever return. You are not welcome here.

Hades had never seen Aphrodite’s blood—she’s not even sure the Goddess has ever bled—but she imagines it as a thousand pearls liquified, a shimmering silk exuding an opalescent kind of light. It tastes of the endless sea, wrapped up in fragrant jasmine to disguise the salt.

She’d never thought she’d ever see Eris’s blood, either. And yet it pools right before her, seeping into the drying crops.

It gleams a bright crimson and fills the air with a tinge of metal that Hades knows she’s tasted before—it starts off bitter before it sours on her tongue. Iron.

Human.

Hades’s eyes flicker to the cottage ahead where Demeter rests, still blissfully unaware. Not a God then, she thinks to herself, but a mortal—a mortal man has sired her betrothed, and left his blood in Eris’s veins as proof.

It made Eris vulnerable. It made him killable.

Her gaze returns to his body, already chilling as Autumn slowly slips out of his grasp.

Hades’s blood is the silver fire that flows in her veins. Cold. Restless. Unforgiving. An excellent aide in exacting revenge. She cannot use it here, in the Overworld—so Hades waits, letting her burning eyes promise the vengeance she’s already begun plotting.

Fortunately, her prey already waits in the Underworld.

“You know who did this,” Thanatos says behind her.

Hades does not turn to face him. “You don’t have to sound so pleased.”

“I did tell you not to go down this path,” he reminds her. “This—all of it—is on you.”

Hades whirls on her feet. “Save him,” she breathes. “You have to—”

“No.” The word slams into her like a wall of ice. “No more favours, Nesta.”

Hades goes completely, lethally still. Even her blood falters in its tracks, the flames too stunned to keep on raging. 

Her warning comes as a whisper. “You dare?”

Thanatos crosses his tattooed arms over chest, the dark swirls shifting with his golden-brown skin. She’d never asked, she realises in that moment, what the meaning behind them is—she also finds that she doesn’t care.

“I dare,” Thanatos says.

No one—no one in her divine, eternal existence—had ever used her name. Her true name. Too powerful, too sacred to be spoken by anyone but her. Even Olympus doesn’t know—and if they do, they never dared to so much as think it. She’d only told Thanatos, centuries ago—a mistake, she now understands—and Aphrodite, her price for the now useless pomegranate.

For Eris is no good to her dead. In the Underworld, he’d be all but a shred of a soul he was here—powerless. Empty.

Unworthy.

Nesta rages again.

And then leaves to exact her revenge.

***

The Underworld is quiet when she returns—as if the fallen souls themselves have decided to stay out of her way. Even the Acheron seems to have stilled, its gloomy current frozen into place.

They all feel it—the anger, the fury rolling off their Queen. They’re wise to know crossing her now is a fate much worse than death.

Like an obedient pet, Cassian waits for his mistress at the shore. He holds his chin high, his hair swept back in dark waves as he watches the silver flames reveal her inch by inch. He looks every bit the General that he is.

Expect that Generals are meant to obey their masters—to follow their every command without question. And yet this one stands before her with blood on his hands that isn’t his own, the crimson siphons illuminating the proof of his defiance.

Worst of all, his hazel eyes show no remorse—only intense, absolute determination.

He’s proud of what he did, Nesta realises. She’s comforted by the thought that, after she’s done with him, he will no longer be anything.

She lets her flames swallow the ground beneath her, lets them lick up her legs as she steps toward him. It feels liberating to have them to live and breathe her rage outside her eyes—now, every bit of her is that cold, unforgiving fire.

Still, Cassian meets her blazing gaze and doesn’t even flinch.

It angers her even more.

“You,” she breathes, the sound dry and hoarse on her tongue, “ruined everything.”

Cassian crosses his powerful arms. For a moment, he reminds her of Thanatos—his red siphons mirror the sapphires she’d given her friend all those centuries ago. Had she not been so utterly foolish and given them to Cassian, Eris might still have been alive now. Sitting on the throne she’d prepared for him, Aphrodite’s magic coursing through his veins.

But Eris is dead now, his soul likely travelling down to the Underworld right this moment. All because of—

Of her.

She should’ve left him for dead the first time—should’ve heeded Thanatos’s warning and allowed Cassian to die a warrior’s death.

Instead, she created a monster.

“If it’s forgiveness you seek,” Cassian almost scoffs, “You’re in for a disappointment, Your Majesty.”

“Not forgiveness.” Her lips twist in a cruel smile. “Punishment.”

She expects it then—that flash of fear in his gaze, that final realisation that, like him, she is a monster too.

Instead, Cassian lights up with excitement—as though punishment is exactly what he’s been hoping to hear.

Perhaps that’s why she asks, “Why?”

She doesn’t need to elaborate—he understands well enough.

“You deserve someone better than him,” he says, his chin dipping as his gaze sweeps over the fire slowly travelling up her skin. She ignores the heat it stirs within her, tells herself it’s the silver touch of her flames—except that her power is cold as ice, ice that now slowly melts under the burning hunger in his stare.

Still, she schools her features into disdain. “And I suppose that someone is you?”

Hazel eyes flicker back to hers. “It could be.” He takes a step toward her. “If you want it—if you want me.”

Nesta grits her teeth—if only to keep herself still. “What I wanted,” she says tightly, “is gone now. Because of you.”

Cassian’s voice drops an octave. “Good.”

Her fingers curl into fists. “How dare you,” she hisses, channelling that useless heat into anger. “How dare you kill a God.”

Another step in her direction has her mortal body shaking. “You would give yourself to him.” His eyes darken, the black of his pupils drowning out their colour. “You would give yourself to a God who fell at the hand of a human.” Disgust laces his words—a General unimpressed with his opponent, a General who wished for battle only for his enemy to yield before it even truly began. “I killed him in two strikes,” Cassian says. “I challenge you, I said. For the hand of the one who commands us both. Would you like to know what your precious consort told me?” 

She squeezed her fists harder, the circle of fire around her raging up to her waist now.

Cassian takes a final step—another inch, and he’d be swallowed by the flames. “He said he doesn’t know you,” he seethes, “but even if he did, you’d never be worthy of him.”

Nesta’s flames die out—fade into the dark earth beneath her feet.

It wouldn’t have mattered. She’d expected defiance—that’s why she’d arranged for the pomegranate as a precaution. Willingly or not, Eris would have come to the Underworld eventually. It was not up to Cassian to—

“I defended your honour,” Cassian continues. “You would punish me for that, Goddess?”

There is no reverence in the way he speaks her title—as if her status, her kingdom, as if Hades means nothing to him at all.

As if he only cares about her.

As if he only cares about Nesta.

“Tell me your name,” Cassian breathes.

The entire Underworld freezes.

Slowly, she tells him, “You know my name.” A final warning.

“No—your real name. Not the one they carve into temples, not the one they chant before their dead,” he says. “I want to know you.” His eyes are desperate. “Tell me your name, Hades, and I’m yours—the way I was always meant to be.”

“You,” she starts lowly, “already belong to me.”

Cassian’s eyes flash in surprise.

Nesta goes on, “I brought you here at your own request. I could’ve left you, your mother, everything you hold dear—I could’ve left it all to die.” She points a finger to his chest, her long, sharp nail digging into the hard muscle—and Cassian’s gaze darts to the touch. “But I brought you here instead, and I was planning to give you everything. I would have made you mine—my most prized pet, always at my side.”

His breath turns ragged, and he’s so close that she can almost feel it on her neck.

“But you are no pet,” Nesta says quietly. “I see that now.”

Cassian stills entirely.

Nesta smiles. “You are a beast.”

Silver sizzles beneath her finger, tasting his golden-brown skin, and Cassian’s eyes widen at the sight.

He can do nothing when her magic purrs, and his body bursts into flames.

His screams echo through the Underworld, the ground shuddering beneath his pain, the Acheron quivering at its sheer force. She knows it isn’t their cold touch that pours anguish into his soul, but the transformation itself. The steel-sharp claws that tear his skin apart as his limbs shift into large, heavy paws. The sharp needles piercing at his body before they turn into short, roughened fur, dark and gleaming the way his hair once did. The vocal cords twisting and contracting as they turn his smooth, deep voice into a low, primal rumble.

It’s working.

Cassian was already tall as a human, but his form must have grown threefold now—the four-legged beast that now stands before her is massive, towering over her so that she can hardly reach its torso, let alone face him at an eye level. His eyes…

Nesta swallows. Hard.

What have you become?

Three large heads now blink at her, their pointed ears twitching in what appears to be confusion. He almost resembles a wolf, Nesta thinks to herself, though his fur is shorter, and his shape and size is no match for the creatures she’d seen in the Overworld’s forests. Cassian is now a creature of his own might, no longer needing siphons to amplify his power. No, this beast could crush Eris with as little as a swing of his long, dark tail.

Those three pairs of eyes blink again, and Nesta makes herself face the middle, wolf-like head. And when his stare shines a familiar hazel, she finally, finally smiles.

He belongs to her now, and there is no going back.

His gaze shifts into something like understanding—and a deep huff sounds from the big, wet snout, as though he’s trying to tell her, I was yours all along, Goddess.

She angles her head slightly. “Perhaps I simply like you better in this form, General,” she answers.

Another huff—a scoff, almost—and Nesta can’t help but chuckle.

“You have no idea,” she tells him.

Slowly, Cassian makes his way past her, toward the island’s shore, the ground grunting heavily under the weight of his new form. He stops at the river’s edge, and she knows he’s taking it all in—the beast that has always lurked from deep within his soul, waiting to be released.

Yes, Nesta realises. She does like this form very much.

When the beast turns to her at last, there is a question hiding in his stare.

“Your humanity isn’t gone—well, not entirely, at least,” Nesta explains. “I can change you back as I please.” A sly smile creeps onto her lips once more. “As long as you please me.”

A low growl slips past his teeth—sharper than any sword he’s ever held, no doubt—and Nesta begins to wonder if he even wants to be changed at all. He likes this—this strength, this might she’d given him. As if whatever she says, whatever she does, will never be true punishment—as long as it means he gets to remain by her side.

Perhaps, Nesta considers as she eyes his brutal form, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

He must see the thought in her stare, because, as though in emphasis, Cassian shifts his weight to the back and rests on the stony shore. His powerful middle is revealed, every bit of muscle strong and hard before it leads—

Nesta sucks in a sharp breath.

Hanging between his legs are three, thick cocks, already throbbing and out for her taking.

Her mouth goes dry, and she sways forward a step. He’s large, larger than she’d thought he’d be, larger than any mortal she’d ever seen. His dark fur gathers at the base—one, hard shaft at the top, with two others placed just below it. His cocks mimic the positioning of his heads—the prime watching proudly from the middle, and the other two resting at its sides.

“Impressive,” Nesta hums absently, focused on the erection growing before her.

She takes another step, so close now to where the beast is waiting—so close that she can see the need gleaming at the blunt tips—

Her breathing comes faster. She needs him, too, she realises, that familiar rush of heat returning to her core. She needs to feel him throb under her touch, needs to taste him in her mouth, needs to be filled by all of him until the Underworld collapses under the force of her pleasure.

Nesta tries to ground herself, to steady her breath as she reminds herself to take it slow—he belongs to her now, wholly and eternally, and there is no need to rush to chase her want.

After all, this is supposed to be his punishment. And if there is one thing Hades has always known, it’s how to make the males suffer. 

She can feel his eyes on her, focused on her every move. Good.

Nesta leans forward and reaches out a hand. The next breath dies in every last one of the beast’s throats as she gently drags her finger over the middle shaft.

Cassian shudders violently, and from the corner of her eye, she can make out the claws, digging into the solid ground. She smiles to herself—and strokes the large girth again, swiping her thumb over the pearly want beading at the tip.

She studies each appendage again, the way they pulse with his lust, the picture of her next move already coming to life in her wicked mind. Slowly, she straightens, her hand leaving the throbbing heat of his skin.

A small noise sounds above her—a strained whimper of protest as she parts with his desire.

Nesta clicks her tongue. “So impatient,” she scolds, as if she herself had not just had to restrain herself from straddling him.

His eyes don’t leave her for a second, fixed on the hand that had just stroked his aching cock, and she knows it’s taking everything in the beastly General not to pin her to the ground and take her as she is. A part of her wishes it—for him to lose control, to mount her with all its power, to make a mess of her right here, at the gates to her onyx fortress.

But Nesta has a plan—as she always does.

This time, she will not let him ruin it.

“Look at you,” she hums again, smearing the evidence of his arousal between her two fingers. Cassian’s eyes dart to the movement, the jaws of his three heads clenched tight. “The beast has come out at last.”

He makes a low, guttural sound.

“Don’t worry,” Nesta says, “I still find you pretty.”

The rock cracks beneath the strength of his claws.

He wants her—she can feel the heaviness of his lust in the air between them. He wants to tell her just how badly he wants her impaled on his cocks, how badly he wishes to know the taste of her hot cunt. Too bad. 

She offers him a smile she knows is edged with cruelty. “Be a good boy for me, and I will let you speak again.”

And with that, Nesta kneels.

His desire calls out to her, and she wonders if he’ll taste as wild and untamed as she’d imagined—if she’ll taste the howling wind on her tongue, the hunger for battle and bloodshed. Suddenly, this is no longer about punishment—it’s about claiming him as hers, about knowing every part of him as though it were her own. Deeply. Intimately.

Cassian’s heavy pant fills the Underworld as she strokes the middle cock again, letting her hand slide down to its base before returning to tease the gleaming tip once more. She only smirks as she feels him harden in her hold, and takes him into her mouth at last.

The ground rumbles slightly with Cassian’s stuttered growl, and it only incites that heat within her. Her tongue swirls around the thick head, and she knows she won’t be able to take him all in, too large to ever fit wholly in her mouth. She also knows he expects her hand to aid her, to close around the base in tandem with her mouth—but Nesta has other plans.

His cock hits the back of her throat as she braces her hands on the two cocks beneath.

Cassian jerks almost violently at the touch, the two, throbbing shafts twitching in response to the feel of her on the sensitive skin, and she can’t help but smile slightly against him. He’s heavy and solid in her hands, and she pumps him up and down, rhythmically to her mouth as her tongue reaches out to lap at his length. She watches his muscles tighten and his hips jerk up—he’s close, she realises, something like satisfaction purring deep inside her chest at the reactions she’s elicited from him. Something determined to please him, to make him addicted to her touch.

His next growl is deeper, raspier, and he arches fully into her mouth. Nesta’s vision blurs, her moan a garbled sound as his tip bumps against her throat again—and Cassian pulls back, as though not wanting to strain her.

As if he ever could.

She curls her fingers around his shafts—too thick for them to truly ever meet at the base—and she squeezes him gently as her tongue darts out once more to graze along the underside.

Then she opens her eyes and meets his gaze.

Cassian comes in a wave.

His roar reverberates straight into her core, already wet and crying out for his heat, and Nesta delights in the feel of his throbbing cock on her tongue, in her hands. He comes down her throat as she swallows him, hands still pumping him in a slowing pace until he finally slumps, panting as though in disbelief.

Her mouth slides off him smoothly then, and she smirks at the mess she’d made of him—of the release still spilling out of the two cocks she’d made a mess of. Nesta rises to her feet and, unable to help herself, flashes him a triumphant smile.

Cassian steadies himself weakly, all four of his powerful legs now holding him up as his breath settles. He looks at her as though he’d never seen her before—as though now, he finally understands that it is a Goddess standing before him, that what she’d just done is a sacrament he’d fall to his knees before for the rest of his life.

All three pairs of eyes sweep down her form now until they meet her centre—and she wonders if he can somehow smell the arousal pooling at her core.

His low growl confirms her suspicions—and Cassian takes a step forward.

The image flashes in her mind, then—this beast between her thighs, licking hungrily at the heat dripping down her cunt, pressing its heavy tongue to her clit—

Cassian takes another step.

“You,” Nesta breathes, “are in no position to make demands.”

She is supposed to be the one in charge here, she reminds herself, but the words fade immediately into the daze of her weakening mind as she watches his hazel eyes darken. Cassian huffs, and it’s almost like a laugh—as if he, too, knows that right now, the Goddess is utterly at his mercy.

As if he likes it.

His eyes flicker to her again, a silent plea—he will not touch her until she grants it.

Nesta looses one, final breath before she yields the one thing that has always been only hers to wield.

Control.

“Don’t make me regret this,” she warns, even though she already knows he’d die before he let that happen.

Cassian pounces.

She’s pinned to the ground before she can blink, the dark stone smooth and cool against the exposed skin of her back. Cassian’s massive body hovers over her, blocking out the dim light as he leans further down.

Before she can use her magic, his teeth already flash, and the sound of the ripping fabric fills the air between them. Her gown now lays shredded around them, and the soft breeze sweeps over her naked body, chill against her hot, aching cunt. She arches off the ground an inch, her human body already desperate for his touch, for the delicious fullness of him inside her, thrusting in and out until she can no longer sustain her breath. Nesta wants him—wants all of him like she’s never wanted before, rough and without restraint.

But then Cassian’s monstrous heads lower further down, and do not stop until—

Until one of his snouts presses against her abdomen and he sniffs, a low growl slipping past his sharp teeth.

His eyes burn dark, intoxicated by the scent of her, spread open and utterly, obscenely wet.

Nesta knows he’s begging for a taste.

She knows what’s coming now, knows he’ll feast on her until she comes again and again and again, until he gets to feel that fire on his tongue and deem it sweeter than ambrosia itself. Two of his heads lower, then, as they lick up her inner thighs, their tongues hot and heavy and wet, stopping an inch from where she needs them most.

She makes an exasperated sound as her walls clench around nothing, only more of that slickness coating them, urging for friction. Cassian huffs a laugh and looks up to face her, an infuriating sight when his head should be where it belongs—right between her legs.

She swears that beastly mouth curls into a smile before his middle head dips and drags its tongue clean up her centre.

Nesta moans then, low and wretched, her head falling back against the ground. The crown of her golden hair is like beams of sunlight against the onyx stone, but she doesn’t care—doesn’t care about the looks of this body anymore—only the way it twists and tightens at the rough tongue swiping over its sensitive cunt.

Cassian licks her like a creature starved, like he’d just crossed a desert and she’s the only fountain in sight. His tongue is heavy and large as it drags itself against her walls, and she wonders just how, exactly, she’ll be able to take any of his cocks when his tongue already sends hot bolts of lightning through her veins.

His other two heads resume their journey up her thighs again, and she writhes at the overstimulation—at the wet trails he’s leaving all over her like an animal marking its territory. I might belong to you, he seems to say, but you belong to me now, too.

Somehow, Nesta doesn’t mind.

The realisation is like the first breaking of light in the darkness, like the first birdsong at the end of a silent night. Nesta—Hades—has always only claimed, for herself, for her power, for her kingdom. No one’s ever claimed her—no one has lived long enough to even try.

No one except Cassian.

He doesn’t want her power or her kingdom—he doesn’t even want Hades. He only wants to be Nesta’s, and for Nesta to be his in return. 

Perhaps this—all of it—has not been some twisted curse from the Fates. No, she can almost see their thread now, bright and golden and tied between the two of their souls.

And what a beautiful sight it is.

She speaks, but her words come out quiet, strained.

Cassian pauses.

“Nesta,” she repeats, the word no more than a breath.

He looks up then, his tongue parting with her cunt just barely, and she moans in protest, rolling her hips higher up into him again.

But Cassian doesn’t move—only stares at her, something golden shining in the darkness of his eyes.

So she explains, “You wanted to know my name.” 

His gaze holds nothing but revelation—he looks like a beast waking from a long-suffering dream.

“My name is Nesta,” she says again, a desperate urgency in her tone.

Her name is the last snap before he unleashes himself.

She can practically hear how wet she is as he licks her, the sounds of her pleasure loud and depraved and stirring something deep within her gut. Her breath becomes short, uneven as he sinks deeper and deeper with every thrust. Her fingers sink into the ground, her power slipping out of her and into the stone, pressing thin cracks beneath the pads of her digits. Her eyes flutter shut, no longer able to register anything but the tongues exploring every inch of where she aches the most—until the middle one slips out of her at last to circle around her clit.

It’s everything Nesta needs to fall apart.

Release tears through her, hot and white and shuddering every last crumbling bit of her world. She comes with a low, strangled cry, and her body falls flat against the ground, swirling with heat despite its cool, welcoming surface. Her human heart thumps loudly in her chest, and she opens her mouth to say something—anything—but words fail her entirely as Cassian continues to sweep at her in a smoother, slower pace, coaxing her through her climax.

Only when her breath finally returns, pouring enough air back into her lungs to speak, does she wave her hand weakly, her power flickering between them.

Cassian blinks, as though something shifted inside him—and understanding dawns upon his features as he finds the change at last.

The look he gives her takes her breath away all over again.

“General—” she starts, a pulse of that familiar heat shooting through her once more as he rises to wedge his powerful middle between her thighs. 

He growls—but this time, the sound is different—changed as it shifts into a voice. Into words. “No more,” he says in a deep, guttural rumble. “No more titles. Speak my name, Nesta.”

His paws rest heavily beside her arms, bracing themselves as he leans over her.

Nesta’s eyes dart to the thick cocks inches away from her core. “Cassian,” she breathes.

Another rumble—lighter, this time, one she can only take for a chuckle. “So impatient,” he mocks, parroting her words from before.

“Give me everything,” she gasps as his middle cock grinds against her sopping folds.

Cassian chuckles again. “You wouldn’t survive everything.” Nesta shudders. “I need to prepare you,” he says, one of his heads lowering to nuzzle at her neck. “Trust me.”

Anticipation coils inside her belly as he guides himself to her entrance—and she gasps out in protest as the tip of his cock pauses right before it.

She knows why he does it—knows exactly what he wants to hear.

“Cassian,” she calls him again, his name like a plea on her lips.

Cassian slides in, and all the worlds collide.

He bottoms out in a deep, rough thrust that rips a wanton cry free from her throat. She jolts against him, his two hard cocks pressed against her thighs, the tingle of his short, black fur on her naked skin setting every last one of her nerves on alert. Nesta’s chest heaves for a breath as he knocks all the air from her body, as she adjusts to the large girth of him in the tightness of her cunt.

His cock stretches her deliciously, reaching a place inside of her no one has ever reached before—and she rolls her hips against him, begging for more friction, begging to feel him stroke it over and over again until there is no more space between them to close. Until they become one.

When he doesn’t make a move, Nesta wiggles again, her eyes squeezed shut as she tries to focus on pushing the air back into her body. But no movement comes—only the low rumbling of his voice again.

“Nesta,” he says, and it’s like a prayer. “Look at me.”

She does.

When her gaze locks onto his, she realises she can see her eyes in the reflection of his—or so she thinks, at least. For her eyes always burn with that deathly, silver fire—they have been from the moment she was born.

But the eyes she sees in his own are a light, lovely shade of blue—like the paling winter sky, calm and gleaming like fresh snow under an arctic sun.

It’s the first time she ever sees them, but the sight is familiar as though she’s been seeing it every day in the mirror—they’re Nesta’s eyes, the ones hidden beneath Hades’s wrath.

She likes them.

She wonders if, this whole time, Cassian has been seeing them, too.

“Mate,” Cassian whispers.

And then, he starts moving.

Slowly, he drags himself in and out, his pace easing into a melting rhythm. He stretches her, watching her face contort in pleasure, groaning as looks down to watch her split open on his cock. Nesta quivers around him, she, too, mesmerised by the sight—by how perfectly he feels inside her, by how perfectly his cock slides in and out of her body.

With every thrust, he reaches deeper, pushing the head of his cock until it fills her so thoroughly that she flutters wildly around his thick length. Her breath turns ragged again, quickening after every stroke of his cock against the spongy roof of her walls.

Cassian growls, throbbing harder inside her, his own pace rushing to match her panting gasps. He drives into her, in and out and in again, the wet sounds of their pleasure mixing with the heavy air. She moans his name, matching him stroke for stroke, hips urging him closer, urging to him to push deeper into her, to find their peak together the way they were always meant to do.

Her walls grip him tighter, and he starts rutting into her frantically, giving into some wild, primal urge to claim her fully, openly, with everything he’s got. He isn’t holding back anymore, he doesn’t care for a steady pace—only the wails of her pleasure and the heat of her cunt welcoming the monster all the way in. 

Nesta nearly chokes as she actually sees his cock puff out her lower body, its perfect curve hitting that spot inside her that made everything but him completely, utterly insignificant. She’s close now, so tight around him that he clenches his jaws to keep himself moving, to hit the back of her cunt with his thrusts.

“Nesta,” he pants, and the sound is her undoing.

They erupt together, the hot slick of her climax coating the length of him as she shakes with the force of her pleasure. Cassian’s cock twitches, and the pumping stutters before he roars and buries himself deep.

His orgasm slams into her, the hot rush of his seed throbbing up his shaft and coating her insides. There is only him, now—only the chase they take on together, the rest of the Underworld fading away. She might be chanting his name, might be gripping the muscled paws she’s nestled between—the only thing she knows is that Cassian is filling her as they ride out their release.

Slowly, the world falls back into place—enough for her to catch a breath, at least. Enough to open her eyes once more and look at the one who’s ruined her life to build a better one anew.

“Mate,” he breathes again, understanding clear in his hazel stare.

As if in answer, something thrums deep within her chest, something warm and golden and not at all like the darkness she’d been used to her whole life. Something that fills the silence—one word, beautiful and unending.

Mate.

Taglist: @melting-houses-of-gold @fieldofdaisiies @octobers-veryown @sunshinebingo @autumndreaming7 @augustinerose @demarogue @helhjertet @jmoonjones @madgirlnesta @areyoudreaminof

[typewriting-robin]

Sinner Like Us

Alfons/Robin OC (M x F)

Rating: E/Dead Dove

Serena, a brainy but bitter Robin with a storied past arrives at Crown. Alfons Sylvatica takes an interest in playing with her, giving her an offer she can't refuse. She agrees, not knowing she is way in over her head.

cw: yandere, obsessions, stabbing, references to physical assault, blood and depictions of blood, knifeplay, dubcon, noncon, loss of virginity,

Word count: 8,132

note~ it is recommended but not required to read the OC/MC master list and scroll to Serena, the Robin that corresponds to Alfons.

It happened again. Another nightmare.

“Roxane and I are going to be married and there’s nothing you can do to stop it!” It was unmistakably Patrick’s voice that rang out in the darkness. Slowly, he began to materialize. First came his medium brown hair, then his blue-green eyes. Roxane did too. Her face always burned into her memory. Her large blue eyes and perfect blonde ringlets.

It had been love at first sight for Patrick and Roxane.

All of her chances were lost the moment those two locked eyes.

And now, she had nothing to live for.

“I can absolutely stop it! I can! I can! I can!” A primal roar began to come out of her diaphragm, like she was in an opera and playing a scorned lover. A knife, much like her former love and his love, materialized in her hand. “You don’t know me, nor what I’m capable of!”

She knew exactly what to do, running to her target with inhumane speed.

She raised the knife against Roxane’s perfect form, took in a deep breath, and plunged down with force. She ignored the screams Roxane made.

Raise.

Plunge.

Raise.

Plunge.

It didn’t stifle the screams that Roxane made but she kept going, mechanically, like a machine in a factory, she had no will, nothing left of her own. Blood pooled around them and she was covered in it. Sticky, squelching, slimy. The texture viscous, flowing everywhere, seeping into her fingers but she did not care.

“Stop it! Stop it , Serena. Serena, SERENA!”

Patrick’s voice roused her from her sleep, rising as she awoke to her empty apartment above the bakery. The sun wasn’t fully out but it was moments away from daybreak.

“Again,” she said. She had that nightmare again. Sometimes she would stab Roxane. Sometimes it was Patrick. Occasionally it would be both. 

It always served to remind her how she got here and why this was her final chance at living. She stepped into the shower and bathed, then got ready for her day as a Robin for the post office, putting on her glasses and her green ribbon. Serena didn’t start wearing glasses until after she moved to London. At first it was supposed to aid her disguise, along with the haircut she had given herself, but since she had taken to writing so late at night, the glasses became necessary.

She didn’t look like the Lady Serena Hastings of old. Now she was Serena Harlow, a simple Robin who delivered letters and correspondences. It was a respectable job for someone as disreputable as her. 

“This is for you,” her boss said when she entered the post office. It was her weekly check, made from her various side jobs, where she would write various gossip columns and serials--all under different names. Her side job. The only thing that belonged to Serena Hastings. The only thing they could share under the veil of anonymity.

“Thanks,” she said, hiding the check in her pocket.

It seemed like an ordinary day, until she spotted a man so unusual. He reminded her of Patrick, even though they couldn’t have been more different. He was elegant, dignified. Ethereally beautiful, his blood red eyes firmly on her. She looked away before continuing with her business.

But then, her day took an unexpected turn after delivering her latest love letter.

“Serena! I need you to make a night run.”

“Huh? Me?” she asked. “Why?” She wasn’t a particularly outstanding Robin. Others were much faster, more efficient, more ambitious. Besides, she had gotten some gossip about one of the Queen’s grandchildren that she was itching to write.

“There’s no one else. You’ll get the pay you want so please do this delivery.”

She sighed, not wanting to fall out of the lines she had been given. This was her extra chance at life. Her father helped her sacrifice everything for this one shot to live anew. Just as she had helped that thieving girl hours ago.

Which came crashing down in an eerie echo when she saw her mail recipient drowned in a pool of his own blood.

The chain of events that resulted were almost dreamlike for her. 

“Seize her belongings,” the leader, the same man with the blood red eyes, who had the same aura as Patrick said to the rest of the men. She couldn’t believe they had crossed paths again. “Let’s take her to Crown Castle.”

The man with the mint green eyes sat next to her as he read her paycheck out loud as they waited for their true leader to arrive. “‘Thank you, Lady Blare and Sir Samuel Harlow. London is now watching thanks to your erstwhile off-season gaze.’”

“That’s private!” she said, yelling. Her mid-length red hair was bobbing as she tried to snatch her letters back. Which would never happen as the Patrick-like man, William, kept her rooted to the spot.

“But your name definitely isn’t Samuel. Nor is it Blare,” Harrison, the man with the mint green eyes said.

She shook her head. “They are me, but not me,” she said.

The man with the ash-gray blue eyes and cat-like grin raised her by her chin. Their eyes locked and she felt herself drowning in the pool of his empty eyes. “She’s not lying,” he said, his voice slinky and graceful. He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Do tell us your real name, my dear.”  Her heart pounded from the way he had touched her.

She felt a compulsion rise through her spine. “S…Serena Harlow.”

“That’s a lie,” Harrison said. One of the men drew his weapon. The man with the cat-like grin retracted his hand from her chin.

“Shit!” she cursed to herself, remembering she was using up her final chance at life and she couldn’t waste it on a simple, yet honest mistake she made. “My apologies. That’s the name I go by now. I was born Serena Hastings. Please do not call me Lady Hastings. I am Harlow now.” She thought herself pathetic as she heard herself speak with a pleading edge to her voice.

“Lady Blare? The Lady Blare?” a voice rang out, interrupting her plea. It was a man with impossibly long black hair and jewel toned eyes. “I know you quite well! Why, you were the thorn in the Queen’s side, reporting over the epic highs and lows of Princess Beatrice and Louis-Napoleon. It had almost gotten in the way of her marriage to Henry of Battenberg.”

Serena couldn’t hide the redness of her cheeks. Of course that story would come to mind. Although this happened when she was still Serena Hastings, it was some of her best known work. She sympathized with the lovers somewhat, until Beatrice married Henry of Battenberg. Maybe that was what fate wanted. Just as Patrick should have married her.

And yet…

Somehow this is what ultimately spared her and the man, Victor, made a deal to use her writing talents to become something known as a Fairytale Keeper. And then there was the party full of parlor tricks and magic tricks. 

Serena lowered her guard now that she knew she would keep living on another day and made her observations. All of the men of Crown were ludicrously attractive, even the one with a horrible temper.

If her parents had introduced her to other men and not just set her up to fail with Patrick, could things have ended up differently? She raised her glass of water and drank.

“Would you care for a glass of wine?” the man with the raven hair and slinky voice said, interrupting her reverie. He held up a bottle of wine.

“No, thank you.”

“Ah, but it’s a celebration and you are the guest of honor,” he said, pouring a second glass. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Besides, it’s vintage and from the countryside of Italy.” He sat down in front of her. She recalled the way his gloved hand touched her chin earlier that night when he searched her gaze.

“A gossip columnist,” he mused. “I don’t know exactly what Victor is thinking but…” He offered her the glass and clinked them together. “Congratulations.”

“I’m not just a gossip columnist,” she said, trying to rein in her temper. The fact that she was reduced to Lady Blare and not Samuel Harlow was infuriating. “I write stories too! Poetry as well!”

“I’d have to read them sometime.” His gaze traveled to the sinister man with the overcoat. “Jude over there…he never goes without his morning paper. Of course, I always attend to Lord Elbert in the morning so newspapers are difficult to come by with my schedule.”

Out of all the men here she knew Lord Elbert. Not that they had met, but the stories surrounding him were aplenty. He was the most beautiful man here but never said a word. This one in front of her was his mouthpiece. “I did not get your name, sorry.”

“Alfons. Do care to remember it, my dear.”

She sipped on more wine. “I suppose I’ll see you around, Alfons,” she said, watching him leave the room in the same way a cat would slink away, slipping into the night.

****

This time, she had stabbed the two of them to death. No more Patrick. No more Roxane as their bodies lay in a bloody heap. What changed, however, was the playing of a piano.

“Well done, little Robin,” William said as he applauded.

“You are as sinful as the rest of us. Just like us,” Victor said. 

The rest of the men of Crown joined in a circle, surrounding her and the lifeless husks of Patrick and Roxane, chanting, spurring her on.

Serena rose from her bed in a gasp. She made a loud gasp, her eyes wide as she woke from another nightmare. It was the dead of night. She had only slept for an hour.

She rubbed her temples and got out of bed. She didn’t care much for her appearance ever since she left home but didn’t bother to brush her hair as she made her way into the kitchen, searching wildly for any chamomile herbs. Or perhaps valerian root. 

The noise she made eventually attracted someone.

It wasn’t the maids but Alfons. He wasn’t wearing his jacket but the white undershirt he wore underneath it.

“It’s you,” she said.

He grinned, reminding her of a cat again. “You won’t find Crown’s secrets in here, Miss Serena” he said, teasing her.

She tried to play off her frustration. “Only if those secrets are of chamomile and valerian root,” she said pleasantly.

Alfons kept his grin, sitting on the cabinets opposite to where she was searching. “You’re warm,” he said. Serena went left. “Colder now. “ She went back right. “Warmer.”

Her temper got the best of her as she shouted. “Just tell me where they are!”

Alfons only looked more amused, his smile as wide as a Cheshire cat. “And spoil the fun? How do you know I’m not lying?”

“Because I already ransacked that side. It’s on this side.”

“Correct. And you’re starting to burn up.”

Despite, or perhaps, in spite of his words, she did feel heated but opened the cabinet where the tea leaves were. This was what he meant. She grabbed some chamomile and brewed it using the tea kettle she had found.

“You can find tea leaves at Roger’s but he’ll insist you owe him.”

Serena nodded. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“No, I’d rather you owe me.”

She stopped at his words. “Don’t these belong to Crown?”

“You are uneducated in our ways, but don’t worry, I’m here to help.” He got off the countertop and sauntered over to where she was. “I bought these for my Lord, of course. You are borrowing it but I’m afraid you owe me now.”

“Then I’ll stop making it.” She tried to move the tea kettle away but his gloved hand covered hers.

“No need. What’s done is done, Miss Serena,” he said, keeping his hand over hers, his fingers intertwining with hers. She was trapped. It made her heart skip a beat.

“So what do I owe you?” she asked. “What could you possibly want from me?”

He did not move his hand. “Simple. I want Lady Harlow to study me and only me for her Fairytale Keeping duties.”

“That’s not a good idea,” she said. “In the gossip world, it’s important to maintain as many sources as you can.” She couldn’t believe she was bringing this up.

“Ah yes, but…” He loosened his hand and stood up straight. “Once you get that incredibly juicy morsel, you start digging, wanting, yearning for more. I can give you all that. Access to parties, of course but also…” he leaned in. “Many of those people…the ones we love to read about…have the darkest of secrets. Love. Pleasure. Pain. And I can be the conduit for you.”

“I thought you said I owed you. This is an equivalent exchange,” she pointed out.

He responded by moving a strand of her unruly bedhead. “Correct. I’ll have to think up a more immediate payment in that case. But come tomorrow, Victor will tell you to focus on one member of Crown. He will want you to shadow William but I don’t think you’re suited for him. I can see it in your eyes.”

“And what, pray tell, are you possibly going about here with that?”

Alfons leaned in. “It’s simple, my dear Miss Robin. You’re not suited for the self-righteous monarch. A leader of the dark like him? No, you belong somewhere deeper. Somewhere few would dare to tread and come back.” She took a step away from him, wondering if he could read her, his voice hypnotic. There’s no way he knew of her past and the terrible thing she did.

“I’ll…consider it…”

“Now as for the matter of payment for the tea.”

Alfons leaned in, his lips sealing hers with his. She was startled by his kiss, his lips brushing hers with a lightness to it. It had reminded her of—

The tea kettle made a high-pitched noise, indicating the tea was ready. Without saying another word, Alfons walked out, not even bidding her goodnight as she was left with a screeching pot of tea, her hand lifting to touch the very lips he had kissed, as if she had been kissed by a phantom. 

***

As she got dressed the next morning, she thought of the kiss from last night. Alfons’s kiss was too similar to the ones she shared with Patrick. He had kissed her for the first time when she was fifteen, him eighteen. It was not long after their engagement and she had considered that to be the best day of her life.

His kiss was gentle and featherlight, sincere, and yet powerful with how it made her stir.

Alfons’s kiss was also gentle and featherlight, but it lacked any of the sincerity Patrick had in his kiss, right? But she had thought about it nonstop, even as she was treading her way to Victor’s office.

“Good morning, my chirping little Robin! Would you like some freshly baked scones made by Yours Truly?”

“Good morning to you too,” she said, trying to keep herself chipper as she accepted a scone, lavishing butter on it as Victor began to speak.

“I know today marks your first official day at Crown so I wanted to have a little chat and suggestion as to how you’d handle your duties. Of course, you could do a general report but it would be better if you just focused on one member of Crown.”

Serena nodded, not giving away that this was the exact conversation she had with Alfons last night. This was where she was at a crossroads. Alfons said Victor would want her to study William but now she had the power to choose. But what if she took a third option instead of William or Alfons?

She sifted through the men in her head who weren’t Alfons.

Elbert? Too quiet.

Jude? Sadistic.

Ellis? Odd. Also did a sharp one eighty after Victor said not to kill her.

Roger? He was just like Alfons. Another side of the same coin.

But Alfons’s kiss reminded her of her past. And his offer. What was it? She conjured his words in her mind.  I can give you all that. Access to parties, of course but also…” he leaned in. “Many of those people…the ones we love to read about...have the darkest of secrets. Love. Pleasure. Pain. And I can be the conduit for you.

“Miss? Robin?” Victor waved his hand at her.

His hand brought her out of her stupor.  “Sorry, I was thinking a little. You want me to observe William?” she asked, searching his jewel toned eyes.

“I did! See, William is my fellow cofou—”

She cleared her throat, interrupting him, and then immediately regretting it. She never was very good at social manners, even less after she assumed her new identity and began throwing caution to the wind. “I wish to observe someone else,” she said.

“Of course! But I can’t make promises that they will have your best interest at heart. William is my longest known acquaintance and the most trusted member of Crown. You can count on him.”

“I understand but I would prefer to observe Alfons.” 

There was a pregnant pause between them. 

But before she could justify her words, Victor spoke. “Not the worst choice of my sons to work with but I’ll allow it.”

“There’s a worst choice?” she asked, unable to hide her curiosity. 

Victor laughed. “Why of course! I have made my own tier list of my sons from best to worst when with others. Personalized, of course based on many factors including forming partnerships, working well with others. Alfons belongs in hmm…tier B, I believe? But now that I’m thinking about it, he would be a suitable partner for you, yes yes. He is delightful and adorable!” 

“He works for Lord Elbert, no?” Serena asked, trying not to hinge too much on Victor’s strange perception of Alfons. “Delightful” and “adorable” weren't words that seemed to aptly describe Alfons.

He smiled. “Yes, and he goes to many, many lavish affairs. Affairs that Lady Blare would not be shy to report on. Ah yes, but do be careful about him. Out of all my sons, he is…perhaps the most pleasure seeking and his abilities are very much attuned to that affinity. You must understand that before moving on because once the glove comes off…I’m afraid you’ll be on your own. Will you accept that risk?”

“I will.” She thought of the kiss he had given her. He was pleasure seeking, alright. The way he had held her chin, her hand over his, the way he handed her the wine. The way he always toyed with her like a cat tossing a ball of yarn. There was no doubt of that. She knew what she was getting herself into. Maybe. Right?

“Let me talk to him. I’ll get started right away.”

***

Alfons was in the foyer, elegantly taking tea with Lord Elbert, who watched her with interest.

“Good morning,” she said to him, curtseying. Alfons’s gaze was directly on her.

Elbert set his tea down. “Good morning.” He looked at Alfons. “Tell me, Al. Is she beautiful?”

“Of course not,” was his instant reply. Her face fell at his lack of hesitation. “Her hair is a red rat’s nest and her eyes the color of…hmmm that pet monkey you bought when you were seventeen, remember? And she needs visual aids. No beautiful thing would need something so imperfect.”

“Excuse you!” she said, huffing. “And I was just about to tell you that I had chosen you! You…you…” She was ready to throw curses at him, Elbert's ears be damned!

Alfons’s smirk only widened. “Yet another reason why you cannot have her, Elbie. She’s mine.”

“Hmm,” Elbert said. He sipped his tea, not saying another word. She ran off and of course, Alfons followed her. He pulled on her wrist. 

“Where are you going?”

“Perhaps I’m going to tell Victor that I’m choosing William instead of someone as rude as you. That he was right all along.” He didn’t have to go that hard about her insecurities. She was unconventional. She knew that. She had lost the love of her life to a head turning beauty. A fact that she had never, ever forgotten about.

“If I told Elbert the truth, that your eyes are as green as a tigress about to pounce, that your hair is as red as a rose in bloom. That you stand out in a crowd, you would never see us again.”

She froze in place. “Okay now you’re just laying it on thick.” She couldn’t get a read on him. Was he attracted or repulsed by her? 

Alfons laughed. “I cannot win with you, but I’m a patient man.” His hand moved up her elbow and to her upper arm, resting on her shoulder.

“Well, I did actually commit myself to studying you.” She studied his features. If he found her to stand out, truly, she found him to be…almost nondescript. Or at least, deliberately so. Everything about him oozed darkness, even here in the light. Like he was an intruder. 

“A wise decision. Elbert…well, he hasn’t stuffed a human yet but perhaps it would have been a matter of time.” His hand moved to her chin, tilting it upwards to gauge her reaction.

“A taxidermist?”

Alfons hummed cryptically. “Meet me tonight at hmm…ten for a little chat,” he said, changing the subject.

“Where?”

“We could meet in my bedroom,” he said.

“No thanks.”

“Yours then.”

“Try again.”

“Here then. In the foyer. For tea.”

“Are you upcharging me? Or should I bring my own tea?”

“No need this time. I’ll see you then, dearest.” He moved his hand from her chin to her hair, ruffling it up further. “And do wear something comfortable.” He smirked before they parted ways.

***

Serena spent the rest of the day getting to know the rest of Crown and studying them for her note taking skills. Victor probably didn’t expect her to get much done on Day 1 but she was persistent if not anything.

That and it was honestly the longest she had gone without thinking about Patrick and Roxane. Everyone was such a nice distraction.

Alfons was there in the lounge at the specified time. She made sure to brush her hair and wear it in her usual pigtail style that she had adopted as a Robin. More importantly, she had a switchblade hidden in her pocket. It was one of her few possessions she was allowed to keep at Crown because Victor said, “she needed a final means of defense”.

As she descended the stairs, she could smell the fragrance of tea. Alfons was as he was last night, only in his white undershirt and black trousers that were meant for sleeping.

“Good evening, Miss Serena.”

“Good evening.” He handed her a saucer of tea. “What tea is it?”

“Bergamot. With a drop of lemon and honey for added taste.”

“Thanks. It smells really nice.” She raised her glass of tea to her lips, gingerly taking a small sip in fear of burning herself.

Alfons only surveilled her. “You don’t act like it but when you hold the saucer, you remind me of the noble ladies at the parties I escort Elbie to.”

Serena cast her gaze away from Alfons. He was right but she was never a shining example of a noble. “Why did you want to meet me this late at night?”

Alfons chuckled. “You are always quite to the point, Miss Serena.”

“Because ‘a little chat’ could mean anything.”

Alfons relaxed on the sofa, setting his tea down. “Very well. I will answer your blunt question with a blunt response.” He faced her completely and Serena was reminded how much larger he was than her. He raised his hand, his leather clad thumb circling around her lower lip before Serena caught it.

“Stop.”

“You kiss like an innocent little noble,” he said, making good on his promise of giving her a blunt answer. It blindsided her enough that she lowered the hand that was covering Alfons’s. “Tell me, were you thinking about that paltry little kiss all day long? Did it make your heart race?”

Serena was too stubborn to answer him because she knew the answers to his questions were all “yes”. All she did was turn away and try to grab her tea.

Alfons’s laugh was louder. “How amusing. That’s how they all kiss, by the way. One brush of the lips and it sends them to the brink of insanity.”

“Are you here to just goad me?” She knew there was absolutely zero chance she would win with her switchblade but maybe if she threw hot tea at his face…

“Of course not. However, if you intend on staying on as my dutiful fairytale keeper and fellow co-conspirator, I have to insist we get better acquainted.” Serena knew that was a given. But…Alfons continued. “That’s why I wish to kiss you like a man does a woman. Won’t you do that for me?”

Serena instantly wanted to say no. Up until yesterday, the only person she had ever kissed was Patrick. She would always compare them, no matter what.

Alfons spoke again. “Perhaps I thought incorrectly of you. You struck me as someone who could survive the depths of pleasure, pain, insanity,...” He was closer to her, definitely goading her.

He was more than attractive, that much she could admit. “One kiss.”

Alfons didn’t hesitate, bringing himself close to her, his hand expertly reaching to stroke her bottom lip. “You have beautiful bone structure,” he said. “High cheekbones. Full lips. Perfect for kissing.” Alfonse moved closer, his lips finding her upper lips, caressing them with his. His lips moved down mid-kiss to squeeze her lower lip. She inhaled as she tried to control her out of control heartbeat as he cupped her cheeks with his hands, his kiss firm and yet so practiced. She couldn’t help but clumsily follow his lead.

He broke the kiss, where their lips made the softest popping noise. An unmistakable noise of two lovers caught in a liplock.

She was dazed for a moment before the instant comparison arose. This wasn’t anything like how Patrick kissed her. It wasn’t desperate, nor urgent but she felt…wanted. She moved away but he kept his hands on her cheeks.

“Did you enjoy that? No matter what you’ll say I know you did.”

Serena took a deep breath, unable to counter him. “I did.” 

“Good. Now…” Alfons brought himself close to Serena once more, their lips meeting again as he kissed her squarely in the middle, their lips meeting each other’s again and again as his hands stayed resting on her cheek. She threw her arms around his neck, getting on her knees to match him, even though she knew she was inexperienced going against someone like him who was leagues ahead of her.

Alfons’s tongue prodded at her lips, parting them as he entered her mouth slowly, getting a taste of her. Serena was surprised, lost until his tongue found hers, caressing hers. She followed his move, like a mirror. There was increased urgency as his hands began to move down to her chest, ghosting over her breast as their tongues moved together, which caused her to breathe in sharply.

He broke the kiss. “Very good,” he said, licking his lips. Serena couldn’t help but think he looked so damned seductive and she knew he knew this terrible fact.

“It was. I…”

Alfons interrupted her. “Want seconds, Miss Robin? Let me sink us down to the depths of pleasure.”

Alfons closed the gap between them, his taste of Bergamot once against enveloping her as his tongue found hers again. She wondered if this is how Patrick and Roxane had kissed. Meanwhile hers were the chaste, reserved kisses. If Patrick wanted her, truly wanted her, he would kiss her like this.

Alfons startled her by lifting her up from the sofa. This time she ended the kiss. “Where in the world are we going? And the tea set?”

“While I love a good clandestine rendezvous, there was a reason why I wanted to use the bedroom as our meeting spot. As for the tea, the maids will pick it up. Don't worry about something as trivial as that.”

Serena understood as he carried her up the stairs. A whirlwind of thoughts began to stir. Alfons would eat her up but…but…how many times had the love of her life lay with that woman? And here she was, finally wanted. She would never marry Alfons, no one would want her. So why…

“I can walk by myself,” she said.

“They say it’s more romantic this way. The way a groom would carry his bride, no?” She couldn’t believe his words, nor what was happening. He moved her up to nibble on her ear before he whispered. “I’ll be gentle. Don’t be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be.”

Alfons’s room was elegant yet also spartan, with sprawling mirrors everywhere, including the ceiling. He set her down on the bed, which felt like she was a poor insect and Alfons the beautiful spider, trapping her in his web as he caged his body on top of hers, resuming their kisses. 

He spoke between kisses, his gloved hands palming her breasts, which caused her to reflexively inhale deeply. “Poor thing. You’ve never been touched.” His hand slipped under her pajama blouse, squeezing her breast, his skilled fingers kneading her, drawing out her nipples. He watched her reactions with endless amusement as she squirmed underneath her. “Does it give you pleasure? Remember that lying is pointless.”

“Yes,” she hissed as he began to unbutton her pajamas. “It feels really good. Happy?”

His skin was impossibly clear, glossy in the moonlight. “Next time I’d rather you wear a chemise or a nightgown,” he said, freeing her of her top before moving his lips to her breasts, drawing out her nipples with his skilled tongue, swirling, putting just the right amount of pressure. He moaned as he consumed her, causing her to moan in turn.

Alfons stopped for an agonizing few seconds. She whined. 

“My, how quickly have you taken to such pleasure. We haven’t even started yet.” Alfons began to lower his kisses down her stomach, leaving a tantalizing trail of kisses, his lips continuing their sensual pressure as he undid her silk and lace bottoms, lowering them and her underwear. He let out a small laugh as he kissed her womb, moving lower as his gloved fingers brushed against her hairs.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re just as red over here. Quite a rarity,” he said, twirling a strand, which caused her to yelp.

“R-really,” she said, trying to mask her pleasure, or perhaps her yearning to see what he’d do next. 

“Yes,” he echoed. “Relax for me.” She followed his instructions as his kisses got lower, inhaling her as he parted her folds. She gasped. “There, there. I said I’d be gentle,” he said, breathing against her arousal. “This time.” Then his tongue elongated, licking a stripe of her wetness, causing her to moan. She lifted her hand to cover her mouth but Alfons’ hand caught her. “No. I want to hear every sound you make. Don’t hold back and neither will I.”

He began to focus entirely on her, parting her legs and setting them on his back as he vigorously licked her. He was teasing her relentlessly as she would gasp every time his tongue found her clit, then moved to stroke the rest of her folds with her tongue, then back again. Each time she moaned. 

She remembered reading about this act in her mother’s secret erotic novels, fantasizing about this exact scenario on her wedding night to Patrick. But instead, she was getting this from…from Alfons’s skilled tongue as he teased her every corner, his tongue filling her before he began to flick relentlessly on her clit, now trying to get her to come. She moved her hands, gripping the pillow behind her as he rolled her hips up and down, keeping her legs open, ignoring the reflection of her writhing in pleasure as he continued taking her with his tongue. Serena breathed in and out, panting in a steady rhythm as the heat grew and grew, like a hot air balloon welling deep inside her. And then she felt it, a tidal wave of pleasure as Alfons’s tongue hit her bundle of nerves and everything that came with it, his tongue lapping up her every juice, her every pleasure.

There was a moment of silence between them in the darkness of the room. An eerie calm had enveloped the bedroom until she heard a rustling noise.

Alfons’s voice cut through the darkness. “Was that your first orgasm?”

She shook her head. “N-no.”

“You’re not as innocent as you seem. Noble girls…” he laughed, crawling up her body, giving her an upwards trail of kisses. “Unmarried noble girls like yourselves, are just like unplucked flowers. But you…” He coaxed her legs up to remove her bottoms, rendering her naked. 

“Have you had a virgin before?”

“Many.”

“Then I’m just one in a long line.” 

“You will have your qualities. But it’s only a matter of time and with some searching…you’ll stand out above the rest.” Then what could possibly make her different? “Are you ready?”

Alfons pulled at his drawer, taking out a small contraption she didn’t recognize. “What’s that?”

“To practice pleasure, one needs to exercise caution. While you are one hundred percent free of disease, I don’t wish to conceive a child, and neither do you.” A grin escaped his face. “Care to help me put it on? I’ll teach you.”

He began to strip out of his clothes, pulling his top up and his bottoms down, exposing his length. It was bigger than she thought they’d look as his cock seemed to be pointing at her entrance. “N-no thanks,” she said, noticing her throat was dry. “D-do it yourself.”

With the contraption, he rolled it up his length. She saw him, a perfect vision in the darkness. Only naked save for his hands, which she thought was odd but the last remaining rational vestiges of her mind reminded her that they were likely there for a reason. 

Alfons began to kiss between her breasts, then her lips again, taking off her glasses and setting them aside on the nightstand with her small pile of clothes. He loosened her pigtails. One, then the other. She breathed in as she felt his erection against her entrance. He shushed her. “You won’t regret this.” He coaxed her upwards, their lips gently meeting for deceptively gentle kisses, much like their first kiss before she felt something stretching her below, an intrusion. He moved to fit in deeper, deeper, contrasting the tongueless kisses he was giving her.

She didn’t move as he entered her, shocked at the feeling of him inside her and he stopped kissing her.

It was an agonizing moment of silence. Then he started to withdraw, which caused her to whine.

“Shh, shh,” he whispered. “Trust me just this once.” Then he slammed into her, causing her to hiss in pleasure. He began slowly, his strokes soft. 

“Am I doing this right?” She hated how vulnerable she sounded but Alfons paid it no mind.

He smiled. “You are,” he said amidst the darkness. “You’re doing amazing. Wrap your legs around my back and let me take care of you.” She did just so, her legs latching at his back as he began a steady rhythm. 

Serena gasped from how good it felt.  

“Let it all out.” Spurred on from her gasps, Alfons’s pace began to steadily move faster, more ruthless. His gloved hand traced her lips as they kept moving together, breaths steady. Alfons began to move his tongue back to her breasts as he kept going, her breathing growing heavier as he began to roll her hips with his other hand, squeezing her every curve.

“Ah,” she moaned.

“More,” he said, moving more forcefully as he now began a pattern of withdrawal then slamming back inside her. “Ah yes!” he said, as if savoring her.

“God!” she whispered, closing her eyes as she felt a second tidal wave hit her. Alfonse began to sense this, his movements now more urgent, frenzied as they rocked together and she felt her walls clench and push all around him as a sweet release began to take hold of her. “Ngh!” She couldn’t form a coherent word as she came. Alfons buried himself in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply as he let out a groan of pleasure, of satisfaction.

He let out a few haphazard strokes as he came, then pulling out and rolling over to her side.

“Did you enjoy that?” He was facing her, stroking her cheek with a gloved finger.

Serena wanted to lift a blanket to cover herself, but there were none nearby. “Yes, it was pretty good. Not how I imagined it, though.”

He rolled over to his stomach, propping himself on one elbow, a finger running up and down her arm. “Will you tell your lover how you imagined it?”

“Lover? Let’s not go too far.” She looked out the window, watching the shadows of trees move. “I had imagined it with my fiance.”

“Fiance?” he asked with a laugh. “How naughty of you to be so attached…”

“Ex-fiance,” she corrected.

“Ah, I see. How unfortunate for you, I suppose. And now you’re in my bed.” He kept stroking her arm. “I can share secrets with you. Will you allow me that honor of having yours?”

“You already had the honor of taking my virginity.”

“I’m a greedy man.” He began to flick his finger at her nipple.

“Stop that!” She began to do the same to him with his nipple, which made him laugh once more. “When I was a teenager, I was engaged. I loved him with every fiber of my being.” Alfons stopped playing with her body. “But he broke it off for another woman. They’re married now, with two little ones. And here I am.” That wasn’t even the abridged version of the story. She was deliberately missing out on so many details.

“Here you are,” he said, an echo, as if a mirror on the wall, his blue eyes not leaving hers. “What was his name?”

“Patrick Villers-Howard.”

“Patrick,” he said, nodding. It was odd to hear him say his name, a name she hadn’t muttered in years. A name that caused her much pleasure, yet so much heartache.

“The moment he met her, anything we had was doomed.” She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was stark naked with a man she barely knew talking about this topic in particular.

“I see,” he said. “But perhaps he didn't want you in the first place.” He brought his propped up hand to his mouth, and pulled it with his teeth. Her eyes widened at the unexpectedly seductive move. He withdrew his playful hand from her body, repeating the same action with his teeth pulling off his glove. The gloves made a small plop, plop noise as they fell onto the bed, falling gracefully. Her eyes saw his hands, smooth and without a single scar. 

She couldn’t understand what was happening but her adrenaline began to rise from his actions, like she stumbled upon a sight she was not meant to see.

Alfons’s bare hand stroked her cheek, his thumb padding over her cheekbone and giving her forehead a gentle kiss. “Close your eyes.”

She was trapped in this vortex of Alfons’s bed and so she did the most illogical thing imaginable. She closed her eyes, feeling fingers scrape throughout her body. Then whispers sweet as candy filled her ears alongside featherlight kisses on her earlobe. She felt a pair of hands reach the nape of her neck, stroking her softly, causing her to shudder.

“Relax…relax…” A soothing voice said.

She felt herself falling…falling…falling….falling into a pit of depths disguised as satin sheets and pillows. The world shifted and a ghost from her past emerged as she took in a deep breath, exhaling.

There he was. Brown hair and captivating blue-green eyes. A handsome, golden face and he was naked beside her. “Patrick!” 

“Serena,” he said. His voice…it felt like she was a desert flower and he the rain. A voice she only heard in her dreams. Without thinking twice, she threw her arms around him. “What are you doing here?”

“I left her. My family was right. It should have been you I married.”

“Patrick.” She crawled towards him and took his hand, kissing the palm of his hand. “It always should have been me, you buffoon. I was the perfect woman for you. Made myself perfect for you,” she said between kisses. Then she set down his hand and pushed him down the bed. “All for you to fuck it up with some adopted penniless girl.”

“It’s you I love.”

Hearing those words made her heart soar. Patrick, who had never said those words to her. She moved to kiss his lips, his kiss deep and all-encompassing. She broke their kiss. “I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.” She began to kiss down his body, worshiping each part of his body with reverence, with love and adoration. His chest, his thighs, feet. She put every part of her soul into her kisses. 

He moaned. “Please, Serena.”

Serena pushed him down on the bed. When the rumors began, when there were whispers of him kissing and holding Roxane in the garden mazes, Serena would fantasize about cornering him and taking over, ensuring that he would never forget her.

“Please, Serena, I want you,” he said, pleading, his voice matching the many late night fantasies she had of him when they were engaged.

She climbed him, watching him open a drawer and sift through it. She moved to the discarded pile of her clothes on the other nightstand, grabbing her own beloved item as he got himself ready for her.

“After this, love me and only me,” she said as he helped her down his shaft, filling her wet warmth with his eager cock. How she had fantasized about this. She rode him slowly. “You feel as good as I imagined.”

“So do you…Serena…Serena…”

“Patrick…if I ever see you with that bitch again, I will…I will…” she unleashed her switchblade on his neck, careful not to let the blade touch his perfect skin. 

His eyes widened and yet, he sighed in pleasure, as if betraying the surprise as he squeezed her ass, moving her to his liking.

She moaned louder as she ran the knife down his body, careful not to hurt him. Their movements were primal, rhythmic as she rode him, trying to match it the way her fantasies went. The knife moved down to his nipples, then his abs, careful not to break the skin as she cut a mark. 

“I’m marking you,” she said. “You’re mine. All mine. No one else’s.”

She rode him harder as she wrote S.H on his chest, careful to make the wound shallow. Satisfied, she cast the knife aside and threw it to the side, giving him short but impactful rides as their bodies squelched together. 

“Patrick, I’m so close….please….” She begged, watching the small droplets of blood drip down his chest, exciting her more. “Fuck…”

“Serena…I love you,” he said.

Those were the magic words that made her feel an ecstasy unlike anything else she had ever felt before, arching her back as stars filled her eyes. Patrick came right after her, letting out a yell of pleasure.

She collapsed on top of him, but refused to pull out, cuddling him. “You bastard,” she said. “Just for that, you’re not leaving me, not for a moment.” She kept him inside her, even though she was sore and bruised, she needed him to stay. Stay with her forever.

“I couldn’t leave you if I tried,” he said, cooing into her ear and rubbing his delicate hands on her body. Their legs intertwined as exhaustion finally set in. But as she began to fall asleep, she saw a shift in Patrick’s hair, momentarily matching the inky black depths of night.

***

The first thing she felt when she woke up the next day was something warm inside her.  She stirred, remembering the night she had spent with Patrick. A night with no nightmares, only sweet dreams.

But when her eyes awoke, she didn’t see the soft brown of his hair, but black strands. She was cuddling him.

She jolted, feeling disoriented. It woke up the man next to her as they lost their connection and he was no longer inside her. “What…what the…”

Her bed partner woke up. It wasn’t Patrick. Memories flashed in her eyes. No, this was one of the men of Crown, Alfons Sylvatica. She was in his bed, holding him, cuddling him tight. But…she had also been with Patrick. Right?

“Good morning,” he said, removing his arm from her. “I didn’t take you as a cuddler, but then again, that was quite the sweet dream you had. Did you enjoy it?”

“The fuck did you do?” Pleasantries be damned.

Alfonse calmly propped himself against the headboard. “Why, I’ve helped you, my dear. In more ways than one.” He took a strand of her hair, his ash gray eyes shining with a look she couldn’t place. “Did you enjoy it? ” he asked again. “Your first time with Patrick?”

Bile rose up her body. “W-what?”

He moved closer to her, a finger caressing her cheek. “Allow me to introduce you to my Curse—Magic Mirror. One bare, naked touch to the nape of your neck, and I will show you the most beautiful, fleeting dreams. Your endless desires.”

Serena quickly put the pieces together. He had manipulated, made her see what she wanted to see. 

She recalled Victor’s warning yesterday: “Do be careful about him. Out of all my sons, he is…perhaps the most pleasure seeking and his abilities are very much attuned to that affinity. You must understand that before moving on because once the glove comes off…I’m afraid you’ll be on your own. Will you accept that risk?”

Slowly, the proof showed itself. There was a mark on the center of his chest. A shallow mark reading S.H. She remembered carving that on Patrick’s skin, not Alfons’s. Her eyes widened in mortification as she shook. 

“No. That’s not…”

“Who cares whether it’s the truth or not?” He kissed her cheek. “More importantly, wouldn’t it be more appealing to have a fleeting dream with me?”

“I…” She recalled how she felt when she finally had the love of her life inside her. She felt so wanted, so beautiful. “It was, but that doesn’t mean that…”

“If you can’t accept reality, then run from it. Run to me and I’ll wash them all away for you.” He kissed her other cheek, his kiss tender. Like a lover's.

Serena moved away from him. Alfons…he really was the spider weaving not just trapping her into his lair, but also weaving illusory threads built off her weaknesses. “Stop it.” Tears began to spring out of her eyes. Then she remembered the knife. The knife she had used to hurt Patrick. To hurt Roxane and she stilled, frozen as though she were to lose consciousness.

Alfons embraced her as if understanding. He kissed her forehead. “Shh…all you have to do is forget all of this fear…all of this pain and fill it with pleasure. After all, every inch of you is amazing.”

Alfons’s embrace calmed her, if only for a second, but she pulled away, quickly getting dressed. “I have to go.”

He waved his hand at her. “I’ll leave you to your typewriter. I’m certain you have much to write in your little lorebook. Come seek me out when you’re ready again, my dearest, most delightfully insane Robin.” He bowed at her, still stark naked as she turned tail and ran, escaping from his darkness, his vision of lies now that daylight had exposed their truth.

She was too disgusted to leave him with parting words.

She ran until she finally reached the light, shutting the door and locking herself in her room.

She gazed at the bright blue sky, as if mocking her.

Because she knew better than anyone, that the night would always come for her.

[bunnylouisegrimes]

need some jealous patrick

A Reassuring Gesture- Jealous! Patrick Bateman Fanfic

(Contains fluff, Patrick getting a handy in the bathroom, my OC getting a taste of Patrick, and Patrick being (somewhat) subby/bratty while also being dominant, dramatic, and possessive...only his best traits lmao!)

A/N: Hey, Nonnie! Thank you for this request! Here's a quick lil' jealous Patrick for ya! I had a general idea at first and just let it roam as I went along to create this insanity. I hope you enjoy it! ❤️❤️❤️ Reminder to everyone I'm still open to receiving requests for fics or art, so don't be shy to drop one if you wish! 😘😘😘 Thank you guys so much for reading and I hope you enjoy! 🫂🫂🫂

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

Patrick asked me this question with a tone that was dripping with snake venom but smothered in cupcake innocence. I stared up at him in the country club bathroom, confusion clearly on my face. Everything seemed to have gone normally up until this point: We had arrived to meet with some of Patrick's old Harvard friends, Patrick being dressed in his Valentino suit, and myself being wrapped in a fabulous pink dress (though I could not remember the brand for the life of me, much to Patrick's annoyance). We had some wonderful food (I couldn't remember the French names, also to Patrick's annoyance). The men all offered Patrick to join them in a round or two of golf, and he agreed. He quickly slipped out of his Valentino and into a Ralph Lauren polo and a pair of khakis, making me blush and giggle as I was teasingly flirting with him.

"Oh, Mr. Bateman! You do look like you know your way on the greens..." I winked at him.

He smirked and pulled me closer to him. "You could say I know my way in a hole..." He nipped at my ear. "The only question is...which one?"

I slapped him playfully. "You know I only like it in two holes, Mister..." I giggled again. "And if you ever try the one where the sun doesn't shine... you're gonna regret it..."

He gave a nod. "I'm not too crazy for it anyways... besides, anything for you, princess..."

We joined up with the others, and I watched as Patrick played with his friends. My understanding of the sport, like most of them, wasn't very strong. But I still cheered and supported Patrick as best I could. I was sipping on a virgin strawberry daqouri and munching on some quesadillas when he showed up.

"Hi," the young man, standing at five-foot-nine, smiled. He held a confident demeanor that was not deserved for someone of his age and size, entitlement radiating from him. "Sorry to bother you, my lady. I just couldn't help but notice how simply beautiful you are in that dress."

I blushed. "Aw! Why, thank you! My boyfriend bought it for me! He took me shopping and found only the best of the best as he says!"

The young man gave a sleazy nod. "Who's your boyfriend?"

I pointed to Patrick, the sun cascading down on him, almost making him look like a chosen angel as his brown hair shimmered, his hazel-green eyes sparkled, and his tanned skin was contrasted by his white polo. His ass looked quite exquisite in his khakis., showing off every bit of its toned glory. The boy turned to me with another sleazy look in his eyes.

"What's your boyfriend do?"

"He works at Pierce and Pierce, Mergers and Acquisitions," I smiled proudly. "He went to Harvard. He's such a sweetheart."

The boy gave a flirty chuckle. "I'm enrolled at Harvard myself. That's nice to see he's a fellow Wall Street man." He sat down next to me. "I've heard good things about P&P. Although, I can't say I can confirm those things personally. I'm the heir to a Fortune 500 company. You ever hear of Osvald Industries?"

I nodded. "I believe I've seen some headlines from my boyfriend's papers about them..."

"I'm the youngest member on the executive board," he continued to brag. "I'm also the captain of our golf team here, rowing team and youth league."

"Ah," I nodded along, acting as if I was interested. Truthfully, this boy reminded me of a younger Patrick, so I wasn't completely uninterested. But he wasn't Patrick, nobody was or could be, so I didn't care too much. "I see! That all sounds like a lot on your plate, especially someone as young as you..."

He blushed playfully, the baby fat still present on his cocky face. "Forgive me for not having any manners. I have had a lot handed down to me, and apparently, manners are not one of them." He winked and adjusted his tie. "Asher Osvald the Fourth."

Before I could even introduce myself, I heard a voice clearing their throat. I turned around at the familiar scent of something by Yves Saint Laurent (hey, I actually remembered one of Patrick's brands!...which could only mean it was...).

"Darling..." Patrick looked down at me, an overly friendly and not-very-Patrick expression on his face. "I see you've made a new friend..."

I laughed. "I don't know about a friend, Patrick. We just introduced ourselves, or rather, he did and -"

"My apologies," the younger Harvard bastard laughed himself as he raised his hands. "I don't mean to intrude. I was merely welcoming a new face to our club. After all, it's not often I see such a pretty woman from more humble beginnings, especially one stepping foot inside our exclusive establishment."

Ouch. Don't know whether to be flattered or offended.

"Oh, is that so?" He grinned. "Did I catch your last name was Osvald? So you're Osvald's kid then?"

"That I am," the lad replied, giving a look I've seen Patrick give many times before when trying to be "humble," but it was really the look of, "yeah, I know how great I am."

"I see...well, I've met your father, the Third, at several meetings. I can tell he raised a very...nice young man as a son..."

Asher nodded and bashfully and boyishly waved his hand. "Why, thank you!" He stood up. "I do hate to cut things short, but I must attend to other matters." He gave a quick peck to my hand. "Very nice meeting you, my dear. I hope to see you around here more often." With that, he returned inside the club.

I turned around to face Patrick again, whose friendly smile was struggling to be kept on his face. "Darling, could we speak for a second?"

Before I had time to answer, he grabbed me by my wrist and led me back inside and down a hallway, where the bathrooms were located. He threw open the door to the men's room and carried me with him. After ensuring there was nobody else in the fancy bathroom that had a strong scent of something quite cleanly (an almost nonexistent situation in any other public bathroom), he turned to me and glared at me. Any trace of his fake friendliness he used only for people at work or restaurants or stores was gone.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

I was rendered speechless at his behavior. "Patrick, I-"

"What was he saying to you? He was clearly trying to flirt with you. What was he telling you?"

"I...I don't know, he was just saying I was pretty, and I mentioned my boyfriend, AKA you, bought me this beautiful dress...he asked who you were, I pointed you out...he was bragging about stuff, I bragged about you a little bit-"

"What did you mention about me?" The desperation in his voice said it all.

"That you went to Harvard and you worked on Wall Street, and to no one's surprise, he's the exact same."

"The exact same? So, you think he's able to replace me?"

"What?!" My voice was starting to get agitated. "Who said anything about that? Admittedly, he reminded me of a slightly younger you, but he's not you, Patrick. Despite your similarities, you are you, and I want you only."

"What else did he say?" The yuppie asked this question with even more desperation, almost on the edge of a panicked meltdown.

"I don't know, that's about it before you showed up..." I shrugged and sighed. "Why are you freaking out so much over this guy talking to me? What are you, jealous or something?"

His face went just a shade lighter, the edges of a blush forming on his cheeks, and a bead of sweat I expected was from more than just golfing in the sun dripped down his forehead. "N-No..."

Normally, Patrick was able to remain (fairly) confident enough to manipulate and trick people. At the very least, he could dangle shiny, designer brands and objects in front of one's face while using his good looks to distract them from what was really going on. But with me, he had a harder time finding himself able to hide the truth, as if he always wanted to tell me the truth since I would always be the one to actually listen to it rather than brush him off like so many others. I crossed my arms and tapped my black Mary Jane, looking up at him with an incredulous gaze.

"Don't lie to me, Patty... you were so jealous another spoiled rich boy was talking to me and took interest in me..."

"I am most certainly not!" He hissed.

"You are..." I broke into a smile and teased. "Awww, Patty's feeling a little jealous..." I decided to play hardball to further tease him (mostly to get him worked up and aroused). "You're afraid of all these spoiled rich boys and men in this club wanting to take me all for themselves...maybe they want to try a little working class Midwestern pussy, huh? You're afraid that whether it be some boy fresh out of private boarding school and ready to attend university, or some older gent who just can't find satisfaction with his wife he cheated on anyways for all these years...they're gonna take me away from you..."

He growled lowly as I flirtatiously danced my fingers up his arm, making me smile wider.

"Relax, sugar, I'm teasing you...you wanna know why?" My fingers danced their way further downward as I reached his muscular chest and abs. "...Because I would never chose one of the assholes here...they're insufferable to be around...you, my love...you are better than them in every single way...you're so much better looking than them, you're funnier, you're smarter, you're sweeter, you're more interesting...need I go on?"

My fingers hovered right above his groin, making him blush even deeper as I realized I was walking forwards the whole time, and now he was backed against the wall.

"Do you want me to prove to you that no one is ever taking me away from you?"

He hesitated at first, but slowly nodded his head. I gave another smirk as I undid the belt on his khakis and unzipped them, exposing his bulge hidden behind his Perry Ellis briefs. I tapped and traced his manhood, making an erection slowly but surely tent up. He gave a stifled moan as he bit his lip. His cheeks were burning red, and his face was melted into one of pleasure.

"You know why else I wouldn't choose one of the assholes here? Because there's no way in Hell any of them have a dick as big as yours..." I continued to play with his cock behind his underwear, noticing precum must've been leaking out to make a small wet spot. "You think Asher is as smart or handsome or funny as you? You think his dick is as big as yours? You think I'd ran off with that fucker? He brags more than you do on your worst day! I can't even imagine putting up with that prick for more than half a day! Thank God you got me out of that situation..."

He groaned and tilted his head back, now making an expression of both pleasure and cockiness from his ego being groomed. God, I loved making him this happy...spoiling the spoiled was my weakness in this world...

"Why so jealous, Patrick? Especially since you know I'm too much of your good girl to leave you...I admit, it's flattering to think a girl like me would have a bunch of rich men fighting over her...but I want you to imagine the looks on their faces when they realize I belong to one and one only, and that's you...imagine the look on Asher's face when he sees you and me together...imagine sending him a tape of us getting dirty...the only one who should be jealous here is him...because he'll never get to claim me like you have and always will..."

"Mmmf...fuck, keep talking like this..." He groaned out.

I giggled. "Only if you admit that you shouldn't be jealous of any of the pathetic assholes around here...you always tell me to call myself pretty and beautiful...why don't you do the same for yourself? I mean, you already do as it is, you beautiful cocky bastard..."

He moaned out and arched his back against the wall, sweat continuing to bead down his forehead, his chest rising and falling, his nipples poking out from underneath the polo. "God, fuck, yes...I am the most handsome, beautiful man...I am so god damn smart...I am so god damn funny...and I completely dominate you...I own you...you're my girl...and mine only..."

My panties were practically soaking wet at not only this situation, but the position we were placed in. For once, I was making him compliment himself, and it made me feel good. But unlike so many other encounters of ours, I questioned who was in control here: me for once, or him like always? I came to the conclusion that we both held a control over each other, and this was a prime example. I was pleasuring him, reassuring him, brushing his ego, and made him feel so concerned about himself just by merely talking to another man. He needed me to remind him he was more than enough. But all the same, he still held a controlling grasp over me. Afterall, I was the center of his affection, and he made it very clear that I was his girl only, just as he was my man only. Our relationship was based on true reciprocation and equilibrium: the sun and moon meeting for a kiss to create pure harmony.

"Yes, sir..." I let slip as I picked up the pace with playing with his rod from behind his underwear. "I am yours and yours only...forever and ever and ever..."

He surprised me by pulling me closer to him. "More!" He ordered, a new wave of confidence finally returning to him. "I'm so fucking close...I need more!"

I gripped his balls and massaged them while still jacking him off. He groaned out, struggling to be quiet. His blush only deepened, realizing how embarrassing it would be for others to hear him. He grabbed my hands and manipulated them for him.

"Open your mouth, pumpkin...I can't have my cum stain these underwear...be a good girl and take my cum...it's the only seed that will ever enter your mouth...I'm claiming what's mine..."

I pulled down his briefs and wrapped my lips around his shaft. The warmth and wetness from my mouth must have been the catalyst to finally set him off. He gave one final groan and held my head in place as he climaxed. His cum shot into my mouth, the usual sweetness and bitterness greeting my tastebuds. I swallowed every drop I could, licking him clean as he pulled out of my mouth. He smirked as he pulled up his underwear and his khakis, sweat still rolling down him as he panted.

"Damn, baby...I'm never going to believe that you're being taken away from me ever again..."

I licked my lips and smiled up at him. "You better not...I'm not Evelyn and never will be... There's no Tim I'm gonna have on the side. You should know by now that with us, it's ride or die. We are eternal soulmates, and nothing and nobody will ever change that."

He sighed and nodded, giving my head a gentle pat as I stood back up before leaving a kiss on it. "I love you so much...you're the only one I will ever love..."

"I love you too, Patrick...You're the only one I will ever love too..."

We sneaked out of the bathroom together, his hand gripping my ass the entire time as I held a grip over his waist. The rest of the club was nothing more than a blur as we stepped back outside to enjoy the view of nature together, just the two of us and no one else, forever and ever.

[hellhound5925]

Hey so please don’t hate me but this is going to be part two of the tattoo short story with Hunter. Part three will be smut I promise!

Also let me know if you would like to be tagged in future posts! (let me know what kinds)

One Shot- Sargent Hunter

Tattoos (Part Two)

Warnings: intimate moment (no minors just to be safe)

Summary:

Part One here 😉

Later that night, Hunter found himself laying in his bed, replaying the events from earlier in his mind. He couldn't let it go...he was mentally cursing himself for not telling you how he felt there. Was it the right time though? I mean is there ever really a right time? You were an absolute tattooed goddess and he? The fool who was falling hard and fast.

Before he even realized what was happening, his feet were carrying themselves to your door. He hesitated to knock at first, wondering if you had already gone bed and if he would be bothering you. Pulling his closed fist away from the door, it was too late. "Just a second" your voice came from behind the door. His mind wandered to where you were and what you were doing. Just then the door flings open and there you stand, your hair looks like it was just pulled from its braid, falling in gentle waves around your face reminding him of the ocean and when your big bright eyes met his? He felt his heart skip a beat.

The oversized shirt you have on was the next thing he couldn't help but notice, and how it hangs just perfectly of your sun kissed shoulder, revealing part of your tattoos. His eyes slowly make their up to your collar bone and your neck. The smell of the salt left by the ocean water, creating the need to pepper your neck with kisses, allowing him to taste it. Again his big brown eyes meet yours, causing your breath to hitch in your throat while butterflies dance in your stomach. He felt it too.

"Come in" your voice pulls him out of the trance and he steps inside. He makes his way over to the couch and sits down, eyes wandering back over to you, roaming your body, as you close the door. They stop at the skull tattoo on your leg, causing once again an awaking of his arousal as he plunges into deep thought. The silence washes over the two of you.

With one hand still on the door knob, you hesitate to turn around, the feeling of his eyes roaming over your body. You finally take a deep breath and turn to face him, watching as his eyes make their way to meet yours. The look in his honey brown eyes heating you deep in your core. Offering him a warm smile you make your way over to him and sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. His eyes search your face like he's looking for the answer to a question. Only he hasn't spoken a word.

"Is everything okay? You look a little lost."

He sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes wandering back down to the tattoo thats got him wrapped around your finger. "I do like your tattoo."

That warm feeling in your core spreads throughout your body, rising to your face and you try to suppress your blush. You put your leg up on the couch next to him so he can get a better look. "Thanks" it comes out as whisper because at any moment, your voice might betray you.

He leans back and reaches for your leg. You watch as he gently rubs his thumb over the ink, the warmth of his touch causing electricity to shoot through your body in ways you never thought imaginable. He seems to notice this and looks up, making eye contact. Those beautiful brown eyes, blown wide with desire. It reminds you of an animal with it's prey in sight. The reason for him being here suddenly clear as day.

"Hunter" you whisper as if not to startle him. He slowly blinks as you slide forward making your way onto his lap. Like finding their way home, his hands find their place just under your ass gently holding you in place. Pressing your forehead to his and placing one hand on his chest, you trace his tattoo on his face with your index finger. His chest vibrates with a hum as he closes his eyes, causing you to chuckle softly.

"It all makes sense to me now."

His eyes open and he leans back raising an eye brow, "oh?"

"They way you are when I'm around. The brave soldier almost crumbling to pieces."

His right hand makes it's way up to your shoulder, fingers gently dance across your skin. Goosebumps rise all the way down your arm as he traces your tattoos.

"Can I see them?" His request simple but not much of a surprise.

Nodding you reach for the hem of your shirt but his hand stops you. He gently tugs it off over your head careful to get a good look at you from this angle. Dropping your shirt to the floor his hand finds its way back to your shoulder, and traces the tattoos all the way down your arm to your wrist. You have to bite your lip to prevent any kind of noise from escaping, and potentially stopping him.

Letting go of your hand, he traces over your core, hand stoping at the tattoo on your ribs. He rotates his hand so he now has a hold of you. The gentle but firm grasp, making you feel like your the only thing in the whole entire galaxy that matters. It's as if he thinks you would some how slip through his fingers, like sand, and disappear forever.

Cocking your head, you can't help but watch his facial expression this whole time. It's one of deep desire, like he needs you the way he needs water, food, and air for that matter. His chest is rising and falling at a rate that give away how much of him you've taken over and overwhelming his senes. The self control he has is quite impressive to say the least.

Deciding its your turn, you reach for his chin and tip his head up so he meets your eyes. As he comes up for air, you let out a light chuckle.

"So much for talking."

P.S. Sorry I lied there's going to be 3 parts because I'm a tease 😈

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