#think about the kind of love it must have taken to make this fabric with all those details and colors!!!

[beatingdrumspouringwine]

Thinking about Him again

(Him: Dionysos on this textile fragment)

[wri0thesley]

eyes - neuvillette x reader (8.5k)

you have always known, one day, you would be married off to someone not of your choosing. but you certainly never expected it to be the iudex himself.

cw: not sfw text. explicitly chubby virgin reader, some insecurity, arranged marriage. double dick neuvillette, cunnilingus, bathing together. reader is afab but referred to with neutral pronouns.

this was a commissioned work.

There are certain standards one must follow as a child of Fontainian society; certain things that are expected of you. A certain way to speak and move and act - a set of rules that have been laid out clearly for you since the day you were born. You will know which fork to use at which mealtime. You will know the difference between what is appropriate to wear to a matinee and to an evening show. You will trust your elders to guide you, and you will be grateful for the life that they have oh-so-painstakingly laid out. 

So you are not surprised when your mother tells you that you are to be wed. 

You have even been expecting it. Since you became of a marriageable age, you have looked at all of the other children of society and wondered what kind of match your family might make. One of your own generation? Older, perhaps - more secure in their wealth and their status and position? You have even laughed about it with your friends, when you were out of earshot of all of your elders - discussing who would be the worst options, gossiping about who has had who over for tea recently. 

She’s surprisingly tight-lipped about who you’re going to wed, too. That’s not unexpected either, though it does make anxiety roil hot and sour in your gut. Plenty of children have run away from home so as not to be wed to somebody decades and decades their senior, or somebody with a reputation for cruelty - or sometimes even because the match that has been made has not taken into account a love affair unbeknownst to the elders of the family. 

You have no such love affair to romantically dash off into the sunset with; you have been a good and dutiful child your whole life. And though you do, perhaps, wish that you could know what it was like to have a love so fiery and passionate you would disobey the only life you’ve ever known . . . you have come to accept that will not be your lot in life. 

You have even worried once or twice that somebody, upon finding that they were engaged to you, might wish to run away. You have looked in the mirror and scrutinised your face, your posture, your body - a body that has fallen out of fashion recently, the beauty ideal in Fontaine being very much ‘look as much like Lady Furina as possible’. It is your body, though - and it has stood you in good stead, and the night in which you are finally to meet your betrothed your mother and your maid stand in your bedroom looking approvingly at how your gown falls over the soft peaks and curves of your hips and chest. 

All you know about this person who you are to be wedded to is that every time your family talks of them, they can barely hide the smiles on their faces and the superior lilt to their tone. Whatever match has been made for you . . . they are utterly ecstatic about it. 

“I think he’ll be more than pleased,” your mother says, tugging at a fold of fabric - she had chosen to have this dress made in pale blue, though it is not a colour that has been in your wardrobe before. A man, then; a well-placed man who makes your family giddy with excitement - a man partial to the colour blue and a spouse whose figure runs more to curves than lines. 

It is not a lot to go on. 

So you do not know what to expect, as you are brought down the stairs and into the dining room. All kinds of thoughts dance through your head; some pleasant, some . . . not so. You know that you will meekly accept what you have been given, the way you have been brought up to do - and it is not lost on you that the trajectory of tonight will perhaps influence your life for years and years to come. There is always the chance that, seeing you in person, your parent’s intended will reject you--

Your mind is churning at a hundred thoughts a minute as you step inside the dining room - but when you see who is seated at the head of the table, all of those thoughts seem to clatter to the ground at once. 

It is a wonder that your mouth does not drop open. 

In all of the time you have spent gossiping about possible matches in society, nobody has ever mentioned - even off-handedly - the possibility that the Chief Justice of Fontaine may be looking to marry. 

But there sits Monsieur Neuvillette - a little awkward, yes (he is being chattered to most insistently by your father), but straight and tall and handsome in his chair, his robes of office perfectly pressed, his face schooled carefully into a polite look of vague interest. Your mother coughs, and he looks up--

And his eyes, the colour of the evening sky or a perfect sapphire, widen just a touch. His mouth opens, the barest amount - and you swear that as his gaze sweeps over your form in your carefully chosen blue dress (a choice you are beginning to understand), he visibly swallows. 

“Ah,” he says, and he stands - walking towards you, bending and inclining his head. “It’s a pleasure to . . . finally meet you in person.” You’re still rather stunned speechless by everything that is happening - you cannot help but feel as though things are happening around you, and not to you - but as Neuvillette uses one of his gloved hands to take yours and to press a lingering kiss on your palm that makes your entire body feel as though it is on fire, you are suddenly all too aware of just what is going on. “You look radiant tonight.”

“M-Monsieur,” you say in return, and you sweep what must be the clumsiest curtsey of your life. “I . . . I have to admit that this is a surprise.” 

“Not an unwelcome one,” your mother puts in before he can respond. “Of course, we’re delighted with this match, and we’re absolutely sure you’ll be delighted with them--”

“I understand,” Neuvillette says, his eyes not leaving you. “If I may be frank with you, until recently I had never thought to marry.” 

Questions rise in your throat. If he had not thought to marry, why was he doing it now? And why you, when surely he must see the upper echelons of society every single day? What had brought him to your family’s door, asking after your hand over everyone else he must have had first pick of? But these are not polite questions for the dinner table, when your mother and your father are already ushering the two of you to your seats beside one another and beaming so brightly that it hurts to look at them. 

The dinner table is a place for light, polite conversation; the last opera you saw, the weather. Neuvillette smiles into his wine glass - a glass you notice is filled with water - when you mention that it has not seemed to rain much recently. You notice him looking at you every so often, over rims of glasses and delicate bites of foods . . . but you know that you, too, cannot help but sneak a glance at the Iudex of Fontaine seated by your side. 

Your future husband! Your betrothed! The man you will spend the rest of your life with! 

As much as you may wish for a moment alone with him, you know it is not proper; so when he stands and kisses your hand again and your father takes Neuvillette into his study to hash out some further details of your impending nuptials, you swallow your disappointment and remind yourself that you will have years with Neuvillette, to learn his secrets - to discover why he has decided to take you as a spouse. 

There is little time for getting to know one another beyond the most surface of levels when a marriage has been arranged for you - there is even littler time when the man you are going to marry is one of the most powerful and busiest men in Fontaine. Even the few times you see each other as the wedding looms closer - the period your parents optimistically refer to as ‘courting’ - there is little time to get to know his heart. 

You realise, at the final fitting for your wedding clothes, that the first time you will be truly alone with the man who is to be your husband will be the night of your wedding. 

And that particular thought . . . 

You know the ways of the world. You know what will be expected of you, in order to properly consummate a marriage - you know that you will be intimate with Neuvillette for years to come. But the idea that the first time that the two of you will be able to snatch time with one another with no parents or gossip-mongers or anybody else around will also be the time in which you and he will legally become one (and you know, from experience at the Opera Epiclese, that Neuvillette is nothing if not a stickler for the law) . . . oh, it is enough to make you reconsider one last time running away from your responsibilities. 

“Mother?” You ask, your voice quiet, the night before your wedding. You have spent the entire day overseeing flowers and being asked questions, watching the cooks and the waiters bring in fine delicacies from all over Teyvat (Neuvillette had not wanted hosting duties; you get the impression that as long as the ceremony was done legally, he would be pleased enough to call you his spouse. But your parents have been preparing for this your whole life, so they had indeed wanted the spectacle of their child marrying the most powerful man in Fontaine. With no family to speak of, he had acquiesced to their desires. Your parents are in shivers of delight that Lady Furina will, too, grace the halls of your family home). “What if . . . what if I do not please him?”

You are sitting before your dressing table, in your sleeping robe, haunted by thoughts of all of the things that could go wrong whilst your mother double checks your wedding gown and the jewellery you are to wear tomorrow. She looks over at you - her face is normally hard, but as she sees the knit of your brow and the bite of your teeth into your lip, she sighs softly. 

“You have nothing to worry about,” she says, stroking your cheek. “The Iudex asked for you specifically.” You blink at her, wide-eyed, and she laughs a soft little laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head, now; they have been badgering him to marry for some time . . . but he did ask for you, out of all of the people he could have had. So take heart in that. Do you think him a foolish man?”

“No,” you shake your head, your voice a soft whisper. You suppose that Neuvillette is many things, but ‘foolish’ would not be one that would cross your mind. 

“There. You and he are going to have a happy life together.” A sly look steals over her face. “Ah . . . are you worried about the wedding night itself?”

“Mama!”

“It’s something we all go through, my dear.” She catches your chin in her hand and smiles at you, and for a moment, despite all of the times you have disliked her for the life you have been forced into . . . you are reminded that she is your mother, and she wants this to work just as much as you do. “Do not be frightened of him. Do not be overwhelmed by him. He has chosen you to be his equal, but he will not expect too much of you. I promise . . . everything is going to be fine.” She gives you a wink. “And if I were you, and were to marry a man who looked like the Chief Justice - why, I’d be positively thrilling with excitement at the thought of my wedding night!”

“Mama!” This time, your scandalised tone brings her out in peals of laughter, and she kisses the top of your head as she leaves the bedroom. The door clicks behind her. 

Your final night in your childhood room; your final night unmarried. One last slumber amongst your own silken pillows and sheets (what kind of bed, you wonder, does the Chief Justice sleep in?). 

That night, you dream of a sea that churns with a similar anxiety to the one that you feel in your own belly. 

The morning of your wedding day, it is raining. Your family fuss over it, but as you stand at your window with people running all about you, messing with your hair and rearranging your dress and having arguments about your bouquet, you cannot help but find it comforting to watch the rain fall in droplets, stopping and starting again, mirroring your own still-nervous heart. 

You think you will falter at the last hurdle, as you stand outside of the Opera Epiclese - normally a place of theatricals, but also a place of the law, and the place that the most important part of your wedding day will occur - and take a deep breath ready to start your new life. The bouquet in your hands is full of rainbow roses and romaritime flowers, bursting with colour; you are grateful to have it to hold on to, as the doors are thrown open and you walk slowly down the aisle of the theatre. 

Your eyes desperately seek out someone who will provide you an ounce of comfort in the crowd, all peering at you curiously to see the person who has finally tamed the Chief Justice. This is a spectacle as much as a wedding, you suppose; and as you see some people whisper behind their hands, you wonder if you have been found wanting. You bite your lip hard to stop yourself crying - and then, onstage, his hands clasped over his cane, your gaze finds Neuvillette himself. 

The patter of the rain on the roof of the Opera stops all at once. For a moment, you swear everything falls silent, as you and he look at each other. 

Slowly, his mouth breaks into a small, secret smile, and the buzz of whispering intensifies - but that smile is enough to steady you. To remind you he has been nothing but kind and polite. To whisper to you that perhaps this union is a thing to look forward to, and not to be feared. 

He looks as handsome as ever; his suit perfectly-pressed, his hair streaming in a neat silver white tail behind him. There are flowers that have been braided into it; and you see, as you ascend the stairs to the stage, that there are a group of Melusines sitting in the front rows with matching little bouquets of Lumidouce bells grasped in their little hands, beaming up at the Iudex. 

Lady Furina presides over the proceedings, tossing her hair and preening and holding the audience in the palm of her hand - another reminder that theatrics are more respected than the law in a land like Fontaine. But you cannot bring yourself to mind too much - not when Neuvillette’s smile is steady, his eyes trained on you the whole time. Not when, as he repeats the words in a clear voice like a ringing bell, he whispers them again as if they are only for you. Not when he takes his bare hands - ungloved, for the exchange of the rings - and holds your own, soft and round and dimpled, as he slides the ring onto your finger as if you are the most delicate thing in the world. 

When Furina - with more glee in her voice than you would have expected - announces that he may now kiss you, you feel your shoulders draw up in anxiety. The entire audience goes quiet, waiting with baited breath for this - as if it is one of the things they have been waiting for all day. Neuvillette, though, keeps his gaze on you. He acts as though there are not a thousand Fontainian citizens watching your every move - slowly, he places his arm around your waist and draws you closer to him, so close that the crowds seem to melt away and there is nobody but the two of you. 

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he murmurs into your ear, angling his head so that the crowd cannot see that he has said something that is only for the two of you (no doubt they would be baying to be privy to the marriage bed, if they thought they could get away with it) - and then, his lips brush against yours. They are cool and soft; the lightest tang of sea-salt remains on your own after he is done. The crowd roars with their approval as he steps back and bows to you, pressing his forehead to the back of your hand - and you stand there, trembling, excited and nervous and frightened and on display all at once, as your new husband takes you by the hand and gently, gently leads you back down one of the aisles of the opera, out to the waiting carriages to spirit you away from the spectacle of the opera house and into the spectacle that your parents have designed as a celebration. 

As it turns out, it is not so bad. Your parents have understood, at the very least, that the two of you will be retiring early to Neuvillette’s residence (your trunks already packed, already loaded onto a carriage to be delivered in the next few days). They have managed to rein themselves in; only invite the most important echelons of society to this celebration, despite the luxury and the excess that has been coming into the house for weeks now. 

So you bow to Lady Furina and accept her compliments with a stutter and hot cheeks, Neuvillette by your side, his steadying hand on your waist. Neuvillette expertly manages to weave around your family’s ballroom as if he has been doing it all his life - but then, remembering how much older he is than you, you suppose that he has been doing it at least as long as you have been alive. He has a remarkable way of remaining polite, yet not brokering too much room for small talk and gossip, as if he can tell that this kind of thing is not your favourite. 

You overhear, when you have been spirited away from your husband’s side for ten minutes by some of your friends, an older couple accosting Neuvillette. 

“You had all of the choice in the world,” the man says, poking Neuvillette in the centre of his chest - from the slur in his words, you think he may have partaken in a touch too much of your parent’s imported dandelion wine. “Whyever did you make this one?”

Your heart stutters in your chest; a trickle of sweat rolls down the back of your wedding gown. This is what you have been fearful of, this whole time - you being found wanting, you being seen as not good enough for Neuvillette--

But your new husband merely smiles. 

“I have eyes,” he says, mildly, and he turns away from the couple and brings an end to the conversation that you know must leave them utterly blistering. He comes to find you, instead - apologising most profusely to your friends for having to steal you away. 

You stay for as short a time as you can manage, with the congratulations and the toasts and the speeches (a Melusine or two makes a speech for Neuvillette; you much prefer their simple honesty to some of the awful gushing things that come from the mouths of connections of your parents who have never given much care to you before), with the cake being cut--

“Here,” Neuvillette murmurs, and your cheeks go hot as he feeds you a bite of his own slice from the same fork he has been using. “I must confess that this is rather too sweet for me.” 

By the time that Neuvillette begins to make his excuses, bowing and smiling and thanking his hosts and the guests, the moon is already hanging white and plump in the black velvet of the night - and as you say goodbye to your parents, your Mama gives you a wink that makes you go hot all over. 

Neuvillette’s residence is surprisingly unassuming; it is smaller than your parents house, and he does not employ half as many maids or staff. For a moment, his gaze flitters over to you, and you sense a nervousness in the air. 

“I am sorry if it is not what you were expecting,” he says, voice clipped - but you shake your head, and try and let some of the anxiety drain from your tight shoulders. 

“It’s lovely,” you say, firmly, as he helps you out of the carriage. This time, when his gloved hand - he has chosen to put his gloves back on, his wedding ring glinting over the black satin - touches your waist, you gasp. The frisson of promise that runs through the touch makes you feel dizzy with possibility. Neuvillette looks at you with those dark sapphire eyes of his, and murmurs;

“I apologise if you’re nervous. I have no wish to . . . make you do anything you don’t want to. I am more than willing to wait-- the law does not require we consummate directly on our wedding night, and if you are frightened--”

A drop of rain lands on your cheek. 

“No,” you breathe out, all in a rush, surprised to find it falling from your lips as you say it. But then you think of his lingering kiss, of the way he shut down that couple at the wedding reception, of that private smile he had given you to soothe your fears as you walked down the aisle, and you’re even more surprised to find that you mean it. “Not at all. I-- I am nervous, but . . .”

He gives you another soft, gentle smile that makes your heart feel ready to burst out of your chest. The raindrop you had felt has no companions; simply a freak occurrence in the weather. 

“I must admit,” he murmurs, as he helps you towards his front door. “I am very pleased to hear that. I hope you won’t find it remiss of me to admit that I have been . . . rather looking forward to it.”

Your cheeks go hot again. The idea of Neuvillette, imagining you like that, even waiting for it . . . it is hard not to find it at once flattering and embarrassing. Neuvillette opens the door for you, but as you go to step inside--

“Ah, just a moment--” He leans his cane against the front door, and reaches for you. “I’m aware there’s a custom about bringing one’s new spouse over the threshold, and I would hate to break tradition--”

“You don’t have to,” you say, stuttering on the words. “I’m not light--”

But Neuvillette has already reached for you, already wrapped a surprisingly strong arm about your waist - and before you know it, as if he hasn’t needed to exert any energy at all, you have been pulled into his hold, held like a princess being rescued by a knight. 

You look up at him, and he looks down at you, his smile soft once more. 

“You feel perfectly light in my arms,” he tells you, as he steps over the threshold with you and gently places you down as softly and carefully as he had picked you up. You were not expecting the strength from him - he wears his robes of office, of course, and he certainly has the height, but there’s a kind of willowiness about him that does not exactly betray him being able to do such a thing. 

(If he can do that, a wicked little voice in your head whispers, imagine what else he could do to you - how easily he could manipulate you in a more intimate moment--)

It’s almost as if he can read your mind. He laughs a clear, silvery laugh like the rushing of a river. 

“Shall I show you to our bedchambers?” He asks you. “I’m sure you’ll want to get all of your finery off soon; it looks rather heavy. If you are not opposed . . . perhaps we may bathe together?”

Your heart, beating double time in your chest. Neuvillette’s eyes, cool and calm. The way your blood seems to sing in your veins. You smile back at him. 

“I would like that very much.”

Neuvillette’s house may not be as extravagant as expected, but the bathroom more than makes up for it - and most of all, the bathtub set into the floor, as wide as a swimming pool. He sees your look of surprise and laughs, sounding for once a little embarrassed.

“I enjoy being able to relax in water - natural water most of all,” he tells you, “but it would be rather . . . scandalous, if an ordinary citizen were to find me unexpectedly. This is my compromise. One of my vices, you may say.”

As vices go, it is a tame one, and you look at the bathtub - already full of clear water, so you can see the mosaic tiles on the bottom (the tub itself is stepped, so one can simply sit and relax at one end or perhaps even use the other end to swim a few strokes). 

“I loved to swim when I was little,” you say, wistfully. “As I got older, my parents thought the idea of me wearing my swim clothes too often was improper, but . . .”

“Well,” Neuvillette says, placing his hands upon your hips with only the lightest of pressure as if he is still too afraid to touch you too much. “You are welcome to use this bathroom for swimming whenever you wish. It is not quite the same, of course, but I want nothing more than you to be happy here. What’s mine is yours now, sweet one.”

It’s the first pet name he has used for you, and it makes your mouth go dry. Slowly, you turn towards him. You are about to be naked together, you suppose - even if you are going to bathe before anything more intimate happens - so you ought to be braver. You reach for his face, palms warm on his cheeks - and though his eyes flash in surprise, he gladly leans in to let you kiss him. 

This time, you let the kiss linger for longer; this private moment in the sanctity of a home that is to be shared between you. He sighs into your mouth and pulls you closer himself, so as you cradle his face his palms rest upon the ample curve of your hip. His teeth tug, almost shyly, at your bottom lip - and you feel your lashes flutter, your heart give an answering skip in your chest. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth and you part your lips, allowing him to take you as he wants - but even this ‘taking’ is done slowly, carefully, like a man who wishes to savour you. 

You pull back, your breath coming in soft little gasps - Neuvillette’s eyes are half-lidded, but it does not stop him smiling at you, putting you at ease. 

“We ought to disrobe,” he tells you, kindly - and he gently motions for you to turn, so that he may work at the difficult laces and hooks of your bridal outfit. You feel a little shy, as the fabric pools around your ankles, and you are left bare - but then he is turning you around, and in his eyes you see something that must be close to worship. 

“I am a man who says what I mean,” he tells you, tilting your chin upward toward him. “I have not spared your ego, little one - everything I see before me is . . .” He shakes his head, letting loose a ragged breath, more undone than you’ve seen him before. “More than I could ever have asked for.” One gloved finger trails across your lips, tracing a patch from the corner of your mouth down to your throat, your collarbone - reaching behind you to unclip your undergarments, so they fall to the ground with your gown. “You’re truly the loveliest creature.” 

“I--”

He shakes his head, smiling still. 

“Perhaps in my choice of a spouse,” he murmurs, “I let my own desires overtake me a touch . . . but ah, if you could see yourself the way I see you--”

You hesitantly hook your thumbs into your underwear and stand before him, naked completely - and you win, for your bravery, another ragged breath. 

“I must warn you,” Neuvillette murmurs, as he reaches for his own collar and begins to unbutton, to untie, to work the trappings of his own outfit off of himself. “You may be . . . surprised.”

“By what?” You feel brave enough to give him a little smile, though your heart is still beating faster than you’ve ever felt it. “Am I to discover you have been hiding extra limbs?”

Neuvillette’s gaze does not falter. 

“Something like that,” he agrees, mildly, as he slips his shirt and coat from his shoulders. His skin is milky pale in the moonlight streaming in from a window set high in the wall, his hair glimmering silver. He takes your breath away. 

Who would have thought you would ever find yourself in this position with the Chief Justice of Fontaine? 

He unbuttons his placket slowly - and as he carefully works down the fabric of his trousers, you realise exactly what it was he was warning you about. 

“I hope I do not disappoint you,” he says, as your mouth falls open at the sight of his cocks; resting one atop another, both half-swollen already. Your mouth goes dry at the thought of your wedding night, still to come. “I assure you, I know exactly what to do with them.” 

“I--I didn’t mean to--!” Your voice comes out a little panicked - but then, Neuvillette lets out a soft huff of laughter. 

“It’s quite alright,” he tells you. “But I will reiterate; I will not hurt you. You are . . . more than welcome to touch. But if we do not get in soon, I fear the water will have gone cold.” 

Neuvillette helps you into the bath, surprisingly unashamed of his own nakedness. At the press of his body against yours as he helps you down the steps inlaid into the tub, you feel his cocks jump against you, the wet smear of something against the dip of your back - but then, Neuvillette is lowering himself into the water beside you and letting loose a sigh of pure bliss that sends a coil of heat spiralling to between your thighs. 

You have never partaken in the gossip that surrounds Neuvillette, about his pointed ears or his inhumanly lovely face or his age - you would never have expected what he is hiding in his trousers. But as you sit beside your new husband, you cannot help but feel as though it makes perfect sense - a man like him could not be ordinary. And you trust him when he tells you he will not hurt you; when he says he knows what he’s doing, you think of all of the time he has on you and you have to suppress a shiver of desire for what he may have to teach you. 

He touches you, as the two of you bathe together. Lets his fingers massage the shampoo into your hair, lets his hands slide the washcloth over the contours of your body until you can barely breathe for the hot trails of fire that he leaves in his wake. You do not think he means to inflame you so - but then, he allows you to do the same thing to him, and he shudders and leans back into your touch, a soft noise almost like a purr falling from the back of his throat, and he realises exactly what bathing together is doing to you both. 

Still. The two of you linger there; touching one another. Getting to know one another’s bodies without any fear, for beneath the water all is muffled and calm. His fingers learn the shape of your nipples when he pinches them, how they pucker and harden beneath him. His palms learn the weight of your breasts, heavy and ample in his hands. His mouth learns the taste of your shoulders, as he drops hot, wet kisses across the span of them, the nape of your neck. And in return you feel the silkiness of his hair, the softness of his skin, the feel of his corded muscle beneath his deceptively slender frame. 

By the time the two of you are wrapped in fluffy towels the colour of an early morning sky, you are both hot with want. Neuvillette’s twin cocks seem to pulse with his desire; you can no longer tell if you are slick and wet from the bath or from the space between your thighs. You shyly look at one another through lowered lashes, though, as the wedding night and all it entails comes closer and closer and closer. 

“It’s a beautiful night,” you say to him, when the two of you have finally entered the bedroom. Neuvillette’s window is open a crack, enough so that the lacy curtains flutter in the light night-time breeze. “You would hardly think it’s been raining on and off all day.”

“Mmm,” Neuvillette agrees, as you feel him come up behind you. He slowly takes your hands, encouraging you to drop the towel; and then you stand before him, naked again, but with something far more than a bath in your future. He leans in and presses a kiss to the sensitive place where your neck and shoulder meet, just barely grazing it with surprisingly sharp teeth. “I should not wonder if it doesn’t rain again for some time.”

Neuvillette leads you to the bed, his hand firmly around yours. He is unerringly gentle and patient with you, as he urges you to sit upon the bedcovers - and your breath catches when you do as he asks, and instead of joining you he sinks onto his knees. You have never thought to imagine the Chief Justice kneeling before you, and the sight of it makes you buzz all over in anticipation. He smiles at your unsurety - and leans in, pressing a kiss to your knee, gently urging you to spread your thighs for him. His gloves are stripped away, but his wedding ring gleams on his finger as his fingers sink into the soft, full skin of your thigh. 

He leans in, pressing another kiss to the side of your knee. Higher, higher, higher he trails them - and his breath fans cool against your heated core, and your fingers clench into the bedsheets in surprise at what he might be about to do. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs to you, his cheek pressing silky against your skin, as he suckles a love-bite into the part where your leg meets your pelvis. “I merely want to ensure you’re adequately prepared.”

“Y-you don’t need to,” you say, breathless, hot, embarrassed and needy all at once. This is an act of such intimacy, you do not know how to parse the thought of the Iudex doing it to you - but he gives you a smile that is not without a hint of fang, the wickedest look you have seen upon his face so far, and he reaches between the two of you to use his thumb to pull apart the lips of your sex so you are revealed to him. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “But I want to, sweet one. And . . . looking at how wet you are for me, I daresay you want me to do so too.”

“M-Monsieur--”

“Neuvillette,” he murmurs, and he presses a kiss directly onto your sex, slick and wet with your own excitement, his nose brushing across the swollen nub of your clit. “Use my name.”

“Neuvillette--” It comes out rather thin and reedy, but Neuvillette does not seem to notice - instead, he seems rather preoccupied by what lies between your thighs. Your fingers tighten when you feel his tongue slide across you, gathering your slick upon the tip. There’s a strange quality to it, almost as if it is longer and firmer than a human tongue ought to be - and as he flickers his tip over your clit, again and again and again, and you shudder from the sensations he draws forth . . . you wonder if, too, his tongue is forked--

Thoughts quickly dissipate from your head when there is a man knelt between your thighs, though, and it is no different for you. The wondering is quickly chased away by the hungry way that Neuvillette laps at you, like a man who has been parched for water for months. 

Through it, he urges you to part your thighs as wide as you can, so that he can more thoroughly attack you with his tongue - and with every stroke, with every suck and lick and groan of him against you, you feel a knot tighten in your stomach in a way you have never experienced. It is like his mouth is a match, setting fire to your core - despite how you can feel wetness dripping down you, onto his bedcovers, surely soaking his chin and his lips. 

He does something with his tongue - a twirl, a flourish - and his name comes spilling out of your lips like a prayer, and the idea that he may at some point stop using his mouth on you flashes across your synapses like a tragedy. Without realising you’re doing it, you move one hand to grip his silvery hair, to keep him anchored against you - you realise, too, that it is not merely his name spilling out of you like an overturned wineglass. Pleas and whimpers and begging have joined the fray, and you would ordinarily cringe at being thought so wanting. But with Neuvillette’s mouth, with the promise of what he is trying to wring from you--

Shame seems unimportant compared to the way he shudders at your hand in his hair, the way his tongue intensifies flicking against your clit. 

He pulls back, breathing heavy, mouth glittering with your slick. 

“I’m going to put a finger inside you,” he tells you, and you are grateful that he too sounds a little breathless. You cannot imagine just how embarrassing it would be to be the only one falling apart. 

“I want . . . you,” you say, not without a touch of petulance, and Neuvillette lets out a hoarse little laugh. Still kneeling before you, he reaches up to touch your warmed face - his thumb, too, glitters with your arousal from the way he had held you open. You cannot bring yourself to care when he softly smears it across your bottom lip like an offering, and he lets out a shuddering groan at the sight of your tongue swiping it off. 

“I want you,” he says. “Oh, you have no idea how much I want you. But I will not hurt you, sweet one. Let me prepare you.”

It feels very much like him; this way of taking charge, his firm words. This time, his hand curves up your inner thigh, and your breath catches as his finger slides between the valley of your sex, wetting itself in your slick and his saliva. Your toes curl into his plush carpet as he nudges your clit with his fingertip, as a soft noise of surprise escapes your mouth and he chuckles. 

He slides one finger inside of you with no resistance at all. His earlier ministrations have seen to that. It’s a strange sensation, to have something inside that is not one of your own fingers (rather smaller, rather shorter than his) - but it is hardly unwelcome. You whisper out his name, your eyes closing, and Neuvillette makes a gentle noise of encouragement. 

“That’s right,” he murmurs to you, as he slowly begins to pump his finger in and out of you. “You’re doing so well - you’re taking it beautifully. I’m going to put a second one in--”

He does exactly as he says, and the hand still knit in his hair tugs at the silvery strands a little harder. It is not that it is painful, but simply that it is a stretch you are unused to - and one, too, that you know will continue to intensify. 

You feel a strange, cool shock at the entrance to your sex - and you chance a glance down and realise it is his wedding ring, pressing against you. The sight and the knowledge makes you shudder, and Neuvillette huffs out a noise of want in return. 

You think of the cocks, straining beneath the vee of Neuvillette’s pelvis. You cannot see them now, but from the way they had looked when the two of you were just bathing, you feel certain they must be swollen stiff and hard, waiting for their own chance (and too, from the spots of colour on Neuvillette’s cheeks, the way his words have a strange, dry edge to them when he speaks). How will he put those inside of you? One at a time? Both at once? 

“What are you thinking about?” Neuvillette asks, raising his gaze to meet your own, a smile tugging at the corners of the lips. “You suddenly tightened around me.” 

“I--!” Your cheeks go hot, embarrassment making warmth seep down your back. Neuvillette laughs. 

“No need to keep secrets,” he murmurs, slowly establishing another rhythm, a slow pump of his two fingers inside of you, scissoring slightly to open you up. “We are married now, sweet one. We can share everything. Mmm . . . let me see. Were you imagining my fingers to be my cock?”

“Neuvillette--” Your voice is a weak little protest, and you avert your gaze shyly even as you force the words out. “I was . . . will you put them both inside of me?” Your gaze slips over his face again, nervous to see his reaction - his eyes widen in surprise, but it is not at all a look of anger. 

“Not tonight,” he tells you, and he smiles again. “I fear it may be too much for you. Ah, but if that’s what you want . . . my dear, I know you’d feel exquisite.” 

His fingers, pumping in and out, curling inside of you. His words, velvet-draped and deep - the look of concentration on his face, insistent on nothing more than drawing pleasure forward from you. You feel the hot tension inside of you reach a breaking point - a pot, ready to bubble over. 

“I must confess,” he breathes, leaning in, breath hitting your sex hot and close. “I was worried you might be afraid. I’m terribly glad to know what an effect the idea has on you.”

As he finishes the sentence, he lets his tongue drag out one slow, final lap of your clit - and it is just enough to push you over the final edge. The bubbling pot within you reaches boiling point - and the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt, like molten heat, suffuses you entirely. Your head falls back. A noise of sheer enjoyment falls wanton from your lips - your thighs and your hips and your entire body trembles and shakes in the pleasure, and you feel your sex pulsating and throbbing around the two of Neuvillette’s fingers that are inside of you. 

“Lovely,” Neuvillette murmurs, watching you in awe, his fingers slowing down as he lets you ride out the waves of your orgasm. “Oh, you’re . . . exquisite.”

“Neuvillette,” you say, collapsing back onto the bed, your breath coming in harsh pants. “I was afraid, at first. But I don’t think I could be. Not knowing what you’re like now. Not anymore.”

“Sweet thing.” Neuvillette stands. He steps forward and you see him again - his cocks are indeed straining, silvery precome dripping from the dual tips and smeared over the flat planes of his stomach. “You have no idea what you do to me. May I . . . ?” 

He does not need to ask. You think you would grant him whatever he asked for - you cannot imagine Neuvillette overstepping your boundaries, when he has been so sweet and so careful and so guiding for as long as you’ve known him, even knowing he could do whatever he wanted to you and nobody would blame him. But it warms your heart that he asks even so. 

“Please do,” you breathe, and you spread your thighs wider to accommodate him on the bed. 

His hands scoop under your hips, his palms firm on your ass as he moves you higher up the bed, ensuring that your head and shoulders are propped up with a mound of pillows. Even with his cocks practically twitching, he prioritises you before himself, and you cannot resist another show of appreciation, wrapping your hand around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. 

He groans into your mouth, the movement clearly welcome - but when he mouths at you now, he is far messier than he has been before, his teeth just a little more present. You think he must be losing some of his control, and as his cocks nudge against your inner thighs, you are proved correct. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your lips, pulling back just far enough to be able to speak. “I cannot hold myself back a moment longer--”

“Please, Neuvillette,” you whisper, fingers still in his hair. 

His lower cock nudges against your sex, the ring of muscle that will grant him entrance - and as he opens you up, his second cock rubs over the swollen over-sensitive nub of your clit and you whine. 

He covers your whine with another kiss. He eases into you, moment by moment, inch by inch - you have nothing to compare it to, but you think from the slow tempo he goes at and the way his gaze keeps flicking over you, checking you’re alright, he must be larger than average. 

But he has prepared you well. The stretch is an ache, but a pleasant one - it does not send painful shockwaves all through you. Your thighs wrap around his hips, pulling him as close as you can manage, and Neuvillette sighs. 

“Will you kiss me again?” He murmurs, so softly you almost do not hear him. The request makes your heart feel like bursting in your chest - the soft way he looks at you, his unwillingness to pull away from you, his desire to be as close to you as he can even when he is buried inside of you. 

You do. Arms wrap around his shoulders. His hands find purchase on your hips. His mouth and yours dance against one another - his tongue learning yours as if he is learning a new language. 

He fucks you like that. 

He is not rough with you, that first night; he does not, as you have heard so many new husbands do, take you and have you and ignore what you might want. Neuvillette cherishes you. 

The slow rock of his hips, indulgent in their rhythm. The way he kisses you. He is chasing his own release, but he does not feel any need to fuck into you with abandon. At least not yet. 

But time ticks on. The two of you seem to meld into one entity, and the kissing and the fucking grows sharper at the edges. You feel that Neuvillette is hovering on something, his expression almost desperate, as he rearranges the angle of his hips and the speed of his thrusts. 

“Please,” he whispers, broken-voiced. “I’m close--”

You let go of him and he lets out a noise of distress at the lack of contact, a noise that makes you shiver with the idea of how much power you may one day have over him. But instead of anything else, one of your hands darts between you, to take a firm grip on his second cock. Neuvillette hisses through his teeth at your hand, hot and firm. 

You do not know what you’re doing, not really, but that does not seem to bother Neuvillette as he increases the speed of his hips. In fact, he does most of the work - fucking his lower cock inside of you, hot and deep and wet, and fucking the cock atop it into your fist. You manage to work out a kind of twisting motion that makes him growl in the back of his throat--

It’s a fascinating noise, really. It makes you think of him as an animal, something feral and possessive - and you wonder what, later on, you may learn about him--

But then your name is falling from his lips like a prayer, and his cock is twitching inside of you and in your grip, and your back arches at the same time as he leans forward and sinks his teeth into your shoulder--

(Almost like a claiming bite. Almost like a mark to say that you are his). 

And both of you come, together, in great waves and pants and gasps of breath. His come paints your fist and the round softness of your stomach at the same time as it paints inside of you, your body once more pulsating around his cock as if it never wants to let you go. 

Like a tide on the shore; like a moon rising high over the lakes of Fontaine. Neuvillette lets himself lay atop of you, his head against your heart, his breath coming in great heaves. 

You do not need to think this time; you simply lift your unsoiled hand and begin to stroke the silver of his hair in slow, careful motions. From the back of his throat again comes that noise, something like a purr and something like a chirrup. His eyes close contentedly. 

“Neuvillette?” You whisper into the darkness, and your husband makes a soft ‘mm?’ of response. “You really . . . could have had anyone. Why did you choose me?”

“Hmm, sweet one?” He lifts his head from your chest and looks down at you like you have asked him why the sky is blue. “Didn’t you hear me earlier? I certainly did have my pick . . . I perhaps wouldn’t have chosen to marry if Lady Furina hadn’t been so insistent, but I was lucky enough to be able to choose anybody I wanted. And I had seen you.” He shakes his head, a huff of laughter falling from his mouth. “Like I said - I do have eyes.”

Your cheeks feel hot. The thought of being coveted by Monsieur Neuvillette, when you had worried about your body and your match and your future so often it felt like second nature--

“Oh dear,” he says, looking down at the two of you - at the sweat-slicked hair, at the come drying on your inner thigh. “I fear we’ll need to have another bath before bed.” 

“And you won’t mind if I join you?”

He chuckles. 

“Why,” he says. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

[mrsshabana]

𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

ꔫ‧₊ Content Gyutaro x female!reader, 18+ MDNI, vaginal sex, creampie, age difference, angst, fluff, daddy issues, mommy issues, modern au ꔫ‧₊ Note 7.7k words. If you can guess the secret reference in this fic, I love you ♡ ✧:･ﾟ→ Part one ✧:･ﾟ→ Part three

“I really let myself go, man…” Gyutaro mumbles to himself as he carefully shaves his face. Leaning closer to the mirror as he focuses on getting rid of the facial hair he's been too lazy to shave. Well, really it's been a combination of stress and laziness. He's been pretty stressed ever since you came over and he kicked you out. But after you agreed to go on a date with him he knew he had to clean himself up and make himself look nice for you. 

The whole time he tries to pep himself up, “You got this, you got this… it’s only probably your last chance at love. No pressure,” yeah that pep talk ended up making him even more nervous. 

But there's no time to dwell on it, he's supposed to be at your place in 20 minutes to pick you up. So he hurriedly finishes his grooming, puts on some nice clothes, and grabs his keys. 

As he drives over to your place, you pace around your room nervously. Thinking about the hundreds of possibilities that could take place during this date. To say you’re nervous would be an understatement. 

You think Gyutaro is an amazing guy, but you can't help but feel cautious about the fact that he's so much older than you. You may be naive but you’re no idiot. You know how a lot of older men view younger women, like they're some kind of trophy or toy. Gyutaro never gave you those kinds of vibes, but you want to be mindful just in case. 

As soon as you hear a car pulling up to your driveway you grab your purse, slip on your shoes, and bolt out the door. Gyutaro's car pulls up to your house, looking very shiny as he must have recently taken it to the car wash. 

He parks the car and steps out to greet you, and as soon as his eyes land on you his cheeks turn pink. Becoming flustered by how beautiful you look, especially in that floral dress that's perfect for the botanical gardens. 

“H-Hey Y/N,” he waves shyly, walking over to you. 

“Hey, Gyutaro!” You make the bold decision to walk up to him and give him a hug. By reading his body language you can tell he isn't angry at you anymore so you decide to go for it. 

He's surprised at first because he's never touched you like this before, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't like it. And the same goes for you. The way his strong muscled arms wrap around you sends shivers down your spine. Not to mention the masculine scent of his cologne, so much more attractive than the axe that guys your age typically wear.

“You look really beautiful, by the way,” he says as he pulls away from the hug. Looking down at you with a flustered expression, glancing at your dress but trying not to stare too hard.

“Aw thank you! You look very handsome,” you smile and run your fingers along the hem of his shirt, “This color looks good on you.” You admire the way the white fabric clings to his biceps. White isn't a color he typically wears, but it's getting hot out and he figured it'd be more comfortable. Now that you complimented him though, he’s feeling a million times more confident with his outfit decision. Even though it’s just a nice button-up shirt and some jeans. 

“Thanks,” his blush deepens and he opens the passenger side door for you.

You thank him as you hop inside. 

The drive to the botanical gardens was pretty quiet, there's an awkwardness that lingers in the air. Mostly from the situation where you last saw Gyutaro in person. It didn't go well, to say the least, and going from leaving his house in tears to now going on a romantic date, it's quite the contrast and there was no conversation acknowledging what happened. A part of you wants to bring it up but you feel like it might ruin the date so you decide to save it for another time. 

Once at the botanical gardens, Gyutaro parks his car in the parking lot and then comes over to open your door for you.

“Thanks,” you blush at the chivalrous gesture.

“Have you ever been here before?” Gyutaro asked nervously as the two of you walk towards the entrance.

“No,” you shake your head, “I've always wanted to come though!”

“W-well I’m glad I chose this then,” he blushes as he shows the employee at the entrance the tickets he bought online. Once admitted inside the two of you follow the designated path to view the gardens. 

He looks down at you, observing your beauty instead of that of the rose bushes beside you. He can't bring himself to pay attention to them right now. All he can think about is you, how beautiful you are, and how he wishes he was in his 20s again so he wouldn't feel so weird about this date. He feels like everyone is judging him for being out with you, but in reality no one really notices. 

He's been on two first dates in his entire life, and they didn't go well considering he never got a second one. Both of those dates were over five years ago. And by now he's forgotten how to do it, but let's be honest he never knew to begin with. 

Should he hold your hand? Should he talk to you? Or should he just keep staring at you? He quickly looks away when he realizes how long he’s been staring at you, and that you must have noticed him from the corner of your eye by now. 

“Shit, I wish I knew what I was doing,” he thinks to himself, “Things feel so awkward right now… I should probably clear the air if I want any chance of this date going well.”

He takes a deep breath before speaking, “Hey uh, Y/N?”

“Hm?” you hum, looking up at him through your fluttery lashes. 

“Can we talk about what happened the other night?” he says hesitantly, looking to the side, avoiding eye contact out of nervousness.

“Sure,” you say, leading him over to a bench where you can talk more privately. 

When he sits he takes a deep sigh and rolls his fingers through his hair, trying to think of the right words to say. 

“I'm sorry,” he just spits it out, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that, my reaction was uncalled for and I overreacted…”

You instantly feel a weight lift off your shoulders when hearing his apology. “It’s ok, I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have said what I said… I wasn't thinking and it wasn't the right way to tell you how I felt.” You look down, feeling a bit ashamed and embarrassed about what you said to him that day. 

He smiles, chuckling to himself as he recalls your statement. It was pretty bold for you to flat out say he should get with a younger girl like you. 

“You don't need to apologize. It was my fault for assuming that you liked me based on that statement…”

“Well, I do like you,” you smile and take his hand, “so you assumed right.”

His cheeks turn pink and he stutters, “R-really…?”

He's left speechless, but on the inside he's doing summersaults. In all honesty he wasn't sure if you liked him in that way, especially after everything that happened. A part of him thought you were just being nice to him and giving him a suggestion without insinuating your feelings for him at all. That maybe he jumped to the conclusion that you liked him because he already liked you himself. 

And through today’s date he was hoping to find out how you really felt. If you liked him back, it'd be a romantic date. Or if you didn’t it could just be a friend date where you could make up. He’s happy that this is going to be a romantic date instead. 

“Of course really! I started liking you ever since that night you fell asleep on the couch and I made dinner for you…”

His blush deepens, “Th-that's when I started liking you too… but my head told me you were off limits so…”

“How come?”

“You know,” he nervously scratches the back of his neck, “Because I'm so much older than you and you're my sister’s friend.”

“You're really hung up on the age thing huh?” you stand up and pull his wrist till he stands up, “I really like that you're older than me… so don’t be so hard on yourself, ok? Being older doesn't make you bad, it just makes you different, and I like all of those differences compared to guys my age.”

“Th-thanks,” he whimpers, feeling like his heart is going to explode. 

Now that the air has been cleared and the purpose of this outing has been established, the two of you make your way through the gardens. Admiring the beautiful flowers, the butterflies, and of course the cute expression on Gyutaro's face the entire time. 

You make sure to take lots of photos of the two of you. Gyutaro looks so awkward when you try to take selfies with him, but it's kind of cute. The best one is where he didn't even realize you were taking a photo and he's looking at you, blushing with a smile on his face. 

As the two of you near the end of the gardens, you walk by a large koi pond filled with beautiful lotus flowers and surrounded by hydrangea bushes. You and Gyutaro decide to take a break and sit by the edge of the pond, peering in and observing the beautiful fish.

“Wow, this is so pretty!” you chime, “I think this is my favorite part.”

“Me too,” he shyly agrees, “Fish are so cool…”

“Maybe for our next date we could go to the aquarium then?” You smile optimistically, already excited to spend more time with him.

“Wait… seriously? You actually want another one?” His eyes widen and he looks at you in disbelief. 

“Of course! This was really fun…”

He blushes and mumbles, “Yeah, it was…” he inches closer to you until his shoulder is right beside yours.

You sit there with him for a while, enjoying the scenery and taking it all in. Gyutaro feels so many things right now, and his heart is pumping at a million miles a minute. He's so psyched that you want another date, it quite frankly feels like a dream. And even though you admitted how much you like him, he's still convinced that he’s going to fuck this up.

“Shit… I'm being too quiet I should say something,” he thinks to himself.

“So uh… my manager fell into a koi pond once,” he blurts out of nowhere.

“What?” you giggle.

“Yeah, he walked straight into it! One of my coworkers got ahold of the security footage and everyone in the office watched it. It was hilarious.”

“Haha! Oh my god, he must have been so embarrassed.”

You continue to giggle as Gyutaro acts out what happened, telling you every detail about how mad his manager was and how he even got sued for accidentally killing one of the fish. 

It's honestly quite strange seeing Gyutaro this way, telling you silly stories and being so talkative. It's a completely different side to him that you had never seen before, but it’s really refreshing to see him this way. And since he’s older than you, you figure he has lots of stories to tell. You hope he'll share more of them with you in the future. 

After sitting at the pond and listening to Gyutaro’s stories, the two of you decide to stop by the gift shop before leaving. 

“I was thinking maybe we could get matching t-shirts?” you exclaim as you begin looking at the racks of shirts in the gift shop. 

“S-sure, that sounds good to me,” he swallows dryly. Isn't getting matching t-shirts something that couples do? But you aren't a couple yet… or are you? He starts sweating nervously as he contemplates the idea of being your boyfriend. He doesn't want to get too ahead of himself but he can't help but swoon over the thoughts that come to mind when imagining himself as your boyfriend. “Wait… does that mean… she might sleep over sometime?” His whole face goes red as he thinks about you lying in his bed with him. It's been so long since he's ever considered such a thing, years to be honest. He hasn't felt this kind of adrenaline in at least 5 years since he gave up on romance. 

“Are you ok?” you ask as you notice how red his face is. 

“Y-Yeah!” he quickly snaps out of it and clears his throat, “I uh I just have allergies.” He laughs nervously hoping you'll accept his lame excuse. 

You frown and hand him a tissue from your purse, “You poor thing, here take this, I get allergies a lot too.”

“Thanks…” his blush only deepens, being taken care of by you flusters him.

“What do you think of these ones?” you hold up a pair of matching t-shirts sporting the logo and name of the gardens, with a beautiful koi pond illustration on the front. 

He can't help but smile, “Those look perfect,” he takes them and slings them over his arm.

“I'm gonna look over here real quick. I want to get something for my friend,” you say.

“No problem, I'll look around too.”

After ten minutes of looking around you notice Gyutaro is waiting for you outside of the gift shop, he must have already paid for everything. Honestly, he just wanted to pay for the shirts when you were occupied so you wouldn't insist on paying, he wanted it to be his treat.   

So you go ahead and check out the item you picked out before meeting him back outside. 

“Got everything you were looking for?” he smiles before taking your hand again.

“Yep!” you eagerly take his hand and look around the courtyard, “I really don't want this date to end yet… would you like to maybe check out that cafe before we go?” you point out a small cafe across from the gift shop.

“You read my mind,” he blushes and walks over to the cafe with you. 

Inside is full of beautiful plants and flower arrangements, making a scenic and relaxing atmosphere. There are only a few people inside too so that makes Gyutaro feel a bit less self conscious. 

“Hey look Gyu! They have cold brew!” you chime as you point up to the menu.

He's immediately caught off guard not only by the nickname but also that you know his favorite kind of coffee. “What-when-how did you know I love cold brew?”

“I saw a bunch of them in your fridge when I was studying with Ume the other night…” you confess. 

He can't help but think that's quite cute, “Ha, well yeah. It is my favorite, I'll let you have a sip of mine.”

Gyutaro orders your drinks and as he hands the pink-haired cashier his debit card she says, “You two are such a cute couple!”

His eyes immediately go wide and he stumbles over his words, unsure of what to say, “I um um w-well we uh...”

“Oh I'm sorry,” she apologizes, “I didn't mean to assume! Are you her teacher or something? Is there a class trip going on today?”

Gyutaro's skin goes pale and he begins choking on the air that was in his lungs. 

You quickly butt in, “Haha no worries, we are a couple actually,” you say nervously hoping Gyutaro won't mind what you've said. 

“Oh! How cute! See I could just tell it was love by the way you were looking at each other!” The girl has hearts in her eyes as she proclaims her joy at seeing a happy couple. 

Gyutaro is still in a non-functioning state of disbelief as you walk him over to a small table and help him sit down. He still can't believe she thought he was your teacher, and not only that but you said you two were a couple! That statement is the only thing making him feel a bit better about your age gap being called out. 

“Are you alright?” you laugh nervously as you put your hand on his shoulder, “It's alright Gyu, at least-”

“Are we a couple?” he cuts you off. 

“Oh um,” you blush, “w-well if you want to be…”

“Do you?” he looks at you with wide eyes, with a mixture of eagerness and desperation.

“Of course I do! I wouldn't have said it if I didn't want it to happen,” you smile and kiss his cheek to reassure him. 

He looks down, cheeks dusted pink and eyes half closed. Sitting there thinking and trying to calm himself down. This is only the first date, are things maybe moving too fast? The thought is in the back of his mind but honestly, he has no relationship experience so he isn't sure what's normal and what's not. 

The thing is, you know Gyutaro well enough to know that you would want to pursue a relationship with him. You don't need multiple dates to tell you that. Your previous interactions with him and this one date have been enough to help you make up your mind. He's honestly everything you want in a partner, you just hope that he will agree. 

Gyutaro still has a lot of concerns, mainly the age difference. But putting that aside, he really does like you. You're sweet, caring, and not to mention beautiful. You go out of your way to take care of him, something he's never experienced before. And you do everything you can to ease his anxieties and you actually make him feel normal. Despite all of his self-sabotaging thoughts, he's not going to let them get in the way of his happiness. 

“Yeah,” he looks up at you with a soft smile, “I'd love to be your boyfriend.”

You can't help the excited squeal that escapes your lips. You immediately run over and hug him, almost knocking him out of his seat. “I'm so excited Gyu! This means we can go on a lot more dates right?”

“Of course,” he chuckles, “But we can't tell Ume, ok? She'd freak out…”

“Don't worry, my lips are sealed!” 

After you receive your drinks you and Gyutaro discuss how to proceed with your relationship. For the most part, you're just like any other couple, the only difference is that you need to keep it hidden from his sister. Which shouldn't be too hard since Ume is always glued to her phone. You'll just need to remember you can't post any photos from your dates with Gyutaro. 

Before leaving the cafe you give Gyutaro a cute pen with bees and flowers on it that you bought for him at the gift shop. He had no idea you were going to buy something for him, but even though it's just a small pen, it means a lot to him and he plans to use it every day at work. 

Gyutaro also gives you a stuffed animal koi fish he found in the gift shop, he thought you'd like it since you spent a lot of time talking together by the koi pond. 

You can't help but tear up at the thoughtful gesture. You've only officially been a couple for less than an hour but you're already seeing proof that becoming his girlfriend was a good decision. 

.˚₊┈୨♡୧┈₊˚.

The date went a lot better than either of you had expected, but unfortunately, things won't be so easy from now on. 

Not only do you have classes and Gyutaro has work, but the only times you get to see each other is when Ume is around so you have to pretend your relationship doesn't exist.

Gyutaro will usually give you a generic greeting if he comes home from work to see you studying with Ume, and act indifferent towards you. Only to text you as soon as he gets in his room telling you how beautiful you look and how much he misses you. 

It's hard having to hide your feelings every time you see him. But you know it's necessary. And it's not all bad because sometimes Gyutaro will tell Ume he is working overtime when in reality he's taking you out for dinner or to a movie. Most often ending the night with a heated kiss in the car before he drops you off back at your place. 

For once in his life he actually feels genuine happiness. Like there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and maybe all of his hard work is actually paying off. He feels a higher sense of purpose now. Instead of his only purpose being Ume, he has you. It feels good to have someone else care about you, someone that has no other reason to other than the fact that they love you. 

Not to mention every time you come over to study with Ume you bring homecooked food with you. After Gyutaro told you his dad was Japanese and he loved eating his cooking, you’ve experimented with Japanese recipes just for him. You have no idea how much that means to him. 

Like today, when he came home from work, immediately the smell of nostalgia hit his nose. 

“No way…” he smiles excitedly as he kicks off his shoes and runs over to the kitchen. “Holy shit!”

Entering the kitchen he sees neatly packed portions of curry rice, one of his favorite meals his dad would make before he passed away. 

He looks around for you, but the living room and kitchen are empty. Though if he listens closely he can hear you and Ume laughing in her room. 

Wasting no time opening one of the tupperware containers and digging in, Gyutaro thinks about how lucky he is to have you in his life. Not to mention how thankful he feels that you go out of your way to cook for him. After a long and exhausting day at the office, this is exactly what he needs. He’ll make sure to thank you later.

It’s not long before Gyutaro is passed out in bed. After binging on your food and changing out of his work clothes he was fast asleep in under ten minutes. 

And so was Ume. She fell asleep on her bed watching TikToks as you finished up her online quiz for her. It’s already past 11 pm, but you didn’t pack anything to sleep over. Not that you’d mind staying the night, it’s not like you have a way home anyway. Unless you asked Gyutaro to take you home but you would rather let him rest.

Though that does give you a devious idea.

A little while later Gyutaro wakes up to the feeling of someone crawling into bed with him. 

“Ume…?” he rasps, rubbing his eyes. It’s been so long since his sister has gotten into his bed. She’s only ever done it when she had a terrible nightmare or was extremely upset by something. But that was years ago. He can’t imagine what would have upset her so much to make her do it tonight. 

“Are you alright- WAIT, Y/N?” His eyes widen when he realizes it was actually you who crawled into bed with him. Immediately his cheeks turn pink and his body stiffens. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” you blush as you notice he’s shirtless, “But I just wanted to spend some time with you… it’s been a while.”

“Y-yeah it has, but where’s Ume?”

“She fell asleep a while ago,” you say shyly.

“O-Oh, I see. W-Well I don’t mind you staying here with me for the night I guess,” he stutters, “But you gotta be out before Ume wakes up, ok?”

“Ok!” you say happily as you cling to him and nuzzle your face against his chest. 

Gyutaro’s whole body feels frozen in place as he feels your body press against him. Not to mention the pressure he feels building beneath his pajama pants. 

His whole body heats up and he feels like he’s suffocating. He’s full of nervousness and excitement. Never in his life has someone been so physically close to him. “Oh god… what do I do with my hands?” he thinks to himself as he swallows dryly. 

Would it be rude to touch you? He’s so self-conscious about crossing a boundary or making you uncomfortable even though you’re his girlfriend. He just really doesn’t want to mess this up. And all the insecurities surrounding him being older than you just make it a million times worse. His inner voice yelling at him that he’s a creep. That he’s too old to be doing this with you. Or worse, that he’s taking advantage of you in some way. 

“Hey, are you ok?” you look up at him, noticing that something is off, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…”

“No no! It’s not you,” he laughs nervously, “I like being close to you like this, I just… I just feel weird… I’m just some old loser-”

You cut him off by quickly grabbing his face and pressing your lips against his, giving him a soft and heartfelt kiss. His eyes widen at first but he can’t help but relax into your affection, slowly closing his eyes and resting his hands on your waist.

“You aren’t old, and you aren’t a loser,” you whisper as you pull away from the kiss, “You’re my boyfriend and I love you.”

That shut up the negative voices in his head real quick. 

“Y-You love me?” he blushes, looking at you with tears in his eyes. 

“I do, I love you so much,” you smile sweetly as you caress his cheek, looking into his eyes to let him know you really mean it.

He takes a shaky breath, really taking your words in. Could it really be true? He knew things were going well with you but he honestly never expected you to actually fall in love with him. Things never go this well for him. It has to be a trick, right? … no, no it can’t be a trick. Maybe, just maybe it really is true. And maybe it really is what he deserves. After all the hell he’s been through for the past 35 years of his pathetic existence, it all had to be for something right? Could this really be it? It has to be because staring back at him is everything he’s ever wanted and more. 

“I love you too,” he states. It’s the first thing he’s ever said to you with full confidence. 

He’s so sure of himself in fact, that he does something bold. He pins you to the bed and intertwines his lips with yours, quickly running his tongue along your lip begging for access. Of course, you’re quick to grant it to him. 

Even though his actions seem aggressive, his kiss is gentle and passionate. Confirming the strong feelings he has for you. 

But you suddenly feel something strange. Something wet splatters across your cheek. 

You open your eyes to see tears clumped to his eyelashes, sparkling in the moonlight before they drop onto your skin. 

You feel a pang in your chest, but it only makes you kiss him more fervently. You want to make sure he knows how much you love him, and that you want to be his. 

In the heat of the moment, you break away from the kiss and begin taking off your clothes. Throwing your shirt and pants to the floor. Before Gyutaro can even react you’re pulling him in for another kiss, not giving him an opportunity to second guess himself or let his insecurities seep through. 

He doesn’t hesitate to follow your lead, moving along as you guide him on top of you. Allowing him to lay comfortably between your legs. Immediately you feel his hard-on press against you through his pajamas. No wonder he’s moaning so desperately into the kiss, he must want you pretty damn badly. 

“Y/N…” he pants.

“It’s ok Gyu, you can do whatever you want to me,” you whisper to him, “I trust you. And I promise I want you as badly as you want me…” You bite your lip as you take his hand and guide it into your panties, letting him feel just how wet you are for him. 

His jaw literally drops and his entire face turns red. He can’t believe this is happening right now. 

“Y-You’re so wet…” he mutters, feeling his member twitch involuntarily. 

“Just means I’m ready for you…”

“Wha- oh!” he blushes and looks down, unable to process that you’re actually asking him to do this. And he wants it too, he really does, he’s just nervous. 

“Hey, it’s ok if you aren’t ready. We don’t have to do it tonight,” you smile and rub his shoulder, trying to reassure him that whatever he’s feeling is ok.

“N-No that’s not it, I really do want to. I-I just… don’t know how,” he looks away, completely ashamed to admit to you that he’s a virgin. 

“It’s ok, just do what feels natural. I can guide you if you need help,” you say in the most understanding and kind tone. Making him feel comfortable that you won’t judge him. 

“Alright…” with a shy smile he sits up and grabs the hem of his pants. 

You’ve already seen him shirtless which is honestly the worst of it, and if that doesn’t disgust you then maybe you won’t be repulsed by his dick either. That’s his hope at least. He takes a deep breath and pulls down his pants. His cock immediately springing free. 

He feels his heart rate speed up when it’s finally out and he realizes you can actually see it. He looks down at you, praying that he won’t see a disgusted look on your face. But all he sees is lust in your eyes, no hints of distaste whatsoever. And it’s confirmed when you reach over and begin jerking him off. A desperately pathetic whimper leaves his lips as soon as you begin stroking him. He already feels weak to his knees. 

“Wow Gyu,” you say in awe as you stroke up and down his length. 

He tries to respond but his words get jumbled together and he mutters nonsensical sounds mixed with moans. 

A million worries are going through his head right now, “Wait - should I have gotten circumcised before this?! Shit, I should have shaved more!! Oh fuck fuck fuck.” But none of those things matter at all because you think he’s perfect just the way he is. 

It’s obvious just how nervous he still is, so you hope a hand job to warm him up will help calm his nerves. In the meantime, you admire what he’s kept hidden this whole time. How his shaft has birthmarks on it to match the rest of his beautiful body. It’s something he’s always been insecure about but you have always loved them. And there’s a neat patch of hair right above it too, it looks like he keeps it trimmed, matched with a trail of sparse hairs leading down from his belly button. It’s an odd observation but you find it quite sexy. 

“B-Babe,” he whimpers, “I think- I think m’ready.”

Honestly, you were so enamored by him that you didn’t even notice how close you got him to cumming. “Oh haha sorry, I got a bit carried away.” 

You quickly take off your bra and panties and lay back down again, allowing him to position himself on top of you. 

Holding your thigh with one hand and the base of his cock with the other, he looks down in between your legs. Trying not to hyperventilate. 

“R-Ready?” he stutters. 

“I’m ready, Gyu.”

He takes a deep breath and slowly slides into you. It takes him a few seconds to find the right spot, but he quickly finds it. His grip on your thigh tightens as he sinks deeper and deeper into you. You can’t stop the moans that escape your mouth as you feel him completely fill you up. 

“Hah.. ngh- oh fuck…” he whimpers. 

“Ah- Gyu,” you moan as you pull him in for a kiss. Wanting to give him as much reassurance that he’s doing a good job. 

Getting lost in the pleasure and love you give him, he begins thrusting into you. Sharply bucking his hips as his tongue dances around your mouth. 

For once, his negative thoughts are quiet and he is solely focused on this moment. A moment he thought he didn’t deserve, a moment he gave up on wishing for. But now, he’s glad he gets to have this moment with you. 

And even though he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, he still tries his best to make you comfortable and put your needs first. “H-How can I make you cum?”

“Huh?” you’re honestly taken aback by what you heard him say. 

“I wanna make you cum… b-but I don’t know how,” he blushes and looks away in embarrassment. He’s the older one, he should know how to pleasure you, but he’s ashamed to admit his lack of experience. But even so, he won’t let that get in the way of his desire to put you first. 

Every day he gives you more and more reasons to be thankful you’re dating someone in their 30s, and this is one of them. You can’t say you’d expect a guy your age to want to put you first like that. But Gyutaro is mature and caring in nature, so of course he wants to take care of his girl.

“Oh honey,” you smile and caress his cheek, “you’re already doing a great job, but when you do this it feels really good…” You have him lower himself more onto you, your chests touching, and then you grab his hips and reposition them. Pulling him a bit closer so that with every thrust his pubic bone, and the patch of hair that sits there, stimulate your clit. 

“J-just like that,” you pant, “stay close and k-keep going.”

He nods and focuses on moving in a way that elicits the most moans from you. He may be lost in pleasure, but he’s also paying attention to you. 

He picks up the pace, pressing his entire body against you, wrapping his muscled arms around you, and nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. His desperate moans and the slapping of skin fill his bedroom. A once quiet room where he’s spent countless nights alone. 

Feeling that all too familiar tightness form in your stomach, you arch your back and spread your legs wider, allowing him to hit your sweet spot. Continuously ramming his cock into you, a mixture of your fluids coating his shaft. 

He felt himself getting close a long time ago, you have no idea how hard he’s trying to contain himself right now. But his desire to pleasure you drives him to go faster and faster, the sounds of your heavenly moans next to his ear make it almost impossible for him not to fill you with his seed this very instant. But he holds out, determined to make sure you finish first. No matter how torturous it may be for him. 

When he feels your thighs tremble and your walls clench around him, he knows you must be close. 

“Please,” he whimpers, “Please cum for me Y-Y/N! Ngh! M’gonna cum too!”

He squeezes his eyes shut and collides his lips with yours, desperately kissing you as he picks up his pace, thrusting as hard as he physically can. Until he just can’t hold it in any longer, and he’s moaning into your mouth as his cock twitches inside of you, painting your insides white. 

And even though he’s feeling overly sensitive and vulnerable, he continues thrusting into you to ensure you reach your peak too. And it isn’t but a few seconds before you’re crashing with him. Tightening your legs around his hips and moaning his name. A sweet sound he never thought he’d hear. 

Collapsed on top of you, he pants in an attempt to catch his breath, holding you close and just basking in the feeling of you. Letting it all sink in that he finally got to do something he’s always wanted. Quite frankly, he’s never been happier. So happy in fact, that he doesn’t even realize that he came inside of you without asking. 

But after a few minutes, he finally pulls out of you and kisses you once more. “That was perfect…” he whispers as he moves a strand of hair out of your face, “I’ll be right back.” 

He quickly goes to his bathroom to get a wet cloth, then comes back and starts cleaning you up. It’s not until then that it dawns on him and his expression changes from one of pure joy to immense guilt. 

“Oh shit… I-I’m so sorry Y/N. I’m such an asshole,” you can see his heart slowly starting to break as he realizes what he’s done. He feels so incredibly selfish and disrespectful for finishing inside of you. It’s something he’s never intended to do, he was just so caught in the moment he didn’t stop to think about it. 

“Gyutaro,” you coo, hugging him and kissing his cheek, “It’s alright, if I didn’t want you to do it I would have told you so. I really don’t mind at all.”

“A-Are you sure? But I should’ve asked if it was ok…”

“You’re my boyfriend now, and I trust you. I told you I loved you, didn’t I?”

“Y-Yeah,” he nods and hugs you back, “Thank you…”

“I would have said it was ok anyway, so don’t worry. You did everything right,” you kiss him again and rub his back.

Gyutaro’s surprised you aren’t making a big deal out of him not pulling out, but he’s glad you aren’t mad. Maybe he’s making a bigger deal out of it because he’s older and has a better grasp on the consequences. Or perhaps it is normal for couples to do it that way. He wouldn’t know. But either way, he feels lucky to have had such a moment with you. 

After the two of you are done cleaning you snuggle up together in his bed, not bothering to put clothes on. Gyutaro wraps his arms around you and holds you close all night. Falling asleep feeling like his life is finally on the right track. His dreams filled of your future together. 

.˚₊┈୨♡୧┈₊˚.

At 6 am Gyutaro wakes you up to take you home. You’re reluctant to get out of bed with him because you were so comfortable, but you know it’s probably best to go home before his sister wakes up. 

It’s strange because there has always been a slight awkwardness between you and Gyutaro, like something was preventing you from getting closer to each other. Maybe it was his insecurities or maybe it was the pressure of dating someone with such a large age gap. Who knows, but whatever it is, it’s gone now. After last night that awkwardness is completely gone. And the two of you feel closer and more comfortable together than ever before. It makes leaving him this morning even more difficult. 

But you don’t have a choice so you quickly get dressed and sneak into Gyutaro’s car with him. 

Once he gets to your home, he parks in front of your house and gets out of the car to come open the door for you. 

“Thanks,” you giggle and kiss his cheek, “such a gentleman.”

“I try,” he blushes, “Um by the way… I think I’m gonna tell Ume about us. Is that alright?”

“Oh, yeah! Of course! I don’t mind if you tell her, it’s probably best coming from you.”

“Yeah, hopefully she takes it well…” he trails off. 

“Well, good luck,” you give him one last hug and kiss, “I love you.”

“I-I love you too, we’ll hang out again soon!” He blows you a kiss as he watches you walk into your house, feeling a warm sensation creep into him. This must be what love feels like. 

.˚₊┈୨♡୧┈₊˚.

A few hours later Ume wakes up, and Gyutaro makes pancakes for her in an attempt to get her in a good mood so she’ll take the news a bit easier. 

He sits down with her at the table as they eat together, “So Ume, I uh… I have something to tell you.” 

“Hm?” she hums with her mouth full. 

“So um,” he says hesitantly, “I have a girlfriend.”

Her eyes widen and she immediately leaps out of her seat and gives him a tight hug, “Oh my god!!! Why didn’t you tell me?! This is great! I’m so happy for you, brother!! Who is she?”

Gyutaro is warmed by his sister's positive reaction so he feels a bit more at ease. “Well um, you already know her…”

“I do?” she quirks a brow, seemingly confused since she can’t think of anyone she knows who would be dating her brother. 

“It’s… it’s Y/N.”

She immediately lets go of him and takes a step back, looking him up and down in disgust. “You’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m not joking, Ume,” he begins to get nervous, “We’ve been dating for a while and I didn’t tell you because I was afraid of how you’d react… please don’t be mad.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Gyutaro?” she pushes his chest, “That’s disgusting!! What’s wrong with you?!” 

“Please Ume, I-”

“She’s younger than me!! You know that don’t you?? Please don’t tell me you guys are fucking too!”

He looks away, feeling completely ashamed. 

Filled with rage, Ume slaps him in the face, “You’re disgusting!! I’m leaving!” She storms off to her room and begins packing her things. 

Gyutaro is left in utter shock, standing there holding his cheek and feeling the sting from her hand. Never in his entire life has his sister put her hands on him like that. Tears begin to fill his eyes, but even though he’s full of sadness he can’t help but be angry too. 

When Ume comes back into the dining room with a bag full of her things he grabs her by the arm and yells at her, “You have no right to say that to me!”

“Like hell I do!” she yanks her arm away from him, “Not only are you sleeping with my best friend, but she’s also 14 years younger than you! Don’t you realize how creepy and predatory that is?!”

“It isn’t! She’s a grown fucking woman!!” he finally stands up for himself, “I didn’t fall in love with her because she’s young, I fell in love with her because she’s an amazing person and she accepts me for who I am! And she actually appreciates the things I do! Unlike you!!”

“Shut up!” she clenches her fists and stomps over to the front door, “You’re just like all those old desperate creeps who are too pathetic to get with a woman their age!!”

“Can I not be happy, Ume? You know I’ve dedicated my entire life to you and now that I want to do something for myself you insult me! Are you kidding me? The only one acting pathetic here is you. I’ve lived so much of my life alone and living in your shadow, and I’ve finally found someone that makes me happy… can’t you just be happy for me?”

She frowns, “No, I can’t,” and with that she leaves, slamming the door behind her. 

Gyutaro stands there, completely dumbfounded. A mixture of emotions swirling inside of him. But the strongest one is sadness. Sad that this sister isn’t happy for him, sad that she can’t support him like he’s always done for her, and sad that her words about him being a creep may actually be true.

After his night with you, he was feeling confident and proud, but now it’s all crumbling apart and he can’t help but feel like a complete and utter loser. Maybe his sister is right, maybe he is just a pathetic middle-aged man who’s so desperate for love that he goes after someone younger than him. 

He slumps into the couch and lets these negative thoughts consume him. Until he feels his phone buzz. 

“Hey Gyu! How’d it go with Ume? You should call me and spill the tea!”

A text from his girlfriend. 

He can’t help but smile. You explained to him what “tea” meant but he had already forgotten. You’ll have to teach him again. 

Seeing how casually you text him makes him think about how happy he feels every time he receives a message from you. He knows what Ume said isn’t true, but that doesn’t mean her words don’t hurt. 

He needs you, and he needs you now. You’re the only person that he can talk to about this, and the only person who will be able to comfort him. 

So, he doesn’t bother replying and he just drives over to your house. His heart feels broken but he knows you’ll be able to mend it, like you always do. 

After parking in your driveway, he runs up to the front door and knocks. 

“Hello?” an older women opens the door. She looks a bit older than Gyutaro and has similar features to you.

“Holy shit, is this her mom?” he thinks to himself. “Fuck! I should have texted her and asked if it was ok to come over…”

“Er um… is Y/N here?” he says nervously. 

“Yes, she is,” your mom quirks her brow and looks him up and down, “And who the hell are you?”

Gyutaro gulps, sweating nervously. He knows he can’t just say he’s your boyfriend, she’s probably not too fond of the idea of her 21-year-old daughter dating a man in his 30s. And this is when Gyutaro realizes, he’s fucked.

Taglist: @gyusimp @chibi-absol @kyu-kitsune @idontevenknowlsjsbsbdj @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @sterzin @cherrysxuya @angelicsaiko @misskaorii @matsukaah @merryclaus @dawn-rays-dingo @hoshigafuru (feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist, your age must be listed on your blog. Also some of the usernames tagged aren't underlined? They are when I am on the editing screen so I'm not sure what's happening! If you know how to fix it please let me know!) ♡

[save-a-forest-ride-a-bear]

🗒 ꒰⸝⸝₊ General Dating Headcanons ❛ ✧

Featuring: Astarion, Gale, Wyll & Halsin

# Note: content warning for very brief talk of abuse and general trauma back to navigation ´ˎ˗

���┊ASTARION

Talk about touch and attention starved. This guy wouldn't know a healthy relationship if it hit him in the face. Whenever you're nice to him or touch him without any innuendo, he's on edge. You must want something from him. Why else would you be doing this? It doesn't make sense.

Speaking of which, touching him out of nowhere usually doesn't end well. He has a tendency to flinch. He cackles and says he just thought he saw a bug, "Silly me," but you both know better than that.

He grows used to it, however. It just takes some warming up to. Eventually, the discomfort fades, replaced by a yearning so strong he swore he felt his heart beat again. When his brain realizes you don't want to hurt him and it's safe to be around you, he starts craving more contact. He's too prideful to ask, but he's not good at hiding it, either.

He loves any kind of compliment, don't get him wrong, but the ones that have nothing to do with his appearance seem to stick more. He's heard every single little praise possible for his face and body — but for his personality? For his mannerisms? If it ever happened before, he can't remember it.

Insists he doesn't like cuddling and only does it because you want to. But the one night you didn't, you woke up to him clinging to you anyway. He said he must've done so in his sleep, completely ignoring the fact elves can't sleep. Deception: critical failure.

Surprisingly protective. If you get hurt during a fight he goes ham on the enemy while yelling for someone else to take care of your wounds right now. He lost everything he had after Cazador — lost even himself to the hands of that sick, wicked man. He can't afford to lose you too.

The relationship started with him trying to manipulate you, sure, but that's not the case anymore. He cares. He genuinely cares for something other than himself for the first time in two centuries, and he's scared you still think you're being tricked by his charms. Again, he's too prideful for constant displays of affection, but he does say "I love you" more often than ever. Maybe if he says it enough times, you'll believe it.

He stares a lot. There's just something so endearing about seeing you in your own little world, oblivious to everything else, or at least oblivious to his gawking. It's the most honest part of you, the most yourself you could be, and he enjoys it from afar.

🌿┊GALE

So needy. You leave him at camp for a few hours and you come back to him acting like he needs to be sent to the seaside for his health. A year of living as a hermit does things to a man's necessities for attention.

Loves your scent. He doesn't share his clothes with anyone (that fabric is expensive, dammit), but he insists you wear them so that they smell like you later.

Despite being a cat owner, he's very dog-coded. Will do things with the sole purpose of receiving praise or kisses from you and gets extremely pouty when he doesn't.

Speaking of kisses, he takes any excuse conceivable to kiss you. Good morning, good night and good luck kisses are very much mandatory. Doesn't even have to be on his lips, he's more than satisfied with a cheek or forehead kiss as well.

He enjoys being taken care of, even if he complains. When you scold him for not sleeping over some ancient tome, he can't help but feel loved. Will return the favour, of course — especially if it comes to food. He's very insistent with the "three meals a day" thing.

Will read to you, there's no way around it. It's relaxing for both of you, so he doesn't see why he shouldn't. He also says he can pay attention better to the text when he says it out loud, anyway. You having your head on his lap as he does it is merely a bonus.

🌿┊WYLL

If this man has any flaw, it's that he's always trying to make every moment you spend together perfect and forgets to just lay back and enjoy himself. Even then, he only does it because of how much he loves you.

The last romantic! Goes all out with dates and gifts — fancy restaurants and the biggest bouquets you've ever seen. Money is no object when it comes to you. Truly a good old-fashioned lover boy.

Definitely has a saviour complex — the type to say "I can fix them" unironically. He just loved you and wants you to be okay, and if he has to drag you there himself he will.

Will go on rants about how smitten he is with you and how perfect you are on a daily basis. If you have to leave for the day, he'll write it as a love letter instead.

Always holding you close, but there's no possessiveness to it. It's a display of affection, not ownership. He's yours as much as you are his.

Loves taking showers together. Not for any sexual reason (though he wouldn't complain if things ended up going down that path), he just finds it incredibly intimate and genuinely enjoys washing your hair for you.

You're not just another romance to him — you're the love of his life, the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with, if the gods allow it.

🌿┊HALSIN

Despite the whole "Desire flourishes wherever it finds purchase" thing, he genuinely doesn't see himself falling for anyone else as he did for you. It's nice to know he could still indulge if he wanted, but for now, he doesn't.

Loves having his hair played with. There's just something so soothing about it. Or maybe it's his wild shape talking, asking for pets. We'll never know.

Always finds an excuse for you to sit on his lap. Again, not for sexual reasons, he just likes wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your head or shoulder.

Even though he isn't one for commitment, he has a constant, extremely severe case of baby fever. He obviously wouldn't push you if you're not ready, but he does make his sentiments on the matter known.

Stepping dangerously close to smut territory with this one, but he loves how small you are compared to him. The way he engulfs you entirely when he hugs you or how your hand disappears under his as he holds it — it's endearing to him.

I cannot go without mentioning how good his hugs are. Like, seriously. He's so warm and gentle but still strong and it makes you feel safe. It's the best thing in Faerun.

Loves how you look like wearing his clothes. It ties into the size difference thing, since they just look huge on you. Also, much like Gale, he has a thing for your scent, so there's really no downsides.

[nomazee]

hello, could I request a model! Dan Heng x fashion designer! Reader? Here’s some keywords if they might help, tiredness, praise, warmth, try-on. The timestamp is 17:57, thank you so much!

as always i had too much fun with this... i love the idea of model dan heng but i still made him an awkward wet rag in this one (because i love him) THANK YOU FOR THE REQUEST!!!

my 1k event!

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You greet Dan Heng with your usual warm smile and a “hey, love” that never fails to fluster him. He’s heard it from you a handful of times now, visiting your studio a few times a week at your request for fittings and some brainstorming sessions. He thinks that the frequency and timing of his visits is definitely unnecessary from a professional standpoint, but he’s not planning on bringing that up any time soon. Not when your hands are so kind, light on his shoulders as you guide him through your studio. 

“I started on the pieces that I showed you the sketches for, um, last week, was it? I’m kind of losing track of time.” Dan Heng wouldn’t tell you out loud, but he can tell. There’s a huge table in the center of the room, and he can barely see its surface beneath all the cut fabric and tracing paper and tangled thread from your serger. For someone working under deadline after deadline, you’re handling yourself better than he would, but he still can’t help the heat of concern flickering in the crease of his brow. 

This is your debut show, he knows as much. So he won’t meddle with your workflow. Only hope that you can somehow pick up the signals that he’s sending you to please sit down and maybe drink water? 

“I need you to try them on,” you tell him, a gentle command as you hand him a hanger draped in silky fabrics and delicate laces. “There’s pants and a lace shirt. I’ll turn around while you change, but you need to be wearing pretty much nothing underneath these, if that’s okay. And then I’ll hem your pants—let me get you some shoes…” you’re trailing off, passing the clothes to him before turning around in a rush to find him a pair of heeled boots. 

The fabric is— it’s nice. The pants are some kind of silky, lustrous material, dark blue and cool on his skin, and the shirt is embarrassingly sheer but you’ve seen him in and out of clothes in the last month often enough that he can’t really be too sheepish about it now. What does make him flush, however, is the look on your face as you turn around to stare at him, black heeled shoes forgotten in your hands as your eyes flit across Dan Heng’s form. 

He can hear the soft breaths that you take, no more labored than usual, but it feels so intimate and so quiet that his palms grow damp. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he waits for you to— say something, anything, tell him to take it off and go home or maybe stay, instead. The back of his neck feels itchy and he’s pretty sure you haven’t blinked yet. 

“The, um. It looks…” you’re trailing off, again, but you’re also walking towards him until you’re so close he can hear your breathing even more distinctly than before, along with the rustling of your own clothes as you lift up a hand to play with the ornamented collar of his shirt. “The color is nice on you. It’s different from the other pieces I’ve made you try, right?” 

Dan Heng only has enough strength to nod in response, the rest of his energy taken away by the feeling of your finger tips on the soft, pliant skin beneath his jaw. He’s sweating— so much, it must be gross, but he can see you chewing the inside of your cheek as you drag your fingers to the seam on the shoulder. 

“I was thinking a sash around the waist, but I don’t think it suits this outfit. Maybe I can add something like that to the pieces from last week, though.” And you’re back to your usual self, much to his dismay. Your rambling is endearing and tender, but your previously weighted gaze has now lightened, focused on the waist of his pants and the hand-sewn hook-and-bar closure, and Dan Heng misses having it trained on him. You’ve never been this close, this warm, this focused on him in particular, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to fight the urge to take your hands between his own. 

“Dan Heng,” you say his name, breaking him out of his anxious reverie with a quiet call. “You have a lot on your plate for this show. You have three outfit changes, which can be a lot, but I know you’re capable. Do you know you’re capable?” 

He wants to say this is silly, that you’re the last person who should be telling anybody else that they have a lot on their plate, considering that you’re sewing more than a dozen garments all on your own, with no assistants besides your in-and-out mentors who rarely find time to help. He says none of that, though, because your gaze is trained on his again and he’s busy hoping you don’t notice all the little involuntary twitches in his face. 

“Yeah, I’m— I know.” 

You smile, again, something saccharine and addictive and he wants to chase it, over and over and over. “Good. You’re my favorite model, you know. It’s important that you’re ready.” 

Dan Heng could say a million things. He could say this is unprofessional, or joke and say that he’s currently one of your only models, or tell you that he’s always ready as long as he’s wearing something put together by you and your hands alone. Instead, he nods like a fool, stumbling over a weak “okay” and trying to ignore the way his stomach twists when you laugh a little. 

“I’ll be doing your makeup for the show, too. I hope you don’t mind that. I just wanted to do something specific for you,” and it’s hit after hit with you, and his throat squeezes again because you’re still smiling and talking all about him like he’s your prized gift, and he really really doesn’t hate it. “You trust me with an eyeliner pen, right?” 

His mouth is dry, but he forces himself to joke back before you kick him out for being so awkward. “I trust you with a needle more than I trust you with a makeup brush.” And you laugh, and his stomach still hurts but the tightness of his mouth loosens up into a diffident smile. It’s just a joke, really, because he wouldn’t mind you handling a brush against his face, or the gentle press of your fingers on his cheeks and on top of his eyelids, or the awestruck look you give him every time he tries something on, or the weight of your hands on his shoulders when you drag him around your studio.

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[gossippool]

I've fallen hard for poolverine and I've read and loved your fic, do you have any fic recs you can share pretty please?

hi anon i do indeed!! i've been meaning to do a rec list eventually so thank u for asking. here are some fics out of the 14 i have bookmarked

twice upon an odyssey by lkst (E, 6k)

It would be tempting to say the propensity for physical violence in their relationship is gone, but nothing is created or destroyed, it would seem. While the urge to kill each other has faded it’s translated into tension between them hot and wet enough to grow orchids, and it’s taken the willpower of gods to keep them from fucking nasty about it. They're managing. The thing is, Wade doesn’t want to manage anymore. Wade drags Logan out on a little heist hoping to finally get him to make a move.

one of my favourites!! this is mostly smut but also some of the best characterisation of wade i've ever read and SO FUNNY. i giggled through the whole thing. sometimes humour in fics falls flat but not this time

deadpool/wolverine series by farmhandler (11k + 46k+)

i feel like recommending this series is a must tbh. only two fics in here so far and the second one is still updating but both are just. SO good. the first one is more wade-and-his-issues-centric and the second is more logan

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow by signifier (E, 10k)

The one where Wade gets stuck in a time loop, and he's determined to get Logan out of it alive.

time loop fics are so hard to execute well and this was just perfect. typical emotional toll of being stuck in a time loop is taken on wade so there's Angst

movin' out (deadpool's song) by jenniferlawrencelover (E, 36k)

Wade wasn't fond of change. Both in the life sense as well as the coin sense. So they might have to move houses? Okay. Sure, his tummy hurt a little more than usual when he thought too hard about it, but he could move past that. Would move past that. Eventually. Probably. Most likely not. Probably not at all. Wade didn't do change.

GODDDD i love this fic. it is so gorgeously written i think i have some parts screenshotted which is how you know it's good. brilliant exploration of both wade and logan

where soul meets body by edgebug (E, 34k)

In which something very interesting happens underneath the Time Ripper, and Wade and Logan deal with the aftermath.

no idea how to explain this but their minds kind of get intertwined??? ish?? and it's so fucking good the writing is just impeccable. angst and smut galore

guess by handfulofteeth (E, 16k)

Logan stops talking. He’s mid-chide, tossing his soiled paper towel onto the counter and about to reach for another one when his eyes land on Wade. He’s got his pajamas halfway down his thighs, clearly trying to avoid sticking his fingers all over the gooey fabric, and whatever, that on its own isn’t a big deal...What is a big deal, a huge, massive fucking deal, is what Wade’s wearing underneath his pajamas. Panties.

now this may seem like it's mostly smut and you would be right. but it is goddamn good smut (with a dash of angst) and just such an alluring read. their other fics are also just as good

[marvelous-slut]

Bad Girlfriend - Happy Lowman x reader

Y’all. I’m back. I’m rewatching sons and I can’t contain myself. I LOVE THIS MAN. And I love ALL OF YOU. Life’s been busy, haven’t wrote in months but I come back to see the love y’all have given me even tho I’ve been MIA? Y’all are AWESOME. Thank you guys from the bottom of my heart. Hopefully these can be a regular thing.

Trigger Warnings - minors DNI. Go far away. Smut. Angry sex. Cheating. Wrote this on my iPhone notes and didn’t proof read it the best, sue me.

“Hales a lucky bastard. I mean look, how’s a woman with such a nice rack with a guy like him? Total dork. Must be for some kind of show. Has to be.” Tig says as he thinks Happy heard all his words. Happy stopped listening after the first sentence. He turns to Tig, confusion plastered all over his face.

“What?”

“You know, it’s just weird seeing a hot chick with a nerd.”

“No, the first part.” Happy says, getting annoyed with Tig.

“Oh! Hale, yeah? That’s Hales old lady, Unsers niece, well more like a daughter he raised her, and you’re not listening.” He finishes as Happy stands up to go confront you. He wasn’t one to let emotions get the best of him, but when a taken woman was basically throwing herself onto him every time she saw him, he needed to know what was going on. Teach her a lesson.

You say with Jax, Clay and Unser. You’d went with Unser to make sure he was okay, the man practically raised you. It was hard watching cancer rip him away. There was more to it, you enjoyed being around the club. It gave you a thrill, watching these men and their old ladies, watching how they destroyed anything that dared step in the way of them and their women, them and their brother hood.

Truth is, it was easier being with David. It made things smooth, he was a nice guy, Unser cared for him. There was just something that didn’t do it for you with him, you couldn’t tell if it was the vanilla sex, or the rumors you’d kept hearing about him eating some ATF woman’s pussy on the clock. Either way, running from chaos never worked for you, and that was evident with the familiar face of Happy Lowman come to you and grabbed your arm away from the group as they were conversing among themselves. Happy had become someone in the MC you enjoyed, you liked the way he carried himself. How people were afraid to even look at him the wrong way. The way his gun hung off his hip. He was everything that your boyfriend was not and it drove you insane. He drug you to his room despite your protest, he gets you inside and shuts the door locking it behind him.

“What is this about?” You ask, confused as to why you’d been drug away.

“What are you doing? Trying to get intel out of me.” He backs you against the wall, his face inches away from yours. “Come in here flaunting your shit all over me, whole time you have an old man at home? A cop none the less.”

“It’s not like that.” You begin, Happy chuckles and pushes into you further. The two of your bodies no longer having any room in between.

“Tell me what it’s like then? Cop not get the job done for you?” You feel your skin crawling, in the best way possible. Also, a little fear crept in. As much as you liked Happy and seeing him, you knew he was dangerous.

“He doesn’t.” You let out softly, he grabs your face and places his lips onto yours harshly. Almost as if he’d needed this like you did. He pulls you back from the wall and lays you down on his bed instead.

Happy knew he had you right where he wanted you, and right where you wanted him. He spreads your legs as far as they will go, he’s on his knees in-between them. His hands go to your thighs, under you dress. He finds your entrance covered by a wet laced fabric. He runs his fingers up and down the sorry excuse of fabric that covered your wet folds. You moan softly, he pushes them to the side and shoves a finger into you with no warning. You arch your back, hoping he’d get the hint to add another finger. His finger is covered with your wetness.

“Happy.” You moan out, leaning your head up to make eye contact with him. He’s still in his kutte which makes your pussy pulse even more for him.

“Beg.” He lets out, moving his finger slowly in and out of you. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to give me more, fuck me with your fingers.” You keep eye contact with him, he still hasn’t moved any faster or added any digits. You sigh, throwing your head back. “Finger fuck me, please Happy. Please, I’m begging you.” He is a bit more satisfied with this response as he adds another finger, pushes himself over top of you, keeping his fingers inside you. He’s hovering over you now, a hand in your hair tugging it lightly. You moan, closing your eyes. The pleasure from his fingers was enough and he knew that, he pushed you to your limit and then he stops.

“I don’t think cheating whores deserve to cum.” He says, licking his fingers as he keeps eye contact with you. You’re desperate now, you grab him by his Kutte, slamming your lips onto his like a greedy bitch. You move your hands down to his belt, undoing it as you pull away to kiss his neck.

“Maybe I don’t, but you do.” You whisper to him, he feels the heat from your mouth on his ear. He pushes you back onto the bed, ripping your dress over your head, leaving you exposed to the cold air. He rips his shirt off, then his jeans and boxers all in one motion. He slams his cock into you with no warning, you let out a moan as he begins pumping himself in and out of you. You feel like you’re being fucked into his mattress. You gasp loudly as he begins rubbing your clit, you felt fuzzy in the brain. You couldn’t believe you were doing this to yourself, to Happy, to David? You reach a hand up to cover your mouth as the pleasure of him drilling inside of you is becoming harder to contain. He rips your hands away, pinning them above your head as he continues ramming into you.

“No. You don’t get to be quiet. I want everyone to know what’s happening. I want them to know I’m fucking Hales old lady. Making you take me, what do you think he’d think? A dirty biker fucking his innocent girlfriend?” He asks, his face is driving you crazy, he has his eyes shut head tilted to the ceiling enjoying this moment too much.

“Oh my god Happy.” You scream out loud enough anyone around could hear. “Fuck. Fuck.” You moan out, your arms still pinned above your head. He bends down, licking the side of your neck, biting it softly yet rough enough it would leave a mark. “Oh god Happy. I can’t ever get off with him. Please let me cum. Please.” You plead with him, sadly what you told Happy wasn’t a lie at all. Most times it was a 7 minute fuck and a fake orgasm to get David off of you.

“Not surprising. You need a real man to do that.” He finally lets go of your hands, moving one of his to your throat grasping it gently. He moves the other back to your clit, giving you chills all over your body. “Good thing you’ve got me inside of you right now. Good thing you can obey like a good girl too.” With the final words, you feel your eyes roll back in your head. You arch your back, bracing yourself for the first orgasm you’d had with a man and not a toy or your own fingers in years.

“God damn it.” You scream out, feeling yourself release around him. You feel your face flush, he notices and it’s enough to send him over as well. “Fuck.” He mutters, releasing himself into you. You lay there on his bed, feeling light headed from the mind blowing orgasm you just received. Happy stands up, cleaning himself up. He throws your clothes onto the bed.

“May want to clean up before you go back to your old man.” With that, he throws on a shirt and leaves the room. You lay back on the bed looking at the ceiling, realizing what has been done can’t be undone.

The chaos you tried to avoid would ensue before you knew it.

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 14: Devil's Ploy

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

You snort and blink rapidly to clear your nose of the fetid sulphuric odour burning the membranes of your nostrils, throat and eyes. In the cramped, dimly lit sewers, where the air doesn’t stir, the stench of it lingers and never seems to dissipate.

When your vision finally becomes unimpaired by burning tears, the cambion and her fire-red hair, horns bedazzled with chains of gold, is leering at you with a conniving expression that makes your stomach sink. You’ve seen this expression on her plenty of times when she was scheming and plotting.

“Gods above,” you hiss with a rasp to your voice. “What do you want, Mizora? I thought I was good and done with your kind.”

“And here I thought we had all become such good friends,” she titters, feigning cordiality terribly. “You always did have so much… spunk. I’m happy death still hasn’t taken your lovely little spark.”

“You can ask Raphael all about my spark,” you smirk. Vivid blue lightning crackles and buzzes over your fingertips. “Oh, wait. You can’t because I killed him for seeing me as no more than a little mouse, a pawn, and I will do the same with you if you think you can play games with me.”

“Oh-yes,” Mizora giggles, not one iota ruffled by your threats. “All nine Hells were positively astir with the news of his demise. He always was such a pompous and over-confident twat, not unlike your master, I suppose."

Master. Ugh.

“I would be lying if I said it was nice to see you again, Mizora. If you will excuse me, I have my prey to hunt, and you’ve made me lose its trail.”

You can’t hear or smell Elowyn anymore. She will be deep into the ruin by now, or worse yet, in the Crimson Palace itself, but you still don’t understand what use she would have of that place. There is nothing left there but closed cells full of rotting gore that can never be opened again since you made Astarion break Cazador’s quarterstaff - Woe. Insofar as you’re aware, that was the only key to controlling everything.

“A great pity you’re in such a rush, pet,” Mizora snickers. Gods, you hate being called “pet.” You almost growl, but you’re too preoccupied with the rising feeling of foreboding swishing around in your stomach. You know that laugh and dread what’s about to come out of her mouth next. “I was going to offer to assist your Vampire Ascendant with his little… problem, but I suppose if you don’t want help… well, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Ta-ta!”

“Wait!” You snap, whirling around. You’re going to regret this. “Wait… What do you know of Astarion’s ailment?”

“I thought that might get your attention,” she smirks smugly. “Let’s make ourselves more comfortable, shall we? You may be accustomed to living in such filth, but I am decidedly not.”

Mizora snaps her fingers, fire bursts to life all around you, and then you’re in a grand sitting room with glitzy settees, lounges and chairs. Rugs made of creatures you’ve never seen before litter the floor. Some appear reptile-like with scaly hides, others plush furs, others with feathers and more with something you can only begin to describe as some form of cartilaginous exoskeleton. They look at you with glassy, dead eyes ashine in their long-dead sockets.

It’s stiflingly hot, and you peer out of double doors leading to the terrace and take in the landscape. In the distance, black, jagged mountains pierce the horizon with peaks wreathed in an eerie crimson mist. Brimstone and fire dance in a perpetual inferno bordering a river made entirely of lava or possibly blood. It’s hard to tell from this height. The air is acrid and clouded with volcanic ash, and the sky flickers reds and oranges as fireballs race through clouds of darkest black.

“Avernus,” Mizora gushes. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“I think I preferred the sewers,” you croak, wiping the sweat from your brow and going back inside. It does little to provide any comfort or liberation from the sweltering climate.

“Of course, sewer spawn,” she scoffs indignantly and drops unceremoniously onto a lounge. “It was your home for a little while. Wasn’t it? Until the Cleric and Wizard found you down there.”

“Have you been watching me this entire time?” You cross your arms and quirk a brow at her. “Do you have nothing better to do than derive pleasure from pain and suffering?”

“Oh, darling.” Her head falls back, and she laughs, “Of course! Who wouldn’t want to watch this little tragedy play out? It has been quite amusing thus far.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the show,” you bow sarcastically with a frown. “If you’re getting such a kick out of it, why are you meddling in my nightmare?”

“Sit. Won’t you?” She gestures toward the chaise. Mizora won’t tell you anything until you do as she asks. This is all part of her little game, after all. So, you sit with a roll of your eyes. “I would have been happy to watch until the vampire killed you, but alas, all good things must come to an end. Zariel and the other archdevils have other plans.”

Fuck. If another archdevil, or several, from the sounds of it, are getting involved, this is unlikely to be good. What got you here was another deal with an archdevil, but if there’s even a chance that something Mizora might tell you can give you somewhere to start, well, you can humour her.

“Which are?”

“Oh,” Mizora shrugs. “I don’t know, little lamb. I am merely a messenger.”

“Okay,” you comb your fingers through your sweat-dampened hair. She’s lying. You can see the hinting glint in her eyes. She knows more than she’s letting on. “Well, what is it you can tell me?”

The toothy, menacing smile that sidles across Mizora’s face should send you running. She sneers, “Tell me. What do you know of Mephistopheles?”

You shrug, “I know he is an archdevil, a rather powerful one. His domain is Cania. The Rite of Profane Ascension was a contract with him. Beyond that, I do not spend much time researching devils.”

“So, nothing then,” she pouts. “Well, allow me to enlighten you.”

Fire leaps to life in a circle, and Mizora’s eyes gleam with the keenness of a wild cat as you jump and get ready to defend yourself. Everything goes black except for the inferno burning around you.

As you watch the writhing blaze, depictions form in the leaping flames, moving against them. A towering devil with bright red skin, curling ram horns and massive bat-like wings jutting out from his back. He has an unnervingly charming smile, but it’s offset by cold, milk-white eyes that stare through you, making you shudder.

The figure paces around, muttering to himself and the empty grand halls around him. His eyes bounce around with feral neuroticism. He twitches, growls, hisses and waves his hand as if shooing away an annoying insect while snarling.

Abruptly, the fiery figure lets out a blood-curdling shriek and starts clawing at his skin, tearing gashes into himself until his skin is hanging in gruesome, dripping flaps from his arms and chest. Fire explodes in his palms, and he flings around bolts of Hellfire, instantly turning everything around him to ash. He pivots quickly and appears to be looking straight at you. He roars so loud you’re sure your eardrums have burst. He charges toward you with the ferocity of a rabid animal and a fireball barrels toward you.

Everything goes black, and you fall onto the floor by Mizora, who is snickering.

“What in the Hells was that?” You snap, getting up and getting in her face. You grab that fur collar in your hands and shake her, “What the fuck did I just witness?”

“Mephistopheles, for all his cunning and brilliance, is a deeply troubled individual. As you saw, he is neurotic and suspicious and often flies into fits of explosive and violent rage. Does that remind you of anyone?”

“… Astarion,” you breathe and stumble back. “Oh Gods…”

“Yes, pet.” Mizora nods with a fiendish cackle. “I can see you putting it all together. The Vampire Ascendant was an experiment of sorts. As you can imagine, these tendencies are not becoming of an archdevil. In an effort to rid himself of his neurotic temper, he needed a willing vessel to imbue with a portion of his nature. What better way to lure a willing participant than to offer unfathomable power?”

You collapse onto the chaise, wracking your fingers through your hair, “The Vampire Ascendant was nothing more than a way for Mephistopheles to offload his psychosis?”

Gods above. It makes so much sense. Astarion’s blind fits of rage. The voices in his head. The alternate version of him that sometimes takes control. You never got to see the whole contract. Did Raphael know about this and neglect to say it?

“But.” You add, looking at Mizora, “Astarion is himself some of the time.”

“Ah-yes,” Mizora snickers, glancing at her nails. “The vessel was never supposed to have an intact soul. It’s much easier to work with an empty cask than one that is already full, so to speak. A spawn was never supposed to usurp the ritual. I would say an oversight on Mephistopheles’ part, but truly, who could have imagined a spawn would get infected with a mind flayer tadpole that broke his master’s chains? Then, he just so happened to come upon a fine hero to help him. It’s all rather ludicrous sounding. Astarion’s soul is fractured but not completely eradicated. Well, not yet at least.”

“What do you mean not yet?”

“Think of it like this,” Mizora speaks to you slowly, as if you might not be smart enough to understand the metaphor slipping past her lips. “The entity is like an infection. It contaminates him, tainting everything from his thoughts, the platelets in his blood, to the marrow in his very bones, faster than his body can heal itself.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” You’re starting to get suspicious. Where is the catch? The line she will hook you with?

“Can’t I just want to help out an old friend?” She pouts.

You glower at her and cross your arms, “No.”

“You were always so clever.” Mizora suddenly becomes serious, “Mephistopheles is a threat. Now that he is no longer burdened by his demons, he’s set his aspirations quite high. Too high for the liking of many of the archdevils. We would like to see him reunited with himself. It’s a very fine little deal. You get what you want to rid Astarion of the entity that’s eating him from the inside out, and we get to cage Mephistopheles back in the prison of his mind. A warning, pet. It will not be an easy road.”

“My life has never been easy. Why would it start now?” You sigh, “Tell me what needs to be done, and I will do it.”

“Such a good little spawn. Aren’t you? He’s killed you, tortured you, starved you, beat you, emotionally ruined you, and stolen your name, and you’re still willing to risk yourself to save him?” Mizora giggles, “I would say it was a true love story in the making were it not so fucking tragic.”

“What do you mean stolen my name?” You growl, cocking your head at her, “I have a name!”

“Oh,” she snickers, “Then tell me, pet. What’s your name?”

“My name…” You trail off, wracking your brain for the word. It’s right there, sitting precariously on the tip of your tongue. “My name… It’s… It’s…”

Mizora’s laughter is a haunting melody, a sinister cackle in a chilling symphony. That sound could freeze the blood of the bravest soul and make the earth tremble, “You can’t remember it. Can you?”

You replay old conversations in your head. You can see Shadowheart’s lips moving, but then there’s a sudden silence where all you hear is white noise even though she’s still talking. It’s the same with conversations with Gale, just white noise in the place where your name should have been.

Astarion stole your name from you… When did that happen, and why can’t you remember? What else has he stolen from you?

“What’s my name,” you swallow the thick odium that’s erected itself into your throat. You shriek, rage sweeping through you in a gust of hatred, “What my name, Mizora! Say it!”

Mizora smiles haughtily and speaks. You focus with every iota of your capacity, watching her lips move, but it is as you feared. Your ears hear nothing but the breathy whisper of silence, and your eyes seem unable to read the phonetics on her lips.

You’re his darling. His sweet girl. His precious treasure. His consort. His nameless spawn.

And yet, you’re still prepared to sacrifice your life.

Yes, a very good little spawn, indeed.

“It doesn’t matter,” you mutter, clenching your chest as a tendril of sadness wraps around your heart and chokes it. “What do I have to do?”

“Before we can do anything about Astarion. We must first unbind him from his contract.” Mizora says, eyes narrowing, fixed on you. “I don’t care how you do it, but you must get Astarion’s contract from Mephistopheles. Steal it. Bargain for it. The choice is yours, but you must do it fast. There’s no way to know how much time before Astarion is lost forever.”

Mizora deposits you back into the sewers, and her voice bounces off the stony passageways, “Tick-tock, tick-tock, pet.”

You consider continuing to try to track Elowyn, but you’re reeling with information and cannot fathom how you would even begin to concentrate on her. She must be dealt with. That is certain, but it must wait until your mind isn’t fraught and unsettled.

How are you supposed to get Astarion’s contract from Mephistopheles? Bargaining for it should be your last resort, but how do you get to Cania, the eighth layer of the Nine Hells, survive it long enough to sneak into Mephistar and somehow sneak through an archdevil citadel? It seems like an impossible task.

Should you tell Astarion? He would usually be the first person you ran to for help with a heist, but he’s unlikely to let you go, even if it is the only means to save him from inevitably losing himself entirely. You can’t risk Astarion forcing you to stay, but you might not be able to risk going to the Hells without him. The Vampire Ascendant will likely be an invaluable asset if you meet resistance. But if he loses himself, you might not survive Astarion’s wrath long enough to get where you’re going. Whether that thing inside him is a separate entity or a version of himself that’s been infected and corrupted, you doubt it will take kindly to you trying to remove it.

Do you approach Shadowheart? You would be putting her in great peril, but she might be able to help with research. This is your mistake to fix, and you don’t relish putting your friend’s lives on the line. Karlach and Wyll are in the Hells. They may be able to help ascertain a way to get to Cania, but you’ll need to figure out how to contact them.

And Good Gods, your name…

The silent corridors echo with the foreboding sound of your heavy footsteps like the ominous rumble of an approaching storm as you work through the maze of gangways and channels. Tears stroll in rivulets down your snowy cheeks, liquid poetry to express all the emotions you can’t.

Dejection. Grief. Fear. Defeat. Loss.

Lost in the spiralling thoughts, you forget to look to the sky as you drag your weary body home. The only thing you want right now is to curl up in the strong arms of Astarion and let him hold your broken pieces and fears together because you’re not sure if you can do it by yourself.

The sun cracks the skyline, the first rays of the soft light of an autumn day embracing the streets, but the sun no longer embraces you. It blinds and broils you. Your skin glows, flakes, and melts. Deep, molten silver-blue channels crack in your arms, legs and face. The pain is so intense you can’t even remember to scream as you stand, waiting for your skin to slough off your bones and cover the street with ash.

You don’t remember reaching out to the bond with Astarion, but his voice fills your head, “Gods above. What in the nine Hells are you doing!? ” Astarion bellows. Panic infects his usual halcyon timbre, “Find shelter! I’m coming!”

The pain is all-consuming. You can’t move, can’t think, can’t speak as your nerves are melted away. Your skin dissolves like water evaporating under the sun’s heat. Every inch of your skin is being flayed in a single moment that lasts forever.

You will die nameless and alone.

“Fuck! Find shelter. Now!”

Astarion’s compulsion overrides everything else, and your body moves stiffly to obey the command even as it smokes and your skin is loosened from your frame, liquifying and dripping off your arms and legs, turning to ash in midair and being carried away by the morning breeze.

Find shelter. Find shelter. Find shelter.

Your instructions resound in your head even louder than the pain that falls to a buzz in the background. You can’t even blink as your fingers curl around the boards of a long-abandoned shack. Gods. Are those your fingers? Is that bone you see? You wrench the board off the window. The pads of your fingers squelch and ooze. When you throw the boards down, your skin sticks to them, peeling away in rangy, fibril bands like gum. Thank the Gods, you lack the capacity to mull it over much as your body throws itself inside without your consent.

With the order completed, there is a brief moment of pure, blissful euphoria - a reward for being so very obedient. The compulsion pales, the vines recede, and you’re pitched back into the residual agony that has yet to abate.

Now that the sun is no longer skinning you alive, the pain has lessened, and you remember how to scream. An inhumane noise rends your throat somewhere between a shriek and a wail. Your head lolls to the side, and your eyes fall to your arms.

You immediately wish they hadn’t.

Your skin is not the smooth pearlescent you’re used to seeing now that the colour it once held has faded to death’s grip. It’s powdery and matte. You’re sure you’re looking at the bones of your forearms in the chasmal rifts.

You hear white noise in your head, murmuring over the bond. It feels like Astarion is trying to contact you, but you hear no words. To get your thoughts off the pain still being recited by your nerves, you shift your focus to the emotions in your head, trying to sift through them. Astarion’s heartbeat in your chest is excruciating. It hammers with the intensity of a blacksmith striking an anvil. He’s petrified, bordering on hysterical.

You reach out in your head, “Astarion?”

“Little love!” He howls. You must remember to request he not attempt to dissolve your brain matter. “Why haven’t you been answering me?”

“Where are you?” 

“Close, my treasure.” 

You don’t know how much time elapses as you bounce between consciousness and dissociation while focusing on not moving. The less you move, the better for you, but your limbs and muscles seem to jerk and twitch without your consent, and every time, it sends another agonizing swell of suffering to break over you. Teardrops flutter on your lashes, but you can’t move to wipe them away.

Your ears pick up the thudding tempo of Astarion’s beating heart before he bursts through the door, scattering the planks and showering splinters in his haste. Astarion drops to his knees beside you. He visibly shudders as his eyes land on you, slumped against a wall.

“Hells,” he breathes, chest heaving from exertion. You can feel his horror in your head, but you need not. It’s evident in his shaky and rapid speech, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here. You’re safe. Look at me, darling.”

Why, after everything he has done to you, is his proximity so remarkably comforting? You let your eyes roam over him and truly appreciate the beauty before you. His scarlet eyes, dazzling like vivid, perfectly polished jewels ashine behind… tears? No. That doesn’t seem right. Your vision is blurred from your eyes being boiled in their sockets. You must be imagining the tears, but his eyes are beautiful nonetheless. His sculpted, full lips, which once held the promise of an eternity of silk kisses, are downturned at the corners. You would give anything to run your fingers along them right now, feel them on your skin, taste them on your tongue. He is breathtaking, quite literally.

“Sweetheart.” Astarion reaches to you. His fingers tremble as they hover below your jaw. He knows it will hurt if he touches you, “Can you hear me?”

You answer in his head because moving the muscles in your face to make you capable of speech will hurt, “Yes. I hear you.”

“I can compel you to not feel the pain, to sleep, but I need your permission.” His eyes bore into you. His voice is a favourite dream you long to slip into, “Please.”

It’s dangerous permission to give. You’ve told him you will leave if he compels you again, but he just did, didn’t he? He compelled you to find shelter when you could not do it yourself. He compelled you from afar. He does not need to be near you to force commands upon you. He can wrap your brain and body around his finger like twine from anywhere, anytime, on a whim. But Gods, you will do anything to make this pain end, to drift away from this fucking nightmare.

“Do it.”

Immediately, you feel your control funnelling away, like sand through an hourglass.

“You feel no pain,” he purrs, and the pain vanishes as your nerve endings deactivate. It’s a blissful respite, and you sigh. “Thank you for trusting me. Sleep now.”

Your brain shuts off. Darkness claims you, and Hells below, you welcome it.

“Wake.”

The directive floats through your comatose mind like a beam of light cuts through the pitch-blackness of nullity. Your faculties burst to life, waking one by one, unfurling like a blooming flower. The first thing you feel is hunger so painful that your body jerks to collapse in on itself as your limbs jolt and tremor insuppressibly. Excruciating cramps make your toes curl and your hands ball into fists. Your mind is raving, mad with hunger. You consider biting your tongue if only for the sweet succour of that crimson elixir.

You cannot think of anything other than the sensation of your insides gnawing on themselves, the paralyzing contracting of every ligament and tendon in your body, the desiccation that’s withered your tongue, and the grave need to feed - on anything and anyone.

Another spasm causes you to lurch and claw at your skin like you could dig yourself out of this ailing body. Warm hands clasp your wrists, and all your mind can think is warm means alive, and alive means blood. Your eyes snap open, but your addled brain simply cannot process the visual input, and you don’t think twice before fire erupts from your palms.

“Shit!”

You hear it, but you do not process it. As soon as the grip on you rescinds, you lunge at this figure before you whose beating heart is thrumming the provocative siren song of life and food. Colliding with it is like being throttled into a brick wall, but you waste no time fumbling and climbing with bared fangs. You’re so close to that beautifully pulsing vein, and it’s the only thing your eyes can focus on.

Stomach bubbling with hunger, you go to bite, jaws snapping and slobbering like a feral beast. As soon as your fangs hover within striking distance, your body arrests, and you’re instantaneously immobilized.

Strong arms wrap around you, lift, and sink you to the floor. A hand cradles your cheek, and the branching blue-purple veins make you swoon. You think about biting them only to have your body freeze up on you further. It guides your eyes to vivid crimson irises that spark recognition and reason back into your dazed lucidity.

“Astarion…”

“Stop thinking about biting me,” he chuckles and shifts you to the side. “You’ll be able to move again.”

“What?” You would quirk a brow at him, but you’re too focused on trying to push your intentions of biting him away. They do not concede to your urges, and you find your eyes wander without your permission to any vein that might be in striking distance. Astarion always gently walks your errant gaze back to his. “You haven’t compelled me?”

“Ah. Apologies. I do forget how new you are to this.” Astarion reaches for something on the dresser to his right, “No. This is not a compulsion. As my…” he trails off.

“Spawn.” You state with a palpable despondency threaded between the fog of hunger that looms over you.

“I do hate that word,” he shakes his head with discontentment as if he does not want to face the reality of what he has turned you into. “You are physically unable to bite me without my permission. Your body simply will not allow you to do it. Which is why you currently cannot move.”

Astarion holds a goblet out to you, and your stomach is set on fire by the iron sharpness that wafts from the syrupy, bright red nectar. It breaks you away from your absorption of sinking your fangs into Astarion’s flesh, and you snatch it out of his hands and drink with mindless gluttony.

The blood is fresh, hot and rich as the liquid rushes into your mouth. It waterfalls through your body, unknotting the snarls in your muscles, dissolving away the relentless twist of your stomach, and replacing the bloodlust hysteria in your mind with a sultry buzzing.

Astarion’s already holding another goblet, and you throw the empty one to the side and close your eyes as you guzzle. The blood is buttery and decadent. It’s hundreds, nay, thousands of exquisite dishes in a single swallow. It’s like a summertime dawn on your tongue. The wet warmth of it sinks between your thighs, settling with a molten throbbing in your core, and you moan at the pure bliss.

Astarion slips the goblet from your fingers once you’ve finished, and you look at him with half-lidded eyes. You rack your brain for memories of the few times you’ve tasted the blood of thinking creatures. You bit a few in the battles between when he turned you and the Netherbrain, but you cannot remember any of them ever tasting that deliciously arousing.

“That wasn’t animal blood,” you state, almost slurring. You feel drunk, or maybe Astarion is just intoxicating to look at while he mesmerizes you with those red eyes and perfect lips that foretoken pleasure. “Who did you just feed me?”

“No, it was decidedly not animal blood,” he grins as you adjust on his lap and straddle him. You’re not entirely sure what you’re doing in your desirous daze, and you trace the perfect bow of his lips as he speaks. “It was my blood.”

“You are delectable,” you giggle as your fingers help themselves and start fiddling with the buttons on his chemise. As your muddled mind starts to make sense of what he just said, you’re tripped up. You stare at him with a slack jaw and round eyes.

“The look on your face is priceless, darling,” he giggles and glances down at your roving hands as they push open his shirt and trace the defined muscles. Astarion’s fingers trace down your neck, sending shivers down your spine and making you squirm on his lap in wanton desperation for even the most minuscule friction to sate the ache, “I told you that you would taste me, and I you. It will not make you a True Vampire, though, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Right now, you could not care less about being a True Vampire. There is very little on your mind except how his skin feels on your fingers and how extraordinary he would feel stretching you.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent deeply, placing slow kisses up the column. His fingers curl into the silk nightdress he must have changed you into at some point as he groans.

“Whatever are you doing?” He mutters near your ear, pressing his cheek to yours.

“I want you,” you sigh as you curl your fingers into his hair.

“You just attacked me,” he swallows.

“Then, let me apologize,” you grind against his hardening length in a way that makes you both gasp.

“You’ve been asleep for a week,” he mumbles, even as his arms wrap around you, tugging you close. “You have no idea how close you were to dying. Truly dying.”

You should probably be concerned with how long he kept you asleep since your time is limited, but you don’t care. You can’t care. You’ve never been quite so high on blood, on him. He is the light, darkness and blood that runs through your veins, and good Gods, you will give him everything.

“So, wake me up,” you purr as you push his shirt over his shoulders and run the flat of your tongue up his neck, relishing the salt of his skin. “Touch me like only you can. Love me like only you do. Help me feel alive, Astarion.”

Astarion pulls you back, cradling your face with this thumb pressed gently under your chin, drawing your eyes to his, and you stare at him through narrow, seductively hooded eyes like a love-sick pup. He traces your lips with his thumb, and you catch it in your mouth and suck.

“Hells,” he rasps darkly with a sharp inhalation.

You feel the offering call of the bond, and you don’t hesitate to throw it open. That beautifully overwhelming frisson shatters through you as Astarion’s lips catch yours in an eager, bordering on frantic kiss. He snakes his hand into your hair, holding you firmly against his vehement embrace. His tongue darts into your mouth, and a guttural groan thunders in his chest. His kiss is unusually clumsy, lacking the artistry and mastery he typically possesses, and your teeth click together with your greed for each other. You roll your hips, sinking your clit against his length, and your head falls back as white-hot sparks of want rupture behind your eyelids.

As far as you’re concerned, he is the definition of desire. His lips, his hands, and his taste are the only things that can bring you back to life from this deathless death, and you’re sure that you could never get close enough to him. Even with every curve of your body pressed into every contour of his, it still wouldn’t be enough. Nothing is sweeter than the serene sin of the kisses his lips press against your throat.

You peel off your nightdress, and your fingers tug at the opening of his breeches, graceless in your wild hunger to be filled, to be taken, to be his. Astarion quirks his hips up and pulls them down his hips, freeing his cock. The head glistens with evidence of his arousal. With no warning or hesitation, you sink his full length into you. The heavenly stretch makes you cry out and dig your fingers into his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathes, heavy, ragged and uneven. The pads of his fingers find your swollen flesh, sweeping and circling, and you get lost in the divine stimulation.

You set a slow, teasing pace, rising and sinking back down onto him as you delight in feeling the ridges of his head with every languid pump. Astarion pants as he lets out breathy moans. He brings a hand to your hip, trying to urge you to move quicker.

“Good Gods,” he whimpers, his gaze glossed with desire. “Have mercy.”

You are starving for pleasure, famished, and you will take it how you want it. With a warning growl, you grasp his wrist and pin it above his head to the wall. Astarion grins at your dominance and doesn’t fight it. He murmurs something unintelligible as you plunge onto his cock, and stares reverentially through thick lashes, drinking you in as you forfeit all rational thought.

Time runs away with you. You could have been riding him for hours or seconds, but eventually, your savouring pace turns reckless and erratic. Astarion bucks his hips in time to meet yours as the sound of smacking flesh, wanton cries and panting is all that fills your ears and head.

Astarion’s fingers tremble and quake against your sensitive bud, his skin sheens with sweat and his breath hitches. When you finally unpin his wrist, he clutches your hips and guides you to continue the tempo that is driving you perilously close to the edge.

His breath starts to come faster, panting hot and crude, fanning across your sweat-veiled skin. Scarlet eyes devour you as you chase your release in his lap. He penetrates you - Harder. Deeper. Animalistic.

“Oh shit—” His eyes snap open wide, almost in a look of blissful confusion. In your rapture, you barely notice the way his lips move, but you hear nothing but white noise. “I’m going to— Gods. I think I’m going to—“

A shuddering gasp escapes his lips, his body suddenly tensing beneath you. The look of ecstasy that washes over his face is enough to hurl you over the precipice, and you cry out with him. Between your walls clutching and spasming, you feel his cock twitching and pulsing, flooding you with his seed. His arms wrap around you, and you cling to him with a grip that would surely bruise. He crushes you against him as you’re both overwhelmed with pleasure so pure you think maybe it would have killed you were you not already dead.

As the intoxication of your climax fades, you sag into him, pressing your forehead against his neck. You close your eyes, breathing in the fragrance of his sweat, and focus on the rise and fall of his chest. It would be nice to stay in this darkness, snug and safe and home in his embrace, with the bond open so you can remain one pale star against the dusk of reality.

And then you remember the white noise from the moving lips of Shadowheart, Gale, Mizora, and him … You pull back abruptly, breaking out of Astarion’s arms and staring at him, tears teeming in your eyes. Astarion’s confusion is evident on his face and through the connection.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. You can feel him trying to figure it out in his head. It’s such an odd sensation, almost like your emotions are being poked and prodded. “What did I do?”

“Say my name,” you whimper, focusing on his lips.

“What?” His eyes bounce around as his brows pull down.

“My name,” you repeat with a quivering lip. “Say it.”

Astarion’s lips move, and… nothing. All you can hear is the buzzing, fizzing hiss of white noise coming from his mouth.

“Again.”

“I don’t understand —“ He yet again opens and closes his mouth with only a droning hum. Your fingers clamber against his lips, pushing his mouth open as if you might be able to grasp the word as it leaves his tongue. “Whatever is the matter?”

He doesn’t even know, you realize. He has no idea that he’s stolen your name just as he stole your life. You find some comfort in knowing that it wasn’t this version of him that did it, at least. You stare off dejected as everything rushes back to you like a slap across the cheek.

Mizora. The Hells. Mephistopheles. The Contract. The ticking clock. Your name.

“My love,” Astarion’s fingers curl into your hair, and he ushers your eyes to his. “Did I harm you? Please. Tell me what’s troubling you."

“I don’t remember my name,” the tears spill out of your eyes. “You stole it from me.” 

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

So... does she tell him what Mizora revealed?

[scrollonso]

Untitled 2 — Marcmarc

Logically speaking, it doesn't make much sense. Marc is literally his boyfriend.

But there's still that nagging voice, that feeling in his stomach that has persisted since the time he was old enough to know about the pleasures that come with touching oneself. There's that desperate need for self preservation. There's still that guilt.

“I'm going to the bathroom,” Marco says, trying his best not to sound suspicious as he stands from the living room couch.

Marc playfully kicks at the back of Marco's shin as he passes in front of him. “Want me to pause it?” he asks.

Marco shakes his head. “Nah, I think that ice cream I had earlier is catching up to me. I might be gone for a while.”

Marc makes a funny face. “Gross.”

Marco forces a laugh before he's down the hall, locking himself in the bathroom.

Marc's has always been attractive, that's a fact that's completely undeniable. Marco isn't even usually a love-at-first-sight kind of guy, but he remembers the very moment he first laid eyes on Marc. Not to be dramatic, but the feeling could only be akin to staring directly at a sun parting gray clouds. Or maybe the feeling of finally surfacing from beneath an oppressive wave in the deep ocean. After dating for a year and a half, and now finally living together, one might think the shattering infatuation would eventually simmer down. But it's been quite the opposite if one were to ask Marco how he feels about the whole ordeal. If anything, the infatuation has become worse.

The guilt burns beneath his skin as he loosens the drawstring of his shorts, pushing the waistband down to his mid-thighs. He can still hear the muffled sounds of the corny action flick playing in the background. Good, Marco thinks, it'll serve as the perfect distraction.

Marco knows feeling horny is normal. It's taken a good amount of years to rewire his brain in terms of not feeling completely guilty about wanting to touch himself. But his history with the church obviously must still have some form of hold over him, because he still can't bring himself to tell Marc about when he gets this way. Or rather, all the times he gets this way. Which seems to be damn near every day at this point.

Being horny for your boyfriend when you live apart is one thing. But living under the same roof has Marco feeling like his skin is constantly on fire. All thoughts that consume his mind is just how badly he wants Marc's hands on him, everywhere, at all times of day. Is he becoming some sick sex addict? Or maybe it's his brain making up for all the years of being sexually stunted. Whatever the case, he just can't bring himself to tell Marc about every single time he has sexually depraved thoughts about the man. So he makes up for it like this, hiding in the bathroom to get himself off.

He bites the hem of his shirt to keep himself quiet as he slips two fingers inside. He's already so wet that he doesn't need to wait. It's quite pathetic, actually, the way this has become so easy for him.

He closes his eyes and imagines that it's Marc's fingers stretching him full. He imagines that it's Marc's thumb grazing his clit, driving him insane.

He moans quietly around the hem of his t-shirt, spit beginning to soak the fabric as he desperately rolls his hips to the image in his mind.

And on the other side of the bathroom door, just a few feet away is Marc, none the wiser, dressed in a simple pair of loose-fitting shorts and a white tank top. The outfit had been so unassuming, something completely normal to wear on a hot summer day. Yet here Marco is fingering himself in the guest bathroom of their shared apartment because he can't get his brain to stop thinking like a horny teenager.

He picks up the pace, adjusting his stance as he plunges his fingers into his drooling cunt. He pictures Marc fucking him from behind, he can almost feel Marc's hands gripping against his waist, and the tickle of Marc's stubble against the back of his neck.

He should probably just walk out of the bathroom and let Marc know he wants his dick right now. But how ridiculous would that sound?

“Hey, Marc. I know we're in the middle of watching cars explode and bad guys getting their heads blown off, but I'm really turned on right now. Let's fuck.”

No way, there has to be some level of decorum.

When he finally cums a few minutes later, the post-nut clarity is enough to humiliate him even without the haunting echoes of some past preacher going on about the sanctity of sex. Yikes.

It's gotten bad. It's gotten really bad. They're in the middle of having dinner with Marc's parents when the sudden need overcomes him again. It's ridiculous, really. Not a single thing about the situation is sexy in the slightest, but Marc's parents are going on about the antics Marc would get himself into when he was a teenager and suddenly Marco has this deep feeling of 'wow, this is the man I'm in love with and I'm learning about this part of him that existed before I knew him and I really want to keep him in my life and I really need him inside of me.'

That's the thought that has Marco awkwardly excusing himself to the bathroom, yet again.

He closes the door quickly, doubly making sure the door is locked behind him before he's fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He doesn't even need to slide his fingers inside this time, that's how bothered he is. He coats his fingers good and well with saliva before rubbing against his clit in fast circular motions, mindful of the noises he makes.

If God hasn't judged him before, He's for sure judging him now. Your boyfriend's parents are down the hall and you can't keep yourself together for just one night?

He cums ridiculously fast to the point that it almost startles him, leaking over the palm of his hand and into the lining of his briefs. He can only laugh at himself when he struggles to quickly wipe the cum from the fabric of his clothes.

When he finally flushes the toilet paper and washes his hands as thoroughly as he can, he can only hope the timing of it all hadn't been too suspicious.

He should've anticipated this. Four months of living under the same roof, he was bound to eventually get caught.

The thing is, neither of them are really that fond of the kitchen. As much as it strains their wallets, eating out is usually the go-to. Especially when they're both exhausted from long days of work.

But for whatever reason, today Marc had wanted to pretend he was some gourmet chef cooking up the finest steak meal he could muster. And really, who was Marco to say no? It's not like he was any good in the kitchen.

He'd been watching Marc throw down from the bar of their kitchen counter, and there had just been something about the image of it all – the concentration set between Marc's brows, the flex of his arms under his black tee, the way his fingers moved with a sense of skill that Marco just never could gather when it came to cooking – it was all too much. Something primal pooled in Marc's stomach, a flame flickering beneath his skin. A sense of deep possession overcame him. My man, my man, he's really all mine.

But Marc was setting the plates after so much work that he'd put in. And Marco wasn't going to make this nasty. At least not in front of the man.

“I'll be right back,” Marc said.

Before Marc could ask where he's going, Marco was already down the hall, locking the bathroom door behind himself.

He really couldn't get his pants down fast enough. His fingers fumbled with the buckle of his belt, struggling to pull it free of the loop. When he finally managed to get his pants down to his ankles, he awkwardly stumbled out of them, nearly tripping as he kneeled down to reach beneath the cabinet sink in search of something secret he'd hidden there about a week ago.

He found it right where he'd stashed it, behind a basket of spare toilet paper and tucked between miscellaneous cleaners. It was packed in a small box, small enough to blend in with the bathroom supplies and go unnoticed by his boyfriend in the event that he'd ever go exploring for something beneath their guest bathroom sink.

The hidden item in question? A vibrator.

Yes, that's how ridiculous this has gotten. Like some sort of nicotine fiend who hides their pack of smokes behind a windowsill so as not to get caught by their parents, Marco is hiding his vibrator.

It's pretty unassuming, small enough to fit into the palm of his hand with a satisfactory, pink bulbous head. He rinsed it off quickly before putting it to his mouth to generously coat the thing with saliva.

When it was soaked well enough, he wasted no time bringing it to his pussy, spreading his legs and sliding the head of the vibrator between his slit. His cunt was already clenching, wetting itself from the contact of the vibrator, and Marco could only imagine it as Marc's cock that got him this way. He closed his eyes, breath growing deep and rapid as he worked to get himself off quickly, pushing the vibrator through his folds and teasing against his clit.

Heat coiled in his stomach. His thighs shook as he balanced himself, leaning back against the sink. When he finally pushed the vibrator inside, he pictured Marc sliding into him. He pictured Marc fucking him on the kitchen counter, not caring to knock over the delicious meal he'd just slaved away making. He pictured Marc kissing him hungrily, one fist tight in his hair and the other gripping Marco's thigh, holding him open and taking whatever he needed from Marco regardless of how prepared Marco was for the size of his cock.

Marco gasped, trying his best to stay quiet as he rolled his hips, plunging the vibrator into himself at a fast, even pace.

He felt himself getting so close already. So close to reaching the edge that he began to feel dizzy. He sunk down further, widening his legs even more. The angle allowed the toy to push into him further, not as deep as he knew Marc could get but deep enough to have Marco's stomach tightening in pleasure nonetheless.

“Marc,” he cried, head leaning back and knocking against the sink's cabinet door. He was far too lost to even care.

He pressed the vibrator all the way in, to the hilt. With his thumb, he found the switch to turn it on, setting it to a medium speed and holding it there, pressing it up at an angle that set his nerves on fire. With his free hand, he drew lazy circles against his clit, making his jaw drop in a silent moan.

This was it, he was really nearing his end now. He imagined Marc ruining him on the counter. He imagined Marc's thick fingers working over his clit, making Marco's cunt drool over the linoleum and pool onto the wood flooring beneath them.

“Like that?” Marc would ask, voice tight and strained with pleasure.

“Yes, yes... fuck. Right there, perfect. Right there!”

Marco's walls tightened, his head swam with pleasure. His thumb slides the vibrator up to high, and he's right there, right on the edge. So close. So, so close. And–

Presently, a loud thud bangs against the bathroom wall.

Marco's eyes shoot open to find the bathroom door wide open and Marc standing before him, eyes blown wide in shock. Marco yelps in embarrassment, almost crying as he quickly pulls his legs shut. The vibrator slips from his cunt, falling heavy to the bathroom floor and tumbling across the dark wood towards Marc's feet.

“Marc!” The fear has Marco speaking before his brain can catch up to what's happening.

He'd been caught. How could he have forgotten to lock the bathroom door? That was so damn stupid.

“Shit, sorry,” Marc stutters. He steps back awkwardly. “I thought– I heard you making noises. Sorry, I thought you were hurt in here or…”

Marco stands up fully on shaking legs, trying to step back into his pants. Slick is dribbling down his inner thighs but he feels far too humiliated to do anything about how uncomfortable it feels. The vibrator is still buzzing at Marc's feet. Marc's face looks pale.

So this is how it ends, huh? Marc finding out that his boyfriend has become nothing but a sex addict who can't keep himself in check long enough to even have a simple dinner? God had warned about lust, the potential ruin it could have on people's lives. Marco had tried to put that all behind himself, but maybe he was finally facing his damnation.

“I'm sorry,” Marco cries.

He makes for the door, ready to run off and hide himself in their bedroom because, really, he doesn't think he can face this right now. But before he can get past Marc's position outside the bathroom door, Marc's hand is grabbing him and holding him in place.

“Woah, hold up,” Marc says.

And thankfully, he doesn't sound angry. Despite the wave of prickly heat beneath Marco's skin, he can at least feel okay that Marc doesn't seem upset. But is the look of confusion he holds on his face completely better?

“What's this all about?” Marc asks. He picks the vibe off the floor. Marco cringes internally as the thing keeps buzzing resiliently, covered in the sheen of his slick.

“I'm–” Truthfully, Marco isn't even sure what to say.

“Your cooking made me horny,” didn't exactly sound like a reasonable answer.

“I didn't know you were into toys. Were you hiding this from me? I wouldn't judge, you know?”

Oh, that's what he thinks this is about? Hiding toys?

To be fair, Marc has never used toys with him in the bedroom before. Most of their sex has been pretty vanilla, and really it's never bothered Marco. Quite the opposite, even. Marc has always made him feel good. And that's the issue. Maybe it's all too good. Too good to the point that all his body craves is sex. It was almost terrifying when Marco finally ordered that vibrator online after having it sit in his cart for weeks debating on buying it. And the fact that he'd had the package delivered to his personal P.O. Box instead of letting it show up at their apartment's doorstep? It's gotta be considered some level of deranged at this point.

Marco stammers, “No, it's not the toy… it's me.”

He takes the vibrator from Marc's hand, wondering if maybe he should just throw the thing away.

“What do you mean?” Marc asks. “Are you okay?”

Marco is silent as he turns back to the bathroom sink. The vibrator's box is sitting on the counter, open and mocking. Marco fumbles to put the toy back inside.

“Marco, what's going on?”

Marc places a hand over Marco's. It stays there, and Marco isn't sure if he should run or stay still until Marc lets him go.

“Talk to me,” Marc says, voice soothing. “If somethings wrong, let me help you. I'm just kind of lost here.”

“I'm really sorry,” Marco apologizes yet again, to Marc, to himself. The whole situation makes Marco feel dizzy and off kilter.

Marc looks at him, eyes softening. He slides the box from Marco's grip, placing it gently on the bathroom counter. He takes a step closer to Marco, still holding his hand.

“What are you saying sorry for?” Marc asks. “Seriously, what's going on?”

Marco takes a deep breath, trying to find the right words. If this is going to be his demise, he may as well get it over with now. "I... I can't stop thinking about you. About us. All the time.” Marco sinks down to the floor, legs nearly giving out from the anxiety of it all.

“What do you mean?” Marc lowers after him.

“I don't know, it's like I'm constantly on fire, and I feel so guilty about it. I guess I grew up being told that these feelings were wrong, and now... living with you... constantly feeling turned on, it's overwhelming."

Marc's expression softens even more as he listens. “You're saying you feel guilty about sex?” He asks.

Marco rakes a nervous hand through his sweaty curls, feeling frustrated at how ridiculous it sounds to hear himself say all of this out loud.

“Yes… and no. Not exactly about sex. I guess, the constant need for it? Like, it just feels wrong,” he tries to explain, but even he feels like it makes very little sense.

Marc pulls Marco into a gentle hug, holding him close. "Marco, it's okay to want to have sex. We're together, I think it's natural to have feelings like that. I mean, trust me,” Marc laughs. “I think about having sex with you too. There's absolutely nothing wrong with you. And I don't want you to feel like you have to hide anything from me. Ever."

Marco leans against Marc's shoulder, feeling the weight of his guilt start to lift, slightly.

"Sorry,” Marco mutters. “I guess I'm just scared you'll think I'm some kind of sex addict or... or that you'll get tired of me."

Marc pulls back slightly, just enough to look into Marco's eyes. "I love you, Marco. All of you. I promise if there's anything that's upsetting you, I want to work through it together. And I hope you'd want the same for me too, right? We shouldn't hide things like this from each other.”

Marco stays silent for a moment, taking in what Marc has to say. It should be that simple. Maybe he's overthinking it. If Marc had come to him with a “Hey, Marco, I constantly think about you when I jack off,” Marco knows wouldn't have judged Marc for it, so why is it so hard to give himself the same level of grace?

He lets out a shuddered breath, trying to get the tightness in his chest to go away completely. With Marc's hand in his, it helps.

“Thank you, Marc. I love you too.”

“Of course.” Marco slightly nudges Marco's rib with his elbow, his face easing into a smile. “I mean, how could you resist someone as cool and sexy as me?”

Marco laughs, pulling his hand from Marc'd to playfully swat at him. “Shut up,” he says, not an ounce of malice in his voice.

Marc pulls him closer again, kissing his cheek before standing, holding out a hand to help Marco up off the bathroom floor. “I guess the dinner I made is going to have to go cold for a while,” he says.

He grabs the vibrator box from the counter, turning the thing in his hand as looks over the label.

“What do you mean?” Marco asks.

Marc looks at him with a mischievous grin. “Well, aren't you interested in finishing up what you started here?”

Oh!

It takes Marc's fingers only a few strokes to get Marco ready again. And Marco, who's still grossly wet from previous endeavors, has very little time to feel embarrassed about it before Marc's tongue is already where he needs it most.

“Oh my god,” Marco gasps, head lolling back against the pillow beneath him.

His hand finds the crown of Marc's head, gripping tight in his hair to ground himself as he angles his hips upwards. His breath goes shaky as Marc's tongue teases at his entrance, dipping in only slightly, enough to have Marco's hole drooling in anticipation.

“Please,” Marco begs.

Marc squeezes his clit gently, catching it again and again as Marco's body trembles with oversensitivity. When Marc's tongue slides up to warm his clit, Marco's body is reacting all on its own, fist clenching in Marc's hair and knee jerking up against his side. Marc groans into his cunt, using one hand to push Marco's leg aside and hold him open at full display.

“Sorry,” Marco breathes.

Marc hums in return, the heat of his breath melting Marco to his core. It's moments like this when Marco really feels insane, letting go of all his convictions and letting Marc take control of his body. It's nice to let his mind slip, muddled in a fog of pleasure. It makes him feel hot all over and wonderfully weightless.

“Feels good,” Marco says, shutting his eyes.

Marc's lips wrap around his clit, sucking softly and kissing against it, longingly and desperately like it's his long-lost lover. It brings tears to Marco's eyes. He feels them rolling down his cheeks, but he's too lost in how good it all feels to wipe them away.

Marco loses the ability to control his moans completely when Marc's fingers push inside. He works them expertly, sliding them with a satisfying ease from Marco's wetness. The vibrator had felt great, but this feeling is unmatched. The way Marc eats him is akin to devout worship. Marvo can feel him in a way that a toy couldn't replicate, fingers crooked in at just the right angle, exactly where Marco needs them to be.

Marco bites his lip, trying to control himself not to come too quickly, but he doesn't really have to because Marc knows him all too well. As Marco nearly reaches his climax, Marc's tongue slightly pulls away, lapping against Marco's clit at a slower pace. Unhurriedly, like he has all the time in the world.

Marco finally swallows the spit that had built up, opening his eyes to protest, meeting Marc's heated gaze from between his thighs.

“Don't tease me,” Marco begs.

Marc fully pulls away with a grin. “Oh, don't like that?”

“Not when I'm so close.”

Marc licks his lips before moving up to sit on his knees. From this angle, Marco can see just how hard Marc is. The full mast of his cock standing at attention making Marco's cunt throbs at the image.

“Marc, I really need you inside,” Marco says.

Possession overcomes him again, that same feeling he had watching Marc cook for him in the kitchen earlier. He pulls Marc into a kiss, uncoordinated and full of teeth. Marc moans into his mouth, gripping Marco's waist to pull him down and flip them over.

Marco renegotiates himself, pushing his legs up to straddle Marc's waist as their mouths move together hungrily. Marco doesn't even care that he can hardly breathe.

Marc's cock slides against Marco's ass, streaking his skin in wet, sticky precum. He wiggles his hips, pushing his ass against Marc's stiffness, finding satisfaction in the way Marc seems to be losing it too, his breath becoming more labored, mouth falling open and saliva spilling down his chin.

“Now you're the one teasing me,” Marc murmurs.

Marco smiles against Marc's lips, but doesn't break their sloppy kiss.

Marc's hands slide down his sides. He grips Marco's ass, kneading harshly into the meat of it, holding Marco in place as he adjusts his hips. His cock slides between Marco's cheeks as he cants his hips upwards, in long fluid strokes. Then he's lifting Marco up higher before settling him down over his cock slowly, pushing himself up to breach Marco's hole.

The fit of it has Marco groaning, drooling over Marc's lips.

“Fuck, you're not wearing a condom,” Marco notes, but doesn't make a move to stop anything from going forward.

Marc forces Marco down to the base, where they finally become fully connected. They both pant in unison, unmoving. Giving themselves a moment to adjust to their new position.

Marco sits up, balancing himself by placing his hands on Marc's chest. Marc's cheeks are flushed red and he has this misty, half-lidded gaze that's got Marco feeling butterflies deep in his stomach. Along with Marc's dick.

“You're so beautiful,” Marco says.

Marc's lips ease into a grin and he laughs, reaching up to cup Marco's face. “You're one to talk, sweet boy,” he says, low and breathless.

Marco pulls Marc's hand away from his cheek to kiss the inside of his palm.

“I love you,” Marco says.

“C'mere.”

Marc pulls him down to bring their lips together again, and this time it's less rushed. A soft peck leading into a nice, languid kiss. Marc's hand slides up to the nape of Marco's neck, guiding Marco deeper into the kiss. It makes Marco's thoughts slow. Marc hums softly when Marco nibbles at his lower lip.

Slowly, Marco begins rocking himself in Marc's lap, rolling his hips and lightly lifting himself on Marc's cock. He feels so full this way, he almost wishes Marc could stay inside of him like this forever.

Marc grips Marco's waist with both hands to help him balance, allowing Marco to take what he wants.

Marco sits up, leaning his head back to give himself more leverage to fully move his hips. He rises higher, beginning to ease into a faster pace. And Marc watches him ride, eyes soft with affection.

Heat coils in Marco's lower abdomen, and he feels his cunt tighten around Marc's cock inside of him. The heat spreads over him, then through his limbs. It's like his body is melting all at once.

“Ah– ahh,” Marco moans, bringing his fingers to his clit as he rocks himself in Marc's lap.

“That's it, baby,” Marc says. His hand slides up to thumb against Marco's pierced nipple, rolling the bud and metal beneath his fingertip. “Keep going like that. You feel so good.”

The speed increases, the wet between them becomes disgustingly loud. The room becomes hot with the labor of their panting bodies, moving in tandem, skin slapping against skin.

“God, I'm so close,” Marco gasps, closing his eyes and massaging his clit faster.

“Cum for me. You're so pretty, baby. Make yourself cum on my cock,” Marc says, voice sending a pleasant wave of heat though Marco's tired muscles.

The heat makes Marco's cunt tighten then relax as a wave of intense, white pleasure washes through him. He chokes through a sob on his release, thighs trembling and nearly giving out.

“Marc, Fuck,” he cries, body going rigid as he finally cums.

Marc fucks into him, fast, chasing his own orgasm soon after. The heat of Marc's cum fills him and it's the first time in a long while that he and Marc have fucked without a condom. The feeling of being coated on the inside with Marc's fluids makes Marco feel wonderfully euphoric. He sighs happily, riding out the rest of Marc's orgasm before he falls forward against Marc's chest. He buries his face against Marco's neck, kissing there and rolling his hips lazily to milk Marc's cock for all he can.

After a while, Marc's moans turn into overstimulated grunts.

“Fuck, that's enough, baby” Marc breathes, rolling them over and letting his cock slide from Marco's hole.

He feels Marc's cum spilling between his legs, soaking the sheets beneath them. It's not exactly comfortable, but Marc's lips are on his again and that's enough of a distraction.

Their kissing goes on and on until Marco is genuinely feeling lightheaded, like he just might pass out. He pulls away with an airy laugh, cupping Marc's cheek to look at him.

Marc looks just as fucked out as Marco feels, but he too has a smile on his face.

“What's so funny?” Marc asks.

“Nothing,” Marco says. “I just remembered our food is going cold.”

[redwinetalks]

I Won’t Let You Sink

Chapter 2

(Previous Chapter)

Word Count: 6.1k

Pairing: Finnick X Fem!OC

Warnings: slight self harm, angst, fluff kinda, protective Finnick, the Capitol sells them unfortunately, hurt/comfort, pre-canon, young Finnick and Silk, Silk AND Finnick pov, Silk doesn’t understand that’s she’s crushing on Finnick,

Summary: Silk is back a the Capitol and she’s in for a rough night! She’s real stressed and Finnick tries to comfort her teehee.

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°

~ Silk ~

Only a few weeks have passed and I find myself back at the Capitol. It feels too soon. Like the days sped up so I couldn’t even try to feel the happiness I found back at home. I only was given a few days before any thought of peace was stripped away from my arms.

I feel greatly exposed while standing on the small platform in the middle of a room filled with mirrors. Everyone who’s here to help make me “beautiful” is just staring at me. I wish I could sink through the floor.

My stylist, Bijou, is filled with much more excitement than I am as she rips the last wax strip off my leg. I purse my lips at the pain.

“Last one! Now you’re all silky smooth. Just like your name!” She smiles widely and laughs at her unoriginal pun. I try to smile back at her but I can only muster up a slight twitch of my lips. She doesn’t seem to notice. “Now, you’re going to get your makeup and hair done, then you can just step into your dress! Oh, you’re going to love it! I worked extra hard on this one. I have to make you even more eye catching.”

Bijou has always been very kind just maybe a bit oblivious. She probably doesn’t even know why I’m supposed to stand out more than usual tonight. I wonder if she’d be sick to her stomach like I am if she knew what was happening. But maybe she does know, and that makes it even more gut wrenching.

She continues her rambling while the makeup teams tries to bring back the life drained from my face.

“You know, I’ve always liked District 8. I mean, yes it is very dreary, but your people created the beautiful fabric used to make the dress! And the clothes you all wear look so bright and colorful. It’s such a shame the place has to look so drab.” Her words actually cause me to let out a small laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone speak nicely about 8, especially in the Capitol.

“Thank you, Bijou. That’s very kind.” She smiles widely again and I notice the little jewels on her canines. The people here seem to want to bejewel everything.

I can tell that the purpose of my makeup was to makeup me look more innocent. They used an excessive amount of blush and made my lips look quite pouty. They straightened my hair and curled it just slightly at the ends. A few strands are tied up in the back with a delicate bow. If I didn’t know the purpose of this look was to make me have more “doll like” features, maybe I would like it. But I’m just thinking of the sick creatures who desire me looking like this.

Bijou leads me back to the small platform to put on my dress. She was right, the fabric is beautiful. The light pink dress has a corset bodice adorned with pearls and floral lace skirt that goes to my ankles. It leaves my shoulders exposed which must be why the makeup team made them look so shiny.

I wonder if they were asked to make me look specifically like this, as if by request. Am I wanted to be in pink because it’s someone’s favorite color? Are my lips supposed to look this pouty so they can seem more irresistible? These thoughts fill me with a sickening feeling of dread. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look at myself again without wondering what predatory thoughts fill those who see me. Is this how I’ve always been thought of? Someone who can be easily taken advantage of and damaged?

“Darling? Come now.” I quickly turn to Bijou as she takes my hand. “You have a short meeting with Snow before you go to the party.” I look at her with a panicked expression. I didn’t know I was to be meeting with him. “Oh don’t look so nervous! He’s only a little intimidating.” She giggles and leads me out the room.

I walk a few steps behind her, my uneasiness slowing down my pace. I know he’ll probably only give me more information about tonight, but that thought does nothing to ease my anxiety. The corset doesn’t help either.

The walk to wherever we’re meeting is incredibly daunting. Part of me hopes the walk never ends, but the other part can’t wait to get this over with. It’s not even like I’ll be filled with relief once I’m done talking with Snow. I’ll immediately have another thing to worry about. It’s an endless cycle of horrors.

“Here we are!” Bijou stops and opens a door. I struggle to make myself move. “Darling?” She looks at me with her cheery face, but there’s a hint of confusion.

“Sorry, I…” I trail off. She doesn’t understand and I can’t explain it to her. There is no one here that I can express my true feelings to. There is no one to comfort me. I just have to push through on my own.

Apprehensively, I walk through the doorway and there he is. He sits in a large, dark leather chair with his back facing me. Drink in hand, his arm drapes off the armrest and on the floor I can see his foot tapping. Not impatiently, but as if he’s counting the tempo of a song stuck in his head.

The room isn’t at all inviting. What I’ve seen from the Capitol’s style so far has been over the top and extravagant, but this is much different. Everything seems to be curated to Snow’s image, very poised and crisp. He is tasteful, not at all gaudy, and it makes everything intimidating.

Unlike the beginning of his first visit, he isn’t ushering me to sit. He’s letting me take my time to walk around to the chair directly across from him. It feels like I’m walking to my death and the fearfulness radiating off my body is adding to his entertainment. I try to look more composed and unbothered by his presence, but I know it falls flat. He can see me inside and out. I am wrapped around his finger and it’s agonizing.

“Miss Fabelle, you look lovely. Thank you for meeting with me to discuss tonight’s events.” He gives me a small, cunning smile as I sit. He gestures to an envelope on the small table beside my chair. “That, my dear, contains all the details you will need. You are to be on your best behavior and arrive to your room at your scheduled time.” I tensely nod at him. He looks directly into my eyes and I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to talk back to him. It won’t do me any good. Snow does a good job at staying calm and collected, but it’s not hard to see the true evil that’s inside him. He is successfully sucking the life from me.

“Yes, sir.” He stands and then walks to the window behind me. I shut my eyes and put my hand on my chest to try and calm my breathing. The smell of roses fills my senses.

“That’ll be all, Miss Fabelle. I do hope you enjoy tonight’s festivities, but remember dear girl, you are here on business. This party isn’t for your entertainment.” I stand and nervously straighten out my dress.

“Yes, President Snow. I understand.” And I am thankfully dismissed from this suffocating room, on to the next horror.

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°

~ Finnick ~

The amount of linen my stylist chose to put me in isn’t at all ideal considering the weather. It’s still a bit chilly out and the thin cloth makes me feel practically naked, well that and the fact that my shirt is barely even buttoned.

It’s only been an hour and I’m already fed up with the amount of women that have all but drooled on me. Women that are probably ten or twenty years older than me. It will never not be completely disgust me, the Capitol’s obsession with teenagers that have been forced to murder. Getting aroused by that is fucking psychotic.

“Finnick! It is such a pleasure to see you again.” A woman I faintly remember from one of the last parties walks towards me. Her bright orange feather dress is practically blinding.

“The pleasure is all mine, sweetheart.” I wink and kiss her hand. I’d say she’s blushing but it could just be all of the makeup she’s wearing.

“You’re always so charming. I can’t wait to see how you’ll charm me later tonight.” She whispers in my ear and then gives it a swift lick. Her boldness almost makes me jump back. I could gag, but then I’d ruin the facade.

“C’mon now, don’t get me all riled up here.” I whisper back, thankful she can’t see my face. I know the look in my eyes isn’t at all believable. “Save it for later.” I smirk at her before walking away.

I walk towards a table of drinks and finger foods. I’m gonna need to down a bottle of something to get through his night. I see her as she goes to grab a glass of wine at the opposite end of the table. Silk. Wine seems to be her drink of choice. She almost goes for the red, but pauses and then reaches for the rosé. Probably a wise decision considering the color of her dress. The pink really looks stunning on her.

I didn’t expect to see her again so soon, but there she is. They didn’t even give her time to get her bearings before dragging her back over here. She looks like she’s glowing. I’m sure part of that effect is from her stylist, but not all of it. There’s something about her that makes her shine. In a way that’s soft and ethereal, like moonlight. If she is the moon, Silk pulls me into her world like the tides. And I go willingly.

I’m not sure what it was, but when I first saw her I felt immediately drawn in. When she was standing away from the crowd, finally getting away from the vultures, I felt like I had to meet her. It could’ve been my only chance. And she was nothing if not astonishing. I didn’t have enough time with her. I was left wanting more, but there was nothing I could do since I had other obligations. I’m not as busy tonight which is a relief. I may have more time to get to know her.

I walk towards her, looking around to make sure no one is itching for my attention.

“Hello again, Silk Fabelle.” She flinches, not unlike when I first met her, but it’s even more noticeable this time. “You know, I really don’t mean to startle you with every greeting.” I laugh but her expression doesn’t change a bit.

“It’s fine.” Something is off. The air around her is different.

“What’s going on, doll face?” She looks at me and glares. Shit. Why did I say that? Of course calling her by what the Capitol has deemed her as would be triggering. I wish I would think before I fucking speak. She has a way of making me so nervous, something others can’t do so easily. I’m usually more grounded. I’ve gotten so good at this confident facade of flirtations that it’s almost as easy as breathing. But with her…I feel it melting away. Like I’m having to relearn how to communicate.

“Don’t call me that.” She turns away from me and looks at her glass. I swear I can see tears brimming her eyes.

“I..I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking. I should’ve known not to.” She doesn’t look back up at me. I reach out my hand to her arms and she backs away slightly.

“What do you want, Finnick?” Her tone isn’t malicious, it sounds defeated. When she finally looks back up at me I can almost feel my heart breaking. She looks so empty.

“I just…are you okay?” And then it hits me. They’ve started selling her. But It isn’t her time to start. It can’t be. She just finished the games, they can’t be moving this fast with her.

“Just trying to make it through the night.” She gives me a pitiful smile. “You should go enjoy it while you can.” She starts to walk away, but I can’t let her leave yet.

“Silk, please.” She stops and turns back towards me. I wish I could embrace her and tell her it’ll be okay. But I can’t and it won’t. There’s nothing I can do to stop what Snow has planned for her.

“I’ve got places to be, Finnick. People to meet. Maybe another time we can finally have a full conversation.” Sorrow fills her voice. I watch her walk away and the pull that I feel from her just gets stronger. I want to be wrong. I wish that she could just be left alone, but I know how her night will go. I know that in the next few hours she will have yet another trauma. Another nightmare that will wake her in the night. But I refuse to let her suffer alone.

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°

~ Silk ~

The man that bought my time for the night finally leaves and I’m left on the bed, still face down. Maybe if I lay here long enough I can melt away. I could just become a decayed mess that was left here to rot. My skin burns and I can feel the tears trickle across my face and onto the bedspread. I finally sit up to cover myself with the sheets and make my way the bathroom. I only make it two steps before my legs give out on me and I drop to the ground. I just continue with a slow, pathetic crawl. I can’t imagine what I look like, but the thought is enough to make me vomit once I reach the toilet. Once I finish I continue to sit there and let go of the sobs that I was holding in. I want to scream until my throat turns raw and bleed, but I have to suck it all up. The punishment that my mom would have to pay the price for constantly floats around in my thoughts. It torments me.

I finally try to stand up and I brace myself against the counter. I stare just below the mirror for what feels like hours until I shakily raise my head to look at myself. I don’t even know who is staring back at me. She’s looks broken and filled with dread. I see only a shell of a human being. I feel so infuriated with what she has just gone through. What she has been going through. Before I realize, I grab a candle that was sitting on the counter and throw it at the mirror. My hands are shaking as the shattered glass falls into the sink. If only that had helped release some of my built up tension. All I can do is stand there and look at the mess.

I’m startled by the door to my room opening and I wrap myself tighter in the sheet. An avox enters to fix up the bed, but she notices me cowering in the bathroom doorway. She looks at the broken glass and doesn’t seem phased at all. I feel guilty for her having to clean it up, but hopefully she can forgive me all things considered.

She stands just outside the bathroom door once she’s done making up the bed. As if she’s ushering me to leave so she can start clearing away my breakdown. I hesitantly walk past her back into the bedroom. I see a change of clothes on the dresser for me and since she’s shut away in the bathroom I go ahead and put them on.

I don’t think I can lay again in that bed, let alone sleep in it, so I just sit down on the floor by the loveseat. I feel quite pathetic. I feel angry. I feel like I could burst at the seams, just like my dress did. I wonder how Bijou would feel knowing the dress she worked so hard to make is now ripped up on the floor.

“I don’t care. I don’t care about the mirror that I shattered. I don’t care about her. I don’t care about anyone or anything here. I don’t fucking care.” The saliva built up from my tears and sick spit out slightly as I whisper angrily to myself. Without realizing, I’m also sinking my nails into my shoulders while holding myself. I’ve grown to do that a lot now. Mostly when my anger and sadness builds up. The sight of me is a disgusting mess, I’m sure of it. I didn’t used to feel this weak and despondent. I used to be confident and full of so much life. I was passionate about caring for my district, but I tried to always remain positive. I tried to stay hopeful. But I’m scared that’s all gone. That I’ve lost who I was and I don’t know if I’ll be able to find her again. She has sunken into the abyss and there is no one to bring her back to the surface.

The avox walks out of the bathroom finally and looks at me on the floor. She looks like she has a some pity in her eyes, but it quickly fades away when she turns to leave the room. As she opens the door I can see a figure standing in the hall. Is there going to be someone else? Am I not done? My nails sink farther further into shoulders and I stare into the hallway, not even trying to hide the panic in my eyes.

The avox walks away and I can see that it isn’t someone here to use me, it’s Finnick. But why is Finnick here? How does he even know that I’m here. I know I didn’t even try to hide my misery, but how did he find me?

“Silk..?” He looks at me with that familiar softness in his green eyes. “Is it okay if I come in” he speaks in a whisper.

“How’d you know I was in here?” I say quickly as if I’m accusing him of something.

“I bribed an avox into pointing me to your room.” I can tell he was about to use his suave way of speaking to lighten the mood, but it isn’t the time. He knows to be serious.

“Why?” I say so plainly. He doesn’t have to be here. He doesn’t know me. There isn’t anything to gain from being here. But he looks at me with hurt, but it’s hurt for me. Is it so insane to wonder why anyone would want to be here with me right now?

“Because, I know what happened here. And I said I didn’t want you to have to go through this alone. I meant that. Especially with this.” And the sadness in his eyes is back. The same look from when we met. The illusion has faded and I can see that this is what is causing him to sink. I shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that he is going through this too, I just didn’t think about how many others Snow is forcing to sell their bodies.

I nod at him and move over on the floor, allowing him to come in. He sighs and smiles sadly at me but I look down and continue to hold onto myself. Like I’m scared I’ll float away. He walks in slowly to not cause any sudden stress and then sits next to me. I move over a bit more. It’s not like he’s done anything wrong, but I’m scared to be close to him. I’m scared to be close to anyone. Just him knowing what happened in here is terrifying to me. What if this gets me in trouble? What if it leads back to Snow?

“How…how are you doing?” I huff out a laugh. Like the audacity of the question makes it humorous.

“Fucking fantastic.” I then turn to look at and I know he sees the anger in my face. His entire demeanor shifts from worry to guilt.

“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I just-“

“I know.” I cut him off, “I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help.” I look back at him and wish he could just read my mind. The words feel too difficult to say. “It’s just…” I hesitate, trying not to start crying. “…they took my girlhood…that was mine. No one is supposed to just take that from you. But they snatched it up with no remorse. I thought that I’d get to go home. That when I won, I’d get to go home and be with my mom and live my life. I knew I’d still have to relive the pain again every year when mentoring. I knew I would have guilt and nightmares and all of these horrible memories, but I’d at least be home. But I can never go back home. I am trapped in this hell forever.” I no longer try to stop my tears from falling. My shoulders ache from me grasping on for dear life. It’s all too much and I hate it.

“Silk” he tries to calm me. He tries to move my arms.

“Don’t touch me.” I snap at him. I don’t mean to, it just comes out and he immediately withdraws himself.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. Just, please, you’re hurting yourself.” I shakily remove my hands from my shoulders and instead mess with the hem of my shirt. I try to tell him I’m sorry, but I can’t speak. I want his comfort but I’m too panicked. My breathing is rapid and he can tell. He shifts just slightly closer, but he’s cautious to not get too close.

“Hey, just look at me. You’re safe. You’re okay, I’m with you. No one else is coming through that door. Just keep looking at me and follow my breathing.” He takes deep breaths in and out and I try to follow. It’s shaky, but my breathing calms down. I keep looking at him and try to ground myself. “That’s good. You’re okay, yeah?” He gives me a small, reassuring smile and I nod. I timidly reach out my hand. I want to touch him. To feel that he is real. He reaches back to hold my hand, but not before intently looking at me to get the okay. His thumb rubs my palm at the pace that he was using to calm my breaths. I close my eyes and sigh deeply. “Let’s go get you cleaned up, okay?”

I nod and stand up, still holding his hand. His other hand is ready to help if I stumble. When we walk into the bathroom he lets out a small laugh.

“Oh, yeah...I broke the mirror.”

“I can see that. Good work.” He looks at me and smiles. He inspects to counter to make sure there’s no leftover glass, and then helps me up to sit. He grabs two washcloths, one for my face and one for my arms, and runs them under warm water. He hands one to me and I start cleaning up as much of the makeup and dried tears as I can while he tends to my shoulders. The focus that Finnick puts into cleaning my small cuts is so caring and gentle. I can’t help but look at him. He looks so concentrated and beautiful. Like he was carved out of marble, and then I see his dimples forming from the smirk he’s giving me.

“Like what you see?” I roll my eyes and turn my face away from his.

“You’re annoying” His face looks dramatically hurt and shocked.

“You’ve wounded me. I’m heartbroken.” I can’t help my lips from twitching. “There’s that smile, pretty girl.” I turn my head back to face him and sigh. He is so unusual to me. There is so much more to him than what meets the eye. His cockiness and flirtatious spirit is just one of playful banter. It’s not who he truly is. It’s his cover for the Capitolite, but besides that it’s just to amuse. To lighten the mood. The real Finnick is much more complicated and I’m so compelled to uncover his true character.

“Why are you doing this? Being so nice to me.” He rolls his eyes.

“Why do you keep asking me that?” He laughs lightly and I shrug.

“I just don’t understand. You just met me yet you keep being so kind to me. You keep going out of your way and there is nothing to gain.” He sighs and looks down at the washcloth in his hand.

“Remember when you helped that kid in the arena? That girl from 2 got his leg pretty good with a spear and you could’ve just left him there. Let someone else find him. But you helped him up, led him to a place where he could hide, and tried your best to clean up his wound. You even gave him some of your food before you left. You didn’t know him. You had nothing to gain from that, but you did it anyway.” I remember him. He was so small. I didn’t want to help him, I wanted to ignore everything around me. I wanted to shut off my emotions, but he was just a little boy. He didn’t deserve to be left in mud, waiting for someone to kill him. And I knew that if I saw his picture at night, it would’ve been my fault. That wouldn’t have been survival. That would’ve been inhumane.

“He was from 4. He was yours.”

“Yeah..he was a good kid. You didn’t treat him like a tribute you had to kill, you treated him like a person. He was able to survive longer because of you. Your kindness, it meant something to me.” I look down at my hands. I don’t even know if that was kindness. I did it to save myself from the guilt. But, I guess sometimes that’s what kindness is. Maybe that’s why Finnick is here tonight.

“I guess I’ve been having a hard time trusting people’s motives.”

“For good reason.” He lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Come on pretty girl, let’s run you a hot shower.” He holds my hand as I hop off the counter and then goes to start the water. He holds his hand under it to feel for the perfect temperature. He decides everything is ready and steps towards the door. At first, him caring for me made me feel a bit uneasy, but I guess it’s not too much. It is better than doing this all alone.

“Alright, I’ll be just outside if that’s okay. I don’t have to stay, though.” His sweet green eyes look into mine. I can tell he wants to, like he wants to protect me.

“You can. I think..that’d be nice.”

The warm water washes over me and I run my hands through my hair. I wish I could easily scrub away the events of today. The most I can do is scrub away the feeling of disgust. I guess this is supposed to be my future routine. Every few months I go up to the Capitol for a day or two, go through hell, then go home. I’m sure that’s how they think of it. So simple. I can easily get over it. How is someone supposed to get over having their body taken advantage of? They’re not, but I’m not thought of an actual person here. Just a toy.

This is happening to Finnick too. He said he knew what happened. He knew how to calm me and what to do to help. This is all so hard to come to terms with. Finnick won three years ago at just fourteen. Did Snow make him start immediately, like me? If so, he’s been doing this for so long already. All on his own. No one to soothe him after the torture. How is he still standing? Has he become numb to it? That thought doesn’t make it any better.

From how I have felt tonight, I cannot imagine what Finnick felt his first night. Fourteen years old and left to suffer in silence. I can only hope that they weren’t so horrible to him that young.

I could have stayed in that shower for hours and still wouldn’t have felt completely clean. I dry myself off and I’m relieved I can barely see what I look like because of the broken mirror. I don’t know how I’d feel seeing myself naked right now, but I know it wouldn’t be positive. It’d probably set me off again.

When I’m finished getting dressed I walk back into the bedroom. I see Finnick waiting patiently on the loveseat and he smiles when he sees me. He has such a beautiful smile. His dimples and the creases near his eyes make him look so warm and inviting. I sit on the opposite side of the couch, keeping some space between us. I think I’m beginning to trust him, but he still makes me nervous. That feeling I don’t quite understand. It’s not necessarily negative, it’s just…different.

“Feeling a bit better?” I nod and wrap my arms around my legs, giving myself a sense of security. The worst of the night is over, but it’s hard to feel at ease.

“I think so. Thank you, by the way. For being here and being patient.”

“You don’t have to thank me, sweet girl.”

“Maybe, but I want to. Your kindness means something to me.” I smile softly and he looks down at his hands, blushing slightly. I feel like I can see him more clearly. Like I’ve uncovered a portion of his mystery. So much has happened to him tonight too, but I haven’t seen him upset. Like he holds it in. Like he wants to care for everyone else first.

“Finnick?” He hums in response immediately. Ready to help in any way I’d need, but I don’t need anything from him right now. I just want him to know I would do for him what he has done for me. “How are you feeling?” He shakes his head, brushing me off.

“I’m alright. You don’t need to worry about me.” He smiles, but I know this one isn’t as genuine. He is hiding his pain and my heart aches for him.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, but just like you have worried over me, I am going to worry over you.” He turns his head to the side, looking out the window at the city below us. He stays that way for a minute and I give him his time.

“They were quick with you. They didn’t give you any time to settle. They didn’t start immediately with me. At least not like this. They gave me the illusion of peace. I would come to Capitol parties every few months or so. Get dragged around by different women, but just to talk. Every now and then someone would touch my arms or my chest while flirting, but that was it. When I turned fifteen, things started to slowly escalate. It was secretive, but I’d be taken to backrooms for quick sessions. Nothing below the belt, but then I turned sixteen.” He takes a breath, somewhat shaky. He still isn’t looking at me, but I haven’t taken my eyes off of him. “Nothing was off the table. They could do whatever they wanted and I had to go along with it. And Snow would make sure of it.” I look at him sadly. I know how he was threatened. How he didn’t actually have a choice. He takes another deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. He’s looking at me now. His eyes are just slightly red. Like he is holding back tears that he refuses to let fall. “Every time I go back home I spend the entire day at the beach. I ignore everyone else and just swim as if I could swim away from this. It’s the only place I can let go. To try and distract myself from what happens here.”

“Tell me about it. The beach, the water.” He tilts his head, but I see his lip twitch slightly. It’s like just the thought of the ocean can bring him some ease. “There’s a place just past the border in 8 that I go to get away from everything. There’s a very small, rocky beach, but the water is too polluted from the factories. All I can do is listen to the waves, but it’s my favorite thing to do. Ever since I found that spot I wanted to know what a real ocean is like. How the water feels on your skin. What it sounds like washing up against sand.” He looks into my eyes and smiles, no longer trying to suppress it.

“It’s my favorite place in the world. Every morning that I can, I start by running to the beach and immediately jumping in the water. It’s so cold when it’s early, the sun is barely even up, but it’s breathtaking. You feel the coolness against your skin, flowing with you as you move. You can taste the salt in the air when you go above to breathe. It’s a feeling of freedom that you can’t feel anywhere else. When the breeze hits your body as you get out of the water. It’s unlike anything you could imagine. It’s hypnotizing.” He looks so captivated by his thoughts. Like he’s been taken to another world. I don’t know if I have anything like that. Something that can bring me so much peace and happiness.

“I hope I can experience that someday” Now it’s me turning to look outside. The hope that I feel is so strong. The hope that one day things can be good. That this world will no longer be suffocating and terrifying.

“Maybe one day you can.” I turn back to him and he’s looking into my eyes so earnestly. There’s a warmth that I feel from him. He thinks the same thing that I do. That strong feeling of hope is what can keep us going.

I keep trying not to fall asleep, but my eyelids have become so heavy. Thankfully, my conversations with Finnick have distracted me enough that I can feel somewhat relaxed. But I can’t get back in that bed. I can’t sleep there.

“I’ll grab some blankets.” He gets up to start turning the loveseat into my bed for the night.

“I don’t know if I’ll actually be able to sleep. I’m sure the second I’m alone with my thoughts I’ll be too anxious to.” I let out a nervous laugh.

“I can stay if that’d be okay. If it would help.” I watch him walk back over to me. The moonlight from outside glows on his tan skin as he stands near me. His golden blonde waves have gotten messier throughout the night, but he still looks perfect.

“You don’t have to do that. I mean, where would you sleep? Unless you’re okay with the bed.”

“I’m fine on the floor. And then, if you need anything…I’m right there.” He says that so casually as puts the blanket over the cushions, but I can see the slight tint of pink sneaking up on his cheeks. I can feel my face heating up as well.

“You can’t sleep on the floor, Finnick.” I help tuck the blanket into one corner.

“Sure I can. I’ve slept on worse.” He shrugs. He’s not wrong and I can say the same, but still. Am I even sure I want him to stay? My thoughts are quick to say yes, the night with him has been lovely, but what if that got back to Snow? Does that actually matter? I was never told I couldn’t develop a friendship with other victors. However, something tells me that whatever happiness I find here will be stolen away from me.

“It’s up to you. If you’re fine with the floor I’m fine with you staying.” He grins so sweetly. I can tell he doesn’t want to be alone either.

I lay on the loveseat, facing Finnick as he lays on the floor. We both talk about home, learning about each other’s district as we grow more and more tired. When I finally fall asleep, my arm is draped over the cushion and I swear I can feel the touch of Finnick’s fingers lightly on mine. As if he’s reaching up to tell me he’s not going anywhere. His protective touch saves me from any nightmares that dare to enter my mind.

*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°

Thank you so much for reading! You all were so nice with my first chapter. I hope you enjoyed this one :) As always I am open to kind feedback. Also let me know if you’d like to be tagged for the next chapter!! <3

Tag list <3 (I again tagged some people who liked the related posts. Hope that’s okay!!)

@ghoulbabs @lusy98 @marvelescvpe @simplymurdock @marcyss @miserablebl00d @wife-of-all-dilfs @mrsnancywheeler @gremlin515 @bruuhky @0ceanautical @princessofyourmom @babypaperwitch @readawaythereality2

Next Chapter!

[oreoambitions]

Lena finds Kara on the stairs behind the bar - a strange place to be in the early afternoon and even stranger beneath the damp grey spittle that has been passing for rain these last weeks in National City. She’s sitting on the bottom step with her bare knees pulled up to her chest, head down, arms wrapped tightly around herself as though she might otherwise unfold forever and ever and ever until she’s nothing. Lena hesitates a long time in the doorway. Kara must know she’s there - must have known for some time, even, that she was on the way - but she doesn’t look up. Something in Lena wants to speak, but the words all tangle in her throat. She wants to crack a joke about those shorts and this weather, or demand to know where Kara has been, or apologize for everything, for- Silence gets the better of her.

She moves down the steps one cautious step at a time, heels unwieldy on damp wood. The puddle Kara is sitting in will soil Lena’s pants. She hesitates, and she hates herself for hesitating, and she wonders if Kara has noticed the hesitation and the hatred both, and then she sits down before she can think any more of it. Cold seeps through fabric in an instant. The concrete at the foot of the stairs is littered with fresh ash.

“Have you taken up smoking in your absence?” Lena means it as a joke but it comes out bitter and she wants to cringe.

Kara lifts her head to stare at the ash for a long moment, fidgeting all the while with something in her left hand. “It’s spring cleaning,” she says at last.

“Spring cleaning,” Lena repeats. Then, when Kara doesn’t elaborate, she says, “I suppose it is that time of year.”

Kara laughs a little at that, dry and humorless. The wind whips through the alley and Lena wishes she’d brought a coat. Trust a Kryptonian to have a mental health crisis outside in this kind of weather. Trust a Luthor to have trouble responding appropriately. She reaches out one trembling hand to rest on Kara’s shoulder, and almost takes it back when Kara looks away, but then, looking away and moving away are not the same. She stays.

“Kelly said it might help,” Kara explains at last. “It doesn’t really get rid of anything, but just writing it down wasn’t enough, so we thought-”

“You burnt your journal?”

“Mmm. No. I wouldn’t do that. But… I wrote down some things. Feelings I’d like to get past. Stuff I’m having a hard time letting go of.”

“So then you came out here and you burned it all.”

“Almost.”

Almost. Kara sets the lighter down, bright baby blue plastic obscene against the wooden steps and the heaviness of the moment. Her other hand closes even tighter, as though the lighter, now free from her grasp, poses a threat to whatever she’s clutching there.

“What did you burn?” Lena doesn’t know if that’s the right question. She doesn’t know if questions are appropriate right now at all, but it feels like silence is the wrong answer, so she tries. Better to try anything than nothing.

Kara responds in a monotone, as if reciting from a book. “The destruction of Argo. The collapse of the multiverse. Mon-El is never coming back. Winn is never coming back. Krypton is never coming back. What do you do with the things you can’t change and can’t shoulder?”

Lena wants to say, you shoulder them anyway. You’re a hero; shouldering the hard things is what you do. It feels like the wrong thing to say. Kara looks like a child, trembling and grim in the cold and the quiet. Silence gets the better of Lena again. She reaches out for Kara’s clenched left hand and and slowly, gently, worries a scrap of lined paper from between her fingers.

Kara stands up. Lena stares a long time at the scrap, at the words I’m in love with her in Kara’s tidy ballpoint scrawl. Kara is halfway through the back door of the bar before Lena chokes out her name.

“For what it’s worth,” Kara says, “I think you and Andrea make a lovely couple.” And then, as though the words are bitter on her tongue, “I hope she makes you happy.”

Lena is left on the back porch with the ash and the rain and the sound of the back door closing.

[ninigummysmile]

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐲 - 𝐉𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐨

Summary: Your girlfriend needs to stop the car to relieve some of the desire she’s feeling for you

Jisoo x Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Warning: This story contains +18 content. It is not the responsibility of the author if minors read it.

Important: English is not my first language so, please, forgive me if there are any mistakes

Words: 1.257

Early in the morning the sun shines brightly, giving you the certainty that your family's country house will be great for hiking and entering the lake, which normally has very cold water.

You've taken this road trip many times before, but it's your first time with your girlfriend. Since you were a little girl, you memorized some parts of the landscape and every time you do the route, you check to see if everything is still the same despite the several years that have passed.

When you and Jisoo go on car trips to nearby cities, you already have a road map that you like to follow. You go from the drive-thru to breakfast in the car as you watch the sun get higher and higher as the hours pass, put on your travel playlist (something that when you first went traveling, Jisoo insisted that you make a special playlist to cheer yourself up in the car until you reach your destination), you make small talk and many times you take a nap, even though you say you're going to keep your girlfriend company.

At the moment you just enjoy the traffic-free road, you hum along with the background music as you wait for the next question she's going to ask you.

“Okay, what about that dice game?” you have the intimacy to talk about anything and even if in the beginning you were shy of some subjects, nowadays it is something very natural.

“What dice game?” you have an idea what she's talking about, but you need to make sure it's what you’re thinking.

“The one where you have two dice. One for a body part and one for an action”

“Like, kiss on the boobs?”

“Yeah, like that” she laughs at your example.

“You want to buy? I’ve heard of it, I think it would be cool if we tried it”

“Do you think you would be able to come just from that?”

“I don't know” you shrug. “But I'm sure it must be pretty exciting. Better than the last card game we bought”

“Hey, don't talk like it's my fault” she defends herself. “You were the one who insisted we buy and didn’t have the patience to follow the rules”

“It's because it was too complex! An erotic card game shouldn't have so many rules, the only objective is to feel pleasure and the only thing I wanted to do was lie down and sleep” you laugh.

“Alright” the subject seems closed all of a sudden, until her words escape her mouth without a second thought. “Now I need to buy these damn dice because the image of us playing while you're in that red lingerie won't get out of my head”

“The red one, your favorite… I even think it's the one I'm wearing right now” you smirk.

“Don't do that, baby” she swallows a moan. “I need to focus on the road”

“I didn't do anything, you're the one who gets wet with your own dirty thoughts”

“Because you are the one who induces these thoughts” she replies, taking one of her hands off the steering wheel and placing it on your thigh.

“No way, both hands on the wheel, Jisoo”

“I'm multitasking, I can drive and touch you at the same time” her eyes don't leave the road.

“What kind of touch do you mean?”

“And I'm the one with dirty thoughts, huh?”

“Always with the answer on the tip of the tongue” you mutter and roll your eyes.

“Unbutton your shorts for me, love”

“Are you serious?”

“I will stop at the next exit, but until then I need to prepare you”

“Fuck” your curse is camouflaged by the buttons and the material sliding down your legs.

“Don't take your panties off,” she warns. “Like I said, the red one is my favorite”

She moves her hands up as she massages your thigh and tucks the lacy fabric to the side.

“Hmm” the sound comes from the back of her throat as she feels your wetness.

She collects your discharge to lubricate your clit and makes small circles on it. You sigh and spread your legs to give her more space.

Her finger teases your entrance and enters you at once, she groans low in surprise at the ease with which you swallowed her.

She likes to take her time appreciating every detail of you, whereas you're impatient and like to feel overwhelmed with pleasure and this leads you to move your hips in search of more friction. The second finger is added and your loud moans begin to mix with the music that plays low on the radio.

One of your hands grips the seat belt as if your life depended on it and an avalanche of intense pleasure rushes through you. When you open your eyes, the car pulls to a stop on a small dirt road and is parked near a thicket.

“Back seat, my love” she instructs as she wipes her fingers with her mouth.

With wobbly legs, you take off your seat belt and sit in the back seat, while she sits next to you, you remove your blouse and panties, wanting to give her the satisfaction of your breasts covered by the red material.

She takes off all her clothes and pulls out a double dildo from a backpack that's on the floor in the backseat.

She lays down with her back on one of the doors and you do the same on the other. Lubricating one end in her wetness, she inserts it and is momentarily gasped for breath.

“Come here, angel. Let me help you” she calls you with her voice full of desire and slowly inserts the other end inside you.

You stand still to enjoy the feeling of the dildo tearing you apart from the inside. She moves her hips and moans escape your mouths.

With her head thrown back, she grabs her breasts and says “Baby, I need you to move too. Your pussy is so tight that the fucking fake dick barely moves inside you”

You whimper aloud as much from the pleasure as from Jisoo's uttered words, you know it won't last long and you'll come again quickly.

Your girlfriend pulls you closer and you practically scream when you feel the material seem to touch your stomach. You're lost, dizzy in the oncoming climax, but you can hear her ask between moans “Are you going to come with me?” you nod fervently. “Yeah?” you nod again “So rub that pretty clit of yours for me” she begs doing the same to her own sex.

You are a mess. Sweat pouring from your foreheads, moans being screamed inside the hot car and liquid oozing from both sides of the dildo as you come together, moaning each other's name incessantly.

Your heartbeat finally slows and you hiss as she takes the dildo out of you.

“We better go because we have at least an hour to get there”

“I don't know if I'm able to drive with my legs now, they feel like Jello” she notes with a smile.

“Take your time, love” you kiss her temple. “In the meantime, I'm going to get ready for my nap, enjoy that you made me tired” you laugh in her face and put your clothes back on.

“You're lucky that I love you” she says even though she knew before leaving home that you were going to sleep whether you were tired or not, breaking the promise to keep her company.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Love lost (Nikolai Lantsov, pt.2)

Summary: Months have passed and Nikolai sees her again.

Warnings: angst

Part 1

------------------------

It all started as a business deal, an arranged marriage between two prominent families. Y/N and Nikolai were to unite their families' fortunes and become a powerful duo that would rule Ravka, with her kingdom strongly supporting their every step. At first, they had agreed to keep things strictly professional, with no feelings involved. But somehow, Y/N had let her guard down. She had allowed herself to believe that there was more to their relationship than just a business deal. And Nikolai had taken advantage of that.

Now, as she sits alone in her room, she can't help but blame herself for being so foolish. How could she have let herself fall for his charm? How could she allow emotions to overpower her mind?

The irony of an arranged marriage intertwining with the rarest, gentle feelings is not lost on her. The very thing that was meant to bring their families together and prosperity had turned sour and torn them apart. And now, Y/N is left to pick up the pieces of her broken heart.

Every night she lays in bed and tries to convince herself that it was all just a business deal gone wrong, that she should have never let feelings get involved. But she can’t argue with the broken pieces of her heart that are proof it was more than that. She had genuinely cared for Nikolai, and he had betrayed her.

As her eyes close every night, her lips whisper promises that she will never make the same mistake twice. From now on, Y/N will keep her heart guarded and focus on what her family needs, leaving feelings out of the equation.

Y/N sits on her bed, her heart heavy and her mind racing. She's wearing a stunning ball gown, but the weight of the world feels heavier than the layers of fabric.

In just a few moments, she'll be announced as the future bride of the Fjerdan prince, but her heart isn't in it. She doesn't love him. She can't love him. Not when her unfortunate heart still belongs to Nikolai.

But she can't think about that now. She can't allow herself to dwell on the past, on what could have been. She wanted a great love, but instead, Nikolai gave her eternal suffering. She should have known better. This was never meant to be a love match. It was a political alliance, just as her engagement is now.

She blames herself for being so naive, for allowing herself to fall for Nikolai's silver tongue that speaks only lies. She had thought he was different, that he felt something real for her. In the end, it was all a game to him despite what their last meet had indicated. She almost believed it hurt him to see her walk away. Her bottom lip quivers as she remembers him begging her to stay.

Y/N takes a deep breath, trying to push down the pain and the memories that threaten to overwhelm her. She must be strong, for the sake of her country and her family. The Fjerdan prince is kind to her, she must seek solace in that.

She stands up, her gown trailing behind her as she makes her way to the ballroom. The anticipation and excitement of the crowd can be felt even before she enters the room.

As she steps into the ballroom, Y/N's heart sinks. The first person she sees is Nikolai, looking as handsome as ever. The memories come flooding back, threatening to undo her as his eyes find hers. They’ve formally invited the King of Ravka, solely for political purposes, but she never thought he’d be so arrogant as to attend the ball. 

Y/N can't allow herself to be distracted. She's to be a queen soon, someone else’s queen, and she must be strong. She must put on a smile and pretend that everything is fine, that she's not dying inside.

Y/N lets out a shuddered breath and walks forward, determined to fulfill her duty and make the best of the situation. She knows it won't be easy, but she's determined to be the best queen she can be, even if it means sacrificing her own happiness. Even if it means living a life without true love, she will do what needs to be done. After all, could it have been true love if all he brought her was betrayal and pain?

Y/N tries to steady herself as she glances at Nikolai, realizing his eyes never left her. Months have passed since Nikolai shattered her heart, but the wounds still feel fresh. She has tried to move on, tried to convince herself that she is over him, that this prince can one day overshadow the memory of Nikolai’s lips upon hers, but seeing him again brings back everything she has worked so hard to forget.

He looks just as dashing as she remembers, with his blonde hair perfectly styled and his tailored suit fitting him like a second skin. He came with Zoya who stands at his side, disinterested while sipping the wine. It feels like a punch in the gut, seeing them together like that. He didn’t even have the decency to come alone, bringing the woman he destroyed their relationship with to her ball as if to parade their happiness in front of her.

She looks away and forces a smile as she turns to the guests, trying to push Nikolai's piercing gaze to the back of her mind. She listens attentively as they chatter about politics, fashion, and the latest gossip from the court.

Her Fjerdan prince, who had been standing by her side, wanders off to greet some of his own guests. Y/N takes the opportunity to scan the ballroom for any sign of Nikolai, but he seems to have disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N feels a pang of disappointment mixed with relief. She doesn't want to face Nikolai, not now when her heart is already heavy with the weight of duty and obligation. She tries to forget about him for he deserves none of her attention and focuses on the task at hand.

She engages in conversation with a group of ladies who are discussing the latest fashion trends. They seem oblivious to the tension in the air, and Y/N tries to follow their lead, keeping the conversation light and airy. She knows she cannot allow herself to think about Nikolai now. She has a duty and must honor her family's wishes. They’ve allowed her to choose her husband once and she trusted the wrong man. This time, she had no choice in the matter.

Even as she forces herself to push Nikolai out of her mind, she knows that she will never forget him. He had broken her heart, but he had also touched her soul in a way that no one else ever had. And for that, she would always love him, even as she accepted the reality of her situation.

Y/N's heart skips a beat as the first notes of the music fill the ballroom. She knows she should be dancing with her prince, but he's nowhere to be found. Panic sets in as the guests begin to look around, wondering where the future queen's partner could be. She feels a hand on her shoulder and turns around to see Nikolai standing behind her, his hand outstretched.

"May I have this dance?" he asks, his voice low and almost pleading.

Y/N hesitates for a moment, but with no other options, she reluctantly accepts his offer. The whispers around them grow louder as they make their way to the dance floor, Nikolai's hand firm around her waist.

As they begin to dance, Y/N can feel Nikolai's gaze on her, his eyes full of regret and pain. She tries to ignore him, focusing on the steps of the dance, but his presence is overwhelming. She can feel the eyes of the guests on them, their minds racing with speculation and gossip.

“Y/N”, he tries, but she cuts him off without a second thought.

“Don’t”, she hisses. “Please, don’t say another word.”

Y/N tries to keep her head held high, but she can't help but feel the weight of the situation bearing down on her. She knows she shouldn't be dancing with Nikolai, especially not on the night when her engagement to another man is being announced. But she also knows that she can't deny the feelings she still has for him, no matter how much she tries.

As they twirl around the dance floor, Y/N catches glimpses of the other guests. Some are whispering and pointing, while others are trying to look away, uncomfortable with the scene unfolding before them. Y/N can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, embarrassed and ashamed.

But despite all of this, Y/N can't bring herself to pull away from Nikolai. As they dance, she realizes how much she's missed him, how much she's longed for his touch. She knows it's foolish and reckless, but at this moment, she doesn't care.

The dance comes to an end, and Nikolai slowly releases her hand, stepping back with a deep bow. Y/N curtsies, feeling like a fool, knowing that everyone is watching and judging her. But she also knows that she can't deny the way she feels, no matter how much she wants to.

As she makes her way back to her seat, Y/N tries to ignore the eyes of the other guests. She knows that her actions will have consequences, but at this moment, all she can think about is Nikolai and the feelings that refuse to go away.

Y/N's head is spinning from the events of the evening. The ballroom was stuffy, filled with people who whispered and stared, and the weight of the expectations on her shoulders felt suffocating. She needed a moment to herself.

She slipped out of the ballroom and into the gardens, the cool night air a refreshing change from the warmth of the crowd. The moon is full, casting a soft glow over the flowers and fountains, and the sound of crickets fills the air.

Y/N leans against a tree, taking deep breaths and trying to steady her racing heart. She can't believe how quickly the evening had spiraled out of control. First, her prince disappeared, leaving her to dance with Nikolai. And then the rumors had started, the whispers and sidelong glances from the guests, all of them thinking they knew what was going on.

But they didn't know anything. They didn't know the pain she had been through, the betrayal she had suffered at Nikolai's hands. They didn't know that she was only here because of duty and obligation, not because she wanted to be.

Y/N closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. She wishes things could be different, that she could have the love she had always dreamed of. But that isn't her fate. Instead, she is stuck in this endless cycle of societal expectations, a pawn in a game she doesn't want to play.

As she stands there, lost in her thoughts, she hears footsteps behind her. She turns to see Nikolai approaching, his expression unreadable.

"Y/N," he says softly, stopping in front of her. "Are you okay?"

She shakes her head, unable to find the words to express the depth of her frustration and sorrow.

Nikolai steps closer, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from her face. "I'm sorry," his voice is quiet. "For everything. I know I hurt you, and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you if you’ll let me. We can leave here, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Just say the word and you don’t have to marry him. You don’t even have to marry me."

Y/N feels a tear slip down her cheek. She wants to believe him, forgive him, and start over. But she knows that isn't possible. Too much has happened, too much pain and heartache between them, and her family’s reputation is on the line. She can’t turn her back on them.

"It's too late, Nikolai," she says softly. "We can never go back to how things were. I can’t just walk away and betray everyone like you did with me.”

As Nikolai catches her eye, Y/N feels a lump form in her throat. He looks at her with a mixture of longing and regret, and she can see the deep suffering in his eyes. She wants to turn away, to run as far as she can from him, but she can't.

Y/N's heart rate spikes. She doesn't know what he could possibly say to her that would make everything better, but she can't help the tiny glimmer of hope that flickers within her.

“If I knew a kiss would cause this amount of wreckage, I’d have rather died than done it.”

She can't bring herself to reply, so she simply nods in response. The silence between them is deafening, and she can feel the weight of all their unresolved issues pressing down on her.

"I know I messed up," Nikolai continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I want you to know that I never stop loving you. Even when I was kissing Zoya, it was you I was thinking about."

Y/N can't believe what she is hearing. After all this time, after all the pain he has caused her, he still has the nerve to say he loves her.

"I don't know if I can believe you," she says, her voice shaking with emotion. She was never quite clear what level of betrayal did he stoop to, assuming he slept with Zoya this entire time. A kiss was a lesser offense, but an offense nonetheless. He may claim that’s all it was, but it makes no difference now. "You cheated on me, Nikolai. With the very woman you told me not to worry about."

"I know, and I deeply regret it," he replies, his voice breaking. "I was foolish and didn't appreciate what we had until it was gone. But please, Y/N, give me another chance. I'll do anything to make it up to you."

As much as Y/N wants to forgive him, she knows she can't. The regret and pain in Nikolai's voice only make it harder to turn him away, but she knows it's the right thing to do. She can't just forgive him and forget what happened. It's not that easy.

"I'm sorry, Nikolai," she says firmly. "But I can't do this. I can't just forgive you and forget what happened. I need time to heal and seeing you is like picking open a scab that never fully closed the wound inflicted by you."

"I understand," he says, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "But please, know that I'll always love you. And if you ever change your mind, I'll be here waiting. I’ll wage war for you if you choose to run. I don’t care what it takes, it will never be too late."

Nikolai is devastated as he stands before her. He can feel the weight of his own stupidity crashing down on him. How could he have been so blind and impatient? How could he have thrown it all away for what was barely a fling with Zoya?

As he watches Y/N avert her gaze to the ground, his heart quivers with remorse that he’s doomed to live with. He has hurt her deeply and stripped her from the ability to trust anything he says, and he can't bear the thought of never having a chance to make things right.

Nikolai has always been confident and sure of himself, but now he feels lost and unsure, more than he did when his country was in a losing war with the Darkling. He can't stop replaying the moment when he fell to his knees before Y/N and begged for her forgiveness, of the way his heart was torn from his chest when she walked away from him. Nikolai wanted to run after her, to stop her leaving by any means necessary, and yet he couldn’t stand on his own two feet for hours after she closed the door on them. 

She didn’t even look back. Perhaps that hurts more than the rest of it. 

He wishes he could turn back time and make different choices. If he could create a new kind of Grisha that can manipulate time, Nikolai would have stopped himself from drinking so much on that cursed night, convinced himself that kissing Zoya wouldn’t lessen the ache Y/N’s absence is causing. If anything, that kiss only prolonged the ache, deepened it.

Tears fill his eyes as he realizes that he has lost the love of his life. He deserves to suffer for what he's done, but he wishes she’d take pity on him and give him a chance; a chance to prove to Y/N that he's changed, that he's learned from his mistakes and that he will never hurt her again.

Nikolai turns and walks away, leaving Y/N standing there feeling more conflicted than ever. She wants to hate him, wants to tell him to never come near her again, but a part of her still loves him.

As reality sinks in, Y/N wonders what could have been. What if he had stayed faithful? What if they had gotten married and started a family together? What if she forgave him and the betrayal he committed never left that room? But those are just empty what-ifs, and Y/N knows that she has to move on. It would be unhealthy to entertain his ideas of becoming renegades. He’s just as bound to his duty as she is to hers. 

Taking a deep breath, she turns and walks back inside, her heart heavy with the weight of all her unresolved emotions. She doesn't know what the future holds, but she knows one thing for sure: she will never let anyone break her heart like that again.

[tellyouily]

maybe stay here forever

dnf - couch cuddles - 1.4k words

george likes dream's sweater and patches seems to like it too

There is this sweater that Dream wears sometimes, a dark blue half-zip fleece with leather patches on the elbows and deep, warm pockets, that George is a little bit obsessed with.

Of course, the pockets are mostly there to be used by whoever is wearing the sweater, not by his best friend slash boyfriend who constantly has cold hands, but it’s a nice benefit. Not to mention that Dream also happens to look especially great in it, all broad and soft and rugged—especially with a few days worth of stubble on his face and his curls a little messy.

Which has been the case for most of the time these recent weeks, much to George’s contentment.

If someone were to ask him about it, though, he would maintain that he likes the blue sweater a normal amount. Give or take. And he might bring himself to admit that it’s the person wearing it who he likes more than just a little. An abnormal amount, you could say. A ludicrous amount.

He’ll admit that happily.

After searching high and low for the past ten minutes, he finally finds Dream in the guest house, of all places. He’s on the couch with his legs outstretched and his laptop—surprise, surprise—perched on his lap. Somehow, Patches has fit herself on his chest, too, fast asleep with her head on his shoulder like a baby. She must have ventured in here looking for him, too.

And she must have taken one look at the dark blue sweater Dream is wearing and deemed it a nice place to take a nap.

George doesn’t appreciate that she succeeded on that quest before he did.

“Hey you,” he says, announcing his presence. He leans his back on the door to close it.

Dream looks up and stretches, lifting a hand to the back of his head. His screen casts a soft glow on his face, and George would bet good money that either gmail dot com or his editing software is currently filling it. Or both. Dream likes the split-screen function.

“Hey you,” Dream echoes, making George smile as he nudges past the coffee table to join him.

This is really not a couch that can fit two people lying down, it can barely fit one if he’s honest, but Dream scooches closer to the back pillow and lifts his arm as a wordless invitation.

George does not need to be asked twice, climbing into position. He feels like he’s precariously close to the edge, but then Dream wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him close, and he relaxes like he’s been given a sedative.

Patches stirs ever so slightly at the commotion, giving George what he’s sure is a pointed look.

“She took my spot,” he mumbles, frowning at her and watching her simply close her eyes again and let out a sigh.

Dream’s hand comes to rest near the waistline of George’s sweatpants, his fingers grazing the sliver of skin where his hoodie has ridden up.

“There’s two spots,” he says gently.

And he’s right, of course. And really, George thinks it’s a good sign that Patches has chosen this as her desired nap location. She’s a smart cat and if this is the safest, warmest place she could think of, then he trusts her judgment wholeheartedly.

He would probably do the same if he was a cat. He’s even doing it now, as a human.

Only now does the laptop screen in front of him come into focus, showing something entirely different from what he was willing to bet money on. It’s a sports game of some kind—football? Or is that rugby?

All he knows is that each team is wearing a different color and that they are both running around on the field trying to win. And that Dream might be a furnace in disguise with how warm he is. Mostly the last thing.

“What are you watching?” George asks.

“Football game,” he answers, followed by a soft huff of amusement. “That you don’t care about.”

“I care a lot, actually.”

“Uh huh.” His smile is audible. “I’m sure it’s so interesting to you.”

George nods into the folds of the fleecy fabric. “It is. I love it,” he lies, making Dream laugh.

The game on screen seems to go on some kind of break and the camera pans to the players standing around, leaning on their knees, out of breath, and to the crowd and muted discussion between the referee and who George assumes is one of the team captains. Dream sighs and presses a kiss on the top of George’s head.

“If it was soccer you’d care,” he says. “ Actually care.”

George hums in a way that means yes. Real football, you mean , he would have said if he wasn’t so comfortable that he is tempted to let sleep overtake him. Take a page out of Patches’ book.

He’s surrounded by the kind of warmth that reminds him of his childhood. Of coming back inside from playing in the snow and getting to sit by the fireplace and watch cartoons to get the feeling back in his fingers. It’s more than enough to make him want to succumb to sleep.

Dream’s palm coming to rest fully on his bare stomach makes him blink. On screen, the game has started back up and so has the faint sound of cheering coming from the speakers.

With some difficulty, he retrieves his phone from his pocket. If he is to keep himself awake while lying here, watching American football is not the way to do it.

He uses Dream’s chest to prop up his phone and lets his thumb swipe past X and over to Reddit instead. 

Some of the posts are worth reading, others he scrolls past. It doesn’t take long for Dream’s attention to inevitably get pulled to his screen, as well, abandoning the game. George doesn’t blame him. He can tell that he’s reading, concentrating, by the way his hand starts drawing mindless shapes on his hip. He tries to move as little as possible in hopes that Dream won’t realize that he’s doing it and possibly stop.

They’re halfway through a particularly technical post about the motion detection system they’ve set up for the titan when a message from Sapnap pops up at the top of his screen.

Something stupid, of course. So stupid he might have just ignored it had it not been for the way he feels Dream smile against his temple.

George snorts. “What an idiot.”

He swipes down and types an even more stupid reply, making Dream turn his head away to laugh. Really laugh.

George grins. He knew that would get him. He’s much funnier than Sapnap could ever dream of being. “What’s so funny?”

Dream answers by burrowing his face into the back of his neck, his quiet laughter getting muffled by the hood of his hoodie. He’s in that kind of mood, George thinks; the one where he could say anything and Dream would find it funny.

It’s his favorite Dream-mood by far. He would know—he has them all cataloged.

“I should be a comedian,” he says, if only to prove his point—which it does.

“No, your guys’ humor is like, fucked,” Dream says, clearing his throat.

George sighs and clicks his phone off, moving his head back so he can see Dream’s face.

“You like it though,” he counters, running his hand over the stubble along his jaw.

Just then, Patches’s ears start to twitch and they both glance over at her, watching as she opens her eyes and stretches out her paws so far that they poke against George’s bottom lip.

“Oh no,” Dream says softly, petting her head with his free hand.

“Good riddance,” George mumbles, feeling a sense of smugness at the look of discontent he is sure that she gives him.

It’s not like they’re in a competition for Dream’s attention—except that they are, and he won it the second he walked into the room.

Dream shakes his head at his comment, but his amused-by-everything-George-says-smile hasn’t left. Patches stands up and hops onto the back of the couch, and then onto the floor, going off to somewhere quieter.

Good riddance.

“Guess she’s not a football fan,” Dream says.

George presses closer just because he can, hitching his leg up higher across Dream’s.

“Good thing I am,” he says, closing his eyes.

Dream shakes his head, his hand finding his thigh. “You’re an idiot, is what you are”

And George might like Dream’s sweater, but he thinks he likes making him laugh even more.

[sariahsue]

Jealousy Ch 2

Adrien's point of view

(Chapter one (Marinette's pov) here. Please note that I started this story in the ancient days of May 2021.)

---

Chat Noir almost always felt at home in Marinette's room. It was cozy and warm, lined with layers of fabric, like she was building a soft den. It was so different from his own old and sterile room. His windows let him see outside at the same time they reminded him he would always be disconnected from it. Marinette leaned against him, but tonight, no matter how close he physically was to her, he felt like they were on opposite sides of glass.

Their playing cards had been knocked out of their piles by Marinette's victory dance. A container of leftover noodles lay empty on its side. And Chat Noir held steady against Marinette's weight as she relaxed into his side.

There were so many things he couldn't tell her. So many things he wanted her to understand. "Hey, Bug?"

"Hm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Aren't you asking something now?" she joked. "Sure."

He hesitated. Asking was only a few steps removed from the forbidden act of telling. (Not his name. Not how many days it had been since he'd last had dinner with his father, or been given a hug.) He wanted to ask why she'd taken down all her pictures of Adrien. What had he done as his civilian self that had upset her so much? She stayed perfectly polite to him at school.

Instead he asked, "If it weren't for that other guy, do you think you would have fallen for me?"

Marinette leaned away. It wasn't the first time he'd asked a variation of this question. It was almost always on his mind. His rival.

"Um... do you want to play another round of Uno," she deflected, "or should we do something else?"

"Marinette, I'm serious. Would you have?"

She shrugged. "Maybe, I guess. Video games? I have UMS 4."

"Really, that's it? You guess? That's not a real answer."

"Please, chaton. Don't do this to yourself."

He selfishly slid closer to her. Not many people allowed him to be in their space like this, and the need to touch her was too much. If she felt like he was chasing her, she didn't complain. A reminder that at least someone wanted him around.

He didn't stop until he could feel her comfortable body heat against his side again. "I just want to know."

He'd expected a simple yes or no.

"You're kind and compassionate. You're reliable. You're funny." She stopped, taking care to find her next words. He thought she would just tell him no. "We have such a strong connection, and I trust you with my life. You're brave. You're my best friend."

Marinette's voice dropped for the devastating truth. "It would have been so easy. That's the real answer."

Chat Noir struggled to stay still, focusing on not hugging her, not crying, not moving. Even if she didn't love him back, she did in some way love him. She just… loved someone else more. Differently. Who was it? Adrien watched her at school. He knew Alya teased her constantly about her love life and Marinette's inability to talk to the mysterious boy who'd so effortlessly caught her attention. Adrien never overheard his name, though he'd tried.

"So why haven't you talked to him yet?" Chat Noir asked.

"What?"

"If you'd pick him over all that, then you must like him a lot, but you aren't together."

Marinette shifted, looking at him for the first time since gifting him a list of her favorite things about him (a gift he didn't deserve). "And I can't imagine anyone rejecting you, so you must not have asked him out yet."

"I'm... very awkward around him. I'm pretty sure I make him uncomfortable sometimes."

"I doubt it," he said. "So who is he?" Another question he hadn't been able to ask before. But he was tired of the glass in between them. If he couldn't be with her, maybe knowing more about her would help. This nameless boy was such a huge part of her life.

And one of the biggest obstacles in his.

Marinette got up and walked away, her back to him. "We shouldn't be talking about this."

"Why not?"

"Because I hate this!" Her face was pained as she turned to him. "I hate hurting you every time you bring it up."

The headless mannequin was suddenly very interesting. Father didn't have his own mannequin until he was nearly 18. Marinette was more passionate and more talented.

"I'm only curious," he lied. He felt like a bad friend for pushing, but there was only so much he could learn about her from studying the decor in her room. "I just want to know what type of person attracts Ladybug. That's all." And find out what he still lacked.

"I'll tell you under two conditions. One, you stop asking about it. Two, you don't laugh at me."

"Laugh?" he asked. "Why would I laugh?"

"Because you're going to think it's a celebrity crush, and it's not."

He waved to distract her from his face. He hoped it was neutral, but he couldn't be sure. A celebrity? She had a crush on some random celebrity? That's who his competition was?

Marinette groaned. "Adrien Agreste."

He didn't think. Didn't realize he'd stood up until he was walking toward her. The glass was shattering. "Plagg, claws in!"

"NO!" she shrieked, snapping her eyes shut. Had she seen? "What are you doing? Put your suit back on!"

"No."

"I'm not going to look at you."

Plagg bobbed back and forth between the two of them, then flew off to find Tikki. That was as close to permission as he was going to give.

"You have to retransform." Her commanding tone was at odds with the way she backed up, flinching away from him until she hit her desk, hiding her face in an effort to protect him. Or maybe herself.

"No," he repeated, "not until you look."

"You'll have to," she said. "You can't walk out my front door and let people see you. You'll have to leave the way you came in."

"You're just going to keep your eyes closed for the rest of the night?"

She nodded.

Adrien walked over to her, his socked feet stepping lightly over the remains of their time together. He wrapped her in a loose hug, and then waited. After a few seconds, Marinette dropped her hands from her face and sunk into him. He took that as permission to hug her the way he'd always wanted, like he was never going to let her go.

Maybe he didn't have to.

He was the boy. The rival. The obstacle. She could know all of him, and he wouldn't have to feel so fragmented and broken. There would be nothing left to come between them, if only she would open her eyes.

Marinette shivered in his arms. His fire dimmed, replaced with softness at her worry. It was so much better to hold her without thick armor in the way, just a few layers of fabric.

He wouldn't force her to look, but he wasn't above leading her for once. He could tell himself that it would be an advantage, tactically, for her to know who he was. It would strengthen their partnership, but really, he just needed her to know him.

"I'm not opening my eyes," she said.

"Then please just listen to my voice. I won't tell you my name, but please just listen?"

She pushed her face into his neck, skin to skin, and breathed deeply, nodding. Adrien wanted to drop his head on top of hers, but instead only leaned down, letting her hair brush his cheek. Almost nothing in between them.

"When I'm not transformed, I'm much quieter."

"A quiet Chat Noir?" Marinette teased. "What must that be like?"

"I don't show off either. I try to avoid attention, actually. I get too much of it."

Marinette didn't ask him why, though he'd expected it. He hoped it was because she was trying to figure it out despite herself.

"Did you know that we know each other outside the masks? We go to the same school."

He stopped, letting her come to the truth if she was ready. Despite what he wanted, and how desperately he needed to be seen by her, this ultimately had to be her choice. If she wanted to understand, she would.

Marinette's fingers started to roam, first to his ungloved hand, maybe testing to see if he really was detransformed. The hairs on his forearms raised as she drew a line from his wrist to the edges of his rolled up sleeves. Over and across, to his shoulders, a breathless slide along his collarbone, then down the buttons of his shirt, then back up to his shoulders as she breathed into his neck, and her eyelashes tickled him as she opened her eyes.

She wouldn't be able to see his face, but she knew. He rested his head on hers, strengthening his hold on her.

"You're kind and compassionate," he said. "You're brave and creative and amazing. It was so easy to fall in love with you, Marinette."

Her hands slid from his shoulders and wrapped around his neck, holding him just as tightly as he held her. "I love you too, Adrien."

[ever-after-portal]

About Talulah & Talilah

First of all, I found this really nice character creator for Ever After High. I will say that the functionality of the fabrics doesn't exist anymore because it functioned long ago on Adobe. It's still pretty nice, and you can do much with it.

Talilah Dunn, daughter of Tweedledee

Her father raised her in the White Queen's court, and she looks up to WQ tremendously for this. WQ is a mother in her eyes, one she will do anything to please, including signing the story book of legends. As far as she knows, the story and legacies of Wonderland (other than the oysters and the carpenter) aren't violent, nor do they lead to certain doom. As far as she is concerned, she's more than happy to help Alistair on his way through the wonderlandiful world through the rabbit hole.

She's kind and loving to her friends and studies hard for her princess classes. She may not be the next in line for a royal throne, but good kingdom management is essential. For whoever the next White Queen will be, she wants to be their royal advisor. She wants to give back to WQ's court as much as possible, including helping with whatever beef WQ has with the Red Queen.

In her spare time, she sews and sings to herself. On occasion, she stares wistfully out her dorm window and sighs. Sometimes, she waits for one of the princely students to walk under the window and ask her what's wrong. She knows she's not a princess but wants to be treated like one. When she and her father were invited by WQ to Ever After High, she accepted that she would have to abandon all things that tied her to Wonderland. Her mannerisms changed, and her riddles slowly faded as she assimilated into the Kingdom of Ever After.

She and her father live in Book End and frequently visit the Mad Hatter's Haberdashery and Tea Shoppe. Her dad is happy to sit and talk with the Mad Hatter, but Talilah is uncomfortable sitting and talking with Maddie. She thinks she must suppress essential parts of herself so that others can like her and view her as worthy of princess treatment. During her first year, she had a little crush on Daring, but it was squashed when she heard that Apple and Daring were destined to be together in their destinies. (She doesn't know that Apple and Darling are together).

On Cupid's radio show, she anonymously confessed that she had a crush on Hopper, but he was too busy looking at someone else to notice, and it was a secret she would take to her grave. But she'll grin and bear her destiny because her silly dreams of being a princess in a big, fancy castle are just dreams.

Talulah Dunn, daughter of Tweedledum

On the other hand, Talulah's father raised her in the Red Court. She learned to play chess and crossed swords with some Chess Knights. She looks up to the Red Queen and views her as a mother. She was kind enough to allow her and her father to stay with her court.

Her father stayed back in Wonderland and sent her to Ever After High due to EQ's curse on Wonderland. She would have stayed with her father if she had had it her way. Ever After is new and strange. The people don't speak in riddles and give her weird looks. What's even worse is that Talilah refuses to talk in riddlish. Talulah is essentially stranded, but the Mad Hatter's Haberdashery is a place to escape all the confusing, un-wonderlandiful things.

Tweedledum & Tweedldee are known for being loveable idiots in the story of Alice in Wonderland, known all over Ever After. So, students treat her as if she doesn't know what she's talking about. It's suffocating how they think she's stupid. She picks up their customs quickly but learns that if she buries her head in a book, no one will ever bother you. While her cousin is chumming it up with girls in frilly skirts, she's tucked in the library half-heartedly listening to the Step Sisters scold someone for talking or making noise.

She's taken out most books about Wonderland, homesick for a cursed and cut-off world. She's angry at both Milton Grimm and the Evil Queen for that. On a similar note, she does not get along with Milton Grimm. He assumed Wonderland students would be easy to mold because they were thrown into a new world without familiarity. And boy, he's so wrong. Talulah fights him every agonizing step of the way. She fights him on destiny, she fights him on her school schedule, she fights him about her dorm. She probably has more detentions than Sparrow Hood and Duchess Swan combined.

Outside of the Wonderland gang, she has liked Rosabella Beauty. They often sit together in the library, or Rosa finds her after school loitering around with some of the woodland creatures that appear on campus because of Apple White.