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buckets-and-trees · 11 days ago

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Between the Lines

Characters/Pairings: Ransom Drysdale x curvy female!Reader Word Count: 4.4k Summary: When presented with a deal you can't resist, you agree to to create an illusion so you can achieve your actual dreams.

Content/Warnings: masturbation, slow burn, forced proximity, fake engagement, annoyed/disgusted to lovers

Notes: This takes place after the events of Knives Out. Yes, all of the movie. No exclusions. Dividers by @vesearartistry and @saradika. My humble offering for week seven of my Countdown to Chris-mas. Thank you @stargazingfangirl18 and @biteofcherry for both indulging some of my plot-talking for this fic!

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You sat nervously in the lobby of Blood Like Wine Publishing watching the gears behind the glass display on the elegant clock above the reception desk.

Up until the death of Harlan Thrombey, the publishing house had published his works exclusively with a new murder mystery being produced and translated into dozens of languages each year like clockwork, the gears and cogs a well-tested as the antique clock on display.

With no Harlan, the publishing house had opened to submissions and you and your agent had made it through the initial rounds of querying and contract negotiations.

But now, only a year and a half after the prolific genius’s death and transfer of ownership to his nurse and friend Marta Cabrera, Marta had sold to a new owner - yet to go public in name, and they had asked for a meeting before finalizing the contract.

You tried not to fidget as you gripped the leather armrests of the chair, willing the minutes to pass faster. The lobby was eerily quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock and the occasional rustle of papers and the soft clacking of the keyboard from the receptionist's desk. The walls were adorned with framed book covers, each one a testament to Harlan Thrombey's literary legacy. You couldn't help but wonder if your own work would ever grace these halls.

As you waited, your mind raced with possibilities. Who was this mysterious new owner? What did they want? Your agent had assured you that this was just a formality, but the knot in your stomach suggested otherwise. You found yourself studying the intricate patterns in the marble floor, tracing the veins of gold and silver that snaked through the stone like the plot twists in one of Thrombey's novels.

Just as the clock struck ten, the elevator dinged, and a tall woman with perfectly coiffed short white hair strode out, her heels clicking authoritatively on the polished marble floor. She paused at the receptionist's desk, speaking in hushed tones before turning her piercing gaze towards you.

"I assume you’re my ten o’clock?" she questioned, her voice sharp and commanding.

You suppressed a gasp and abruptly stood, smoothing your clothes nervously as you approached none other than Linda Drysdale - the legendary daughter of Harlan.

"Yes, that's me.”

She gave you a once-over, then nodded. “Come with me.”

You followed Linda into the elevator, your heart pounding in your chest. The mirrored walls reflected your nervous expression back at you, and you tried to school your features into something more confident. Linda stood beside you, her posture perfect. In contrast to you, she seemed entirely at ease, tapping away at her phone with manicured nails.

When the doors opened, you stepped out into a hallway lined with dark wood paneling and more framed book covers. Linda's office was at the end, a massive space with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The room was dominated by an imposing desk made of rich mahogany, its surface neat and organized.

"Please, sit," Linda said, gesturing to one of the leather chairs in front of her desk. As you settled in, she moved to a small bar cart in the corner. "Can I offer you a drink? Perhaps some whiskey? A gin and tonic? Coffee? Tea?"

You shook your head, politely declining. "No, thank you. I'm fine."

Linda shrugged, pouring herself a generous measure of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. "Suit yourself," she said, returning to her desk and settling into her high-backed leather chair. She took a sip, savoring the whiskey before fixing you with her piercing gaze once more.

"I've read your manuscript," she began, her fingers drumming lightly on the desk's polished surface. "It's intriguing. You have potential, there's no denying that."

Your heart swelled with pride at her words, but you remained silent, sensing there was more to come.

Linda leaned forward, her eyes never leaving yours. "I'm prepared to offer you a book deal. A three-book contract, to be precise. The advance is generous, and the royalties - well, let's just say they're enough to make even my father's ghost smile."

You felt a surge of excitement, but something in Linda's tone made you hesitate. There was a glint in her eye, a slight curl to her lip that suggested there was more to this offer than met the eye.

"However," she continued, swirling the whiskey in her glass, "there is one small condition."

The word hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "What kind of condition?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Linda smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You see, my father liked to play games. In his will, he left us with one final trick. I don’t know how much of this you heard or followed in the news, but he left us nothing - his cash and assets, our home, and this publishing house all went to Marta Cabrera, his nurse at the time of his death.”

You would have been hard-pressed to have missed the news because it had spilled over into scandal.

“I don’t expect to see the sixty million, and that’s tough, but I can live with that - I’ve made my own fortune, and neither Walt and his family nor my sister-in-law and her daughter need to continue suckling off the teat of dad’s treasury. The house still hurts, but I’ll get it back - I can bide my time. But this? It only took me eighteen months of patience and strategy, working through subsidiaries and intermediaries, to close the deal on getting Blood Like Wine back in the family where it belongs.”

“I will go public with my ownership by the end of the week,” she continued, “but for better and for worse, the acquisition has ended up coinciding with my son’s pending release from prison.”

“Ransom?”

Linda nodded, a flicker of emotion crossing her face before disappearing behind her composed facade. "Yes, Ransom. As you can imagine, his... indiscretions have caused quite a stir in our family and social circles."

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, unsure where this was leading.

"My son made mistakes, grievous ones. But he's served enough time, and now he needs a chance to redeem himself. That's where you come in."

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm not sure I understand, Mrs. Drysdale. What does this have to do with my book deal?"

"The condition," she explained, her voice taking on a steely edge, "is that you convincingly pose as his sweet-as-a-peach fiancé for two years.”

Your mouth fell open in shock. Ransom Drysdale, the man who had attempted to murder Marta Cabrera and frame her for Harlan's death, and she expected you to agree to this? You stared at Linda in disbelief, and the silence stretched between you, broken only by the soft ticking of an antique clock on the bookshelf behind her.

"I... I don't know what to say," you finally managed, voice a little weak in your shock.

Linda leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of whiskey. "It's quite simple, really. You play the role of Ransom's devoted fiancée, help rehabilitate his image, and in return, you get your book deal. Three books, a substantial advance, and the backing of one of the most prestigious publishing houses in the industry.”

"But... Ransom... he tried to kill someone. He went to prison. How could I possibly-"

"Details," Linda waved her hand dismissively. "The public has a short memory. With the right narrative, we can reshape Ransom's image. A reformed bad boy, humbled by his time in prison, now devoted to his charming fiancée and ready to contribute positively to society. We both know the power of a well-crafted story. People will believe anything."

You felt your head spinning. This was so far beyond what you had expected when you'd nervously entered the building this morning. "And what does Ransom think about this plan?" you asked, grasping for any semblance of normalcy in this surreal situation.

Linda's lips curved into a tight smile. "Ransom will do as he's told if he wants to maintain his lifestyle and eventually inherit his share of the family fortune. He knows the stakes."

You sat there, stunned. The offer was tempting - a three-book deal with Blood Like Wine Publishing was beyond your wildest dreams. But to fake an engagement with a convicted criminal? It seemed insane.

"I understand your hesitation," Linda said, her voice softening slightly. "But consider this: you'd have unprecedented access to our family. Think of the material for your future novels. The inside scoop on one of America's most infamous families. Isn't that what every mystery writer dreams of?"

You had to admit, she had a point. The Thrombey-Drysdale saga was the stuff of legend in literary circles. To be on the inside, to see how they really lived and interacted? That alone could draw readers in if they thought there was any chance you’d pull threads and weave it into your future novels.

And besides, this was your dream: a multi-book deal with a prestigious publisher, the chance to see your work in print, and to potentially become not only a published author but one who with Blood Like Wine’s name and marketing department could be a truly successful author. How could you pass it all up?

“What would you say to four books?”

You blinked, taken aback by Linda's sudden offer. "Four books?" you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.

Linda nodded, a sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Four books. And we'll double the advance. Consider it... hazard pay." She chuckled softly at her own joke.

Your breath caught in your throat. Four books? The offer was even more tempting now, dangling before you like a golden carrot. You found yourself leaning in, drawn into Linda's web despite your better judgment.

"I... I don't know," you stammered, your mind racing. "This is all so sudden. What exactly would be expected of me?"

Linda's smile widened, sensing your wavering resolve. "Nothing too taxing, I assure you. Attend some charity galas, be seen at upscale restaurants, perhaps a carefully orchestrated paparazzi shot or two. We'll craft a beautiful love story for the press - how Ransom found redemption through your unwavering support and love."

You nodded slowly, uncertainty swirling more strongly, gut churning because you were actually considering this. You could do public appearances…

“A year and a half,” you countered.

Linda shook her head firmly. “No, I won’t budge on the time commitment. Two years is a bankable amount of time to make sure we turn enough pages to fully close this chapter. But I’ll give you six books.”

Your heart leapt at that, and even though your gut was uneasy, your brain was shouting that this kind of deal was something you could not refuse. “Six books, and the first two released before the engagement period is over.”

“Deal,” Linda agreed.

You took a deep breath, your mind reeling from the enormity of what you had just agreed to. Six books. A multi-million dollar deal. And all you had to do was pretend to be engaged to a convicted criminal for two years. It seemed surreal, like something out of one of - well not one of Harlan's novels, but whatever romance author was currently trending.

"I think I will have that drink now," you said, your voice sounding distant to your own ears.

Linda's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "I find a good whiskey helps smooth over even the most unusual of business deals."

You nodded, watching as she selected a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. The soft clink of glass on glass filled the room as she poured a generous measure into a tumbler. The rich, peaty aroma of the whiskey wafted towards you, promising warmth and liquid courage.

Linda returned, extending the glass to you. Your fingers wrapped around the cool crystal and your eyes met Linda's. There was a moment of silent understanding between you - a recognition of the Faustian bargain you had just crafted and agreed to.

As you raised the glass to your lips, Linda's voice cut through the silence. "One more thing," she said, her tone casual but her gaze intense. "I'll up the advance to five million if you agree to move in with Ransom."

Your GPS led you to the top of a cul-de-sac in the Brown’s Wood neighborhood of Lincoln, Massachusetts. Beautiful trees and a typical New England landscape ushered you up the drive to the midcentury modern home owned by Hugh Ransom Drysdale. It didn’t scream home, but there was no denying it was a stunning feat of architecture - white walls and black roofing framing a structure of mostly floor-to-ceiling windows.

You sat in your car for a moment, gathering your courage. The enormity of what you had agreed to in Linda’s office had been sinking in all week, but this was it. Five million dollars. Six books. And two years of your life pretending to be engaged to - and now living with - a man who had attempted murder.

Maybe approaching all of this as if it was one big plot so of course it had to all work out was a ridiculous coping strategy, but it’s the one you had adopted.

But when the seven-figure advance had appeared in your bank account, giving you more money than you had earned in your entire life, you didn’t have it in you to back out.

If he murdered you, at least you would have paid off your student loans, credit card debts, provided for your parents’ retirement, and put away enough money in a trust for your nephew’s college fund.

The house loomed before you, a monument to wealth and taste that felt utterly alien. With a deep breath, you grabbed your bags from the passenger seat and made your way to the front door.

Before you could even ring the bell, the door swung open, revealing Ransom Drysdale himself.

He was taller than you expected, his presence filling the doorway. His piercing blue eyes scanned you from head to toe, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "So, you're the lucky lady my mother's picked out for me," he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You bristled at his tone but forced a smile. "And you must be the charming ex-convict I've agreed to shackle myself to," you replied, matching his sarcasm with your own. "Can we consider the awkward introductions done now?"

Ransom's smirk widened into a grin, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Oh, I like you already. Come on in, darling," he said, stepping aside to let you in. "Welcome to Hill House Drysdale. Try not to get too attached - I hear it's only a two-year lease."

You stepped into the house, immediately struck by the minimalist decor and open floor plan. The entire back wall was glass, offering a stunning view of the surrounding woods. It was beautiful, but cold - much like its owner, you mused.

The house was a stark contrast to the warmth of the Thrombey mansion you'd seen in news reports. This place was all clean lines, minimalist furniture, and an abundance of glass and steel.

"Nice place," you commented, setting your bags down. "I half expected to see crime scene tape and chalk outlines."

Ransom's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Sorry to disappoint. I save all my murdering for the family estate. This is my sanctuary."

You couldn't help but chuckle bitterly at his dark humor. At least he wasn't trying to pretend this was anything other than what it was - a business arrangement.

"So, where should I put my things?" you asked, gesturing to your bags. Some of your things had been sent off to a storage unit, but the things a moving consultant had determined would come here with you had been packed up and moved earlier in the day.

"The master suite is upstairs," Ransom said, closing the door behind you. "Stay out unless you’re embarking on a conjugal visit.”

You scoffed. “Charming.”

He winked at you, then began to take you through the house. “Other than that, you’re free to roam the house, and I’ll stay out of your space. Living room here,” he gestured around, then walked to the right, and you followed him into a sleek, modern kitchen. “Two Bosch ovens, a six-burner range, your choice of pretty much any appliance in one of these cupboards.”

“You cook?”

It was his turn to scoff. “God, no.”

He walked you through the length of it, coming out on the other end of the living room, and then walking through a dining room with a long black table and another two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Ransom didn’t strike you as one for entertaining dinner parties, making this more of a feature room than anything else.

At the other end, you came to a new wing of the house.

“This is you,” he said simply. “First door office, second is your bedroom and bathroom.”

You hesitated at the transition point from the dining room to the other side of the house.

“What is it?” Ransom asked, turning and putting his hands on his hips impatiently.

“Linda said a contractor would be brought in to install a door and security system.”

“She said could, and you’ve got locks installed, but I own this house, installing a wall and door here is more invasive than I was willing to agree to, and since she’s a real estate mogul she conceded it would altar the property value.”

“I…”

“You can relax. I’m not likely to try to murder you - the memory of the inconvenience of being incarcerated will probably last for twenty-four to thirty-six months, putting you in the clear.”

You frowned.

“They’re nice rooms, state of the art locks, you’ll be fine,” he reiterated, rolling his eyes. “Digital reinforced with an analog component that you’ll have the only keys to.”

He tossed you a keychain with three keys, which you were quick to catch.

“Downstairs there’s another living room that’ll be for you exclusively and a laundry room.”

“So, you’ll be coming through here to do laundry then?” you asked.

“Cute of you to think I do my own laundry.”

Now it was you who had an eye roll to give.

"Speaking of, all your stuff was delivered safe and sound, but I took the liberty of having some clothes delivered for you. Can't have my fiancée looking like a struggling writer when we're out in public."

You bristled at his comment. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

Ransom's eyes raked over you, his gaze lingering a bit too long for comfort. "Let's just say they don't exactly scream 'trophy wife of a reformed bad boy billionaire.'"

You gritted your teeth, reminding yourself of the substantial paycheck waiting for you at the end of this charade. "Fine. When is the first public outing?"

Ransom checked his watch, a sleek, expensive-looking timepiece that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. "We have a charity gala tomorrow night. My dear mother thought it would be the perfect opportunity to debut our 'relationship' to society."

Your stomach twisted with anxiety. Tomorrow night? That was so soon. You weren't prepared for this.

“Last thing,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Here’s your ring.”

Ransom reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black velvet box. As he opened it, your breath caught in your throat. Nestled inside was a ring that could only be described as breathtaking.

The center stone was a flawless oval-cut diamond, easily 3 carats, that seemed to capture and refract every bit of light in the room. It was held in place by a delicate setting adorned with two smaller diamonds on either side. Each facet of the ring sparkled with an intensity that was almost hypnotic.

"This," Ransom said, his voice uncharacteristically warm, "is a family heirloom. It belonged to my great-grandmother, passed down through the generations. My mother insisted I give it to you."

He carefully removed the ring from its velvet nest and held it out.

You reached for it, holding it delicately and studying it more closely.

“And I am going to insist that you wear it continually,” he added, tone back to its normal bite, “none of this on and off business. We’re engaged and there’s no reason to risk a slip up forgetting to put it on before you leave the house.”

The weight of it in your hand felt significant, both physically and metaphorically. This wasn't just any engagement ring - it was a piece of Thrombey family history.

"It's... stunning," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ransom's expression softened for a moment, a flicker of something - pride? nostalgia? - passing across his face. "It is, isn't it?" he said, his sarcastic tone momentarily abandoned again. "My great-grandfather proposed with that ring after returning from the war. It's seen its fair share of family drama."

You couldn't help but chuckle at that. "I bet it has."

Ransom cleared his throat, his mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Well, go on then. Put it on.”

"Are you sure about this?" you asked cautiously. "Shouldn't a family heirloom go to someone real?"

Ransom's expression hardened slightly. "I’m hardly that sentimental. This arrangement is real enough for my mother, and it's real enough for me. Besides," he added with a sardonic smile, "you're as close to family as I'm likely to get these days."

With a deep breath, you slipped it onto your left ring finger. The final symbol of the elaborate charade you had chosen to undertake.

It was near midnight, and you were worn out and nearly ready to collapse into your bed. The movers had done most of the work, but you still had had some unpacking to take care of and moved the furniture around in your bedroom and the room that would be your office. After giving you the engagement ring, Ransom had left you alone the rest of the day.

You padded quietly through the dining room that connected the two halves of the house to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle before bed.

The house was eerily quiet as you made your way through the darkened rooms. Moonlight filtered through the expansive windows, casting long shadows across the polished floors. You tried to move silently, not wanting to disturb the stillness of the night or alert Ransom to your presence.

As you entered the kitchen, the cool tile against your bare feet sent a small shiver up your spine. You fumbled for a moment, searching for the light switch, but decided against it. Your eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and the soft glow from the windows was enough to navigate by.

You had just placed your water bottle under the refrigerator's filtered, letting the cool water splash into your bottle, when another sound caught your attention.

At first, it was barely perceptible - a faint, rhythmic creaking from upstairs. You froze, straining your ears. The sound grew clearer: a low, guttural groan, followed by the unmistakable sound of skin moving over skin.

Frozen in place, your cheeks flushed hot as realization dawned. Ransom was fisting his cock and unabashedly enjoying it.

Part of you wanted to flee back to your room immediately, but you were paralyzed, afraid any sound of movement might alert him to your presence.

Your breath caught in your throat as Ransom's moans intensified, echoing through the quiet house. The rhythmic creaking of his bed frame quickened, punctuated by deep, guttural groans that sent shivers down your spine. You stood frozen in the kitchen, your water bottle forgotten as you listened, captivated against your will.

Your body betrayed you, responding to the primal sounds drifting down from above. Heat bloomed in your core, your skin tingling with unwanted arousal. You could almost picture him - his muscular body taut with tension, head thrown back in ecstasy, those piercing blue eyes half-lidded with pleasure. Your imagination filled in the details - the flex of his biceps as he stroked himself, the sheen of sweat on his chest, the way his abs would clench with each thrust into his fist.

You pressed your thighs together, trying to quell the ache building between them.

"Fuck," Ransom's voice drifted down, rough with need.

The raw intensity in his voice sent a jolt through you. Your breath quickened, matching the frantic pace of his movements above. You knew you should leave, retreat to the safety of your room, but your feet remained rooted to the spot.

The sounds grew more urgent, building to a crescendo. Ransom's groans became deeper, more primal. You could hear the desperation in his voice, the need for release. Your own body thrummed with sympathetic tension, your nipples hardening beneath your thin sleep shirt.

Suddenly, Ransom let out a long, guttural moan. The sound of it vibrated through you, igniting every nerve ending. You imagined him arching off the bed, his body taut as a bowstring as he found his release.

The house fell silent once more, save for the pounding of your heart in your ears.

Realizing you were still clutching your water bottle, you turned and tip-toed back to your room as quickly as possible.

You slipped quietly back into your room, closing and locking the door behind you with trembling hands. Your heart was still racing, your body flushed with unwanted arousal. You leaned against the door, trying to steady your breathing.

What had just happened? You'd come to get water and ended up an unwitting eavesdropper to your fake fiancé's private moment. The memory of Ransom's deep groans echoed in your mind, sending another shiver through you.

You shook your head, trying to clear the vivid mental images. This was ridiculous. Ransom was arrogant, infuriating, and had literally tried to murder someone. You shouldn't be affected by him like this.

And yet, the memory of his moans lingered, making your skin tingle and your core ache with need.

When you crawled into bed, you brought a book with you instead of your vibrator, refusing to sate the lust that had been kindled because you didn’t want to risk thinking of him. If you couldn’t resist him the first night living under the same roof, there would be no hope for you to make it two years.

And so you read until your eyes drooped and you were finally succumbed to sleep.

HAPPY KNIVES OUT NOVEMBER! It seemed like an appropriate point during the Countdown to Chris-mas to finally buckle down and write my first Ransom fic!

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#ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #slow burn #chris evans characters #aspen wrote something #female reader #countdown to chris-mas

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capslocked · 1 year ago

Text

SERENDIPITY

male reader x kwon eunbi

18k words

Before the attraction ferments, Eunbi says, kiss me properly and pull me apart. or, Where all your little tragedies begin.

If you want to start getting technical, you’re Minju's plus one to the gala, and that’s already a lot, a lot, a lot to unpack.

She’d gotten whipped into a bad mood that evening before you even had your shoes on, all on account of your apparent inability to distinguish cobalt from azure, and now should anyone have the wherewithal to examine the fabric of her dress, your tie, maybe with a forensic kit, they’d discover the two are not actually matching. If there was any part of you at all inclined toward keeping up appearances, you probably wouldn’t be content with a career in radio broadcast. But here you are, surrounded by actors, actresses, idols, and everyone who thinks the cut of their jaw is just a little better than everyone else’s - the kind of people who feel entitled to time in front of a camera.

Networking, is how Minju ends up pitching it to you, and now it makes the whole thing seem a lot like work and it’s actually kind of exhausting.

It’s not even an open bar either, as she had originally advertised.

You pay - get this - you pay twenty-three dollars for a vodka tonic and it comes with so much ice you’re not totally unconvinced you could build an igloo. So when everything starts to go to shit, nearing the end of drink number one, you’re not even slurring your words. Tipsy, perhaps; just slightly. To the point you can feel it in your fingers. But nothing like a good excuse.

It’s about then that Eunbi navigates her way around the bar - unnerving, enough to make the sweat grow cold.

On account of her being fucking gorgeous, you end up watching her closely: notice first that she’s carrying a pair of heels in her hand, completely barefoot, and you have no idea what that’s about, but you end up more fixated on the fact that she slides herself into the barstool on your left - which comes across as something of an omen, given that the rest are completely unoccupied. It’s only thirty, forty minutes into the event and people are still plenty busy with that thing where they fake smiles at each other until they feel like they fit in, showing, with bare minimal effort, that they too can mingle with entertainment’s elite.

Now, you don’t actually recognize her, not right away that is. The last you’d seen her, she had her hair cut right above her shoulders and its shade was a serious degree blonder than the current iteration - now curtaining her face as she studies the drink menu and flips it over several times in her dainty hands.

After a long minute, she looks up, interrupts the bartender from polishing a piece of glassware, and orders an old fashioned, substitute brandy, leave out the orange peel, with sugar on the rim. If it’s not the usual amendments that give her away, it’s the saccharine-sweet flavor of her voice, lilting in a manner that’s instantly unmistakable.

Eunbi, you’re guessing aloud, a little apprehensive, and immediately you retreat behind the liquor in your glass. She turns to you, slowly, knuckles masking the subtle quirk in her lips at first, before letting her chin rest on the heel of her palm to reveal a flash of her signature hundred-kilowatt smile.

“Oh,” she says, and she’s blinking with clear amusement that you remember her name - as if you could ever forget it, as if these run-ins were somehow infrequent; you’d only both been plotting orbits around the same star that was Minju for the past couple years. Her head tilts, lips parting to ask, “your date ditch you already?”

She’s half-right.

“You break a heel?” you ask her, nodding toward the pair of black t-strap heels she’d tossed onto the bar counter with a defeated sigh.

“Maybe.” Eunbi drags a dark lock of hair back behind her ear. It falls almost immediately back in front of her face and it ends up staying there until the bartender places her drink in front of her. “But my question first.”

For the record, there’s nothing here particularly novel worth dwelling on. It’s always some provocation or another with Eunbi, you remember now, as she holds you with a stare, eyes wide and brilliant; she sails through life all with the confidence of someone very aware of how pretty she is - knows precisely what she can get away with, right down to the letter of the law. The dress hugging tight to her isthmus of a waist is evidence of exactly that - tighter each time you look - so if you’re waiting for her to get it wrong, don’t hold your breath.

“Minju’s having a moment,” you tell her, “it’s not like she doesn’t know where to find me.”

“Hm.” She pauses to take a careful sip of her drink, running her tongue over her bottom lip as she places the glass onto a square napkin. Folds her hands in her lap and asks, “can you explain something to me?”

“If I say no, are you going to ask anyway?”

Eunbi nods to herself, dry laugh telling you it was as rhetorical as you thought. “Seriously, how is it you two are always fighting?”

We’re not always fighting, you want to say, before Eunbi makes a face. She has this uncanny effect on you - raising an eyebrow and tilting her chin as though she were disappointed; the sharp edge to her smile, half challenge, half something far less kind. It could rip truth from the most reluctantly tight-lipped of privacies. “We’re working on it,” you tell her.

“Oh?” she asks, leaning in.

“God, you don’t have to say it like that.” The ice clinks in your glass as you toss it back, finding it lamentably empty. “You make me feel like I have to repeat myself a thousand times - we are,” you add, “we’re working on it.”

“There’s something that keeps you together, clearly,” Eunbi says, pressing her finger to her lips before fixing you with dark eyes and an easy, charming grin.

She has you figured out, to some extent: knows how you’ll slip up for a girl with a pretty smile, prettier eyes, all the sorts of errors you’ll start to allow when you start cataloging the curves of her body, inventorying how they taper impossibly at her waist, flaring again at her hips, her fucking chest, the way they all look under the tight fit of that damn dress-

“The make-up sex really that good, huh?”

You almost, almost choke on the ice cube you’d been sucking to keep yourself entertained.

“Optimistic to think there is any,” you admit, regretting it right away - like think about it: there’s absolutely nothing good that could possibly come of that. “That’s just how it goes.”

Eunbi looks downright triumphant. More than usual. “Oh, sweetie.”

She waves over the bartender and asks him for another whatever it was you were drinking, because she’d hate to see you go dry, and as he’s turning around she shouts over his shoulder, go ahead and make it two, actually. You don’t realize it, but you’re beginning to study her, paying really close attention to all these little details - the sparkle of the bracelet on her slender arm, how it falls a few inches off the corner of her wrist as she gets her hand back in front of her face, raking her nails through all that thick, glossy hair, black as night - you don’t know what the feeling is that rears its head as you watch her, but it’s not completely unwelcome.

“What?” she asks as her eyes flick up to yours to catch you looking at her, closely, not that you’re gawking, but she lets you off the hook like you are - just gestures to the pitiful looking heel on the counter and shrugs. “It’s not like I have anywhere to be.”

To be honest, it’s not that you lack basic foresight. In fact it’s shockingly easy to predict where this is going. Because here’s a quick behind the scenes tour on how these interactions usually play out: you’ve got your excuses, your trepidations, justifiably - the reality that you’re kind of already in a pretty high profile relationship key among them. And like clockwork, Eunbi readily finds you game for some flustering. Eunbi, who lays it on thick, comments seeped in innuendo and suggestion, whose glances linger perhaps a little long to be a fascinating coincidence. Eunbi, innocence and arrogance entwined, in the filthiest of minds. Eunbi, always with her fingers twirling her hair and wearing something just modest enough that makes it feel like it’s your fault for noticing that her figure is impeccable. You’ve not actually gathered much from your brief conversations other than that she likes to flirt with you, likes it even more when you’ve got your foot in your mouth, and instead of putting you out of your misery, keeps you suspended there, egging you on - this all beyond the fact that you’ve only really managed to learn the many different ways you want to undress Kwon Eunbi.

You want her pressed up against the wall of your apartment, among other places, one of those pleated skirts crumpling to a pile around her knees as she keens for you, and your hand busy sliding up between her thighs.

You want to listen to her sighs as you unfasten each of the white buttons on one of those collared shirts that stretches and aches to keep her chest concealed, how she’d hum in delight as you trail kisses down each new inch of soft pale skin that all would unveil.

You want her in your lap when you fiddle with the latch of her bra until her tits spill out of its lacy fabric (it’s always lacy in your head), and she’s got you gasping for air, smothered, asphyxiated, dying, ascending, it’s all so, so great in theory.

It’s just that - some way or another - Eunbi looks at you like she knows all of that. You’ve been skirting around the issue for months.

“Tell me,” she starts, and suddenly, without warning, she has you under the microscope, reeling you further into the conversation, pulling at loose threads - where is Minju right now, are you still living together, does she help with chores, can you trust her, does she trust you - she grabs a handful of pretzels and watches you intently as you try and remain unruffled, diplomatic - are you generally happy with how things are going, when was the last time you had sex - you’re blindsided by that last one, or something, but that’s out there now, in the open.

“Uh.” Eunbi purses her lips. “You’re kidding.”

You just shrug.

“How long has it been now between you two? Like officially."

“I’m surprised you don’t already know.”

“Alright.” Eunbi clicks her tongue. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“My fourth year of university, her first,” you explain. Though never before have you felt as crooked about admitting that as you do at this moment. Others had often appreciated something about the impudence of it, but you’re doubting Eunbi’s going to be one of those people.

“Young,” Eunbi states, matter-of-factly. The look on her face says she’s thinking.

“Not that young.”

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-five.”

“You’re-” Eunbi’s eyebrow’s knit together like she’s trying to remember something. “Wait, really?”

“Does that bother you?”

“Why would that bother me?”

You’re realizing that she’d gotten closer to you, only now pulling her stool along the floor to catch up with her, and she’d started whispering into the waning space between you as though there was anyone else in the bar you’d need to shield the contents of this conversation from. “It just seems like not a lot of time to get to know yourself. If I were you, I’d be relieved.”

You can’t fucking stop looking at her mouth, glossed pink lips, cupid’s bow and all that between her dimples; your voice comes out oddly thick. “You’re not me.”

“No,” Eunbi says, shaking her head, “I'm not. Here you are, in some miserable relationship to score good karma - I’m having way more fun.”

“Easy,” you warn her, and it comes across just antagonistic enough to let Eunbi know she’s pushing the right buttons, digging in the right place; god only knows what she’ll find.

“Really.” Her fingers start skimming the bottom of your tie, like it’s nothing at all. Like she doesn’t know what might happen if she starts touching you. “Let me guess,” she continues, “A real break-up is too inconvenient or something right now, Minju doesn’t want the bad press, not when her career is still this fragile, because let’s face it-”

“It’s complicated.”

Eunbi smirks, not bothering to hold it back this time. The way she sees it, your usual excuses are losing their efficacy, quickly: you might not be single, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t thinking about how good she looks in that tiny fucking excuse of a dress, how you’re hoping she might need to run off to the restroom later so you can see how her ass fills out the back of it, how it might look even better on the floor next to your bed - that you’re only a breath away, looking for pretext, perhaps just a little encouragement -

She rests her elbow on the counter, leans a cheek onto her fist, and angles herself against the bar so that the intoxicatingly low dip of her neckline is staring you right in the face, soft cleavage out on full fucking display. It’s not subtle. You never thought too hard about why Minju never invited Eunbi over. You’ll never need to.

“But - but I mean, I guess that’s the gist of it,” you feel inclined to add, stumbling a bit, figuring that if you steal away into the safety of your one true talent - talking - you might just resist the very present urge to reach forward and press your lips to hers.

“You’re an accessory,” says Eunbi, unbothered, and her eyes take a lazy sweep from your face down to your waist. It’s a leer. “Though,” she murmurs, “can’t really say I can blame the girl.”

“First off, rude.” You’ve got a finger pointed to the ceiling when you say it. “Secondly-”

“Too nice for your own good, you know that?” Eunbi takes a sip from her glass, and after fixing a dark, stubborn strand of hair back behind her ear, she finds herself again in that anxious distance inches away from your nose. “Why don’t you have some fun with it?”

“Fun with what?”

“Just because you figure you’re going to go crawling back to her doesn’t mean you can’t take advantage of your-” she stops, eyes fixing to your lips before continuing, “situation.”

“Can I mention something to you?” You swallow once, twice. Now you’re both looking at each other’s mouths, breathing the same air. “You have a pretty fucked up perspective on interpersonal relationships.”

“What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?” she asks, completely ignoring the assessment. Her fingernails skate along the counter until she’s pinching at the cuff of your sleeve, and her hair falls back in front of her face again, though this time she looks into your eyes like she’s waiting for you to move it out of the way.

“What are we doing right now?” you ask, agitation just beginning to rear its head. “What are you asking me?”

“I’m bored, and you’re the only other person here.”

“There’s, like, a million people here.”

“I mean right here,” she says, nodding to the broken heel on the counter and gesturing between your chests. “Besides, I like you.”

You really could surge up and kiss her, you realize. Her lips are so close, right there in front of you, and there’s not any sort of question of whether she’d let you. The part that scares you is you haven’t a fucking clue what you’d say when the moment comes to finally pull your mouth off hers, and that’s not something you’re usually trying to sort out. Nor are you really in a blathering mood, and now you’re imagining it: Eunbi’s expression all smug and haughty, something that could inspire a good blather - uh, did you just kiss me?

“Forgive me, but I feel like I need to point out,” Eunbi adds, mildly entertained, “most guys wouldn’t be asking this many questions.”

“I’m not most guys.”

“Uh, I am fully aware,” Eunbi says, running a fingertip along the length of her collarbone, slowly, and her voice dips out if its usual airy register into something less musical, more serious: “Do you even have a clue what I’d do for a guy like you?”

“Eunbi,” you say, harshly, not that it matters; she’s going to tell you.

“For starters,” she says, and her hand is around your tie, tugging like you won’t tell her to stop, like she knows she’s gorgeous in all the most disarming ways. “I’d take good care of him, like I don’t think I could keep my hands off him. I’d be blowing him all the time - until my jaw hurt, then i’d just tell him to pick a hole and fuck a big, hot load of cum into it - hell, I’d probably let him do anything to me.”

“Tactful.”

“I’m not the one having a hard time reading between the lines.”

“That’s not - I’m not-”

“Into me?” Eunbi laughs, leaning forward, your last vestiges of personal space vanishing like a passing thought, and now she’s touching you - a hand on your thigh, higher, higher. “You want to fuck me so bad.”

The fucked up thing, beyond Eunbi being absolutely right, is that you’d rather die than try and lie through your teeth, than succumb in such austere fashion. This thing, this desire, this want, you understand it so intimately you could probably name it like you were christening it in a church. You grab a hold of her wrist, before her precocious fingers can discover how obviously right she is under the seam of your pants, and the suddenness of the challenge wipes the mirth from her face - pulls a small little sound out of her chest, leaves her eyes wide and uncharacteristically docile.

“Are you sure?” you ask, collected and calm, after you’ve both realized how small her wrist fits in your hand. “Is this really the game you want to play?”

Eunbi’s head tips onto this angle, expression perfectly cavalier. “Oh,” she says, uncorking an impious grin, “why don’t you and I go figure that out.”

It’s hard to focus. You’ve got it all wrong, or whatever, practically right from the jump. Your first mistake was veering toward the restrooms tucked behind the bar, where Eunbi pulled at the corner of your sleeve to shoot you a skeptical look - are you fucking nuts, there’s single occupant washrooms upstairs - her explanation was sound, probably, she lost you quickly at: “would prefer no one hear me cum all over your cock.”

The second transgression is the kiss itself, a fucking honest mess.

Eunbi’s perched on the sink, precariously, and as much as you’d rather be smoothing your hands up her curves, you’ve got one preoccupied at her hips, steadying her, the other pulling at your own clothes, slinging your jacket to the floor. It’s this sort of callow tangle of limbs, exchange of spit, imprecise groping - fuck, it actually hurts when your teeth bump together, or when Eunbi pulls a little too hard at your bottom lip - over and over, and your mouths keep missing each other, straying off to cheeks and chins.

You expected there to be a touch more polish to her, for her to be the kind of girl above hooking up barefoot in a public restroom, maybe even preserve any of that infamous intrigue. But those open-mouthed kisses she has leaving marks on your jaw, making welts on your neck do little to help you shrug off the impropriety here, hanging like a sorry cloud. Because you’re barreling toward something desperate and clumsy and hot and needy - so utterly raunchy in all the right ways.

“C’mere,” Eunbi says, smile stretching soft and devastatingly sweet, hardly fussing when you slip your hand beneath her jaw - it takes a moment, a touch of experimentation, until you’re together working toward a common goal. She twists the end of your tie over her wrist once, twice, anchors herself against you, and her legs open wider, a heel hooking around your thigh. The embers in her half-lidded eyes tell a story, tell you you to firm up your grip, clutch her, get rough with her, toss her around - she can take it, she can take more.

Her chin gets set on the angle opposite yours as she starts to pull you in close, the heat in her breath coming closer, and she furrows a perfectly sculpted brow the moment she realizes it’s not reciprocal - that you’re not leaning into her, not pressing your tongue past her lips and grabbing her hair by the fistful - she squints, glowering. It’s actually not a bad look on her.

“Tell me something,” you say, skating your fingertips up her leg until they’re so close to the apex of her thigh you can feel her heat, radiating. “What were you expecting?”

“I try to never expect anything,” Eunbi tells you, and starts once more for your lips, only vexed again when you stiffen up, maintain the distance between you - stop her short at the limit of tantalizingly close.

“Eunbi,” you say, wry with dry laughter and peeking over her shoulder to the reflection in the mirror - backless; you can see the ridge of her spine from her ass all the way up to her neck when you slide her hair to the side. “This is not a dress you wear out with colleagues and friends. This is a take me home and have your wicked way with me kind of dress.”

Eunbi swallows; that’s how you know you caught her. “If the insinuation here is that I’m a slut, I’m not having any of it.”

“Why? Is that supposed to be some sort of secret?”

Her expression falls onto something rather unamused, a glib reply waiting for release at the tip of her tongue, until finally she says, “do you get off on being withholding or some other bull-”

The word vanishes in a sharp inhale the moment you press your hand up between her legs.

“Oh god.” Eunbi’s entire body shudders, nerves bundled and tight and ready to fire at the slightest excitation. Honestly, you’re not even doing anything; you’re pushing fabric into her cunt, and fuck, Eunbi’s already this trigger-happy. The demanding, quick-tempered vixen with something to prove, and she’s already melting over the slightest touch.

Hell, just listen in on those little stuttering breaths falling off her lips when you begin to circle your fingers, slowly, when you reach down further to where she’s so hot, so wet-

You press down and she hiccups.

“Ah, I think I get it now,” you start, watching Eunbi’s lip wobble as the heel of your palm spreads flatter and flatter over her clit, pressure indiscriminate and nowhere close to absolving. “You want me to believe that somehow, you’re a total romantic.”

Eunbi’s mouth slacks slightly as she sighs. “Aren’t we all entitled to a little fantasy?”

“Has the part where I fuck you senseless in a public restroom always worked into that?” you ask, digging deeper, drenching her underwear in her own slick. “Or is that a new development?”

“You’re really testing the limits of your charm here.”

“I dunno. I think the fact that you’re dripping down your thighs means I’m doing all right,” you say, holding onto a smirk that you’re half-sure she’s contemplating slapping off your face.

“What do you want?” she asks, shimmying her hips against you, voice softening into delicate capitulation. “Want me to tell you that I’ve been dreaming about it? Want to know that I think about you when I’m alone - when I’ve got my fingers inside me and I’m sobbing into a pillow - that I’m picturing you fucking railing Minju - picturing how your hands would feel at my waist, on my tits, around my neck - imagining just how good you’d fuck me?”

You nearly snort in amusement. “Oh, want a lot more than that.”

“Then hurry up,” she says - before the attraction ferments. And she sighs musingly when you press your fingers past elastic, find a touch where she needs you, the unmistakable shiver of real contact. “Kiss me properly and pull me apart.”

You tilt Eunbi’s chin up and place your mouth on hers. Kissing her once, twice, until she realizes it’s not even close to enough, drawing in to kiss you back that much harder, all unknowing and candid - like she never once cared for subtlety in her methods of seduction.

Almost absentmindedly, your fingers had already danced over her entrance, rubbed and touched and felt and begun to push. And god, she’s so incredibly wet - not that the push isn’t slow, so unhurried you can feel Eunbi wanting to cry out in frustration as you get deeper, feel her squeeze onto you, just a knuckle inside her, then a second. She barely manages to hush out a complaint into your lips when you drag them back, returning the perfect roughness in your fingers to her clit and applying all this agonizingly-too-gentle pressure. Do anything, she said - said she’d let you; could’ve said, fuck me, ruin me; should’ve told you, no idea what I really want other than for you fuck my brains out, so please take off your clothes and help me figure it out -

It’s actually kind of adorable, that she has to break her lips away from yours to ask for more.

But only a loud, smacking kiss and the length of a heavy exhale later, Eunbi’s tongue slides into your mouth, slipping gently against yours, and flicks up at your teeth as you press the curl of your index finger back inside her. She cries gently, this pitchy little feminine sound, just when you fuck her open with another. You could take all the time you want, you reckon, just pretend Eunbi’s not already all wound up and needy - pussy soaked and hot and begging beneath loose fabric - pretend she isn’t wrapping her slender fingers around your wrist to hold you firm, keep your fingertips present and reliable: something she can buck her hips into, something she can fuck until she’s gasping for you to stop.

“Fuck.” Her moan hums right into your mouth, thin, stretching out on a broken breath as the pad of your thumb skates over her clit, again, again, lighter, barely a touch this time, gentle and tender, and, well, conflicting - because look, everything about this is such a fucking awful idea - you’re going to walk out into a sea of judgement with kiss-swollen lips, hair disheveled and bothered like you’d trekked through a windstorm, with Eunbi hanging on your waist, knees wobbling and perfectly complicit to the crime.

You’ve given the thought barely a moment’s attention when Eunbi’s grip on your wrist goes white-knuckle tight, like she can taste the apprehension on your lips. She tugs on your tie, hard - don’t stop, come, closer - like she’d literally die if you stop fucking her with your fingers.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” you say in the spaces between these stinging, deep kisses into her cheek, her jaw, letting her body slump forward when you let go of her waist and start sliding your hand up her flat stomach, scrunching and furling the material of her dress up around her hips. She totters a moment, feet barely reaching the floor how you have her balanced on the lip of the sink, but you can’t help it: you need to get a hand up, higher, over her ribs, onto her chest -

Eunbi gasps the moment your fingers sink in, loudly, and you’re not even going to try and give her an explanation - fucking christ, her tits are incredible.

“How messy,” you tell her, enjoying how it makes her cheeks start to burn red, and with just that, you’re sure, with fingers becoming fast and frenzied. It’s audible, the slick on your hand, working through the thick of her heat, the tension in her clench. “So fucking messy, I bet you’re close baby, so close - close to cumming on my fingers.”

She purses her lips, chin tucked into where her collarbones meet, and closes her eyes. You think she’s readying some riposte, some quip to needle, something she’d lid her eyes and smirk first to tell you with poison laced in her voice, seethed in sarcasm, in spite.

“I mean, Eunbi, look at you,” you drawl huskily, an effort to lure the words out of her, “and I haven’t even gotten my mouth on you yet.”

Her whole body sighs, a concerted effort; she’s panting, sinking her teeth into her lip, and it happens so suddenly, near all at once - those elegant lines in her face starting to twist, betraying that usual sculpted visage of perfection - at the end of a squalling stretch for air, she starts to beg.

“Please,” she mewls, escaping her lips pliant and meek.

And fuck if that’s anything like the bite you’ve come to expect, the serrated edge of the girl who was amusing herself just moments ago with how you rattled and ruffled from behind a glass of liquor - Eunbi, all cunning and guile - jesus, it’s not even close:

“Oh, god, do it, do it, use my pussy however you want, fuck, want it so bad-” Her hair is falling into her face. Skin getting hot and dewy with sweat. She told you earlier that she’d kill you if you ripped her dress, said you had the look of a dress ripper about you - and now she’s looking at you like she might kill you if you don’t. “-anything, I’ll do anything, gods, please just let me cum.”

“Baby,” you murmur against her neck, a pet name you’re slipping into a little too easily. The possession, the way you say mine, you promise it’s all instinct. “Who could’ve ever guessed you’d be this needy?”

The pale column of skin beneath her jaw reveals more of itself to you the faster you drag your fingers through her cunt. She’s recovering from a curl of your digits against that spot that might just be able to get her screaming, and then it’s your thumb: each circle around her swollen clit reducing her to little more than ragged breathing and that causeway of a word, pleading, please, please, please.

You’d spent more time fantasizing about this than you care to admit, though when you tug the neckline of her dress down, free her breast from beneath the tight fabric, roll your thumb over her nipple, and pinch, it’s clear this is nothing like you imagined. It’s so much fucking more: her face winding into a look of equal parts pain, pleasure, eyes scrunching, lips hanging open - she can’t even say anything when you pull harder on the dress, pull her other tit up to your mouth and start to suck, hard - a heavy moan, whining; she doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Do it,” she demands, gulping for her next breath. “I’m so close.”

You haven’t written it off yet, but you also haven’t the slightest idea how she’ll come back from this one, flirting with the boundary at desperate and pathetic, responding to your touch, your fingers, your mouth like you’d spent a lifetime studying what makes her tick. This might be the only time between you that you’ve ever stumbled this close to anything like an upperhand, you recognize, and you’re not going to pass up an opportunity like it, milking it for all it’s worth:

“You ever have someone do this to you, Eunbi?” you ask her when your lips break all that cruel suction around her nipple - it’s red, swollen, aching, and it’s a great start. The throb between her legs isn’t growing any less urgent either, pulsing vigorously onto your fingertips and leaking all over your hand, her thighs, it’s so fucking sloppy and hot and that perfectly submissive expression on her face just looks so, so good on her. (You’re really leaning into it.) “Fuck you with one of your dresses bunched up over your hips? Take you into a bathroom and get you moaning and panting until you admit you’re a total slut? Fuck, I could do this until you can’t remember your own name, pull your underwear back up your legs all soaking and messy-”

“No,” Eunbi says, exasperated, and she chokes on her voice when your thumb digs harder into the puffy lips of her cunt, pushes this exact pressure on her tender clit. You don’t think her eyes could get any clearer, needier, until she starts shaking her head, saying, “you - you’d be the first.”

She practically blue-screens after that, words getting lost somewhere in the pangs of her own agitated pleasure. And like putty, sinking backward into the counter, you spread her legs open wider. Press a kiss into her forehead, skin all hot and sweaty. She almost loses it right then and there when you start reminding her she’s gorgeous, how good her name sounds on your lips, so pretty when she cums like this and then-

Oh.

There she goes.

“Fuck, you’re - god, fuck, I’m - fuck.” Eunbi hisses out your name, panting for air, and her brittle words fall straight to the floor, smash against the tile, and shatter into a million pieces. Cumming, she adds, two or three times for good measure, and you hold her firm, hold her still. Keep her from sliding off the sink so you might even kiss her hard. Feel her come undone.

Maybe it’s the praise; more likely the tempo of your thumb tapping against her swollen bud, again, again. The only thing you know is that the sound of it alone - over the squelch of your fingers fucking her through it, slow and tender like you have all the time in the world - see, that’s a masterpiece in and of itself.

Eunbi’s chest rolls and twitches as you draw your fingers out of her pussy, soaked, clenching at nothing, and drag them up along her waist so she can feel just how much damage you’ve caused, that for all her sloppiness, it’s because of you.

“Here,” you say to her, with two sticky fingers at her jaw, “I know you want to taste yourself.”

Beyond the visual in front of you, you’re kind of stuck on how impetuous, impulsive, how utterly lewd it all is - opening her mouth and fitting your fingertips between her teeth. You scissor your fingers, let her lick her own slick off your you, and when you press her tongue down behind her teeth she starts to suck. It’s delightful, you think, she’s so gorgeous and somehow, flushed and fucked and sweaty, she looks perfect. Never been so stunning.

“Such a good girl,” you tell her, almost maliciously.

And it’s instant - Eunbi sinking further into the counter, her shoulders slumped to the cold mirror, knuckles knocking the bowl of the sink. There’s a hum coming up from her throat when you say it again, getting stuck on your fingers until she spits them out and looks at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, all glassy and brilliant, like you know the answers to all the riddles of the universe. Okay, so maybe it really is the praise, you realize, a weakness, a loose thread, you might never be able to stop yourself from pulling at it. You’d never want to.

“Been so patient, haven’t you? Your pussy is fucking creaming for me Eunbi, so fucking messy, you poor thing.” You’re lifting her panties to the side, assuring her in half sentences and leaving the rest to the sound of your zipper coming undone. “Gonna fuck you now, get my cock in this pretty little pussy of yours, don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you baby, just be still and hold on for me-”

“God.” Eunbi startles at the touch of your cock running over her slick, and she starts blinking back into reality, legs bracketing around your hips. Do it - she’s gathering an angry fistful of shirt, pulling at your tie, clamoring for you, all desperation, no composure, as if your mistakes were made for her - do it, do it, and she breathes your name against your mouth, lips trembling, “please.”

Days, weeks, months maybe, the conclusion’s long foregone, inevitable: your cock sinks straight into her cunt.

Jesus. Fuck. Where to start? Eunbi’s eyebrows twist, lips part - with just a wicked, sharp breath of air, she immediately comes undone. So, that might be as good a place as any.

You know by the way she melts, the way her body is coiling tighter around you, clinging to you like you might be able to hold it all together - like you’re not fucking her open, pressing deeper inside her, hotter around you with every passing inch.

“I cannot believe,” Eunbi starts, voice shredded, and the rest of it is so incoherent, so blathering and baleful, that you’re altogether unsure if it’s in protest of you ruining her cunt, or if you’re not ruining it enough. Even though she’s so unbelievably wet, she’s every bit as tight, and you end up prompting this unattractive groan from her throat when you motion your hips forward, just a fraction, before pulling back again. “Oh my-”

You’re trying not to laugh but it’s slipping out quietly, and Eunbi just glares at you, the vibrations from your diaphragm going straight between her legs, where she’s still throbbing and unduly sensitive. A few disheveled strands of her hair end up in your mouth as she fidgets about in your grip. A few more as you ease in further - until your balls are flush against her ass and Eunbi has both ankles hooked around your thighs. Beyond the sweltering heat of Eunbi’s cunt, you’ve got thoughts, photographically vivid, racing through your head: you lifting her small body up, getting your hands under her thighs and pounding her without remorse - turning her over and bending her over her sink, watching her tits bounce in the mirror, face wracked as she cums like that, and you’ll get there - just that right now, seating yourself in her pussy and nuzzling your face into the crook of her neck is more than plenty to hone in on.

“Fuck, your cock, it’s-” Eunbi sputters, and it takes a beat to even realize you’re completely inside her, right to the hilt.

And you aren’t making any more sense of how she trembles than of the fusillade of curses tossed in your general direction. Her legs remain locked behind you, holding you motionless - making it difficult to not laugh at her inanity on display, squirming graceless beneath you.

Incredible, is the conclusion you both come to as her cheeks flood again with color, and you start circling your hips into her, moving as much as the confines of her legs - the inelegant entrapment - might allow.

It’s almost cruel: Eunbi gasps when you end up brushing against her tender clit, and you pause, thinking-

(Like this, half naked, dress bundled around her waist, you can take whatever you want. Every now and again you look up and see your reflection, see yourself towering over Eunbi’s lithe frame - oh, the options - they’re nearly endless.)

-she simply growls at you when you inch her hips forward from where they’re perched and do it again.

“I can’t fuck you unless you let go,” you tell her, ducking down and finding her breast with your mouth.

“If I let go,” Eunbi starts, and her voice is jagged with strain, breath steadying, “are you actually going to fuck me, or are you just going to keep teasing?”

“Oh, Eunbi, believe me.” You’re kissing up her chest, her collarbones, pressing your lips sweetly to the hollow of her throat. “I’m going to fuck you until you’re screaming, promise.”

Eunbi holds her gaze to yours, tips up her chin, and says, half daring, “I’m holding you to that,” and as her bind loosens, she tugs your face towards hers by the bottom of your tie. Hard - it’s hardly even a murmur as she leans in, pressing your brow to hers - harder. A rhythm emerges in your hips against hers, though it only complicates the demands: more, please, need it, don’t stop.

But the drag of it is amazing, your cock gliding through the wet heat of her cunt - squeezed tight onto you and fitting you like a glove. So tight, as if she’d been made for you, incomparably coiled around you, and it’s even more perfect as you start to truly fuck into her. Fast and deep and assuring you’d stay true to your word, that you’d get her fucking screaming with it. Each time you pull back and slam into her again, hard enough that she shifts half an inch toward the mirror, you’re listening to that wounded noise, keening out of her chest, punctuated by the way she shudders, bracing against you.

“God,” you rasp through gritted teeth, stealing a delighted moan as she spreads her legs wider for you, stealing several more. “This pussy, fuck, is incredible, Eunbi” - she’s so wet and turned on that you just fucking rail her, that she lets you, that she loves it, to the point where you’re reminding yourself to breathe - “what a good little cocksleeve you are, you’re so fucking wet.”

“Better?” Eunbi is struggling to stay upright, jaw slacked and slumping against the mirror like a puppet cut from its strings. “Better than her, right?”

“Hm,” you say, and the hesitation alone is enough for the corner of her mouth to pull up into a tiny smile. Something she knows she can hook into, something she can work with. “We’ll just have to see.”

There are tears visible at the end , and her words are quickly becoming slurred and mixed up as your fingers turn threats into reality, bruises at her waist, her thighs, her tits, her neck - you’re marking her like she’s yours, like it isn’t dangerous, like it doesn’t spell trouble for both of you. So when she musters the strength to perk up, look you straight on while you pound her cunt recklessly, and meekly say, “be honest,” it’s far too impossible to deny her anything.

“The best, Eunbi,” you start. She doesn’t know where the lip service starts, where it ends, but just hearing you mutter out her name is enough to get her swooning.

It’s not that you don’t understand the irony, that Minju is downstairs somewhere telling a hundred people she doesn’t know where you are, looking pretty and put together, and you’re saving your honesty for this girl, breaking her further to pieces with each thrust her into tight, sweaty body, each stroke into her sloppy, aching hole. You do understand it, and when Eunbi starts whining, sobbing, moaning, you just can’t be bothered to care. “So perfect on my cock, baby, now be good for me - show me how perfect this pretty little cunt is, want you to cum again for me, want to see what a mess you can be, Eunbi.”

You end up with a hand underneath her, the other in the lose waves of hair behind her head, fingers splaying out against the base of her skull, and - fuck, the new angle you settle into when you pull her tiny body up onto your cock, not to mention the depth - it’s wanton, lustful, it’s thoughtless: you’re fucking her so hard and fast that all she can do is throw is her arms around your shoulders and weave curses into her ragged breathing, thinning, threadbare, “oh fuck, oh, jesus, fuck yes, there, your fucking cock, just like that, fucking christ.”

She barely even has one foot on the ground, toes dangling onto the tile, you realize after you finish chastising her dirty mouth. Completely at your beck and call.

Not that it was ever going to make a difference. You fuck her harder, until she’s shaking with it, until she’s crying out, embarrassment long forgotten. She’s so fucked, breathy moans turning to screams, to whimpers, seams cracking into fissures - you’re not hurting her, but fuck if that isn’t the boundary you’re daring to cross. You bottom out in her pussy, over and over; you’re destroying it, ruining it, and she’s clinging to you like wet clothes, like it might soothe her, like her life depends on it.

Eunbi moans when you draw your hips back and nearly leave the perfect heat of her cunt. And when you bury yourself back into her, she writhes.

You look up from the shadowy spot where your cock is disappearing between her legs, and her eyes are flaring again, teeth sinking into her lip as you seek out her chest and start playing with her tits. There, she wants to say, eyelids hooded and voice purring, that’s more like it. But your thumb flicks at her nipple, pert and pointy, coaxing out a quieter reaction - quiet beneath the haggard recoil her body makes in order to sheathe your cock, the gentle tremor at the end of each thrust, stomach muscles contracting under your hand. It’s too much. She only closes her mouth. Lets it fall open again. Sighs.

“You’re going to cum again, aren’t you?” you ask, breath landing hot against her face, agitating the flush in her cheekbones. “You’re going to cum all over this cock.” It’s in those eyes; she’s so incredibly close, but Eunbi holds fast to what shred of dignity hasn’t since vanished out of sight, throat working hard to swallow, and she shakes her head, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

In fact, she’s murmuring nonsensically at you, and for a moment you see a hand on her neck, thumbprint searing into her throat, but the image fades as she moans again, hips jumping, palm slapping the sink. It’s the want, the need, for everything you have to give her, want for you inside her, maybe forever more - and want and want for anything that might release her pleasured agony. It’s fucking filthy.

So bend, you tell her, don’t break.

(You’ve never fucked anyone like this either, you think, not Minju, not anyone - fingers skating up the ridge of her back, face buried in the hair falling over her shoulder, taking careful note of how you’re taking Eunbi apart.

How you might ever put her back together.)

“Shit,” she cries out sharply, spine arched and straining against you as - fucking finally - her orgasm rips through her. You’re watching carefully as you fuck into her quivering pussy, listening mostly, once the pressure starts to build behind your eyes. There’s your name torn from her lips (oh god), and how she starts to tremble (oh god), trying to draw you (oh god) deeper inside her while she (oh my fucking god) lets it flood through her.

It’s a lot to take in. Near impossible to focus on any one thing. For fuck’s sake, even the smell of it is divine, of perfume and sex and vanilla and sin.

You’re grabbing Eunbi’s waist again, so hard she yelps, lips parting, struggling for breath every time you fuck her tight little pussy onto you, but she can’t quite say anything. Not yet. Your cock is still too hard, throbbing madly inside her, and she’s near the point of simply collapsing.

You touch her mouth, tip it gently closed. And the docile way she looks up at you is a reminder that you had readied a quip, something about the mess between her legs, that she’s flustering and incoherent and sobbing and how it’s so unlike her. But it’s gone now. Lost to the lust and need crackling in your own brain, you figure. You’d been daydreaming a mile a minute about fucking Eunbi on a good day, and now you’re seeing her here, like this.

It takes the velvety drag through her cunt, once, twice, you’re pounding her so fast, not even trying to hold on, shortening your breath, biting your cheek, counting out the strokes - three, four, five -“Come on,” Eunbi manages in the spaces between her soft, bitten back moans, “do it, wanna feel that big cock fuck a creampie deep inside me, wanna feel your hot cum leak out of me.”

You really could. Because she feels fucking unbelievable, and now you’re imagining it: getting reckless and stupid and filling her perfect little pussy with all your cum; risk it, get her pregnant, you tell yourself, fuck it deep enough inside her to make it a certainty - the mental image alone is enough to send you over the edge. You’re sure of that. It has before.

“Eunbi,” you stammer, “this pussy feels… I’m gonna-”

“I know,” she murmurs, “I know.” Her eyes are glassy, mouth cocked back, half-smiling. “Do whatever you want.” Five foot nothing of immaculate pulchritude and irresistible peril, she looks pristine on the end of your cock, tits in your hands, brow sweating, mouth opening, telling you to cum, to do it, want you to cum, just fucking use her.

“Fuck,” you spit, slipping your cock out of her at the last moment - fucking into your fist - cumming. Messily. Explosively. Eunbi still choking for air in fits and starts, your other hand still wringing her waist.

Though it can’t be more than a few seconds, the difference between you releasing that load inside her and the way it instead winds up everywhere else: in her panties, against the swollen lips of her pussy, the crease of her thigh - how some leaks and spills down her leg, onto the floor beneath the sink. There’s a dress ruiner in you after all. “God,” you add, fighting exhaustion, and Eunbi simply crumples against you, kissing you like you’ve never been kissed before - a long, smooth slide of her lips that leaves you both gasping in its wake.

“So.” Eunbi’s hand is between her legs, assessing the damages, accounting the cum all over her and soaking through the fabric of her underwear. She just raises an eyebrow at you, charming, challenging. “You came all over me.”

“What, you really think I’d cum in you?”

Her eyes squint, and her nose scrunches. It’s winsome, in a way.

Sure, she’s kind of a disaster - the once-carefully-styled waves of her hair are in tatters, makeup running in every direction, tits hanging out of her bra and spilling over the top of her dress, still barefoot and completely unfazed by it. Dismantled is a good look for her, even if she doesn’t appreciate it: reaching into her purse, this emergency kit of wipes, a mascara brush, lipstick. Raring to do a little triage.

“Yeah,” you insist, “you’re out of your mind.”

The droll laugh she gives you when you finally let her go is not antagonistic either, but as with a lot of those things Eunbi does, the click of her tongue, the haughty expressions, the mannerisms, they were all becoming less threatening and more fetching - possibly more now that you’ve seen the face she makes when she cums.

“I think it’s just force of habit.” Having slid from the sink and onto the floor, Eunbi pitches up on her feet to kiss you again, and you don’t try to fight it any more than if she had beaten you in some sporting game and extended her hand to shake yours. When she pulls her lips off you, she adds, “which, you know, serendipitous and all that.”

“Thanks for the ten-dollar-word.”

“Lucky,” she reiterates.

“I know what it means.”

“If I had to guess… Minju doesn’t let you, does she?” And it becomes immediately apparent to you what Eunbi’s playing at. She’s got her teeth sinking into the long game, anticipating that you'll cross your arms, tell her never again: that thing at the gala, the kissing - we can't.

“Can you stop.”

“Does she?”

“Um,” you say, considering carefully for a moment which half-truths you want to tell, which ones you already have. “No, she does.”

Eunbi shifts her body a little, toward you, but not quite close enough to touch you - she’s bending slightly at the waist to scoop her tits back into her bra, her dress. The corner of her lip quirks further, and she asks, completely unrepentant, “does she let you cum in her ass?”

Your throat clicks, swallowing - you can’t even imagine it well enough to begin to know how to lie about it; bashful, everything obvious and on display - so, yeah, you are kind of fucked.

“Your shirt isn’t buttoned right by the way.”

“Here,” you say, still stuffing fabric back into your pants, “stand in front of me in case someone we know happens to come around.”

Eunbi crowds you to the wall, almost too aggressively, and she watches a staff member of the venue walk by carrying a platter full of shrimp tails and used napkins. “You’ve got cum on your pants too.”

“One crisis at a time, okay.”

“What are you going to tell Minju?”

“Nothing.”

“I mean… what is your approach, like when we get over there and-” Eunbi takes a step forward, fitting so perfectly beneath your chin, looking up like she’d discovered something worth marveling at. “Oh my god.” She laughs out loud. “How did I get a hickey under there?”

With just one finger returning to her waist, far gentler than the last time it’d been there, you push her back ever so slightly. “I’m just going to be myself.”

“Hm, bad idea.”

“Oh, alright then.”

Eunbi clutches a hand over her chest like she’d been wounded. “I just mean you’re kind of a nervous wreck.”

“I’ll be fine,” you tell her, now properly buttoned, and sliding out from her small-yet-surprisingly-overbearing presence. “And I told you, I bruise easy.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

History, is the word you’re looking for. Minju and Eunbi have history.

It always starts the same way:

A kiss to one cheek, the other, and the two are immediately falling back on placid smiles and the kind of laughter that seems at a glance to be genuine and real. Almost theatrical, the performance.

Though Eunbi’s always had that chip on her shoulder - says she knows what it’s like to be young and pretty and famous - and when they’re together Minju always manages to draw from this near-infinite supply of bashful and modest. Actually, that’s more or less her whole thing.

The mistake you figure, if anyone were to ask you, which no one has one yet - the mistake is in thinking you’re the only one that knows Minju can’t stand Eunbi. Even though she does a great job of hiding it, you might be singular in regards to who gets to hear Minju go off in the privacy of your apartment - arrogant, vain, conceited bitch - but you’re not alone here. No, no.

Because Eunbi - who is perfectly aware just how much disdain Minju has for her - catches your stare. And instead of being content with how you’ve found the ideal spot to stand off to the side to avoid this whole minefield of a situation, she waves you over. Way too enthusiastically.

That has always set her apart. She would invite mischief, if she thought that it would set the scene.

It’s not more than a week before your paths cross again. Perhaps you’re tangling with fate. Perhaps it’s out of your control. Perhaps, you consider carefully, that’s more convenient. You see her first: waiting for a cab at the taxi stand outside the broadcast studio, cardigan sliding down around her shoulders, verily bedraggled in the wind.

The ends of her hair are in the corners of her mouth, and those long shadows cast from the evening sun dance across her face to paint those features baroque, build an image serene and stately - statuesque.

(She’s stunning as ever.)

That Eunbi is even here of all places is a coincidence, but her dimples deepen when her eyes meet yours, like she’s finally found something she was long looking for. “How serendipitous,” she says to you again, smiling.

“Right.” You grimace back, self-effacing. “Lucky.”

“You know,” she says after a moment, “our apartments really aren’t that-”

“Far,” you say, seeing the conclusion that she’s leaping at, and the next to make things become extremely complicated is Eunbi, which is so her that it makes your fists clench in your jacket pockets without realizing it.

“It’d be cheaper, I’m just saying, if we split a cab.”

“What if I told you,” you say, after a long while, “I get reimbursed for the commute either way.”

“Do you?”

“No,” you end up saying, bluntly.

“So, purely a hypothetical,” she suggests, leaning into your personal space, and your eyes drop immediately, past her bare shoulders, past the neckline of a matching top, pointedly to her knees beneath a pair of denim shorts. Her whole outfit is simple, but with a figure like hers, clearly intended to provoke a reaction, one that you’re not going to give her. You’re above that.

“Yeah.” You tilt your head. “Sure.”

Her finger’s tapping at her chin, and it’s sort of cute the way she does it, making the gesture seem about half as patronizing as it should be. “Then just for good company’s sake?

“You-” It comes out uneven enough to get you chuckling to yourself, kind of nervously. Her eyes light up as you swallow back on your drying mouth - a beacon, lighthouse in a storm, safe harbor, siren’s call and all. Your gut is trying to tell you, danger, and then suggests you dive in headfirst. “You might be giving yourself too much credit.”

“Just entertain the thought for me.”

“Like a hypothetical, you mean.”

She laughs, and it has her eyes crinkling at the corners. Likable, you think immediately. Beautiful, right after that, and coincidence, as it were, ends there - just as abruptly.

You’ve made many selfish decisions in your life, but climbing into the back of that cab might be the most out of all of them - Eunbi just smiles when you arrive next to her. You never stood a chance against that, probably. It’s the Orpheus thing. The monkey’s paw thing. It’s not possible to lean out of a moving vehicle enroute toward collision, stop the wheels from spinning when they’re already spun, and unmake the wish.

The blur of passing street lights streak across Eunbi’s face and present it to you in broken images, cycling like phases of the moon, until finally, an overpass sees everything go dark, and you feel her small body slide across the backseat, the heat in her chest as she presses into you.

Her lips are featherlight upon yours, gentle and trepid. For the first time, she seems unsure, as if she didn’t think this would happen. Then once more, with a taste of desperation and sinking into the dark corner of the leather seat, she kisses you like she knows you, pulling tight onto the collar of your shirt like she knows you’ll kiss her back - like she knows that all you’ve been doing, at the end of the day, is delaying the inevitable.

Eunbi’s apartment, actually, is rather modest. More different, and less however you expected.

The walls are painted alabaster, not white, which is only a color you recognize because Minju had waffled between that and eggshell for weeks before tasking you to paint three of the four walls of your living room - only later to realize she wanted something darker as you were priming the fourth. There’s a small powder room by the door, a tiny closet overflowing with jackets and coats and all sorts of outfits you’ve probably stripped off Eunbi in your head a thousand times over - and what the space lacks in size, more than makes up for in the massive set of south facing windows, benefit of an open layout, daylight warm and diffuse.

Well, at least that’s how you imagine it. The sun set while you weren’t paying attention, your thoughts, hands, lips, all preoccupied in the back of the cab, so you’re left with only the recessed lighting, dimmed down to dreamlike allure.

Not that you've ever been one with an eye for detail. No, Minju will happily corroborate the fact. Your talents start at your wit, end at your charm. But it’s just where you’re at - head tipped over the back of the sofa - you’ve got your eyes anywhere besides where Eunbi’s kneeling in front of you, head bobbing up and down between your thighs.

In spite of your plans to fold her over any surface sturdy and horizontal, you ended up like this, jeans not even half way down around your thighs. On instinct, you’re threading your fingers through her silky hair, though you can feel the glare she shoots up as you tighten your grip and start to pull. It’s not that Eunbi takes issue with you fucking her face inherently. It’s nothing like that at all.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” you murmur softly, voice wrecked. “You take my cock so well. Your smart little mouth was made for this, wasn’t it?”

Between messy kisses in the cab, the lobby, the elevator, while fumbling for her keys, she’d detailed to you all the things she wanted you to do to her, how she wanted you to fuck her, how she was going to make you cum. See, her mouth is gorgeous, even more vulgar, and she wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip: you’d understand exactly what that mouth could do.

Because there’s the angle you’re now both familiar with, that you can fuck her apart, get her flushed, faltering and fucked into perfect submission until you steal your own release - that you’ve been running the memory back all damn week - but she figures you ought to know that she can make you cum without you ever needing to lift a finger. And given how sure she is running her tongue all over you, sucking your cock, mouth hot, unashamedly sloppy, fingers curled around your shaft in strokes of genius-

Fuck, she probably will.

Not that you’re one for understatement, mouth falling open as you sigh backward into the upholstery - feels amazing, you’re explaining to her when you’re not chewing your lip, so good at that, a little more, your mouth baby, fuck, it’s incredible. Like she doesn’t already know.

Eunbi just slides her lips down your shaft so perfectly in response. All that wet suction near fatal. But it’s not what gets you to swear audibly, a low rumble from your chest that says she’s on the right track. It’s the look on her face: pouty pink lips cushioning your cockhead, parted around your shaft, sinking further now, back at the top again, spit drooling from the corners of her mouth. Her eyebrows are upturned, and when she hollows her cheeks some - lifts her eyelids and fixes that gaze on you - her irises are gleaming in juxtaposition, this doe-eyed girl blinking up at you, innocently, like she’s not taking your cock further into her mouth, fucking you until she chokes.

Those eyes half-lidded, unknowing, and staring straight into you-

She’ll make you cum, they read, blinking, deep in her throat. Her lashes flutter. She coughs. You’ll cum more.

Though for your part, it’s not like you’re aren’t handing yourself over to the sensation either, indulging in everything Eunbi’s mouth has to offer, what more you’re sure still to take. It’s hot and wet and her tongue is even better licking around the tip of your cock than it was pressed flat underneath it - you’re settling into it, just starting to rock your hips up to meet the softness at the back of her throat, and she nods her head down twice more, bathing more of you in her spit each time, sputtering. You’re not the easiest to take, but she’s almost casually contented, or something more smug, the uppish look of a girl who's never backed away from a challenge - who will happily go for more - and without fuss, she takes your entire length between her lips.

“Oh, fuck me-” you mutter, going speechless the moment she starts to suck.

And with her nose to your belly, Eunbi is straining, fighting for breath. It’s not an accident that she’s making a total fucking mess, drool and precum dripping down your shaft. She’d take more of you, wet on her chin, on her fingers, she’d pull you further into her little mouth, like she’d have it no other way. Still, her tongue licks nonchalantly past the seal of her lips, laps at your balls, and you think you’re going to lose it when she realizes it’ll get you to shiver, how you won’t ask for more, but she can just keep doing it again, again.

You bury your face in your hands as you suck in your next breath. You’re leaking cum actually, only a little, and Eunbi just keeps blowing you like you aren’t.

Fantasies will never work again, not after this, because for all the times you’ve imagined Eunbi’s lips around you, you’ve never come up with anything remotely close. It’s not even clear if this talent of hers is natural, god-given, or if behind each of her coy expressions and holier-than-thou moments of proud eminence she’s secretly an insatiable cockslut, but man, the girl is really good at sucking cock.

Maybe the tricky part about this, if you even want to begin to get into it (you do not) - allowing yourself a small taste of intimacy has sparked this want for so much more. Even when things were good, Minju wasn’t getting her mouth on you like this. You can’t put your finger on it, the last time you’ve had anything as satisfying as the press of Eunbi’s lips around you, this mess of dark slippery hair bobbing up and down in your lap lazily and unbothered, mouth making all these wet noises like she’s yours and nothing more - like she never will be - and fuck, it’s irresistable. Her tongue curls around you again, and she makes her jaw go slack until more spit drools down the length of your cock, lathering in her fingers and twisting around your shaft - it scratches at itches you didn’t even know you had; nascent itches, silent ones, itches cloaked as something else.

Your breath stutters, stumbling into an embarrassing little moan after Eunbi pops her mouth off your cock, and a fleeting trick of a grin rushes across her face. She picks up on where you’re at instantly: “Aren’t you, like, kinda quiet?”

“There’s a lot going through my head right now,” you tell her, and that’s something she knows she can play along with, reveling in how you swallow at nothing when she hooks her hand behind her back and frees her bra from her shoulders. Her tits settling perfectly into place. “Just to be clear,” you sigh, “I’m going to cum in your mouth if you keep doing it like that.”

She tugs your jeans all the way down to your ankles. Arches an eyebrow. “And?”

“It’s called being decent, just something I'm working on.”

“Oh,” Eunbi says, returning her grip around your cock. Her hands are tiny, stacked one on top of the other, and she pumps them slowly, knowing that the abundance of spit and precum in her fingers makes it feel amazing. Every little flick of her wrists every bit as unbearable. “Now you care about decency; the guy who’s cheating on his-”

“Watch it,” you say, rough, “I could go without the reminder.”

Eunbi’s grin flickers a little wider. “Still the guilty conscious, huh?”

You think on it, a moment too long probably, because on one hand, she’s right. On the other - “I’m not going to say it’s guiltless.”

“Okay simple,” Eunbi shrugs, and pulls herself away from you, suggesting, “just touch yourself.”

That’s one way to go about it. You wonder if this is the logic her brain operates on daily. It’d explain a lot.

“That’s like getting away with it on a technicality.”

“It’s an orgasm,” Eunbi tuts, “you’re not robbing a bank.” There’s a brief silence while she brings her palm up over her eyes, peeking through her fingers. “Here, see, I’m not even looking.”

“I’m going to go ahead and just point out that you’re suggesting I jerk off in your living room.”

Eunbi’s hands drop to her sides, before tracking up her ribs and holding her breasts together into a cleavage that is way too inviting for anyone’s sake. You’re enchanted. Beguiled, maybe.

“Or.” Her gaze tapers in on something. God only knows what exactly your tell is; the quirk in your brow, the slightly-more-than-usual-avoidant gaze, something about your lips, the way you’re biting them - that’s where she seems to have honed in. And she’s smoking you out, completely. “I could probably just fuck you with my tits.”

That’s true. She could. And when that developed thought eventually coheres, you sigh profoundly.

She tips her head, interpreting the silence, and the small, wanting groan you make as she starts smashing her breasts closer together between her hands is definitely audible. Here, she’s telling you, with your cock, I know you want to. Even her lips are slanted into a subtle, knowing shape, steeped in all her femme-fatality, before finding the other smile she wears that pretends like it doesn’t know what she’s doing to you. “Is that what you want? You want your cock between my tits?”

“How exactly are those two things interchangeable?” you start, which isn’t anything even in the neighborhood of a no, so Eunbi simply leans forward, raising her chest between your thighs and teasing the sensitive part of your cock with just a brush of her nipple. Grazing down you, it’s hardly any contact at all, but the way you twitch suggests to her you’ll probably never recover from this.

“Well.” Eunbi’s expression is lit aflame with revelation. “I’m just working in the space, thinking about things someone else could never do for you - things I could do for you.”

For one thing - of which there are many - it’s a hell of a departure from the Eunbi who was sobbing against the bathroom mirror begging you to cum inside her. You can hear it. Her voice has the quality of a type of: victory.

(Like she’s just come up with the most brilliant idea in the world. Which - maybe.)

“It’s perfectly normal you know,” she adds, almost as an aside, while trapping your cock between her breasts. “Literally everyone asks me to do this.”

You’re disarmed more than you realized, only able to nod along. Eunbi laces her fingers together, straightens herself, and right after passing her tongue under her top teeth to shoot you a smile, starts moving up and down against you. The way it feels, filthy hot and suffocatingly amazing, fuck, you’re letting out a sound that’s the bastardchild of a laugh and a whimper. You’re stunned. And the way it looks - your cockhead escaping her tits, disappearing again - is almost, almost the best part.

“You’re, like, so hard right now,” she says, deservedly confident, and sliding her tits up around your cock again, she tilts her chin, trying to goad it out of you. “Should I let you cum all over these tits? Like, you’re already throbbing, honey.”

Let you cum, she says. If you weren’t struggling to cope with everything - every pass of soft skin smothered around your shaft sending you further to wit’s end and threatening to abandon you there - you’d recognize the writing on the wall: you’re in the palms of her hands, figuratively, literally. You’re in trouble.

“Oh, is that it?” she asks again. “Should I?”

“Fuck.” Without even thinking, you’re spreading your knees wider, inching toward the edge of the sofa, aching to get deeper between her cleavage. “Fine, yes, fuck-”

“Unh-uh,” says Eunbi flippantly.

See, she’s enjoying this - eyes hot and radiant with authority - she’s enjoying this more than you. Her fingers relax, letting her tits fall around down onto your thighs. The pressure she was letting you enjoy, wrapping around your cock and making you speechless, starts to dwindle to something less brain-numbing. It’s unexpected: the lipstick around her mouth is smeared slightly, mascara under her smoky eyes still in disarray from how you’d had your cock in her throat, and now she’s the one taunting you.

“No, I’m serious,” she adds, “I want to hear you say it.”

Her brow furls immediately when you open your mouth, like she’s already very aware of what you’re going to say, and equally unimpressed.

“Say you want me to make you cum with my tits.”

“Eunbi.” Your voice comes out dry, damaged. “Please.”

“Hm?”

This wasn’t quite how you had pictured it when you’d seen Eunbi leaving the studio, looking like an angel, smiling like the devil; when she batted her lashes at you outside the taxi stand; when she clung to you and kissed you in the backseat of the cab; when that escalated the moment you walked through her foyer; when she dropped to her knees and started at your belt, your zipper, all without missing a beat. This is different. This is you, being desperate.

“Please, with your tits Eunbi, fuck me with your tits.”

Jesus. Now you know how that sounds. And the words are clear enough given the circumstances, but she’s staring at you expectantly, waiting for more. Waiting for you to concede. Waiting like you have no choice - “please, Eunbi, please make me cum, fuck, I need it so bad.”

“Oh.” Eunbi gathers herself again around your cock. Tighter. Triumphant. She laughs dryly and says, aloof, “good boy.”

(Here’s how it goes:

Eunbi has your cock vanished into her cleavage, again, and every soft slide of her breasts coaxes a reaction out of you - some quiet, others louder - coaxes more precum from where your cock is aching, leaking. She adjusts her fingers, moves her palms in further, makes her movements more precise, faster, tighter-

It’s probably not a good sign of mental hygiene that you’re wilting so fast, that you’ve given her so much power so quickly, but the way she has her tits around you is fucking staggering.

“Aw, don’t worry, I’ll make you cum so fucking hard.” Eunbi moves her tits up your shaft. Lets them fall again. “Just relax for me.”

Her dark hair is falling slightly out of place over her ears as she looks down and presses her out tongue out, licking gently at where you’re appearing over and over from her soft breasts. Oh, she knows exactly what she’s doing, you think, even though there’s not an ounce of culpability in her face. You’re so unused to seeing Eunbi appear so guileless that you nearly don’t recognize her.

But once you feel the smooth skin of her chest become so wet and slippery with her spit, your precum - once she’s settled into a reliable motion to fuck you with - her eyes lift their focus from what’s just beneath her chin. Get themselves fixed right on you.

“It feels so good doesn’t it?” The smirk that finds her mouth is lethal. “C’mon. I know you want to cum.”

You can only nod, breath panting.

“Cum on these perfect tits, baby. Cum for me.” Her brow is cocked, voice lilting straight into seduction. “Cum-”

Eunbi’s name sticks to the roof of your mouth as you shoot a rope of cum past her collarbone. You send more all over her chest, hot and sticky and shimmering in pale white, and as soon as she slowly slides her chest up again, you drain your balls into the warm wrap of her tits. A truly satisfying mess.

You stare for a moment, wondering, if she’ll open her mouth and swallow you again - all given the way she’s looking at your cock, hungry. But she simply tilts her chin and lets your cum splash onto her neck.

She has her hands pumping you lazily against her clavicle, cooing while she gently fuck out the final, tired vestiges of your orgasm with little flicks of her wrist: “oh, there, look at all that, and it’s all for me.”

Once your knees stop shaking and your breath starts to level - once Eunbi releases you from her warm, wet cleavage - she draws a shiver out of you with her tongue, run up the length of your sensitive cock, and she’s left kneeling there, covered in your cum, with her palms upturned like she’s waiting for someone to give her a towel. It’s you, and it’s her, and there’s something about the image of your cum splattered all over her chest, shining and slippery between her perfect tits. You get your hands on her waist immediately, pulling her up into your lap, her slick, sticky chest sliding against yours, and you devour her mouth greedily, licking hungrily past her lips.

“You are something else,” you say finally, now sunk back into the couch to fully take Eunbi in. “All sorts of party tricks.”

Eunbi preens, utterly satisfied with herself, and she reaches down behind her to your cock, aching in pained pleasure, aching for more. You flirt with the heat that radiates from behind her underwear, grinding against where she’s become hot and wet and needy. She laughs, and the sound turns to a pretty little sigh after she pulls aside her panties and seats herself onto your cock.

“Oh, you have no idea,” she says, and she starts to move.)

It’s never supposed to become a habit. It’s never supposed to be anything at all.

At first? Once a month, and it’s unprompted; then it’s biweekly, then it’s once a week, then it ends up biweekly again in the opposite direction; there are these little text messages back and forth that you’re learning to decipher - hey, they usually start, you up? or you wanna help me move some furniture? or this is crazy, but i cooked way too much ramen? or been horny all day, so like, come over and fuck me?

Some of them, you puzzle out, are easier to decipher than others. And falling comfortably into that category are the nudes she sends you in the middle of a fucking workday:

Eunbi’s standing with the backside of her unfathomable figure facing the bathroom mirror, denim cut offs slipping down past her thighs-

(Fuck. Shit. You drop your phone and it lands face down in a way that makes you scared to check for damages. Luckily, it is unscathed. Mostly.)

-denim cut offs slipped down past the cheeks of her ass. Her torso is twisted in profile, a white linen shirt draped up over her shoulders for ceremonial purposes, gaping open at the front in an effort to cover nothing at all. Underneath that is a plaid swimsuit top for god knows what reason - a pair of large silver hoop earrings, perfectly done eyelashes, and hair far too styled to be gearing up for a swim - then it’s her thumb, hooked under the string that looks to barely be holding the tiny thing together. The picture is taken at nearly the precise moment: she’s pulling up on the bikini top, to the point that her tits look ready to fall out and let gravity return them whence they came.

How she managed it, you’ll never know, but it’s got fantasies come to life immediately. Eunbi whimpering and coming apart, Eunbi stretched out in that bikini top, Eunbi stretched out without it - you nearly drop the phone again.

The text that follows is shameless, complete with a winking emoji and extra letters in all the right places: maybe tell minju you’ll be home late for dinner.

All of this, and suddenly you’re feeling less oblivious about it. You and Minju are at that point. These are your death throes, a swan song, performative; you’re that kind of couple.

You realize there’s this thing that Minju always says.

You’ll often catch her in passing, between your hectic schedules or in her spot between the cushions of the sofa curled up in a blanket and reading another romance novel. She’ll ask you how your day was, or what it’s going to be, and you’ll tell her what you always tell her.

“Nothing,” she responds as you press a dutiful kiss to her forehead, “I’m just thinking.”

But what else is there to say?

There’s Eunbi’s apartment, the usual scene of the crime. There’s the backseat of your car, sometimes the front seat of hers. There’s no lack for nooks and crannies in the production studio. You fuck Eunbi. Eunbi fucks you. All of it rabid and increasingly frequent and most of the time it gets seriously freudian.

“Inside me,” Eunbi gasps, twice. Her chest is flushed, stained again with your cum, sticky strands of it bridging between her tits as they wobble and shake beneath you. It’s all routine, and none of it anything you could ever tire of. The way you’re fucking her, every deliberate thrust something you can hang on to forever - buried inside her hot, tight velvety cunt - it should be aspirational. And you’ve got her here so frequently, so selfishly, so perfectly. With her knees folded up to her shoulders as you ride the motions of the bed springs.

Maybe it’s curiosity at play, to see how far either of you will go. You’re crushing her in more ways than one. It’s hot and filthy and she’s loving every moment of it. You’re pounding her sopping cunt into a swollen, cummed-in mess - more and more as you fuck her further into the matress. “Do it, baby,” she cries, unashamed, “want you to fill this pretty little cunt again, need you to fuck me, use me, need you to breed me - use this pussy however you want, it’s yours, so cum in me over and over until i’m just your little cumdump and nothing more-”

God, you want to give her everything she wants, all of the time. Your hips ride into her again, deep and making her features skip past all the usual coy expressions. And god, she is so fucking tight - maybe you will.

“Just like that, don’t stop.” Eunbi is panting, nails digging into your shoulder blades, and she holds your face to the crook of her shoulder. Her voice comes out in airy gasps, shaking and quivering as you rock her entire body beneath you. You pound away at her pussy, and you fuck her, and you rail her so reckless she starts to cry out, until she’s begging, pleading for you to fill her pretty little cunt.

Even though you should at least hesitate, you don’t. You can’t. You shouldn’t.

Hips grinding against hers, cunt clenched and dripping onto your cock, you do.

You need her.

But what else is there to say? It’s not that you don’t do your fair share of thinking either. Though none of it productive, admittedly. You’ve got all these images, photographically vivid, of Eunbi running through your head. The things you’ve done to her, the things you want to do to her, the things you will do to her.

It starts to get in the way of your work.

“I’m sorry,” you say, caught daydreaming one day. “Could you repeat that for me?”

Sitting across the table from you is Jo Yuri, a mutual friend. She knows everyone, and she’s on your radio show, talking about relationships. “What I’m saying is this: I’m not sure what it is about men that make them think women are so unsolvable, like we’re constantly changing the rules.”

“They’re not simple,” you offer in contention.

Yuri turns her head onto her hand, adjusting her headphones, and leans into the mic. “They’re not complex either.”

But, they are complex, you think to yourself as Yuri continues on her with her point. They’re complex in the way they want you to touch them, the way they want you to hold them, to kiss them; some of them complex in the way they want you to choke them, slap them, get your mouth on them and make them cum over and over-

“If it’s less subtle than a brick to the face,” Yuri says, gauging your lack of a reaction, “it’s probably for your own good. That’s what I think.”

Neither of you cry when Minju breaks up with you on a Friday. You know, like officially. Neither of you shout or throw things or do anything that you could put in a tell-all book in your later years.

So that’s that, is the last thing she says to you.

Whatever the opposite of cathartic is - that’s the vibe.

Her publicist finally sends a letter to Dispatch. Apparently the time is right. Or she’s stopped caring. You don’t know. The article that ultimately arrives doesn’t drag you through the mud, but you don’t come out looking all that great either. And as it turns out, surprisingly, the most tragic part about being dumped on a Friday, aside from the fact that every fool that is doom scrolling twitter knows about it, is it’s impossible to get new furniture delivered until the following Monday.

“Jesus,” Eunbi says, sliding past you and into your near empty apartment. “This place is super depressing.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, tepid. “There’s been photographers watching the door to the lobby for hours.”

“I was just passing by. Saw the lights were on.”

“Yeah, well, I mean I’m here.”

“I see that.” Eunbi smiles simply. “Was all the furniture hers?”

“We replaced a lot of stuff as time went on. Didn’t match her decor.” You lean against the door frame. “Or so I’m told.”

Eunbi does a spin in your living room, finger to her chin. “Looks like she left you a coffee table.”

“The movers said it didn’t fit in the truck.”

“Ah.” Eunbi crosses her arms, and the quiet smile on her face grows just an inch. “Serendipitous, ain’t it?”

“Hey,” Eunbi says, from the passenger seat of your car. “Would you say… are you feeling anger?”

“No.”

She taps away at her phone in a few more moments of silence. The turn signal’s click click click punctuating each one, semi-dramatically.

“Hey,” she says again, turning toward you.

“What?”

“How about this, are you feeling depression.”

You pause before you answer. “No.”

Her mouth finds a subtle twist, almost like she’s pouting. “Are you feeling, I dunno, bargaining?”

“I’m not in grief, Eunbi, if that’s what you’re working toward.”

She sinks into her seat, disappointed somehow.

“Oh, that’s the first step by the way: denial.” Eunbi unclicks her seatbelt, and leans over the console as you pull up in front of a hotel. “This article says that soon the emotions you’ve been hiding will begin to rise. You’ll be confronted with a lot of-”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” she asks, blinking deceptively in an almost comically innocent way.

“Psychoanalyzing.” You shut the car door a little too dramatically to be of any help hammering home your point. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Eunbi murmurs, just low enough for you to catch, “you’re living out of a hotel. And denial is not just a river in Egypt.”

“Why don’t we analyze how you’ve got a real talent for getting under my skin.”

“Oh.” She laughs, eyes bright, cheery. “So we are angry.”

“You might want to be more careful.” You’re wandering into familiar territory here. This thing, the needling, the goading, is it on purpose? Your intuition suggests yes, perhaps. A wealth of experience tells you absolutely.

“Is that so?” she asks, interested and daring and dangerously pretty in the shadows of the parking lot.

“Who knows, maybe I end up getting a little rough with you.”

“Oh darling,” she says, and part of you isn’t too keen on her getting so intimate with you. There’s another part of you that is. “I’m hoping you get a lot rough with me.”

The way Eunbi perches inelegantly at the edge of the bed says a lot. Her legs are wide open and she’s grasping backward at a set of pristine hotel sheets, cumming over and over on your fingers, maybe a little too easily. She’s even giving you those eyes, watery and irresistable. Of course you’re past all that, well familiar with the act, how deceitful it is of her to act so innocent.

So you bring your mouth onto her pussy and make her do it again. Telling yourself it’s what she deserves.

In fact, when the barrage of oh god’s and moaning and panting finally subsides, she ends up laughing, bubbly cute, in exactly the way you’ve grown fond of. It’s almost strange, you think, to be so used to the sound. But when Eunbi finally uncovers her face from her hands, her expression is pointedly not amused, all need and lust and want - she’s not playing around - simply the way your name comes off her tongue could make you melt. “How do you want me?” she asks, “you can’t just leave me like this.”

Fuck, how don’t you want her? It might have been careless, giving someone like you creative liberty - you’re imaging everything. You want her on her knees, you want her ass in your hands, you want her riding you, beneath you; there’s a million and one things you’re thinking about her tits alone. Then there’s the other liberty. That you’re not checking over your shoulder, worrying, anxious, that kernel of shame hidden away somewhere inside you no longer growing as you get your cock inside her. You’ll make her scream your name, beg you to cum. She’s yours, and you’ll remind her who she belongs to. You’ll take all the time you need.

“Stand up,” you end up telling her, and after one of those liquid thoughts finally coalesces into something more rigid, “over by the window.”

“Yes sir,” Eunbi says, huffing a smug laugh. Though whatever faux confidence she thought she discovered vanishes without a trace considering her knees are already wobbling, barely able to support her. Some part of her must be able to sense it: you’re worked up, feeling something. She likes you that way. Likes what it makes you do to her. The fact is, to be truly content - being held down and pounded into, filled so full and fucked apart - it’ll take just a press of her thumb on the scale.

See, Eunbi knows you’ve been holding back. Knows you’ve been flirting with the boundaries she’s dared you to cross. With a little encouragement, she knows you will.

You saw this coming. And to be frank, you’re going to ruin her.

“Take your shirt off,” you say, slipping seamlessly into instruction, “socks, underwear, strip.”

It is breathtaking, the way Eunbi ultimately turns her figure around against the pane, hands running up the glass and stretching above her head, ass poked out and shimmying her hips. She’s right there, waiting for you to grab hold of her, to press kisses into her shoulders, her spine, to pump your cock into her, to cum in her deeper and deeper-

And with much less to say, she finds that shimmy again, the round of her ass proffering. Her patience waning.

“You fucking better,” she says, and her elbow’s bent, finger’s pulling at her ass cheek. Look, this pussy, it’s yours, no one else’s and you made it so, so wet. You almost can’t believe that she’s even real - all curves and sharp angles in the right places, a face like that - you should be at her feet, worshiping her, and you will, in a way: you’ll grip her wrists tightly into your fist and sink your fingers into her waist until you’ve got her bruising and breaking. And that’s just a scratch at the surface.

Eunbi’s pupils are blown, mouthing into her shoulder, “I need you to fuck me.”

The tension in the room hardly stretches more than a few moments, you’ve got your cock out, you’re slipping into Eunbi’s soaked cunt, pushing deep, thrusting deeper, bottoming out - “you perfect fucking slut, Eunbi, so needy aren’t you? Begging me to breed you over and over-” You’ve spent the last god knows how many many months hiding away and stealing at something you weren’t supposed to have. Spent even longer pining for something you’ve never had at all. Your hips snap again, harsh contact against her ass, skin milky white and soft, unblemished and delicate - and when you settle into this harsh tempo, railing Eunbi up against the window, you figure you’ll address all that.

See, you’ve got no ticking clock in front of you. Consider how time starts to slip when you’re inside her, seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, you’ll take as much you can: time to bring her her home, keep your cock in her for a day, two days, three days, keep cumming in all her holes-

“Fuck,” Eunbi sputters, arching her back further, tension building in her spine, in her cunt. The reflection in the window shows her bottom lip start to tremble, and she opens her mouth, repeating it, like it’s all she can remember how to say. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

You slap her ass, hard. Handprint vibrantly pink and staring back at you. You kiss her shoulders, you pound her little cunt into consummate submission. I want other people to know, Eunbi’s entirely incapable of telling you right now, drool cornering in her lips. Want everyone to know how good you fuck me, how you own me, how I’m your personal cumdump and forever will be.

You mark her up, like she is yours, hand at her neck, in her hair - you start to pull.

“Yes?” How you’re holding her, how you’re fucking her - it’s physically imposing. You’re towering over the woman, face bent upward and reaching further as the grip you’ve stolen of her silky hair only ever tightens. You can kiss her forehead, but you don’t. You tease her instead. “Aw, you’ve got a look on your face like you have something you want to tell me, Eunbi.”

All too simple, your thumb lands on the pucker of her asshole. And she cums, just like that.

It’s unholy. The overstimulation has tears welling in her eyes, gorgeous, wide, glassy and brilliant. She’s not meant to take this kind of treatment. Reverence, adoration, that’s her usual faire. And she can hardly believe when you bring your hand down her ass again - can hardly believe that you’re fucking her within and inch of her life and wrecking her like you are.

Each thrust sends her voice higher and the lines of her body rippling faster, bending further. Its beauty in resonance, profundity in motion: the soft skin of her ass shaking against your hips, tits swinging against the window. Your hand snakes across her flat stomach, feels her panting for breath, traces her ribs and up towards her chest. Those little whines make it out to be something selfish. Mewling gasps for air make it seem like you aren’t giving her exactly what she asked for. As if you’d ever give her anything less.

Fuck. She’s a hot, moaning mess of a woman. She doesn’t even roll her hips back onto you or fuck herself on your cock; she doesn’t need to. You’re destroying that little pussy, and once you start palming the heavy shape of her breast, you’re letting your fingers sink into all that profundity.

“Please,” finally slips out of her, though she’s unable to add anything in that thin, wilting voice. There’s plea in it, the sound steeped in protest, in penury, in poverty; you’re fucking her and you’re fucking her apart - cock buried deep in her cunt - you never expected to have to piece her together this early.

“Tell me,” you demand, callous, right at her ear, “please what? Please pound this perfect little pussy of yours until I cum? Please fill you with a hot load of cum because what, you deserve it? Is that you want, Eunbi?”

“Please, cum-” Her words vanish like a hot breath against the glass. She’s blathering, eyes falling half-lidded in this amazingly sexy way that almost feels intentional. “Want to feel you cum. Fill me up with cum, please, please, please-”

“Oh, Eunbi,” you drawl, right into the crook of her neck. It makes her shiver. She’s not a princess, curses woven into her breath, but she’s selfish like one. “I’m not going to cum in this perfect little pussy-”

It all happens so fast: you drag your cock out of her cunt, and if you weren’t pressing your fingers into her waist, holding her tighter, you think she might collapse. Maybe you were closer than you realized, moments from draining your balls in her pussy, because when you lay cushioned between the cheeks of her ass, your cock just starts to spill - hot cum weeping from the tip and making a mess of her soft, creamy skin, over the puffy lips of her pussy, across the tight little rim of her asshole.

“Good girls get bred, Eunbi,” you say, voice drying, sensitive, and so far from where you started. “You told me to be rough with you baby. I’m thinking I might cum in this perfect fucking ass. Should I?”

Eunbi’s face is flush against the glass, hands reaching back in response, spreading herself for you. Some part of her knows what you want, and she knows how bad she wants it too. “Please,” she begs, swallowing down on these hoarse uneven breaths, hiccupping between them - “need it.”

You can feel your tip tease her rim, where she’s still impossibly closed and waiting. The cum leaking from your cock is wet and slick and slippery, and with a fist curled around your shaft, realigned, angled down, you slip in.

There aren’t even words for it, how it all comes together. How she comes apart.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, recognizing Eunbi’s weight shift around you. “I’m going to fucking own this little asshole, Eunbi.”

Eunbi’s responsive mmm runs ragged. Face in profile against the window, tits smashed against the glass, you watch her eyes screw shut and her eyebrows draw together - you think for a moment, as you so often do, that you’re hurting her, blazing past safewords and pressing your cock too deep, too fast into her tight ass. “Go,” she tells you, and without even flinching, gets her fingers underneath where you’re splitting her in two, gets them wet with the slick of her cunt and in between your balls, gently. “Want you, please, this big cock.”

Your eyes water, and you start to thrust.

“Baby,” you whisper into the lobe of her ear. For once it’s all slow, sloppy and soft. It’s sin at your waist, fucking her open slowly, pumping into her ass again and again until it’s all so slick she can take you further. But you’ve got your fingers in her hair, preening loose strands back behind her hair. She’s so pretty all the time, and with her face twisted in unbearable pleasure, she’s outright gorgeous. “So good for me, Eunbi, such a good little cumslut aren’t you?”

Eunbi’s voice crackles into broken whimpers, like her lungs are waterlogged and flooded. She steals a hand away between her thighs, and starts ghosting her fingers over her clit. Anything more than that and she’d probably go up in smoke. (If it’s anything like you, cock pulsing with blood and hot as flame, you are about to lose it.)

“Fuck,” she says, grinding out the consonants in your name like she’s crushing them under a boot, “I can’t believe how good you feel, I can’t, I can’t-”

You knew, had always known, that you had - however subconsciously - enticed fate by letting yourself get to this point. Maybe it’s a perfect slowburn, this history, dotting commas and periods in your memoirs, and here you are, pounding at Eunbi’s asshole so fast that she’s stuttering.

“I can’t, fuck - thank you - fuck - feel you throbbing in my fucking ass - love being your cocksleeve,” she hisses, and her body has practically all but given up, knees buckled out, arm dangling at her side, tears streaming down her cheeks. It’s just that she never expected it either, that you’d be pleasing her by fucking her like a toy, so unrepentant she’s sobbing messy, all sloppy and pleading, more, please, harder, faster.

“You like this cock tearing your ass open, Eunbi?” you ask, pushing the hand she has hidden at her cunt out of the way, “you like being such a perfect slut for my cock, don’t you? You weren’t kidding, you’d let me do anything to you.”

“Please, don’t, you’re gonna make me - again,” she squeals, lip wobbling, mouth hung open. You push her hard against the glass, until she straightens out, and your finger is gliding through the slick of her cunt, knuckles knocking the window and honing in on her swollen clit - you’ll make her scream. “Oh god, fuck, oh god, fuck, fuck, fuck-”

Serendipity is about chance meetings, convenient covers. Life has a way of dropping the world in your lap without you having to do anything. It’s Eunbi’s picture-perfect face, wrecked and twisting as she cums all over your thighs, rolling her hips and fucking her ass onto you - it’s that when she cums with her puckered entrance stuffed full of cock, she squirts everywhere. Lucky, is the watchword you’re sitting on, and of all places, of all people, you’ve been dealt the perfect hand, deck stacked in your favor.

There’s wet splattered all over the window. Stains streaking in the carpet. Dark spots that’ll never fade.

“Keep fucking me,” Eunbi says, head of jet black hair titled back onto your shoulders, hips twisting slow as she grinds down against your waist, moving enough to make your cock throb and pulse. “Keep fucking me, please, until you fill my ass up all the way. I’m yours.”

Yours, yours, yours, she stammers on, failed and wrecked on your cock. Malleable and pliant. Ruined.

“This tight little ass of yours, Eunbi,” you mutter, drawing sharp breath after sharp breath, “is fucking unbelievable.”

It’s yours.

Her body twists, torso turns into you, and you get your mouth on hers, moaning and mewling on the same hot, damp air.

“Good girl,” you whisper against her lips, and with a final kiss to her temple, you fuck into her hard - hands snuck up to hold her breasts and keep her still, hips snapping fast, faster, faster-

When you finally explode up into Eunbi’s ass, she makes a noise fucked and faltering even further than you. It’s desperate and debauched and only staunched by the fingers you slip past her lips. She bites down, but you’re too far pitched into the reality of pumping cum past Eunbi’s tight entrance that you can’t be bothered to care.

“Fuck, Eunbi.” Your voice is sneaking through gritted teeth. She’s tiny against you, body slender and hot and milking your cock. A flash of muscle, a quiver, a pucker, and she’s got you reeling. You think about getting your hand around her throat - fucking her again - but the look her face is so pristine and contented. You have her like putty in your hands, like you could bend her, mold her, break her, and when you instead bring her face to yours in this lazy, clumsy kiss, lips sliding and her tongue licking into your mouth, you know you’d never need to.

See, she’s so dismantled, completely stuffed with cock, and still, with it leaking everywhere you can feel it run hot and sticky, it’s perfect.

The hotel room isn’t big, and until this exact moment, had been so filled with sex that the the sounds of it echoing back and forth make this sudden quiet into a silence puzzlingly calm. Her features relax, into something a little more befitting her reputation. She’s sweaty and wet and you did your part, you fucked her and fucked her up, you realize, she’ll return you the favor later.

You hold your breath, watching the beauty mark on her cheek raise and lower with every panted-out breath, mesmerized-

And with just the slightest shift, Eunbi’s mouth closes into this tiny, satisfied smile.

“You came inside my ass,” she says out loud. She tries not to laugh, and then she does anyway when you slide your cock out of her. “You just came - in my ass. Look.”

It’s almost unfathomable, that you just fucked her until she was sobbing, pushed your cock into her ass and had her uncoil like she did, the window, the carpet. Like a fucking disaster. It’s almost unfathomable that she’s got her hands spreading her cheeks open toward you and presenting the mess you’d made like it was something to be proud of, and after all that the mood of the moment shifts a little more intimate, a little more sentimental.

“You’re trouble,” you tell her, tilting her chin up under your fingers.

“Right back at you,” she says, and she pitches onto her feet until you kiss her again.

(It happens.

Time passes. You work on a new show. You move into a smaller apartment. It reeks of passed time. Maybe it’s the humidity of early sobriety, hanging and palpable. You can hear ticking in clockless rooms here.

It’s been years since Minju dropped the bombshell on the media. You recovered, mostly. Years too since you’ve seen Eunbi.

Sometimes the people you wanted as part of your story are only meant to be a chapter. You could probably stitch that into a frame and sell it to the kind of crowd who’d buy words in a frame.

You don’t.

Instead, you end up a little older, not in any meaningful way. You’re not wiser or any shit like that. Just older.)

You interrupt the producer of your current gig, a pretty middling radio show in a pretty mundane time slot. “What do you mean by new cohost? Like I’ll be working with another human being?”

He nods.

“Like every week?”

Nods again.

“Does he have a name?”

“She,” he corrects, writing judiciously at the clipboard permanently in his hands. Scowl on his face, pencil in his ear, clipboard in his hands, that’s how you know he’s in charge. It’s a whole look. He untucks a blank envelope from the disarray of papers in his hands, saying, “she dropped this off for you too.”

You turn it in your hands twice, until you see the cursive penned into the top right corner. Memories, stinging trifling things rush back to you, all at once: you see her face, her eyes are closed, she’s smiling, she’s a thought you’d tucked away for good, and now you’re wading through it like you hadn’t.

Serendipitous.

#kpop smut #eunbi smut #izone smut #kpop fanfic #male reader #idol x male reader

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pseudowho · 11 months ago

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Resolute

The reader helps Nanami Kento to accept that he has a drinking problem.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, mentions of character death, alcoholism, post traumatic stress

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The day was long; your evening together was too short. You hadn't seen each other all day, carried apart by the tide of work, and had communicated only in staccato bursts of text messages, single sentences back and forth.

Can't wait to see you. Today has been shit! Cheese, milk, bread, laundry detergent. A short video that made him laugh. A short video that made you laugh. A photo of you teaching the First Years. A photo of Ijichi making a shy 'peace' sign to the camera, Kento barely visible in the reflection on his glasses. Nearly finished! Believe me, I'm counting down the seconds. I'll collect the shopping. I love you more than you know.

One.

Finally released from the dull corset of gainful employment, Kento flopped to the sofa beside you, carefully stopping his glass from sloshing over himself. You undid his tie. He untucked his shirt. You snuggled your pyjama'd self under his heavy, strong arm; he groaned in satisfaction, slipping warm fingers under your top to stroke the soft plush of your waist. You basked in the quiet warmth of each others' company, each of you being the home of the other. No need to talk.

Two.

You heard the faint shhhhhk-clink of bottles being closed, and put away. Kento returned this time in check pyjama bottoms, wearing nothing else but a glass of whiskey. He swirled it at you. Ugh, nail polish remover, you teased. Uncultured swine, Kento teased back, all but finishing his glass in one thirsty swallow. You smiled, hesitating only briefly. Come on, you need food more than drink, you joked lightly, the truth leaving a bitter aftertaste. I wouldn't be so sure, he retaliated, too far down the path to see from where he had entered.

Three. Four.

Cheese, bread and charcuterie; the lazy dinner of two people who were too tired to question the expense, washed down far too easily by more whiskey. You had nursed one glass of wine all evening; the whiskey bottle now sat beside the crackers, easier than getting up and down to the kitchen again, and again, and again.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Kento was pliable, made supple and languid by his amber tonic. His kisses grew deep and earthy, lips hot with rising fumes, blessedly relieved as divine relaxation thrummed through his body, revelling in the Dionysian pleasure he had craved all day. God, you're so beautiful, he whispered, mead-sweet and intoxicating against your throat. You squirmed beneath his tongue, your arousal wildly overridden by concern, the words you needed to say stuck to the roof of your mouth. Kento mistook your squirming as the result of his successful advances, and he leaned into you, caging you down against the sofa pillows as he pressed against you, hardening against your leg through the thin fabric of his check pyjamas, hand creeping up to idly squeeze the pebbling peak of your breast. The pleasure darted through you, toxic, unwelcome--

"Stop, Kento-- I-- I can't--" Kento stopped immediately, unfazed by your refusal, but concerned by the anxiety seeping out of you. He kissed you softly on the forehead, carefully releasing you from under his arms, wordlessly reassuring you he loved you no less.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, sincere, affectionate, "we don't have to do any--"

"No, we do," you stuttered, sitting up, determined but twisting inside with the foul taste of approaching confrontation, "I mean, I-- I do. I need to. There's-- something I need to talk to you about," you finished weakly. Kento was all patience, his silence inviting, ready to be your therapist.

"Do you...are you...have you noticed quite how much you drink?"

Half a heartbeat passed with the barest flick of antagonism across Kento's eyes, and he smiled, handsome and disarming.

"I wouldn't say it's all that much," he laughed softly, plaiting his fingers through yours, raising your hand to kiss against his lips, "Far less than--"

"Eight. This evening alone."

Kento flinched, shoulders tensing, body turning slightly away from you as his lips curled in disgust.

"I'm not drunk," he spat, on-the-spot. He swallowed, hand squeezing yours, smiling again to steer the ship another way, any way other than this, and repeated, calmer, "I'm not drunk. I'm...I'm just having a couple, it's been a long day and I--"

"But you should be drunk," you cried, the dam breaking now as tears pricked in your eyes, "eight drinks Kento. And not small drinks. That bottle was full, and now-- now..."

You saw Kento's eyes flick to the bottle, almost empty, shame swirling behind the furious glaze of his usually warm brown eyes, now cold, angry. He had let go of your hand, distancing himself from you as he turned, elbows set heavily on his knees as he leaned away. The lump in your throat thickened, and you moved quickly to him, hands gripping his forearm in desperate reassurance, trying to bring him to you.

"Look I-- it's not your fault," you pressed, sensing him drifting further away as his forearm tensed under your fingers, his eyes still a maelstrom of denial, shame, anger, disgust, "It's easy to let it get on top of you, I can help you--"

Kento stood, throwing your hands off his arm, beginning to tidy the remnants of dinner with shaking hands, trying and failing to remove himself from the conversation as you followed, still impeaching him to listen--

"How about you back off and mind your own business?" Kento spat, spinning and turning on you suddenly, and you felt a flash of fear as you stepped back, involuntarily raising your hands up. Kento stepped back sharply, eyes softening in tearful apology, his shame now rising like bile in his chest. He struggled for words, unable to process the deep exposure of you noticing his failings.

"You're right," you stuttered, tears pouring down your cheeks and raising your hands to placate Kento, who felt his heart breaking, silently listening to you reassure him, "I shouldn't have-- I didn't mean to--"

Kento was trapped, alone on his little island now. He watched his ship drift away as he slowly backed down, walking away to the bathroom. You implored him to come to bed; he took himself to the sofa, overwhelmed in his certainty that you deserved better than some pathetic drunk who frightened her.

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You barely functioned the next day. You and Kento never went to bed on an argument. Kento never raised his voice at you. Kento never shied away from resolving issues between you. You caught yourself performing your chores and tasks on autopilot, the events of the night before flickering across your vision like old film reel left to run, and you burst into quiet tears in soft sobbing patches throughout the day.

Yet, despite your regret for the argument, you could not regret acting in Kento's best interests. You reached the morbid conclusion that his health was more important to you than the sanctity of your relationship.

Curling on the sofa, phone in hand, you began to research, pausing tearfully to make scribbles in a notepad every few minutes.

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Nanami Kento never asked for help. Nanami Kento never offloaded his own issues to someone else. Nanami Kento never outsourced his duties.

He surprised himself, that day, by doing all three.

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When the door clicked open again that evening, you were taut as a coiled spring, adrenaline thumping through you, and you held your notepad like a shield. Kento's voice called, but the noise glossed past your ears that pulsed, hot, with the whoosh of your own heartbeat. Your spit was thick in your mouth as Kento came into the kitchen. Your eyes caught; you opened your mouth wordlessly, your meticulously planned speech snagging on doubt. As Kento opened his mouth to talk, you interrupted in a frantic flurry.

"I know you don't think that your drinking is a problem, and I know you want me to stop, but you're so much more important to me than that, and if you hate me after this then that's fine but--" you approached him, notebook outstretched, all carefully written details of support groups, therapists, specialist doctors--

"You're right."

You faltered, notebook lowering, as Kento stood in front of you, suddenly shrinking, small, exposed. Your heart tugged painfully as his gentle smile tried to reassure you through the thickets.

Kento gulped, forcing down the viscerally angry reaction to his shame, "I...I think it started after-- after Yuu was killed-- or possibly even before that. A few drinks...helped me to sleep. We all self-medicated in one way or another. It was normal, honestly, considering the shit we had to--" Kento stopped, catching himself before he fell into the trap of excuses. His lip curled again, awash in mortification and vulnerability and--

-- and before him, still, there you were. You, who had loved him enough to risk your own happiness for his health. You, who had spent your day, even after his abhorrent behaviour, looking for ways to help him. You, who looked up at him now with so much love and sadness that he felt his grief and stress and shame and desperation rise up in him all at once, and he coughed, gulping as tears slid down his cheeks, staring at the floor, feeling so stranded in these strange woods.

"I'm so sorry I-- I scared you, and I-- I..."

"Oh no, Kento, no, it's okay, it's okay, we'll be okay, we can get you through this--" You pulled him to you, holding him as he wept quietly into your neck, and you stroked the weight of the world off his broad shoulders. We. Kento hiccuped, crying harder as his hands shook against you, holding onto you, his lifeline.

"Please help me," he begged, hiding his face in your neck, "I don't know where to-- I dont know how to--" You nodded against him, already prepared, and sickeningly relieved that he would let you help, and you stroked his hair, shushing him as his tears slowed, his irregular breaths heavy and hot against you.

Pulling away, you swiped your thumbs across his face, wiping away tears, holding his cheeks tenderly as you planted a wet kiss to his lips. Kento chuckled, sniffing and tear-stained, letting you sprinkle kisses over his cheeks.

"I couldn't...I couldn't face work today," Kento sniffed, leading you to the sofa where you made him lay his head on your lap, your fingers still inching tender trails through his hair, "I asked Ino to take my missions." Kento's voice was tight, embarrassed at having asked for a friend to relieve him of his duties.

"Which I'm sure he was delighted to do, Kento," you pressed, "you don't know how loved you are...not only by me." Kento gulped again, grumbling at you as you shushed him.

"Your life can be better than anything you can find at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, Kento," you promised, to his uncertain frown, "you'll be able to sleep without it, cope without it, and live happily without it."

Kento nodded, sighing, gripped with writhing fear at the journey ahead-- but, you had come to his island, fearless in your little boat, and he climbed aboard with the sweet relief of a castaway finally able to sail for home.

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#jjk #kento nanami #jjk nanami #kento nanami x you #nanami fluff #jujustu kaisen #kento nanami x y/n #kento nanami x reader #jjk fluff #kento nanami angst #nanami angst

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gin-juice-tonic · 1 year ago

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So, originally I thought about posting this on Halloween, but Halloween is a Tuesday. So I thought I would post this for the weekend instead.

I made a small, small demo of the little game I've been messing around with for so long. It's browser only. It doesn't work in safari, but it does work on chrome and firefox.

It's not polished, and a lot of things are placeholders, but play if you dare and hopefully have at least a little fun.

#sim stuff #screw it- lunchtime post #knock yourselves out

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writing-intheundercroft · 8 months ago

Text

You're Gonna Go Far - O. Gaunt

AO3 Link

Word Count: 10,956

Rating: E (The boys are in a fraternity, Smut, Oral Sex (F receiving), Unprotected Sex, NSFW, MDNI)

Summary: It's the night before graduation, and Ominis Gaunt is moving to New York City next week. There isn't much time left to say all the things that have gone unsaid over the past seven years.

A/N: I'm in the loveliest Ominis server on Discord, and this is dedicated to @grandeoatmilklatte, who inspired frat president Ominis. I hope you enjoy!

You walk up the steps of the splintered porch, taking great care to not slip on the beer a freshman has dropped on the stoop. Graduation ceremonies start in the morning and the spring chill has broken, giving way to a gorgeous May evening. It’s just warm enough that you’ve got the slightest glisten on your collarbone from your fast pace walk, abandoning the bar scene for your best mates’ last frat party ever.

“Very nice,” a voice purrs behind you. “You do always look pretty when you polish up.”

You roll your eyes, swatting at a sweaty Lucan Brattleby as he dodges your aim. “Buzz off, Luc. Have you seen Sebastian and Ominis?”

“Sebastian is somewhere getting his face sucked off by Cressida,” Lucan chuckles, brushing back his curly mop. “And I haven’t seen Ominis all night, except when he yelled at me for trying to get into his room.”

You raise an eyebrow, resting a hand on your hip as you bounce your heel against the porch. You swallow away the lump in your throat, hoping Ominis isn’t off getting slobbered on by a girl. Whatever liquid courage you’ve consumed this evening is already wearing thin, and the sight of Ominis with a stranger might shatter you.

“And why were you trying to get into his room?” You ask, trying to pry.

Lucan shrugs. “Well, the president’s room gets passed down to the next president,” he jerks his thumb back to himself proudly. “And I wanted to measure for my furniture next semester. I think I could fit a wet bar in there.”

You try to stifle your snort, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “I’m going in to find him,” you announce, stepping through the threshold. With the door open, the music bleeds out onto the porch.

It’s so loud, you can feel the bass from the music thumping in your stomach. Garreth is in the kitchen, peddling some of his tonics; Amit and Andrew are in the living room, scolding some younger students for touching the large telescope situated by the windows. You spot Sebastian leaning against the stair railing, a cup of beer in his hand. You have to wade through a sea of bodies just to reach him.

”It’s about time you showed up,” Sebastian teases, swirling his beer. Your freckled friend has his shirt unbuttoned quite low, and you notice several young ladies shooting jealous glances your way. It's laughable that they'd be envious - Sebastian has never been anything more than a pesky brother to you, growing even closer in the years since Anne's passing.

”I thought you would be getting your face sucked off by Cressida,” you mock Lucan’s words, and Sebastian groans.

“I’ve been trying to escape her all night,” he tilts his head, appraising your outfit. Sebastian can be a touch overprotective when you go out on the town, and you wouldn’t put it past him to say something about how cold you must be in your slip dress. “Bar night with the girls go well?”

”Imelda had to take Poppy home before she puked in another planter. Think she has a few of Garreth’s brews before we even hit the town.” you laugh as you talk about your roommates, crossing your arms over your chest. “And if you’re going to criticize my clothes—“

“I think you look beautiful,” Sebastian offers. “Ominis is going to think so too.”

You blush. “Ominis doesn’t care for clothes.”

”Ominis cares for you ,” Sebastian points out, lifting the cup to his lips. “Have you seen him yet?”

You shake your head. “I was going to check his room, but didn’t want to stop him if he was…er, busy .” you wave your hands erratically, hoping Sebastian would get the gist of your implication.

Sebastian snorts, grinning over the edge of the plastic cup. “Definitely not. Tell you what, head up to his room—I’ll send him up when I see him.”

You swat at him, but head up the stairs to the third floor anyways. Passing by throngs of students enjoying the last weekend of term, you push your way to the door neatly labeled O. Gaunt, President.

The door seems to know you’re one of Ominis’s welcomed guests, so it unlocks itself for you. Ominis has always been nifty at protective spells, his door clearly charmed to only let in select visitors. And much to your relief, the room is empty.

You walk around the room, the door left ajar behind you. Ominis is a simple man, not keeping much more in his room other than a bed, desk, and the textbooks stacked neatly on his dresser. The suit he’s been planning to wear to graduation is draped across the back of his armchair, but that’s not what catches your eye. What calls your attention the most are the two graduation gowns hanging in the closet–from afar they look identical, but you know better than anyone the implication behind both.

“I thought you were out for girls night.”

“I couldn’t miss your last party ever, could I?”

You hear Ominis’s familiar breezy laugh. “I’d much rather be at a bar myself right now. It’s an absolute madhouse downstairs. I've been trying to keep it civilized.”

You don’t turn around; instead, you remain standing in Ominis’s closet, dragging a finger over the thick robe, trimmed with black and green velvet. Ominis had originally planned to wear the same plain polyester school-issued robe as Sebastian, but a large box arrived on the front porch of the house earlier in the week. You, Sebastian, and Garreth lingered in the living room as Ominis carefully unwrapped the parchment paper, revealing a box with a gilded Gladrags logo. Inside was the luxurious robe, accompanied by a satin stole. It had the Gaunt family crest embroidered on the chest, the family motto dancing around his neck in metallic silver thread.

Ex auro purissimo sanguinis. The purest of blood.

It was the first he’d heard from his family in almost six months–the note from Marvolo had stated if Ominis was going to represent the family in an official capacity, he needed to dress the part. Ominis immediately set the offending notecard on fire, the fancy box quickly thrown out their window and into the dumpster below. It was only after you’d gotten back to your flat that Sebastian texted; the box was empty in the trash can, but both the fancy robe and stole were hanging in Ominis’s closet.

“Which one will you wear?” You ask, turning your gaze over your shoulder.

Ominis smiles, pushing a stray strand of blonde hair from his forehead. Your devastatingly handsome best friend leans against the doorway, a red cup resting in his hand. Ominis has never been one to dress down–his version of a party outfit is a pair of neat, chino pants, an ironed button down layered over a tee shirt emblazoned with his fraternity letters. He fiddles with the handle of his wand in the other, the tip glowing a soft hazy red as he made sense of your placement in the bedroom.

“I think you know,” Ominis muses, swiftly moving from the doorway to his bed. “Wasn’t nearly as difficult of a decision to make as I thought. The boys are my family now. Have been for a while.”

He sits atop the rickety full-sized bed, the springs of his mattress creaking beneath his weight. You nearly laugh; Ominis is so tall, he looks comical perched on the misshapen bedframe. He’s never been good at transfiguration, but he’s too stubborn to let anyone else help him with his furniture. Despite the odd furnishings, the rest of Ominis’s bedroom is neat and tidy. His striped sheets are pristine, the duvet folded at the edge of the bed. It’s a far cry from Sebastian’s room, which is littered with papers and broken quills, or the room that Andrew and Garreth share at the end of the hall. The two have nearly come to blows several times in the last semester over who would take the trash out.

“You still haven’t packed,” you hum, moving away from the closet and back over to his desk. He hasn’t returned his books to the library yet, his magical ethics and muggle studies textbooks are still cracked open from finals.

“I’ll get around to it,” Ominis shrugs.

“Lucan’s been bothering me about you packing,” you perch yourself on his desk chair. “Something about him wanting to get in and measure, so he can plan his furniture layout. Said he wants to put a bar in the room.”

Ominis rolls his milky blue eyes, lifting the red cup to his lips. “Lucan isn’t president yet,” he reminds you. “I’m not sure when I’ll fully move out of the house. And he cannot build a wet bar in the bedroom, that’s unsanitary.”

You snort, spinning around slowly in the chair. “It’s nearly two o’clock. You’ll have bags under those pretty eyes of yours if you don’t get to bed soon. Should I kick everyone out?”

Ominis laughs, setting the cup on the floor as he leans back in bed. “Let them have their fun,” he says fondly. “Sebastian needs one last party before he starts his rotations at St. Mungo’s. Besides, I bet Garreth is making a fortune off his potions tonight. Might as well clear out his entire stock on graduation parties. ”

You smile faintly as the music from downstairs bleeds up into the bedroom. As far as fraternity houses go, there are certainly more posh ones on campus. Ominis had been a legacy of the richest fraternity at school, one mostly of fellow purebloods and former Slytherins. They’d spent the whole of first term trying to recruit him, baiting him with lavish dinners, free entrance to the clubs, and all the illicit beverages and substances one might desire. But that wasn’t Ominis–unknowingly, they drove him even further into the opposite direction. You can still remember bid day, and the shock on everyone’s faces when Ominis turned down their bid to join a humble off campus house with Sebastian. His family had been furious, specifically Marvolo–you can still remember the shouting match the brothers had gotten into, Marvolo slamming the dorm room shut after tearing Ominis to shreds.

Whilst most of the student body had expected Ominis to fade into obscurity after his controversial choice, quite the opposite happened. Ominis truly flourished without the influence of his family, instead patching together a group of unexpected brothers. He surprised everyone when he became president his second year of uni, bringing some order to the rowdy gang of brothers with his natural born leadership skills. What felt like a mishmash of random Hogwarts alumni suddenly became a little family, held together with Ominis as the glue.

All in all, the shy, skinny Slytherin you once knew has really come into his own.

“Knut for your thoughts?” Ominis asks, breaking you out of your reverie.

“Nothing,” you shrug, fixing the strap of your dress as you spin around once more. “It’s just weird, that’s all.”

“What’s weird?” Ominis asks softly, playing with his wand. The tip has stopped glowing; he’s comfortable enough around you to not need his guide.

“That tomorrow, you graduate.” you utter. “And then, you’re gone.”

“Ah,” Ominis bites his bottom lip. “ That .”

It’s a subject the two of you have been avoiding for a while. Ominis had spent the last few summers interning for the Wizengamot, fully expecting to work for them after graduating with his law degree. Again, to everyone’s shock, Ominis had announced his intentions to apply for a position in the foreign office, working for MACUSA. You can still recall the doubt on Ominis’s face, brows furrowed as you and Sebastian helped him fill out his application before the deadline. It had taken nearly an entire night, Sebastian snoring in an armchair while you sent the application off with an owl in the dark sky.

“We don’t even know if I’ll get it,” Ominis had said.

“You’re going to get it,” you assured him. There was never a doubt in your mind.

Ominis received news of his placement with MACUSA at the end of fall term. He was offered his first choice, a position in the foreign relations office, his first day of work being June 1st. The celebration had lasted an entire week, until Garreth finally ran out of fizzing whizzbeer. The night was especially memorable, considering Ominis had also broken up with Nerida in the middle of the party. He was unphased by both her screams and the beer that had flown in his face, Andrew and Garreth having to drag her out of the house. When asked about it the next morning, he’d merely shrugged it off. They hadn’t been dating longer than a month , Ominis pointed out. Besides, he would be off to America soon enough. Best to leave without baggage.

That thought sank in your stomach like a hot ball of lead.

“We really should start packing,” you remind him. “Unless you plan on arriving in New York with just a suitcase.”

“Maybe I’m thinking of not going,” Ominis mumbles. He leans back on the bed, unseeing eyes blinking up at the ceiling as he fumbles with his hand. “I know it looks bad on my part to decline a job this late, but–”

“Excuse me,” You gasp. “No buts, Ominis Gaunt. You’re going to New York.”

“But what if they need me?” Ominis blurts. “Sebastian will be in London on his own, and you know he hates being alone now that Anne is gone. And Lucan is still a little shit, he may need more experience before he’s ready to be president. I worry he’ll bring his little dueling betting ring into the house, and I won’t stand to see the boys gambling their lives away.”

“Ominis,” you warn him. “You’re going.”

“And what about you?” Ominis asks softly. “You still have a year left here, I hate the thought of you being here by yourself.”

You pull yourself closer to the bed, the wheels of his desk chair squeaking on the floor. “I’m going to be okay, Ominis.” You promise him. “You know, if you’re this anxious about it, we should probably get you a better cell phone. I know how you feel about those muggle devices, but Sebastian and I really do find them useful. Not that owls aren’t efficient, but a transatlantic journey would take them quite a bit–”

Ominis’s hand is on yours, the sensation knocking the wind of your chest.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmurs. “It’s me I’m worried about.”

You stare at him, thankful he can’t see your gaze.

Ominis has been your best friend for years now. You can still remember him yelling at you the first time you left the Undercroft, his ire quickly fading away as soon as Sebastian forced the two of you into close proximity. You’d shared more in common than you thought–a love for pranks, warm naps in the hallways, and an oddly similar affinity for banoffee pie. It wasn’t long before the three of you had become a package deal, hardly ever seen without the others. It only made sense the three of you would go off to uni together after Hogwarts, you becoming somewhat of a house mother to Ominis, Sebastian, and the rest of the boys.

With that, you’d also spent the last four years of university watching Ominis date other girls. There had never been anyone too serious, most of them being old acquaintances from Hogwarts, or pretty girls who’d stumbled into their parties. They usually only lasted for weeks at a time, Ominis claiming he was far too busy taking care of his own brothers to handle a girlfriend as well. Usually in the end, the ladies would come sobbing at your doorstep, all wondering why they couldn’t get Ominis Gaunt to commit.

At the same time, you’d had your fair share of fun and trouble at university–bad boyfriends, a few failed classes, all distracting you from your independent study on ancient magic. Enough so, you needed an extra two semesters under your belt to catch up on your dissertation.

“Are you scared?” you ask, voice soft.

“Maybe,” Ominis admits, and it’s the first time in a very long time you’ve heard him express doubts. “The idea of being alone in New York is scary. I’ve had you and Sebastian by my side for the last seven years, and I won’t know anyone.”

“You’re going to be great, Om.” you remind him. “You’re going to make a name for yourself in New York. What would make you think otherwise?”

Ominis is chewing on his lower lip, thumb running over the back of your hand. “Marvolo called the this morning,” he admits, pointing to the little brick of a phone you and Sebastian had bullied him into buying. “It wasn’t good.”

“Oh, Om.” You sigh, pulling yourself closer. From this distance, you can smell the cool musk of his cologne, one of the little luxuries he maintains for himself. “What happened?”

Ominis hangs his head low, shaking out his dirty blond hair. He normally has it gelled back, tidily done, but it seems a bit messy and disheveled. Out of character for your best mate.

“Said I was an embarrassment to the family,” Ominis mumbles. “That I should’ve taken the opportunity to work at Mulciber’s firm, and that Mother and Father are astounded I’d work for the government, let alone the Americans .” he says dramatically.

“Your brother is an arse as usual,” you say defiantly. “And he has no idea how hard you’ve worked for this. Ominis, you’re the greatest treasure your family has ever lost, and I look forward to watching you prove them wrong.”

Ominis offers a small smile. “See? What am I going to do without you as a voice of reason?”

Affection is nothing new for you. The minute Sebastian and Ominis began bringing you around their brothers, it was made blatantly obvious that you were off limits. Sebastian had threatened everyone, reminding them that you were practically their sister, and anyone who tried to make a pass at you would be dealt with swiftly. The first time one of the older boys had tried to kiss you, Ominis challenged him to a duel on the spot. Within seconds, Ominis’s opponent was arse down on the floor, your best friend wrapping an arm around your shoulder to see if you were okay.

Nights spent in the library, sitting shoulder to shoulder as you studied. Movie nights at the house, your legs tangled on the couch while Sebastian complained about sitting on the floor. The two of you dancing around the kitchen, cooking up dinner while Lucan and Garreth played exploding snap at the table. You can feel the thick lump forming in your throat as you try to imagine the next year without him.

“Remember what I said,” you swallow away your sadness. “If you want to go far–”

“You’ve got to go far.” Ominis repeats. “I know, you’re the one who told me to apply.”

You place your hand on his cheek, which is still rosy from the beer he’d been drinking. “You’re going to go to New York, Ominis. And if you want to come home, we’ll be here. Sebastian and me, we’ll be here.”

Ominis holds your hand to his cheek, blinking up at you through his thick lashes. Something about the moment is far too intimate–you know you should leave, go back to the party downstairs. There’s music still playing in the distance, your friends are still dancing, yet you’re here, alone with Ominis in his room.

“Can I ask you a question?” Ominis asks.

“Ask away,” you whisper.

You can see the way he moves his hand, dropping his wand onto the nightstand next to his bed. His right hand is still on top of yours, keeping it glued to his warm cheek. The other hand hooks behind your knee, fingers dancing over the soft skin. He’s taller than you, and his knees slot between yours, legs knocking into each other.

“Have you ever–” he clears his throat, eyes fluttering as he tries to verbalize his thoughts. “Have you ever thought about us?”

“What about us?” You ask dumbly.

To your despair, Ominis pulls away. He hastily tugs his hands from your body, pushing the desk chair to put distance between the two of you. It’s faster than you could’ve imagined; your brain is still processing his question while he’s already got his wand in hand, hastily making a way towards the door.

“Ominis, stop!” You demand.

“It’s dumb,” He ignores your words, wand lit red as he stomps across the room. “It was just a thought–”

“Ominis,” you repeat, standing up.

“We should go back out to the party–”

“I have,” you choke out. “I have thought about us.”

Ominis has his head pressed against the cheap pine door. One hand is on the door knob, the other fondling his wand. You can sense his trepidation as he slowly stows his wand in his back pocket, turning to face you once more.

“You have?” he croaks.

“I have,” you parrot back the words to him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ominis demands.

“Because,” you’re shaking now. “Because if I told you, you wouldn’t have applied. And we’re best friends, Ominis, who knows what we’d be getting ourselves into.” the words tumble out of your mouth.

The idea of life with Ominis had never crossed your mind–not until Poppy had proposed it earlier in the school year, pointing out how he doted on you. The first to offer you a drink, always free to walk you home at the end of the night. If you were going through a breakup, Ominis would drop everything to be at your doorstep, a bottle of wine and takeaway in hand. He’s sat on your couch listening you rant about horrible dates at least a hundred times now.

He’s perfect for you, Poppy had said.

But he’s my best friend, you’d argued back.

It was only after that conversation that you’d began to see Ominis differently. The way his eyelashes fluttered when you brushed hair out of his face, or the way a warm blush would creep on his cheeks whenever your skin touched his. On more than one occasion you found yourself biting the inside of your cheek whenever his shirt roved above his waist. Worst of all, you couldn’t help the bile that would rise in your throat whenever you saw him chatting with another girl, the acrid taste coating your tongue.

Ominis is perfect, every inch of him being boyfriend material. There’s no mistaking that. Your fear lies in the fact that Ominis is your closest confidant, one of your best friends. While painful, it almost seems easier to hang in the balance of not getting to love him rather than losing him.

“What would we do if we realized we were no good for each other?” you blurt. “You’re my best friend, Om. I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

“Bear what?” Ominis muses.

Oh, it’s cruel the way he looks so handsome. His lips are curved in somehow both a smile and a grimace, dancing around the inevitable question.

“Don’t make me say it,” you feel weak already.

“Please,” Ominis asks, voice teetering on the edge of politeness and desire. “Say it, please.”

“I wouldn’t be able to bear it if we didn’t work out,” you confess. “Because it’s you, Ominis. I love you.”

You’ve told each other you love one another plenty. The first was at the end of fifth year, when the three of you were departing for separate summer holidays. Again, when you graduated and you cried about how much you were going to miss Hogwarts. Both of you with Sebastian, at Anne’s funeral the summer after freshman year. Throughout all of university, through texts, phone calls, kisses on the cheek before you leave the bar at the end of the night.

Hiya, love you. Love you, get home safe. You’re annoying, but love you.

This time, it’s different. It’s no longer a statement, it’s a confession.

“You love me.” Ominis says slowly.

“Ah, fuck.” you swear, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “This is so not how I thought tonight would go.”

“If you love me,” Ominis asks, voice shaky. “Why did you tell me to apply for the MACUSA job?”

“Because it’s what you want,” you whisper. “And you’re going to be so, so good at it, Ominis. It’s a fresh start where no one will care who your family is, and that’s what you need.”

“Even if it means I’m going to live far away?” he asks, cheeks reddening.

Your fingers curl into your palms, nails pricking skin. “You always talked about getting away from your family. It sounded like the best option for you–you’d get to do something you truly love, something you’re good at. You’re going to help people, and you’re going to be more than a Gaunt. It’s the best thing for you, Ominis.”

“But what if I wanted you?” Ominis asks, voice strained. “What if I wanted to stay?”

“I wouldn’t want that.” You admit. “If you’re going to stay, it has to be for more than me. Not that I think you’d stay for me, specifically–I mean, I’m sure Sebastian would love for you to stay home too, and Garreth would miss you–”

Ominis pauses for a moment, his mouth opening and snapping shut as he thinks. Part of you is curious at what he might say, the other is so embarrassed you’re ready to chuck yourself out the window of his third floor bedroom. You might land in the rose bushes, which will undoubtedly hurt, but a broken bone will hurt certainly less than rejection from your best friend.

“Say something, for the love of Merlin–”

He doesn’t.

Instead, Ominis launches himself off the door, closing the distance between you in four quick strides. The desk chair is practically thrown out of the way, tipping onto its side as Ominis slinks a hand around your waist. You can feel his breath on your cheek, head tipped against yours as he presses your back against his misshapen desk.

“Ominis!” you shriek, watching him swipe everything off his desk and onto the floor. His heavy books clatter against the hardwood floor, landing with a loud thud. He wastes no time lifting you onto his desk, tugging your legs closer to the edge as he slots himself between them.

“Tell me,” Ominis pants, his forehead pressed against yours. “Tell me you’ve thought about this before.”

You groan as his mouth descends upon yours. Your hands are tangled in his thick hair, his fingertips pressing into your waist as he kisses you with a bruising force.

“I have,” you moan into his mouth.

Ominis moans in return; it’s a sound you’ve been trying to imagine for the last six months, and it sounds so much better in real life. Your hands slip under the edge of his well worn t-shirt, feeling the warm skin underneath. Ominis has always been long and lithe, and his toned muscle feels just as good as you’ve thought it would. Feeling your nails scratching his skin, Ominis pulls away to mark kisses up and down your throat.

You surge forward, hips trying to close the little distance between your center and Ominis’s body. You can feel his clothed erection throbbing against your thigh, his head tilted back up to kiss your lips. A large palm settles on your breast, tentatively swiping over a clothed nipple. At your gasp, Ominis pauses; he leans his forehead against yours, breathing heavily as you both register the current state of events.

“That was our first kiss,” Ominis groans. “And I acted like a complete boor.”

You snort. “Took you about two minutes before you had your tongue in my mouth and a hand on my chest. Not one for subtlety, are you?”

Ominis snorts too, leaning his forehead against your shoulder as he rests his hands on the desk behind you. “To be fair, I’ve been thinking about your breasts for the last six years. Didn’t want to waste any precious time I have left with them.”

It’s funny and romantic, and also heartbreaking. If you think about Ominis leaving, you may burst into tears.

“Hey,” Ominis whispers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill the mood–”

You press your mouth against his; he’s unprepared, so your teeth gnash together. Ominis quickly adjusts, letting you dominate the kiss.

“Let’s just focus on right now,” you plead. “We can talk about New York after—but not now.”

Ominis pulls away slightly, a small smile growing on his lips. He’s blinking rapidly, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“What?” you demand, running a hand through your hair.

“Just happy that it’s us, finally.” Ominis admits. “You and me.”

His little smile is everything, you think. And while you love the sweet expression, you want to see the faces Ominis makes under more amorous circumstances.

“Ominis,” you coo gently, taking his hand and placing it on your chest. He’s fully red in the face, mouth agape as you guide him at palming your breast. He gets the message, taking control as your hands rest on his shoulders.

“I’ve never told you, but I love it when you wear these dresses,” Ominis muses, his free hand trailing up your thigh. “They’re soft, just like you.”

Your breath catches as his hand snakes upwards, squeezing your bottom. The edge of your short dress is rucked up to your waist as Ominis feels the lace, hovering dangerously close to your center. It’s so intimate, a lengthy departure from your normally buttoned up, proper friend who hates kisses on the cheek. Your head tilts back, a moan on the tip of your tongue as the hand once squeezing your behind starts tracing the edge of your thong.

“No fair,” you wheeze, tugging on his shirtsleeves. “If I’m arse out, you’ve got to take some clothes off too.”

Ominis lets out a loud laugh as he removes his hands from you, letting the button down fall to the floor. Your hands pull at his t-shirt, helping him take it off. The second the letters fall on the floor, your hands fly up to his chest, roving over the pale planes.

“You’re vulgar, too.” Ominis chuckles. “One of the many things I admire about you.”

“Oh yeah?” You ask, lacing your fingers with his. Your nose bumps into his chin, helping him make sense of your position. He tilts his face down, hot breath fanning your cheeks. “Soft and vulgar, two very different words you’re using to describe me.”

“At first it irked me,” Ominis confesses. “When we first met. But after I got to know you, I realized you’re just loud because you’re having fun. And life didn’t need to be so stuffy.”

“That’s sweet,” you admit.

“You make everything better,” Ominis says, lips hovering closer towards yours again. “You always have.”

“I’d say the same about you.” you whisper, lips brushing against his in a chaste kiss.

Ominis has no more restraint left in him. He surges forward, hands cradling your cheeks as he kisses you. You’ve never seen him kiss anyone like this before–Ominis is always polite and tender with his conquests. This Ominis is pure hunger, making up for lost time.

You drag your nails up and down his back as he kisses you breathless, only stopping when he pulls away.

“Are you okay with this?” He asks, voice tinged with desperation. “Because there’s no going back.”

There’s no mistaking what this is–you’re crossing the boundary with your best friend, making love while you still have time to do so. If it were any other occasion, you might blame the alcohol going to your head, but no decision has ever felt more sane.

It’s Ominis.

“Yes. I want this,” you utter, and that’s that.

Ominis tugs you away from the desk, fingers slipping under the thin straps of your dress to pull it down. The slinky fabric pools at your ankles while his hands rove over your body. His fingertips dragging over every curve, while you work the buttons of his pants. He spins you quickly, pushing you onto his rickety bed as he steps out of his pants.

“I hate your bed,” you groan, bouncing on the springy mattress. “You should’ve let me help you with the spells.”

Ominis lets out a breathy laugh as he hops towards you, kicking away a pant leg. “It’s fine . I don’t understand why you’re complaining, it’s a bed.”

It’s your turn to snort, chuckling as Ominis feels around the bedspread for you. You tuck your knees up to your chin, darting away from his touch. You can tell just how frustrated he is, blonde hair falling in his eyes, patting around the bed.

“I want to feel you,” he complains, sinking into the mattress across from you. “I want to take my time with you tonight.”

“Then feel away,” you breathe, letting him catch hold of your ankle.

Ominis licks his lips, eyes fluttering as he presses a searing hot kiss to your ankle. The kisses start trailing up your leg, stopping intentionally every few seconds. His teeth graze the inside of your knee, and the whimper that comes out of your mouth is downright embarrassing.

“Now I want to taste you,” Ominis murmurs, hooking your legs over his shoulder. Before you can respond, his teeth are dragging against the flimsy fabric of your thong. One hand pulls it aside, the other bracing your hip. Without warning, the blond takes a long, deliberate lick. With your taste on his tongue, Ominis loses his self control and tears away the scrap of fabric, tugging it off your body and tossing it.

“Ominis!” You shriek, head tilting back to his pillows.

You can tell he’s smiling from the way his cheeks lift, eyes squeezing shut as he presses a kiss to your clit. His pace is maddening, lazily lapping as he pins your hips down. Ominis shakes his head, his tongue finally circling against your clit again once you’ve whined enough.

“You taste so good,” he groans.

“Just like you’ve imagined?” You utter between the sharp gasps he’s eliciting from you.

Ominis doesn’t respond, instead sucking hard on your clit to express his answer. He’s clearly turned on by your gasps and the sound of your wet cunt, the auditory stimulation driving him to grind his hips against the squeaking mattress. At this rate, his fingertips may leave bruises in the crease of your thighs. Never did you ever imagine Ominis Gaunt’s head between your legs, but now you really can’t imagine going the rest of your life without his mouth on you.

“Ominis, please,” you strain, reaching out to grasp his hair. The sharp tug has him growling against your skin, still relentless in his slow, thoughtful method. His tongue darts into your cunt at an excruciating tempo.

“I told you,” he hums, sinking teeth in your thigh as he gives you a momentary reprieve. “I’m going to take my time with you. And if that means I’m here, all night–then so be it.”

In your daze, you hardly notice the fact that he’s now slipped his fingers inside of you, slowly pumping them as he kisses your clit again. With every stroke you feel the band tightening in your stomach, the overwhelming urge to snap coming any moment. You paw at his head, anything to express how close you are, but he relents with his pace. When his fingers curl inside of you, you slam your head back against the pillows again, a ragged cry tumbling off your lips as you come.

Ominis pulls away, your slick glistening his chin as he gives you a smug smile. Your heart is hammering in your chest at the sight of him, cheeks red and panting from giving you the most glorious head you’ve ever received to date.

“Did I do well?” He asks, almost a bit shy.

You try to get up, but your quivering legs fail you. “You’ve rendered me boneless,” you laugh, pressing a hand against your chest.

Ominis pulls himself up over you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You can still taste yourself on his mouth, flooding your head with filthy ideas.

“Your turn,” You murmur, mustering the strength to pull yourself up. You push Ominis over, and he falls against the bed. Somehow, your bodies know just how to move around each other–there is no awkward fumbling. When you’ve known someone for years, spent half your school years cuddled up together in naps, you just know how to maneuver around one another.

Ominis sits against the headboard, the pillows propped behind his back. When he feels your hands touch the waistband of his boxers, he instinctively lifts his hips, letting you drag them down his legs. His aching length springs free, slapping against his stomach as you crawl towards his lap.

“How does this feel?” You ask, adjusting your legs to straddle him. You know he can feel how wet you are, dripping against his cock. While your hands rest against his shoulders, Ominis’s arms wrap against your waist, all but pulling you down to grind against him. Waiting for his answer, your eyes scan every inch of his face to commit each beauty mark to memory.

Ominis presses a quick kiss to your nose, eyelashes fluttering in the way you love. “You feel so warm.” He groans, his cock twitching against you. The feeling of him against you sparks a familiar ache between your legs. His jaw hardens when you slip your hand between your bodies, gripping him to guide his blunt head to your center.

“I love you,” Ominis chokes out as you sink onto his length. His hands fly from your waist, now roving all over your body. He’s consuming you, touching every single surface he can manage. You both gasp as you bottom out, his head tipping back against the headboard with a thud.

“So good for me,” Ominis garbles out in broken syllables. “You’re...you feel so...”

You surge forward, lips pressed against his. His kisses melt against your mouth as he tries to rock upwards into you.

“We could’ve been doing this for ages,” Ominis complains, his nimble fingers tangling in your hair.

“Instead we’ve been just friends,” you chuckle, rolling your hips. Your hands are gripping the headboard behind him, forehead pressed against his as you grind against each other.

“Idiots,” Ominis mutters, catching your lower lip with his teeth. “We’re idiots.”

You shift your feet underneath you, bouncing up and down on his length. Ominis’s breath hitches against your breasts, his hands shifting down to your waist. The feeling of his thumbs roving over your hip bones is enough to drive you harder, and you realize he’s admiring every single dimple, every curve. He could go faster, fuck up into you if he really wanted to, but Ominis stays true to his word. He’s taking his time to savor you, to commit your body to memory while he has you in his arms.

“Enjoying yourself?” You ask breathlessly, as Ominis’s hand trails up and down your spine for the umpteenth time.

He grins, baring his teeth as he surges forward, pushing you off and onto your back on the bed. You yelp as he slithers over you, hovering just inches from your face as he presses back into your warmth.

“Immensely,” Ominis whispers, kissing you as he starts rocking into you. Without thought, you wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in as tightly as you can. When he pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, you flatten your hands against his cheeks. You fit against each other like puzzle pieces; it’s silly to have been so worried, you realize. Slotted against each other, chasing one another to your mutual climax, you know only Ominis could’ve ever made sense.

“I love you,” you blurt as Ominis digs his face into your neck.

“I love you too,” Ominis mumbles into your neck. “I think I always have.”

“You have?” You squeak, thoughts punctuated by a moan as he snaps his hips at just the right angle.

“It’s you,” Ominis admits. “Of course I love you. I– oh shit –I’ve always had feelings for you,” he pants. “God, at least since we were sixteen.”

Ominis’s confessions, punctuated by an elusive curse word, melt your heart. You shift your hips upwards, meeting him with every thrust. The wet slapping of his skin against yours, the slamming of the headboard, coupled with Ominis’s babbling and your breathy moans echo off the walls. You hadn’t bothered with a silencing spell, not knowing that this is where the night would take you. It’s likely everyone in the house knows what’s going on between the two of you, and that almost turns you on more. After all these years, Ominis is yours, claimed by your loud coupling.

“I’ve dreamt of touching you here for years,” Ominis confesses between open mouth kisses. “Always thinking about how soft you must feel here,” his lips close around your nipple, tongue flicking against the surface. It draws a shriek out of you, which has him grinning. “Just as I thought.”

Just the confirmation that Ominis has thought about you naked in bed just like you have stokes the fire within you, threatening to burst. He feels too good inside of you; while you’d take the sweet torture of being edged all night just to keep him close, your body is teetering close to the edge.

“Come for me,” Ominis murmurs in your ear. “I want to feel you come undone.”

“I can’t,” you utter. “I don’t–I don’t want this to be over,” you choke out, clutching his shoulders.

The sex, this night, this season of your life, together. You’re not quite sure which one your sex addled brain is referring to.

Ominis snakes up a large hand, cradling your cheek with his palm. His thumb brushes over your swollen lips as little gasps escape your lips.

“We have tonight, all night.” Ominis whispers, each syllable met with a roll of his hips. “You don’t think it’ll be just once, do you?”

“Ominis,” you garble out, his thumb dipping into your warm mouth. You’re not sure if you’re scolding his vulgar language, or warning him of the impending release.

“Come with me,” Ominis pleads.

An urge to finish what you’ve started together, or perhaps a plea to join him across the sea. Either way, the three words have you coming, Ominis choking out a moan as his hips stutter against yours. He shudders as he comes inside of you, not stopping his thrusts until he’s trembling, falling at your side.

The two of you are silent for what feels like ages, just the ticking of his bedside clock and the soft hum of music from the party downstairs filling the background. As you stare at the ceiling, you feel his warm hand entangling his fingers with yours, and you’re both quiet for another few minutes as you collect your thoughts.

“I meant what I said,” Ominis breaks the silence.

“Which one?” you ask, tilting your head to look at him. He’s still flat on his back, his free hand resting on his chest as his head tilts towards the sound of your voice. His gorgeous blue eyes crease at the corners as he smiles.

“All of it,” Ominis muses. “That I love you, that I’ve always loved you. That I thought you didn’t love me, because you were encouraging me to go, to take the MACUSA job. But turns out, it’s just because you know me better than anyone. You know what I need to do.”

“I love you too,” you whisper.

Ominis turns to you, his hands tracing up and down your naked torso. “I never thought we’d get to do this,” he confesses. “And even if it took us until the last night of school, I’m glad we did.”

You press a fervent kiss to his lips, melting against him. You only pull away when he laughs, blond hair shaking as he falls back against the bed.

“We are actual idiots,” Ominis says sheepishly. “Our very first time should’ve been more romantic.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “There’s something incredibly romantic about a last chance confession.”

“I wish I’d told you sooner,” Ominis says, a pained expression painted on his face. “We could’ve had so much more time–”

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him. He quirks his brow, questioning your actions.

“We have the rest of tonight,” you remind him, rolling onto your stomach. You trace your hand against his cheek, your fingers dancing against his lips. He opens his mouth, indulgently sucking on your fingers as they dip inside. “Besides, I think I have to reciprocate the mind blowing head.” you joke, your now wet hand trailing back down to his length.

Ominis is hard again in seconds.

The music ended hours ago, and the house is calm. You wouldn’t know if anything was going on outside of Ominis’s door anyways; after your second round, Ominis had the good sense to cast a silencing charm on the room.

Ominis slips out of you after fucking you on your side, his slow thrusts driving you to the brink of insanity. Both of you are thoroughly spent; he knows that, reaching for his wand to summon a cloth. He's attentive and gentle as he cleans you, murmuring praise of how well you've taken him and how incredible you feel. Once the two of you are semi-decent, he gathers a fresh tee shirt for you to slip over your head. It’s well worn, letters stitched into the chest, and it smells like his cologne. You hold the collar to your nose; it’s very likely this shirt will be coming home with you.

Ominis tucks you into his arms as he pulls the duvet over your bodies, his warm breath tickling your ears as his breathing slows.

“I’m not sure how you’re going to walk across the graduation stage,” you joke, stifling a yawn.

“Will probably need Andrew to throw me across the stage at this point,” Ominis says. His voice sounds thick with sleep, and you know he yearns to shut his eyes. You’ve known him for so long, watched him nap in the hallways enough to recognize the tell-tale signs of Ominis Gaunt’s sleeping habits.

“I’m proud of you, you know that?” You whisper, hoping to catch him while he’s still awake. “You’re gonna go far, do amazing things. I’m so proud of you, and I love you.”

“I know,” Ominis lets out a sleepy sigh, heavy eyelids drooping. “I love you too.”

Before long, Ominis is softly snoring in your ear. Blinking your bleary eyes, you can see the dark sky turning lighter and lighter through the curtains. It’s graduation day; in a few hours, Ominis will walk across the stage and move on to the next phase of his life.

Merlin, you hope to be part of the next chapter.

You jolt awake when you hear the door knob to Ominis’s room jiggling. The blond is still fast asleep, a smile on his face as he dreams.

“Ominis, wake up,” you groan. “It’s morning.”

“It was morning when we fell asleep,” he swats away at you, digging his face into the pillows.

“Well, it’s graduation morning.” You warn him. “We have to get ready–I have to go home, I have to change and shower. You have to shower.”

“Shower here,” Ominis complains, tugging you back against his warm chest. “And you can shower with me.”

“I can’t go to your graduation wearing a bloody mini dress,” you scold him, rolling out of bed. You tug open his dresser, pulling out a well worn sweater and some sweatpants. “There’s someone at the door too.”

“It’s me,” a muffled voice yells. “Wakey wakey, lovebirds!”

Ominis flips back over in bed as you tug the sweater over your head, swinging the door open. You’d recognize the Scottish lilt anywhere–it’s Sebastian, grinning broadly with a garment bag in hand.

“What is that?” You gape.

Sebastian pushes his way into the room, hanging the black bag between Ominis’s graduation robes. “Had a feeling you wouldn’t be going home last night,” he winks, unzipping the bag. “So I asked Imelda to pull together some options for you. Picked them up this morning; there’s some bagels and coffee downstairs too.”

You’re embarrassed but thankful for your friends–Imelda has packed some tasteful day dresses, all appropriate for the event in mind.

Sebastian drops another bag onto the ground, sinking into the now up-right office chair. “She packed more appropriate heels. Oh, and a bra and underwear. Thought you might’ve lost yours.”

“Get out,” Ominis groans, tossing a pillow at Sebastian.

The freckled bastard lets out a laugh, his whole body shaking as he dodges Ominis’s throw. “Best get in the shower, Mr. President. Can’t have you walking across the stage to get your diploma with sex hair.” Sebastian waggles his eyebrows, and even though Ominis can’t see, he knows the expression on Sebastian’s face.

You hear your name from the doorframe, and both you and Sebastian turn to see who it is. Lucan and Garreth are standing with bagels, idly observing the scene before them.

“Amit owes me ten galleons,” Garreth says, his mouth still full of his poppy seed bagel. “He said you’d never admit how you feel to Ominis–”

“That’s not what I said!” You hear Amit’s voice from down the hallway. “Garreth, don’t twist my words.”

Lucan pushes his way into the room, holding his bagel between his teeth. “Can I get in to measure now?” he asks, pulling his wand from his pocket. “I do think I could fit a nice little bar in the corner here–”

“Everyone out!” Ominis roars, standing up in just his boxer shorts. “Everyone who isn’t my girlfriend can fuck off.”

Instead of scattering, everyone freezes in place.

“Girlfriend?” You squeak out.

Ominis’s furrowed brow softens, his cheeks heating up as he scratches the back of his neck.

“I assumed,” he said sheepishly. “When we said we loved each other.”

“Alright, nothing to see here folks. Everyone go back to your knitting.” Sebastian says hastily, pulling Lucan into a headlock to drag him out of the room. He pushes Garreth in the chest, and you hear several pairs of feet scrambling in the hallway–no doubt Amit, Andrew, and the others have congregated outside of Ominis’s door to eavesdrop.

Sebastian shoots you both a knowing look as he shuts the door behind him, leaving you alone with Ominis once more.

“If you don’t want to, that’s okay.” Ominis croaks. “I understand. I’m leaving in a few days, it makes sense.”

You tiptoe over to him, placing a hand on his chest. You can feel his heart hammering beneath you, one of his hands resting atop yours to keep it in place.

“What would being your girlfriend entail?” You ask slowly, nails dragging across his skin.

Ominis offers you a small smile. “Nothing has to change, not really. Just that I get to tell you that I love you out loud.”

“And perhaps there will be space for me in New York.” You say slowly, chewing on your lower lip.

Ominis’s face lights up, tugging you in with a firm arm around your waist. “There will most definitely be space for you in New York,” he announces. “It’s only fitting that I make room for you, considering you’re the person who convinced me to go.”

“Your girlfriend,” you enunciate.

“My girlfriend,” Ominis repeats back to you. It isn’t long before he’s kissing you, his tongue snaking its way into your mouth. You have to pull yourself back, eyeing the clock on Ominis’s desk.

“We have to shower,” you remind him, hands pressed against his chest. “Otherwise, I’ll be late to my boyfriend’s graduation ceremony.”

Ominis grins, pressing a quick kiss against your cheek. He maneuvers over to his dresser, pulling out two clean towels. Wand in hand, he slings the towels over his shoulder, his other hand outstretched to grab yours.

You fold your palm into his, following him out the door without a word.

The last week almost seems like a blur to you.

That Sunday, you watched Ominis graduate university with honors, several stoles draped across his shoulders. One from the honors college, another for his outstanding leadership. The third looks a bit hodge-podge, but it’s the most important to him–a stole crafted by Sebastian and the others, crudely decorated in a way only twenty-something boys would do.

The satin stole with the Gaunt family motto is promptly burned in the celebratory bonfire Lucan sets that night, all of you sitting around the fire pit with beers in hand.

Every day since then has been bliss. You’ve only gone home once, packing a bag with a week’s worth of clothes while Imelda gives you smug looks. You’ve effectively moved into Ominis’s bedroom for one last week together. It’s for practical reasons, you tell the others. By day, you’re helping Ominis pack his belongings and bring whatever items he needs to donate to the university charity shop. You even help him pack a cardboard box with any Gaunt family memorabilia, slapping a label to ship the useless trinkets back to Marvolo. Ominis doesn’t need to rely on his family name anymore, at least not where he’s going.

The others come and go, but soon the new graduates start to move. Amit and Andrew are the first to leave, off to start their ministry jobs. Garreth follows shortly after, moving to a cottage in Cornwall to start his bulk potions business. Come Friday, it’s just you, Ominis, and Sebastian left as the rest of the underclassmen have left for their summer holidays.

You enjoy one last night cooking dinner with your two best boys, tears pricking the corners of your eyes if you think too hard about how this might be the last time the three of you are in a room together for a while. After dessert, Sebastian leaves the house to visit friends; more likely, he’s giving the two of you the house alone for your final night together.

You’d expect last night together to be frenetic, but Ominis’s love making remains slow and deliberate. Ominis meant it when he said he wanted to remember every bit of you, his hands exploring your body as he makes you come several times in the night. You cry out the last time, exhausted but pawing at him for more.

More, more, more. More time, most of all.

Both of you cry a little, murmuring promises to each other before falling asleep.

When you wake, the air is melancholy. The two of you move in silence, Ominis showering and packing the remnants of his suitcase. You put your dirty clothes from the week in your bag as well, and the two of you say goodbye to his little bedroom for the last time. Ominis swallows thickly as you both get into the car, Sebastian choosing the passenger seat so the two of you can sit together in the back.

The airport isn’t too busy, which affords you time for a long farewell. Ominis’s wand is safely concealed in a cane, and Sebastian slips a pair of sunglasses over his eyes so he fits in better with the muggles.

“You have a new phone now,” Sebastian reminds him. “So don’t give me any excuses for not calling or texting.”

“I will,” Ominis promises. “Thank you, Sebastian. I–” his voice cracks, and his eyes flutter as he swallows. “I’m glad I met you when I was eleven.” It's a simple sentence, but the words impart just how much Ominis loves Sebastian.

Sebastian whimpers, pulling his best friend, his brother into a hug. You have to turn away, dabbing at your eyes as the two men say farewell after living together for over a decade.

“Alright, sod off,” Sebastian blurts, wiping at his nose. “Your turn to say goodbye, I can’t do this anymore.”

Ominis lets out a watery laugh as Sebastian meanders away, giving the two of you some time alone. You don’t want to waste any of the precious seconds you have left with Ominis waffling, so you tug him into a tight embrace, your arms locking around his neck.

“I love you,” Ominis says against your hair. “I love you.”

You’re kissing him all over his face, leaving tears in your wake. “I love you too,” you murmur. “Remember what I told you.”

“If you want to go far, you’ve got to go far.” Ominis mutters. “I’m doing this for me–for us.”

“Better save a drawer for me,” you whisper.

“The very best one,” Ominis whispers back. “It’ll be there for you, next year.”

Sebastian nearly has to pry the two of you apart, reminding Ominis that his plane leaves within the hour and he still needs to get through security. The steps the blond takes towards the line are rigid, his subconscious fighting the physical act of leaving. But deep down, all of you know it–Ominis is going to do great things, and he’s going to do it without his family breathing down his neck, trying to force him to conform to their ways.

You feel a hand grabbing yours; it’s Sebastian, squeezing you tight as you both watch Ominis move through the line. Minutes later, he’s waving goodbye, disappearing into the departures terminal.

You and Sebastian stay until Ominis’s blond head is no longer visible over the crowd.

Finishing your dissertation is eating up all your free time, but you reserve an hour at the end of the day to talk to Ominis over his brand new phone. The time difference is a bit jarring; sometimes you find yourself staying up well into the twilight hours to listen to Ominis ramble on about his job and the work they’ve done to protect international magical affairs. He asks you how his brothers are doing, if Lucan has stirred any trouble yet. You tell him all about how they still invite you to parties every weekend, and Lucan decided against building the wet bar in his room. You talk about Sebastian’s rotations at St. Mungo’s and how the two of you still try to have dinner at least once a week despite your busy schedules.

You tell him to save his money, but Ominis isn’t one to skimp out on gifts. He still sends owl post, care packages from his tiny apartment in New York. After you tell him his fraternity letters are starting to wear thin, he sends you a New York t-shirt that smells like cool musk. You start wearing it to bed every night; once the smell wears off, Ominis sends a bottle of his cologne as well.

Phone sex isn’t half bad either, you decide. You come every time Ominis tells you to, gasping when you hear him touch himself on the other end of the line.

One day, Ominis sends you an e-mail about job requisitions at the MACUSA headquarters. They have their own department of mysteries, Ominis explains. If you’re interested at all.

You apply and wait to hear back. I hope it’s not a conflict of interest that my boyfriend is the newest hot shot solicitor in the office of international affairs.

It isn’t, it turns out. You’re offered a job interview over the winter holidays if you can make it to New York City in time. Ominis sends you the ticket in your email, assuring you that he’ll pick you up from the airport. He does exactly as he’s promised, and you laugh at how much he’s bundled himself up against the New York City snow. When you leave the airport you laugh a little less, snow already getting into your shoes. Ominis is a gentleman through and through, and carries you from the car up the stairs to his apartment lobby.

You think your interview at MACUSA has gone well, and you start enjoying all the walking you have to do to get around the city. Ominis takes you to all his favorite restaurants, and he shows you the drawer he’s been saving for you. His apartment feels like home, even if you have to squeeze past the dining table to get to the bed. The two of you Facetime Sebastian from bed, the brunette recounting his shifts at St. Mungo’s in great detail.

“Say, do you have a hospital in the city?” Sebastian asks. “If she’s going, I want to come too. We’re a package deal.”

Ominis rolls his eyes. “Of course there’s a hospital here, Sebastian. It’s not a primitive land. It’s New York, for Merlin's sake.”

You laugh, trying not to shake the phone as you try to keep Ominis in frame.

The week passes by too fast. Ominis brings you back to the airport, and this goodbye is even harder than the one after graduation. You find it nearly impossible to take your hands off him, his lips pressing kisses to your face.

“It’s just a little while longer,” Ominis reminds you.

“We don’t even know if I’ll get it,” you shrug.

“You’re going to get it,” Ominis assures you. It feels like deja vu, as if you’ve had this conversation before.

About a week into the second term, you receive your job offer from MACUSA.

May arrives quicker than you thought it would. You get a few less calls with Ominis during your finals week, and he promises to make it up to you somehow. Even though you have a job offer, it’s contingent on you passing your final exams. Ominis quizzes you through the phone while Sebastian brings you dinner between his shifts. It’s a group effort to get you across the finish line.

You pass, and you finally get to breathe a sigh of relief. The week of your graduation is filled with parties and celebrations, Lucan inviting you to come back to the house. It doesn’t feel as right without Sebastian or Ominis inside, so you don’t stay long. Sebastian promises he'll try to be at your graduation, trading shifts with other healers. On the other hand, Ominis is stuck in the middle of an important case. You tell him not to worry, and that you'll see him in a week when you move.

Come graduation day, you’re standing in front of the theater, your diploma in hand. You feel your phone buzz in your pocket, and you pull it out to read your texts. You have one missed message from Sebastian.

Sorry I missed your ceremony. Got called in to cover someone’s shift this morning. I promise I’ll be at your dinner later tonight. Oh, and I hope you enjoy your grad present xx

You furrow your brow, typing back a response. You don’t remember anything about a present–

“Congratulations, darling.”

You look up, nearly dropping your phone in the process. A tall lithe blond clad in a three piece suit, a MACUSA pin on the lapel.

Ominis smiles at you, a bouquet of sunflowers in hand.

#ominis gaunt x reader #ominis gaunt x you #ominis gaunt smut #frat ominis gaunt #modern au ominis gaunt #listen here there's a lot of creative liberties taken with college frats and magic here #but frat ominis wouldn't leave my mind

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hogwartslegacyreactions2 · 7 months ago

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Hi there! First, I wanna say I absolutely love your works; they are all great, and I enjoy reading every one of their reactions!

Can I request to see HLC (including professors) react to MC sniffing them (out for many reasons, but mainly they want to remember their smell)? Just genuinely curious about what they would usually smell like :) Thank you! And wish to see more works of yours!

A/N: laughing so hard the whole time writing this 🤣

HLC REACT TO MC SNIFFING THEM

SEBASTIAN SALLOW: Old books and smoke. He smells like a stack of forgotten tomes that were set on fire. He raises an eyebrow and laughs. "You're not going to lick me next, are you?"

OMINIS GAUNT: Clean linens and a touch of mint. "...did you just sniff me?" One would think he'd be used to MC's weird behavior by now. Alas, he is not.

ANNE SALLOW: Wild flowers. She smells like she's been laying out in a meadow in spring. She smells her own robes. "What? Do I smell bad?"

IMELDA REYES: Broom polish and various wood scents. She gives MC a strong side-eye glare. "What are you doing?"

NATSAI ONAI: Incense and fresh cut grass. She gives MC an unsure look but smiles anyway. "You're acting strange. Even by your standards."

GARRETH WEASLEY: He smells like an apothecary shop threw up on him, that also exploded. "What? Do I still smell like burnt rat hair? I thought I got that out."

LEANDER PREWETT: Cheap cologne that screams "try hard", but at the same time isn't overly offensive. He side steps away from MC. "Please, stop that."

AMIT THAKKAR: Parchment and spilled ink. He startles when MC sniffs him and he jumps away like a startled cat. "What was that about?"

EVERETT CLOPTON: Depends on the day. There is no consistency with him. Some days he smells like a pack of dung bombs, others he smells like a summer breeze. He sweats nervously, hoping that MC doesn't smell dung bombs.

POPPY SWEETING: Ever smelled a horse with feathers? That's her. She watches MC curiously. "What are you sniffing around like a niffler for?"

~~~

ELEAZAR FIG: A well kept library. Old leather and parchment. He sniffs MC back. "I'd say we're both due for a wash after all the running around we've been doing."

MATILDA WEASLEY: Orchids, her favorite floral scent. She gives MC an unsure glance. "You could just ask what perfume I use."

CHIYO KOGAWA: Leather and sweat. Even with quidditch canceled, she's always out and about the grounds. "Don't sniff. That's rather rude."

AESOP SHARP: The wizard equivalent of Old Spice and a hint of fire whiskey. He just rolls his eyes. He doesn't get paid enough for this.

ABRAHAM RONEN: Sugar and cinnamon. Always smells like he just came back from Honeydukes. "Oh my, do I smell bad?" He's genuinely concerned and smells his own robes.

MIRABEL GARLICK: A garden. Flowers, soil, pottery; the whole shabang. "I was repotting mandrakes with the third years today. Sorry if I smell a bit ripe." She laughs.

MUDIWA ONAI: Incense and palm oil. She offers MC some incense. "Would you like to burn some for your dorm? You smell like you could use it."

BAI HOWIN: She works in beast pens all day. Enough said. MC doesn't even need to get close to smell her on some days.

DINAH HECAT: Amazingly. Nothing. Her time as an unspeakable has taught her to be undetectable, even by smell. Old habits die hard.

CUTHBERT BINNS: He doesn't so much give off a scent, as he does a cold chill if MC gets too close.

SATYAVATI SHAH: VERY faint smell of cherry blossom. She's very guarded of her personal space, so MC will have a hard time catching it.

PHINEAS NIGELLUS BLACK: Expensive cologne and hair tonic. He steps away from MC. Ew. Students.

#hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy reactions #hogwarts legacy professors #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #anne sallow #imelda reyes #natsai onai #garreth weasley #leander prewett #amit thakkar #everett clopton #poppy sweeting #eleazar fig #aesop sharp

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maisonaime · 10 months ago

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Give and Take

Softdom!Cassian x Healer!Reader

Premise: You get back after a long day of work and Cassian is ready to take over everything, you give him control so that you don’t lose it entirely.

Splitting this into two parts so that I don't lose my mind over it anymore. Love to all who jumped on this prompt!

Warnings: Dom/sub dynamics, smutty fluff, emotional overstimulation, self-sacrificing, poor self-care (bordering on self-harm), injury and slight gore, 18+ minors DNI

Part 1:

The last flight of stairs up to the rooms you and Cassian occupied in the River House seemed steeper than you had ever remembered, dragging yourself up the stairs was utterly Sisyphean, the last stretch in a long day that had frustrated tears finally pricking in your eyes. You were tired to your bones, fed up with being hunched over a desk, and the day was still far from done over eleven hours after it had begun. You woke and dressed when the sky was dark, and were returning hours after the braziers lining the hallways had been lit.

You had two bags hanging in the crook of one elbow, full of brewing equipment that needed to be polished with a protective tonic before being used in class tomorrow. In the same arm, you were clutching a thick stack of essays requiring grading. Tucked under your other arm was a folio of research on restorative therapies for Illyrians who had their wings clipped. Slung over your shoulder from training was your weapons belt, sheathed with two daggers and a longsword Cassian had wrought for you as a wedding gift.

The file of research slipped from your arms, scattering down all the steps you had just climbed in complete disarray. You made a small sound of anguish and finally, the tears were flowing freely. You were so grateful for it all, for this beautiful life you had. You were grateful for the research you were able to do to find a way to reverse the horrors wrought on Illyrian females. You were enthusiastic about teaching your students, passing along ancient knowledge to the trainees who would one day be your peers. You itched for training with Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn; pouring intentional movement into your body after long days of obligatory motion.

Healing people, feeling your tendrils of power sweep over broken bones, seeking out the source of symptoms, touching the broken parts of people’s souls. It was the greatest gift, one that multiplied every time you held a newborn babe, watched someone run or dance on legs that had never worked before, and felt the relief of familial caregivers as you restored hearing or sight or even small amounts of lucidity to their aging parents. It was quite possibly the only gift that you valued more than your precious mate. The one who you had remade and been remade by.

You were so grateful for it all, for this beautiful life you had. But there were some days when you felt the burden of worlds bearing down on you. Days when failed healings left you shattered. Days when there was simply too much to do and not enough hours to do it.

“What’s all this sweetheart.” Cassian appeared at the top of the stairs, his darkened gaze forcing you to rethink your current predicament.

Despite his intimidating size and title, the Lord of Bloodshed was as gentle a lover as you had ever known. He had honed his resolve over the centuries, along with all his other skills. Even in the most feral moments between the two of you, lost entirely to the bond in skin and teeth and brutish groans, he would never lose himself. He could balance himself over you for hours with just the head of his cock pressing into your center, and could sit perfectly still while stuffed down your pretty little throat.

What he couldn’t do was abide by disobedience. And disobedience to Cassian was self-neglect. Disobedience was forgetting to eat, not getting enough sleep. Disobedience was piling too much onto your plate. Disobedience was trying to lug over one-hundred pounds of shit up the stairs after you had left before dawn and were returning long after dark. And disobedience would earn you punishment.

—

Ever since you had helped Azriel rehabilitate his shredded wings after Hybern wrought his havoc, you had remained in close connection with the High Lord’s Inner Circle. Your attentive and tranquil care healed both Azriel’s wings and the lingering horror that wracked his soul in the following weeks as he tried to move on from those paralyzing moments of agony. You treated his flesh and soul with equal gentleness, cementing your regard as a healer with the capacity to treat vulnerability with as much tenderness as you treated wounds and sickness.

When Cassian lay broken and bleeding, of course, it was you who was summoned to the tent. He was like every other patient before in your ability and desire to help him. But he was also like no other patient before because he was your mate. You could still feel his screaming cleaving the air and reverberating through your jaw, dulling all senses to anything but him. His brothers had to hold him down with tears in their eyes; Feyre lost her stomach; Mor just sat in the corner silently shaking. You were cursed to remember every ounce of hopelessness in his eyes as he scrambled away from your hands, refusing any of your help or assessment for fear of what you might find.

You found femur bone shattered like glass, tearing into the muscle and tendon of his massive thigh. You found snapped cartilage, torn muscle, and severe hemorrhaging that nearly cut off blood supply to his entire left wing; the damage so bad it would have resulted in field amputation had you not been there. You found the husk of a man who had been so sure he was going to die without being able to save his family, without even being able to say goodbye.

You burned yourself out with the raw power that flooded from you as you were confronted with the primal need to save him. You gave yourself entirely to the will of the goddess that had blessed your hands. At one point Rhys had to blanket your mind in darkness so that you wouldn’t drain that well of power entirely.

When finally, the damage left could only be healed by time, you had collapsed over him and refused to move. Unable to. Gentle, weak arms had dragged you ungracefully to a warm chest, to a beating heart. The only thing you could hear through the thundering haze of your overwrought senses.

“Don’t you ever do that again, for anyone. Not even me sweetheart.”

And then it was Cassian’s turn to heal you. To watch over your trembling body as you recovered from the depletion of your powers. He fed and bathed you. Stretched and massaged the muscles that felt as though they had been filleted by lightning. Braided your hair to keep it from knotting during the long hours you slept.

He poured himself into you in a way you had never had before. In a way you had only ever provided to others, never received yourself. In a way you hadn’t ever known you wanted so badly until you were sobbing hoarsely into his arms, years of self-sacrifice pouring out of you.

It didn’t stop there. Only when you had settled into living together did either of you realize the extent to which overextending yourself had become a way of life. The first time you came home past midnight, Cass was in a panic thinking you had been hurt or taken. When you stumbled through the door on legs bent with exhaustion and informed him that you had eaten exactly three crackers and a handful of berries all day, he just stared at you for a long time.

“How do you expect to save everyone if you destroy yourself in the process? This level of self-sacrifice isn’t noble, it’s irresponsible. Now, get on your fucking knees.” Your head snapped to him, pinning him with a disbelieving scoff. But he was dead serious.

In a flash he had your hair gathered in a stern but gentle fist, and you had your mouth very, very full. He fucked your mouth with a fervor, his fingers finding the corners so he could pop your jaw open further and push himself even deeper down your throat.

He came with a hiss, freeing a hand from your ruined mouth to pound in a fist against the unyielding stone wall.

Then he scooped you up and laid you in bed, pouring water with lemon and honeyed tea down your throat. Leaving your side briefly, only to return with a veritable feast of foods specifically selected to strengthen your body and magic. His care was almost overwhelming, but you found yourself surrendering to his vigil over you.

—

“Put it down” he said, pure authority radiating from him.

“Put what down?” you feigned.

“All of it, sweetheart. And don’t make me ask again. I’d hate to have to take you down to Az’s workroom. He put up such a fuss last time, even after I cleaned everything in front of him.” There was no room for disobedience in his tone, even if the remark had you chuckling.

You struggled to unburden yourself, unsure of how to extend your arms and set down one item without imperiling another. You met Cassian’s gaze with pleading eyes that quickly turned fiery at his smugness. You drew yourself up slowly, eyes narrowing…

And dropped everything from your hands, letting the first bag of glassware slide off your arms and crash to the ground – even if the sound of tinkering glass made something in you twist and cringe.

“Don’t be a fucking brat, you know it’ll only make things worse.” he snapped, lips pulling back in a feral grin as he raked his gaze over your body, your leather-bound dips and curves displayed to him unobstructed.

The belt you set down gently, minding your beautiful blade. In the middle of the night after your mating ceremony, in the haze of your frenzy, Cassian had marched you down to the deepest chambers of the Court of Nightmares, where the mountain burned nearly as hot as your bond. You had watched with lust-glazed eyes as he hammered out a blade and fused it to the hilt he had already carved and polished—smooth, rounded obsidian imbued with the cavernous powers of the Mountains.

He fucked you hard into the stone floor and then soared into the night sky with you and the weapon, cooling skin and steel alike. And when you finally touched ground again, he wasted no time showing you exactly why he chose that particular shape for the handle.

A snap of his fingers had the scattered papers piled neatly beside it. Then you gingerly set down the second bag of glassware, cringing as you considered how your eager disobedience would reflect back in Cassian’s treatment.

“Good.” he crooned. “Now go bathe and wait for me in bed.”

Cass abided by your whims for the most part, always eager to take care of you but never pressuring you to submit. He could always tell when you needed to give away control. When you needed to be told what and when to eat, how to dress, when to speak, and when to be silent. When to “get on your fucking knees” and when to “lay down darling, that’s it, now hush my love and let me work.” And he would give it to you every time without tire, for the rest of his days.

As you passed him to make towards your suite, he sidestepped into your path and halted you with a hand to your shoulder, the palm of his other hand cupping your face. He looked down at you with gentle eyes. You leaned into his touch instinctively, eager to shove away the pressures of your autonomy, even if just for the next few hours.

“I counted five things that you placed over your own needs today. Your patients, your students, your research, your training, your healing. Then you had to go and double it by bratting off and making a mess of your things.” He glanced around, unimpressed at your display of resistance.

“It’ll take me time to fix and polish the glassware and reorganize your papers. So you’ll wait. You’ll be doing a lot of that tonight. It only makes sense, I think, that you take ten hard edges before we think about next steps.” His voice was hard, determined, even as his hands were so so soft.

Your eyes widened, head shaking even as his words had your blood thrumming with desire.

“Yes, sweetheart. Yes, you will. Maybe this time you’ll finally learn your lesson about what happens when we deny ourselves what we need.”

#acotar #cassian x reader #cassian #cassian smut #smut blurb #but like also not #it’s more than that #acotar fanfiction #fantasy #acotar crack #night court #rhysand #azriel #healer!reader #Dom!cassian #illyrian baby #one meaty batboy to go please! with the thickest thighs you can find!

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 9 months ago

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Begged & Borrowed Time (xxviii, ao3)

(Chapter twenty-eight: After three days spent healing, Cassian finally wakes and finds that he has several things to say to his brother.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

At first it was the village.

Not quite a dream, but a nightmare laced with memory as Cassian found himself standing right back in the ashes of his own rage, watching the smoke drift, bitter and acrid, toward the sky. Blood stained the snow and seeped across grey rock, and he could have sworn, even in delirium, that screams still echoed through the mountain pass.

Broken siphons lay shattered, the shards as sharp as drawn blades, and in the dream Cassian looked down at his hands and saw Illyrian blood dripping thick from his fingers. It blurred in his mind, the deserted, desecrated camp high in the mountains looming in his memory as the nightmare sunk its claws deep into his flesh.

And then the screams shifted, a warrior’s pain morphing into something else. The blood on his hands thinned, turning dark— turning to Cauldron-water as the rock beneath his feet turned smooth, blood-stained snow replaced by polished marble. The scene around him changed, until it wasn’t blood on his hands but water, water that needled his skin like acid as it pooled beneath him in a puddle so dark it seemed to swallow the light whole.

Pain— there was so much pain.

His, but not his.

The world began and ended with his every breath, an aching kind of cold pressing at his fingertips and spreading up through his veins as the village he had destroyed once in his fury bled into the throne room like ink, the horrors of both twining until the screams of anguish he heard echoing through the mountains weren’t his anymore but hers—

The floor of Hybern’s throne room was slick with dark water, as black as the night itself. Cassian’s hands slipped as he tried to rise, struggling to find purchase, and gods, it burned. Where the Cauldron’s water kissed his skin, Cassian felt an ice so deep it beggared belief sinking into his veins. He heard screaming, heard her screaming, felt her drowning like it was his own heart ceasing to beat, his own blood beginning to boil. He pulled away, or tried to, but the memory dragged him down, reality converging brutally with the dream, and in his chest hoarfrost gathered, beginning to crawl, and when he opened his mouth to scream—

All he tasted was medicine, a sleeping tonic thick and bitter on his tongue, keeping him chained and trapped within the nightmare until at last, blackness swallowed him… and Cassian remembered nothing at all.

***

When he opened his eyes at last, Cassian swore he could feel her.

Nesta’s scent lingered in the air, draped lightly over the sheets as though she had only just been there, sitting beside him as he lay healing. He seemed to have missed her by a hair’s breadth— by a moment or a second, a heartbeat or an hour, he wasn’t sure. The light danced across the bed, sharp in the wake of his dreams, and as Cassian breathed in the scent of his mate, slowly, slowly, he stretched out a hand, reaching for the ghost of her left behind.

But the movement sent sent a bolt of fire spearing right down his spine, drawing a livid curse from his lips as pain - unrelenting pain - shot like lightning across the broken mass of his wings.

It didn’t stop him.

Couldn’t stop him, not as he reached for the empty space on that mattress, hoping he might bring her back if his fingers could just graze the sheets that still smelled, faintly, of her.

But the space beside him was cold, and if Nesta had been there, it had been hours ago.

Cassian’s brow furrowed, fingers curling tightly in the sheets.

In his chest, something broke.

He loosed his grip on the bedsheets, drawing a gasping breath as he flexed his hand. The movement was stiff, and the siphon he wore was shining as if through fog as pain radiated from the bottom of his wings to the nape of his neck. At his back, pinned beneath him, those wings were nothing but a blistering ache, so sharp his breath got caught in his throat.

And— fuck, when he twitched them, to test how much strength they had left, they were as spindly as the legs of a newborn deer. Wrapped in so many bandages it was a wonder there was any linen left in Velaris at all, he forced his wings to shift. But a roaring pain engulfed him, a tidal wave of it he felt down to the tips of his toes.

His entire body felt hollow, bones aching like they had been snapped too, and he hissed as the pain barrelled through him, a sound of pure agony building within his throat.

It was a brutal reminder of just how close he had come to death.

He had been bleeding and broken, wings shredded, and though he was no stranger to risk or injury… it was different, this time. This time he had felt death in a way he never had before. It had cracked open an eye in the darkness and saw right through to his soul, staking a claim on him as the pain had dragged him under.

A chill coursed through him, kith to the ice still burning in his chest.

But he forced it away.

It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

His own pain, his own anguish, was nothing. He recalled the dreams that had haunted him in his sleep, the screams he knew would dog him for the rest of his days. His hands reached again for that space on the bed beside him, her name echoing with each beat of his broken heart.

Nesta.

He could still see her eyes, brimming with terror and rage as the king’s guards forced her into that Cauldron. Could still feel the bond, taut as a bow-string and thrumming the way it had the moment their eyes had met across that godsforsaken throne room. Absolute, inexorable need surged through him as the bond tightened, stealing his breath, and it was for Nesta that Cassian took a breath and braced both palms against the mattress. For her he ignored the barbs of pain that shot through his wings as he pushed his weight against the heel of his hands, trying to rise.

For her.

“Fuck,” he gasped, breaths turning ragged as agony knifed along his spine, spreading across his shoulders.

And across the room, from a half-hidden corner by the window that Cassian hadn’t even glanced at before now, another curse echoed his own.

“For fuck’s sake, Cass.”

Sharp footsteps sounded from the wall of windows opposite, but before Cassian could force his broken body to rise another inch, Rhys’ hand was pressed flat against Cassian’s shoulder, firm and immovable.

“Don’t even think about it,” the High Lord said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

Cassian didn’t stop for a minute to study his brother— to really note the anguish that cloaked him like a second skin. Nor did he pause to wonder how or why Rhys was the only one waiting for him to wake. His brother has been so lost in thought standing in that corner, staring listlessly out of the window, that it seemed he hadn’t even noticed Cassian opening his eyes until that whispered curse had been torn from his throat. He’d never known Rhys to be so distracted but…

No, Cassian didn’t pause. Not for a second, because he couldn’t fucking breathe.

He pushed once more against Rhys’ palm, gritting his teeth against the riot of pain working its way up and down his spine.

“Let me up,” he managed through clenched teeth.

Stitches were pulled taut in wounds not yet healed, and the new, fragile membrane of his wings threatened to tear as his arms began to tremble. His muscles ached, like keeping himself sitting upright was challenge enough, but it didn’t matter, didn’t matter, didn’t matter—

Rhys didn’t move.

“Rhys,” Cassian snarled. “Let. Me. Up.”

The High Lord said nothing, violet eyes dark and determined as he refused to relent. He kept his hand pressed against Cassian’s shoulder, and fucking hell, Cassian thought grimly, any other day he’d be able to force Rhys away without so much as blinking. But the blast that had taken out his wings had all but decimated his strength, leaving him with nothing but the sweat gleaming on his brow as he fought to stay upright.

After what felt like an age of bone-cracking agony, Cassian could do nothing more than collapse back against his pillows, staring furiously at the ceiling and cursing his sudden weakness.

“Not yet,” Rhys said mildly as he removed his hand at last. “Give it another day— give it until tomorrow.”

Cassian slammed a fist against his sickbed. “Another day? How long has it been already?”

His voice was cold, but Rhys didn’t flinch.

“Three days.”

Cassian swore the world began to tilt beneath him, the balance suddenly off-kilter.

“Three days,” he echoed, deadpan.

“And a half,” Rhys added, turning to the window at his back, as if tracking the movement of the sun. “It’s almost noon.”

As if Cassian gave a fuck about what time it was.

“Where is she.”

The demand came out rough, like gravel, and his voice seemed to quake beneath the weight of the temper he was only barely keeping in check. Deep within, something primal and primordial began to howl.

Rhys only rolled his eyes. Under his breath he muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘both the fucking same,’ and Cassian’s brow lowered over narrowed eyes as he began to wonder if Rhys had faced similar questioning from Nesta herself. But then— why wasn’t she here? Where was she? And Mother save him, how was she?

They were the only questions worth asking, the only things that seemed to matter.

“She’s here,” Rhys said after a pause, waving a hand in a gesture so casual it made Cassian clench his jaw. “And she’s awake, which is more than I can say for Elain.”

“Elain isn’t awake?”

“No.”

Cassian glowered. “So Nesta’s been on her own for three fucking days then,” he countered darkly, running a hand over his ribs to make sure those, at least, were still intact. Feeling nothing broken he shifted, more than ready to try and rise again regardless of the pain, but Rhys stopped him with a glare so glacial it made chasms of his eyes.

“Not alone,” Rhys said bluntly. “I checked on her, and Mor took her some clothes.”

Cassian was silent. His eyes seemed to burn as he looked pointedly at his brother and waited for him to continue— because if Rhys thought that was explanation enough, then he was so severely mistaken that Cassian might have started to wonder if the High Lord had hit his head on the way out of Hybern’s throne room. As it was, his brother sighed heavily before running a hand through his already-mussed hair.

“The Cauldron took its toll,” he explained. “Neither Nesta nor Elain were fully conscious when we made it back to Velaris, and after Mor and I winnowed them up here… they were out of it for a little while. Nesta woke after a few hours, but Elain is still drifting in and out.” When Cassian’s gaze turned sharp, bladed with concern, Rhys added, “There’s no injury. Physically, they both seem fine.”

A note of caution entered his voice, one that had all of Cassian’s instincts sharpening like a blade against a whetstone.

“Mor brought Nesta clothes,” the Lord continued flatly, violet eyes devoid of stars. “But she didn’t even bother to look at them before casting them off. Mor wasn’t exactly happy—“

Cassian snarled again, a sound of abject consternation so abrasive it was a wonder it didn’t rake claws down his throat.

“What the fuck,” he asked, in a voice so rough it was little more than a growl, “were you thinking?”

The glare he gave Rhys was one that so rarely crossed his face these days— one that even battle-hardened warriors had run from in the past. But he didn’t bother to temper it. Of course Nesta would refuse whatever it was that Mor had offered. Night Court fashion was a world away from what they were used to below the wall, and though Mor had shaken off the shackles of her upbringing, it was plain as fucking day that Nesta hadn’t.

As well-intentioned as it was, was it any wonder it had brought out Nesta’s claws?

Rhys didn’t answer, only pressed his lips thin.

“Get her something else,” Cassian said sharply.

“I tried,” Rhys retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She doesn’t want anything else.”

“Then I’ll fucking do it,” he huffed, his hands curling once more into fists so tight his knuckles began to ache.

“You can’t get up,” Rhys hissed. “It’s a fucking miracle you’re even alive. It wasn’t just your wings, you know. Whatever was in that blast— you’ve had a temperature for days that even the healers can’t understand. Like you were burning from the inside out.”

Cassian stilled. The dream came back to him in a rush, an echo of that burning heat thrumming distant in his veins. Like it wasn’t him burning at all.

The bond twining around his ribs trembled, and in the silence that followed Cassian shoved it all away and clenched his jaw before demanding roughly,

“Tell me what happened.”

Rhys looked uncomfortable with the question, his shadowed face stony. “I haven’t been able to glean much. All I know is that Hybern broke in whilst they were sleeping. Killed the servants—“

“And the Illyrians?” Cassian felt his anger harden, cool into something far more difficult to break. “Where the fuck were they? I swear, if they—“

“They’re dead, Cass.”

It took Cassian a moment to understand. For the words to sink in. And when they did, there was a ringing in his ears so sharp he had to shake his head to clear it.

Fuck.

“Ash arrows were found in the grounds,” Rhys continued darkly. “And the other four men you sent to the Mandray house never saw Nesta. By the time they arrived she had already gone to stay with Elain. They didn’t know she wasn’t inside.”

It was like being dragged into a riptide.

The waves kept coming, kept pulling and pushing and holding him under, each new kernel of information Rhys offered one that made Cassian feel like his lungs were taking on water. Four men dead— men who had families, friends, loved ones. Cassian had personally picked the ones to go below the wall. He hadn’t been about to put Nesta and Elain’s safety in the hands of any of the more… conservative Illyrians, especially when Devlon had been so reluctant to let them go at all. No, these had been soldiers who respected him, who had only barely grumbled about being stationed so far from home.

Dead.

He’d have to tell their families, have to visit them personally.

And the servants. Gods— who would tell their families? Or Nesta’s father? Cassian didn’t have an overwhelming amount of respect for the man, but still. Would he return to an empty house, dilapidated and dark, a ruin filled with nothing but shattered glass and the echo of violence?

Each thought made his head spin, and yet it was nothing - absolutely fucking nothing - to the weight in his chest, the crushing heaviness where his heart should be.

Because the sharpest undercurrent of all was…

He’d known.

He’d known something was wrong. That night, after Hybern’s attack, he had been so consumed with worry it had almost eaten him alive. He had felt it, as certain as anything.

If only he’d sent a shadow to the Archeron estate that night too. If only he’d known Nesta wasn’t with her husband at all, but with her sister. If only he’d insisted Azriel somehow find the strength to command two shadows across the wall, or better yet, if he himself had flown there despite his exhaustion…

If only, if only, if only.

His eyes closed.

“So when Az sent that shadow…” he began, hoarse. “Nesta wasn’t even at home that night. She was with Elain the whole time.”

His heart felt as brittle as cracked glass, his eyes stinging. Somewhere inside him was a pendulum, one that swung wildly between spikes of terrifying fury, and deep valleys carved of guilt and grief.

He could have saved her.

Could have stopped her being taken in the night, bound and gagged and thrown into that Cauldron. All of it could have been avoided had he only been looking in the right place that night, when the bond in his chest had been so damned insistent that something was wrong.

He should’ve listened. Should have paid more attention.

How many lives would have been saved? How many grieving mothers would have been spared a loss? Most importantly to Cassian, how much pain could he have kept Nesta from? How much agony might have been avoided?

When he slid his eyes open again, he saw Rhys nod.

“That’s all I’ve been able to gather. Nesta hasn’t exactly been… forthcoming with the details.”

Cassian blinked slowly, eyes darkening. “Can you blame her?”

Rhys sighed, taking a step closer. Slowly, carefully, he added, “There’s something… up with her, Cass.”

“Up with her,” Cassian echoed, in a voice as that was cold and flat, as desolate as a Winter Court snow plain. He could have sworn his brother cringed.

“I can sense something,” Rhys continued. “I don’t know what, exactly. She won’t tell me what happened inside the Cauldron—“

“Rhys,” he warned, “back off, would you?”

The dream lurched once more in his memory— the cold, the aching in his bones. That distant feeling of ice searing him right through, stealing his breath with its ferocity. It lingered, even now, like it had been fucking real. Cassian suppressed a shudder.

“It’s her eyes, Cass. There’s something there, some kind of power she won’t speak of—“

“Rhys.”

Cassian fixed his brother with the kind of glare reserved usually for soldiers out of line— the kind that made his entire face harden. He didn’t give a single shit about what Nesta may or may not have emerged from that Cauldron with. It wouldn’t be enough to change anything— to stop him loving her with everything he had left.

“Let her work it out in her own time,” he added gruffly, his tone one that threatened retribution if not flat-out violence.

“We might not have time,” Rhys countered dryly.

Cassian snarled. “I said back off.”

For a second Rhys looked prepared to argue his point, a scowl twisting the corners of his mouth, but Cassian snarled again softly, little more than a growl of patience lost, and Rhys’ scowl vanished. He exhaled heavily and raised a hand in surrender, giving his brother a small nod.

“Alright,” he said tightly. “Alright.”

Cassian nodded once too, brisk, and settled back against the pillows, careful not to disturb the mass of bandages and scar tissue that was his wings.

There was a beat— where Cassian felt the ache deep in his bones collide with the weariness that gnawed, ravenous, at his edges. He sighed, and let himself relent. For now— just for now.

“And Az?” he asked after a moment, forcing himself away from the memory of Azriel’s blood slicking his hands in that throne room.

“The healers are still keeping him under. The poison… it had almost reached his heart.” Rhys shuddered. “It’s the same poison that tipped the arrows I was hit with, only in a far more concentrated dose. If Feyre were here, she could probably heal him just as quickly as she healed me, but…”

The High Lord stumbled over his mate’s name, like it pained him to speak of her. He trailed off, eyes darting back to the window he’d been staring out of before Cassian had opened his eyes, like he was trying to follow the bond and see all the way to the south, to wherever Feyre was now.

“She’s in Spring,” Cassian breathed, not quite a question.

In the dimness of his memory he recalled the way Feyre had drifted back to Tamlin’s side in that throne room, the way Rhys had fallen to his knees. Cassian didn’t remember much— couldn’t remember words or put it all together in any kind of narrative that made sense, and he’d been dragged into unconsciousness soon after his brother had screamed in pain. But he remembered the way Tamlin reached for Feyre, a wary kind of relief igniting in his green eyes and mingling with the reflected candlelight until they were an evergreen forest consumed by flame.

The lines on Tamlin’s face had smoothed as he placed a hand on Feyre’s wrist. No matter that Cassian’s vision had been growing dark, or that Azriel’s life hung by a thread. No matter that Elain trembled in a puddle of Cauldron-spilled water, or that Nesta scrambled towards her sister even as her eyes remained fixed on Cassian.

None of that had mattered to the High Lord of Spring.

A sharp, terse nod was Rhys’ only response.

“There’s something else you should know too,” Rhys said, his voice made heavy by the bitterest sort of irony. He turned back to the bed and looked Cassian in the eye, lifting his chin with all the bearing of a High Lord. “Before we went to Hybern, I made Feyre High Lady.”

For a moment, Cassian forgot the pain in his wings.

He thought he must have misheard, must have been hallucinating from all the tonics the healers had been giving him—

“Mor and Amren were told as soon as we got back,” Rhys said, “but with you and Az unconscious…”

“You fucking what?” Cassian spat, scrambling on his hands to raise himself from the bed. His wings protested again as his muscles shifted, stitches close to tearing, and once more Rhys stepped forward with ease and halted him with a palm flat against his shoulder.

“Don’t start. I’ve already had all this from Mor and Amren.”

Cassian hissed. “And if you think you’re not going to get it from me too then you’re sorely mistaken. You didn’t think we deserved to know that we weren’t just taking the Lady of the Night Court into Hybern, but the High Lady? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

A dark laugh bubbled in his chest, one that ached in his throat. Suddenly all those feelings he thought’d he’d buried, the ones left over from when Rhys went Under the Mountain… they came screaming back, every ounce of inadequacy and failure returning in a wave as he realised that once again he’d been left out of Rhys’ scheming. That the High Lord had left his General in the dark.

He knew how it looked— how it seemed. Every sensible part of him clung desperately to the knowledge that Rhys trusted him implicitly, that theirs was a bond forged of blood and sweat and tears that could not be broken idly…

And yet.

“You didn’t think we needed to know?” Cassian asked again, blunt as an axe. “That we deserved to know?”

Rhys took a breath. “It’s not about that. It was never about that.”

“We were unprepared,” Cassian snapped. “We never would have—”

Rhys drew back, as surely as if Cassian had slapped him.

Everything in the High Lord appeared to crumble. His eyes, dark before, seemed abyssal now. The tension in his shoulders evaporated, the harsh lines at his mouth and his brow vanishing as the fight seemed to leave him entirely. He looked up to the ceiling, the shadows beneath his eyes seeming darker and more prominent than before. A pang of remorse echoed through Cassian’s chest as his words died in his throat and Rhys lifted a hand, not in surrender this time, but something like supplication.

“Enough. It’s done, Cass,” he said, his tone just a touch too resigned to be considered sharp. He sighed again, maudlin. “It’s done.”

Cassian took a breath, willing the waves of his anger to subside. That twinge of remorse in his chest surged as he looked to the windows, where Rhys had been gazing so forlornly. Gods, had he been any better when it was Nesta so far away? How many times had he stared out at that same horizon, wishing miles were inches?

Nesta.

Just the thought of her had everything else fading.

“Tell me something else,” Cassian said, breaking the heavy silence, remembering what was important. “Tell me about Nesta. How was she— when she woke?”

The question lingered, and Rhys… hesitated.

The sure and certain High Lord, who had an answer for everything, hesitated. The silence that followed spoke louder than anything Rhys might have said, and as Cassian’s eyes narrowed, he gave his brother a look of warning that said he’d better come up with an answer, and a good one, fast.

“Rhys,” he said slowly, his voice sharpening. “You were there. Right? Tell me you didn’t let her wake up alone.”

Silence.

The ruby siphon on his hand began to pulse in time with his raging, racing heart, flaring as his temper spiked. His hand curled into a fist so tight his fingertips began to feel numb, and behind his ribs the bond strained so tightly it stole his breath, like a blade had pierced his lungs.

Rhys only scowled, plucking at a piece of fucking lint.

“We’ve been preparing for war,” he said flatly, lifting his chin. “And in case it escaped your notice, I’ve been down a commander and a spymaster. Mor and Amren and I have just about managed to hold this court together, so forgive me for not sitting idle by your sweetheart’s bedside while the world around us goes to shit.”

Cassian growled, a rumble in his chest so deep his entire body seemed to thrum.

“My sweetheart,” he echoed with a low, dangerous laugh. “You’re a fucking cunt sometimes, Rhys, you know that?” His brother was quiet, and Cassian felt the reins of his temper slip through his fingers as he uncurled his hands, leaning forwards as if he was only a breath away from rising from that bed and closing those hands around his brother’s fucking throat. “Never mind that you’ve clearly been sitting idle by my bedside. Never mind that she’s your mate’s sister.”

His lips curled back over his teeth, something feral and unrestrained howling inside, hammering against his chest, begging to be set loose. His siphons flickered.

“She’s so much more than my fucking sweetheart and you damn well know it,” he seethed. “Give her the respect she deserves.”

The voice that left him sounded foreign even to his own ears. It was sharp and bladed and angry— he hadn’t felt like this since that day in that village in the mountains, when he’d slaughtered so many of the men who had sneered when he’d asked where his mother was. Rhys didn’t balk in the face of that anger; his brother stood stoic and firm, letting Cassian’s rage wash over him in a wave.

Cassian took a breath, clenching his fists as he tried to find the moment where everything had gone wrong these past few weeks. It seemed like only yesterday Nesta was in his arms by the water, watching the stars fall from the sky. Only yesterday that Rhys had told him to go and get her, to bring her to Velaris for the night.

And now— somehow they had ended up here. With Rhys separated from his mate as the entire continent faced Hybern’s threat, and Nesta no doubt in more pain than she’d ever been before, no matter how fine Rhys thought she was.

He loosed a single breath, forced the thrumming in his veins to steady.

“I get it,” Cassian bit out as the waves of anger receded just enough to let him breathe again. “Feyre’s not here and you’re losing your mind. But that doesn’t mean you can be a prick to the ones of us left behind with you.” His jaw grew tight, his voice dipping low. “After all, maybe now you’ll understand how we felt all those years you were Under the Mountain.”

Rhys snapped his gaze back to Cassian’s, starless violet meeting furious hazel. His lips parted, as if ready to argue, but something Cassian had said must have resonated because he quickly looked away, back to the windows. Regret flickered in those dark eyes as he ran a fist through his hair, turning his face away.

“You’re right,” Rhys said quietly, like it pained him to admit it. A heavy sigh rattled through his chest. “I’m sorry, Cass.”

Cassian sighed too, the atmosphere shifting as he sat back. Their heated words died in the silence, anger melting and giving way to something else, the kind of acceptance and acquiescence only found in the wake of a blistering argument between those who loved one another as family.

“As soon as I can get out of this bed,” Cassian said darkly, “I’m going to hit you so fucking hard you’ll see stars for a week.”

A tentative smirk pulled at Rhys’ lips.

“Fair,” he answered with a shrug.

And with that, all of the resentment was gone— just like that. Cassian let himself fall back agains the pillows, the burning in his wings easing as they lay flat once more. Looking up at the ceiling, he felt his heart pound as his mind wandered, a different kind of guilt pulling at him, fraying his edges until he was half afraid there would be nothing of himself left by the time it was done.

I’ll find a way to keep you safe. I swear it.

Who could have guessed it would turn out to be such pointless vow, a hollow promise?

“I made her a promise,” Cassian said quietly now, his voice too close to breaking. He spoke more to himself than to Rhys, but still his brother was there to listen. “I swore to protect her and I didn’t.”

“How could you have stopped it?” Rhys asked mildly. “You were in no position to—“

“I could have done something,” Cassian interjected hotly. “I should have done something.”

Gods— the guilt would eat him alive. Would destroy him, and he couldn’t quite tell whether he wanted to run to her or hide from her forever. His entire soul, every tiny facet of his being, longed to find her— but could he bear the betrayal in her eyes, knowing he was the reason she’d been dragged into that throne room? Knowing his failings had cost her her life?

And after all hadn’t he thought, once, that he’d give anything for Nesta to be fae?

Like a fucking fool, he’d once dreamed of her living above the wall, living forever… and for his stunning hubris, his stupid fucking arrogance, the Mother had granted his wish.

He turned his head, eyes catching on the sheets beside him that still carried that lingering trace of her. She’d been sitting there— right beside him. Maybe that meant she didn’t hate him after all.

But maybe she should.

Maybe someone ought to.

He closed his eyes, feeling wave after wave of anguish swallow him whole.

“She still doesn’t know, does she?” Rhys asked gently. “About the bond?”

Cassian shook his head, hardly able to speak. He felt sick.

Rhys let out a dry laugh. “The way you snarled in that throne room… how could she not have realised?”

Cassian didn’t want to think of it, didn’t want to be taken back to that expansive stone room, thick with the scent of spilled blood. But he couldn’t help but recall Lucien and the three little words that had burst from his mouth, like he hadn’t physically been capable of keeping them inside.

You’re my mate.

Gods, the Autumn prince had made it look so fucking easy. Part of Cassian wondered now why he hadn’t just done the same weeks ago, torn off the bandage and made it quick.

Fuck.

Given how badly Nesta had reacted to Lucien’s little outburst… well, Cassian could hardly tell her now, could he? She’d made it clear with the way she’d scrambled to Elain’s side, horror written all over her face, that the last thing in the world she needed - wanted - was a mate.

He’d thought he needed to give her time. To let her adjust to the idea of a mating bond before he sprung one on her, but now…

“Gods,” Cassian groaned, “it’s all so fucked, Rhys.”

Rhys snorted his agreement. “Yeah,” he said dryly, glancing down at his hands. “Yeah, it is.”

The High Lord glanced at the sky again, the sun high in the centre. He looked back to the bed, eyes softening.

“I told Amren I’d meet with her after noon,” he said, brushing a hand down his black shirt. “I should go. There’s still work to be done, and someone needs to keep an eye on those queens. Especially in the wake of….” He waved a hand, gesturing broadly at the chaos that surrounded them. “…All this.”

Cassian started. “You can’t mean to go yourself.”

“Someone needs to, and Az is hardly up to it.”

“You’re a fool, Rhys.”

“I am capable of looking after myself, you know.”

Cassian was about to argue, but as the sun slanted across Rhys’ midnight hair, he looked at his brother— really looked, for the first time since he’d woken. Stress was carved so deeply in his face that every plane of it seemed strained, and his eyes were flat and empty, like the stars there had simply given up hope of shining. He looked like every single drop of anguish Cassian felt had scarred him too, and Cassian’s own eyes softened as he shook his head.

“I’m not going to be the one to tell Feyre when you get yourself hurt,” he said archly.

Rhys laughed, bitter. “Let’s worry about that when she’s home, shall we?”

Cassian rolled his eyes, absently lifting a hand to his chest. It was something subconscious, something innate, that had his fingers splaying across his ribs, right above where he felt that bond tying him so resolutely to Nesta. It was brighter now, more alive, like her being turned fae had amplified it. Rhys tracked the movement and blinked, nodding in understanding. His own fingers twitched, like he’d reach for Feyre if only he could.

“I’ll come back later,” he said gently, nodding to the bedside table where several small glass vials were laid out. “If the pain gets too much, take three drops from the green bottle. Six drops for sleep.”

Cassian nodded, even though he had no intention of sleeping any time soon. He’d spent three days sleeping— it was more than enough. There were more important things now than sleep, more pressing things than pain.

Rhys glanced pointedly at the bottles once more before raising an eyebrow and fixing Cassian with a knowing stare.

“You really should stay in bed for a little longer,” he said, stepping forward to clap him lightly on the shoulder. His voice was weary, but the resignation in his tone said he knew that, short of tying Cassian to the bed, there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop him.

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “And you really should have told us before making Feyre High Lady.”

Rhys rolled his eyes, drawing back. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. After a minute he loosed a long breath, shaking his head in surrender. “Swear to me you’ll be careful.”

“I’m not the one going to spy on the same queens that sold us down the river to Hybern,” Cassian pointed out flatly, a scowl settling above his brows. Rhys grimaced.

“No, but I’m not the one who almost died from blood loss.”

Cassian waved a hand, like it was nothing. Like he didn’t still remember the way his fingers had slipped in pools of his own blood, staining his skin crimson.

“I promise I’ll be careful if you will,” he offered instead, and this time Rhys rolled his eyes, resting his hand on Cassian’s shoulder once more.

“I promise,” the High Lord said, dipping his head. And then he drew back, his steps almost silent as he pulled away. He looked to the door, straightening his spine and plucking at his sleeves before adding a soft, “I’ll see you later, brother.”

It was the only farewell he offered, and even though Cassian muttered a quiet see you later in return, Rhys didn’t say anything more before sweeping from that bedroom, leaving only silence in his wake.

Cassian waited for one breath— then two, three. Just enough to ensure Rhys wasn’t about to come storming back.

And then, arduously, he began to rise.

Every nerve he possessed protested as he forced himself upright. His bones barked beneath the pressure, the bottoms of both wings burning beneath the bandages, like someone had just taken a match to them. He felt every single one of the small, intricate muscles straining as he straightened his spine, pulling so painfully that darkness gathered once more at the corners of his eyes.

But he refused to black out this time.

Cassian gritted his teeth, biting back the groan that rose to his lips.

He eyed the bottles on the side, wondering if he ought to take those three drops after all.

But he pushed— pushed and pushed and pushed, his body screaming.

With effort, he managed to swing his legs off the bed. Somehow, he made it to the door, pulled it open.

In his mind was a singular focus, a sole purpose that kept him going as he staggered down the hallway, each step a labour. He dragged one hand along the wall as he went, using it as a support. And then he was at the stairs, swallowing as pain bloomed in every part of him, as he looked at the downward spiral of steps and knew that the effort might just make him faint.

But for Nesta, Cassian knew he needed to make it down those stairs— come hell or high water.

He was sweating by the time he made it to the landing a floor below. The guest corridor stretched out before him, seemingly endless, and his heart thundered as he made his way down its length. He had guessed this was where Rhys would have housed the sisters, and even though he’d never gotten confirmation, the bond in his chest was thrumming with his every step, like it was leading him right to her. Cassian didn’t know what room Nesta was in, but that thrumming grew louder and louder until he found himself standing in front of a closed door.

Instinctively, he knew this was it.

Already he could hear her heart.

If he wasn’t already so desperate, Cassian thought he might really have collapsed then. If his body could have handled it, he thought he might have sank to his knees.

His mind went blank; his heart pounding against his ribs.

And Cassian didn’t think— didn’t knock.

Like a man starved, he pushed open that door and all but stumbled over the threshold. Instantly he was met with her scent, and with a gasp his mate turned her head, silver eyes glinting across the distance between them that suddenly seemed vast enough to wound.

But as Cassian looked upon Nesta for the first time in days…

Every single thought eddied from his head.

Every single word he knew was forgotten save one.

Nesta.

Her name. Just her name— the only thing in the world that still held meaning.

It bubbled to his lips, his strength failing him as he grasped at the doorframe and felt his knees go weak. He couldn’t pretend arrogance, couldn’t find it in him to flirt. As she lingered, still, on the other side of the room, Cassian felt himself growing brittle as, at last, he found it in him to rasp a single, aching,

“Nesta.”

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time

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m4g0rtz · 5 months ago

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Today's polish was simultaneously kinda almost neutral and super colorful which is a combination I always love. I got this polish from @lesmotsdemoi (Thank you so much! 😘💖) and the second I put it on I knew I'd love it. If you look at the first picture you can see that at just the right angle you get a desaturated rainbow on your nails. I don't know what magical properties that shimmer has, but I can't wait to wear it again. This is Mystic Moon from Tonic Polish.

#nail polish 531 #manicure #tonic polish #mystic moon #purple #shimmer #❤️😍❤️😍❤️

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creations-by-chaosfay · 1 month ago

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Dragon Age Fans!!!

Read below the poll for details regarding this.

PLEASE REBLOG!

Especially if you choose the first option. It makes no sense to choose it if you don't reblog. Where are you gonna tell me what character you want most if you don't reblog and include that info in the tags?

Now, for details...

I create character interpretations in my work, and I'm a hard-core Dragon Age fan. The game saved my life when my mental health got really dark.

Because of a bad fall, and stuff related to it, I'm unable to draw anymore. Now I make quilts. The interpretations are colors, prints, and symbols. At least, until I learn applique.

Here are examples of interpretations. Several were commissioned pieces, and the clients are very happy about the results.

The first is Odin/The Hanged Man. This was a commissioned piece, and one of few where I applied embroidery.

This one is an altar piece representing Brigid, a goddess.

This is a personal piece, a table runner serving as an altar mat for Halloween and the goddess call Hel or Hela. The light print has metallic gold skulls all over it.

This is a tarot interpretation of the tarot card called The Sun, and was part of a trade. Like the Odin piece, it has semiprecious gems and stones handsewn onto it.

This is a transgender tarot mat, also a commission.

This is an interpretation of my grandpa, made shortly after he passed away. My grandmother wouldn't accept it because it was too accurate and made her cry too much. Instead, I made it a prize for a giveaway.

This is a memorial piece, also a commission. I have semiprecious stones and gems handsewn to it as well.

This is Lady of Guadalupe, an interpretation. I can't remember if it was a commissioned piece or trade.

This last one represents the synesthesia I experience after tonic-clonic seizures. My synesthesia is normally my brain interpreting sound as texture, but it switches to seeing sounds. This is a song, but I can no longer recall the song

This should give you an idea of what I can do. Interpretation is a challenge I love to no end. As of making this, I've made a wallhanging representing Lucanis Dellamorte (the direct translation is Wolf of Death btw). I has a purple crow made with sparkly cotton, on a field of black shiny like polished leather, framed with a purple soft floral border. He's a Crow, a romantic according to devs, and his colors are purple and black. This will be listed in my shop, and soon I'll be working on another with reversed colors.

Emmerich is my next target, and it'll be skulls, blue, green, and possibly brown or off-white. Neve will likely have serpents, Taash will have wealth and/or dragons, Lace will have a bow and flowers, and I need to figure out the rest.

Feel free to include suggestions!l in the tags for the character you're most interested in!!!

Prices will vary by a lot. Size, design, materials, time, all of these will contribute to the final price. The work is worth the money though, that I can guarantee. There's a reason I gave repeat buyers and clients.

#dragon age the veilguard #dragon age 4 #da4 #datv #dragon age #dragon age fanart #poll

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shady-tavern · 8 months ago

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Preview for "The Magic of Consequences" the April Patreon Short Story

(warnings ahead for temporary, implied child death and implied abuse. Please take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

See, the thing about being a witch was that people had misconceptions about your profession. They thought you were busy cooking soup made of eyes and frog feet, or bottling the souls of whoever pissed you off to sell them to monsters and demons.

And sure, sometimes you handled disgusting ingredients – some made you whisper 'ew ew ew ew' under your breath the entire time. And sure, sometimes you made deals with unsavory, strange creatures. And, yeah, alright sometimes you did bottle souls, but you had never cut off a poor frog's feet. Or plucked out someone's eyes.

The sad part was, despite your best attempts to polish your reputation, people rarely sought you out for good reasons. You had made so many health tonics at the beginning of your career, excited to go around and make things a little better, only to be semi-gently reminded by reality that you should have gone and become a herbalist instead.

But herbalists had little to no magic and wasting your talent for the arcane had seemed stupid at the time. You hadn't had the money for the mage schools growing up and when a hedge witch had found you spelling apples to turn your bully's hair a bright, ugly color, you had found yourself with an impromptu teacher instead.

By now you were used to being sought out for less than savory deals, people appearing in your shop with hooded cloaks and shifty eyes and overly-obvious glances around for any witnesses. The utterly unimpressed face you greeted them with tended to make them even more shifty.

More often than not you managed to talk them down from their really, really dumb ideas – like desiring to love-potion-trap a prince in marriage or robbing a barony – but the rest of the time people were too intent on their dumb decisions.

Everything had consequences. You had written that in big, big bold letters on everything you sold. You pointed it out verbally as well every time someone bought an ill-advised potion or spell from you.

"Why did I become I witch," you groused to yourself as you bottled a potion that made flowers smell like rotting corpses and beer-farts, because some asshole two towns over knew he wouldn't win the flower presentation competition next week with honest, hard work. What a loser.

"Oh, I'll help people, I said," you grumbled, stuffing a cork into the bottle and almost making it spill in the process. "Oh, I'll make people happy, I said."

You set the bottle aside and started to clean the cauldron when you heard the bell of the front door jingle. "I'll be with you in a moment!"

After cleaning up and making a face at something squishy that squelched beneath your foot – some things liked to bubble over and this potion had just been an all-around headache – you walked to the front of your shop.

A very young woman, clearly a noble considering the stupidly fancy clothes and jewelry, was waiting for you, peering at some of the bottles for sale.

See, nobles were trouble. Nothing but trouble. If the farmer wanted to take revenge on his cheating wife, fine. If a bandit wanted to conjure a storm for his robbery, whatever. If a miner wanted to steal jewels from his employer unnoticed, it was none of your business.

You could deny those people whatever you wanted or grant them whatever you wanted. At the end of the day, they were just normal people who were more or less stab-happy.

But nobles? Ugh.

They had mages in their employ to deal with many problems, Astrologers who could tell their fortunes, treasurers who ensured they could afford nearly anything they wanted and there were other nobles they were allied with. In short, they had power and if they showed up at your doorstep it meant they wanted things that their already impressive collection of options couldn't grant them.

Which was curses.

"I hear you're quite the competent witch," the young noble said and you eyed her warily. She looked like she was barely eighteen, it wouldn't surprise you if her wedding was in, like, a month or something.

Nobles always got married to someone, last you heard, which made many lads and lasses, no matter their station, sigh and day-dream about one day being chosen as a spouse, no matter how impossible that dream was in some cases.

What, did she want to ensure her future spouse wouldn't cheat? Or had she been spurned and turned away in favor of someone else and now she wanted to get rid of the competition before she had to officially cancel the wedding? It happened sometimes and people really loved to gossip when nobles chose a different partner than their intended.

"I guess," you said, barely keeping a sour tone in check. This young woman probably wanted nothing good from you. Great.

You really should stop stocking healing tonics. For some reason, people always thought they would turn them ugly or give them illnesses or crooked dicks.

The young woman frowned. "You don't sound very sure about that." She then pressed her lips together. "But no matter, you are my last resort."

She turned to face you fully, her fancy dress sweeping dramatically with the movement and she raised her chin, proud and confident and it could almost hide the anxious shine in her eyes. "I need a curse."

Outwardly you nodded sagely. Inwardly you sighed so dramatically and theatrically that you had to bite down on the urge to whine like a spoiled child. You didn't want to do curses. Curses fucking sucked. But who were you to deny a customer? Especially one with both the money and the ability to make your life either better or a living hell.

Because, surprise surprise, plenty of the ingredients you needed for potions or spells did not come cheap. No one had ever bothered to tell you that being a witch in general was not cheap in the slightest. All the stories about witches in walking huts or in cottages in the woods had really set you up for disappointment.

"What kind of curse?" you asked and then pointed at the sign hung right behind and above you. 'Everything has Consequences' was written in big, big letters by a really fancy hand.

You had even paid a fairy to make it glitter a bit. People liked glittery stuff, right? So far the glitter certainly had made sure everyone read the signs, but that was it. At least, the ones that could read did.

The young woman read it quickly too, then focused on you with more determination. "I need a curse that turns a princess into a monster."

Oh. Uh. That was...well, you could do it, but... "That's a very hefty curse, with equally hefty consequences," you said cautiously. "Maybe there are other ways to get you what you want? Maybe a temporary transformation spell? Perhaps something to pretty you up to catch a prince's eye, not that you need it, of course."

You were not in the business of selling love potions, because ew. Same with those annoying sleeping-beauty potions that required the asleep one to be kissed awake. Look, you were an asshole and you had cursed a couple of people already, but you did draw the line at all that non-consensual love stuff.

Even witches needed to draw lines somewhere.

"No, I need a curse," the young woman said, with a voice firm enough to give mithril a run for its money.

You considered saying no, before you remembered all the reasons why you shouldn't. If you refused her you'd probably have to escape her wrath, uproot your life and settle down elsewhere.

You were lazy, though, and you didn't want to do that unless it became necessary. Besides, every curse could be broken and you'd just give this curse a really easy way to get out of it. You did that for every curse you sold, because you weren't asshole enough to leave people stuck in some horrible reality for years on end.

"Do you want the monster to be sentient or not?" you asked. In case she didn't, you'd make sure the curse could be broken by, like, drinking water or something.

The young woman blinked, then seemed to perk up, looking suddenly eager. "I can decide what the monster is?"

"If you're willing to pay more," you said with a shrug. You were a good witch and curses, for as little as you liked to cast them most of the time, had always been your best subject.

You threw your health tonics a forlorn look, noting the faint dust that had started to gather on the shelves around them and a bit on the bottles themselves.

"I'll pay you anything you want," the noble lady said, her eyes suddenly filled with a hopeful gleam and a smile appeared on her face for the first time. It made her look even younger and you realized just how grim she had been previously. Huh.

You leaned against the counter to be more comfortable and reached for a piece of paper and a quill to write down what she wanted. The young woman was downright grinning by the time she had the curse tailored to her every whim.

"Wait here," you said, studying the list of demands as you ducked into the backroom. Thankfully, you had bought a couple of rare ingredients just a couple of days ago, so you managed to cobble together what you needed for the spell.

Fairy wings – not plucked, because again, you weren't that kind of asshole and a number of fairies had to molt their wings a number of times as they grew and some even every spring - wolf teeth and a griffin feather.

You carried everything out, the young woman watching curiously as you ground the teeth and wings to fine dust which you then rubbed thoroughly onto the feather. All that was left was the transformation spell that would complete the curse.

Dark magic flowed through you easily enough, the wood around you graying and the very air itself growing cold and hungry, like a drooling beast was gnashing its teeth, bright eyes focused on the tooth-and-fairy-wing-dusted feather.

Once the spell was completed, your surroundings returning to normal, you put the feather into a silk bag and handed it over.

"Put it under the pillow of the one you want to curse, they must sleep on it for six hours straight," you told the young woman. "And remember, consequences."

The young woman clearly wasn't listening anymore, accepting the bag while she absentmindedly set down a pouch of coin. You started to count out the gold you'd need, since she had brought more than enough, when you heard the bell and the door closing.

Looking up, the young woman was gone.

Huh. Well, you weren't going to say no to all that extra money. You scooped everything up and dropped it off in a spelled chest to protect your most precious possessions from sticky fingers. That taken care of, you returned to cleaning up the backroom, especially the squishy smear on the ground.

A couple of days later you heard of the terrible curse that had befallen the kingdom's princess and how the wedding between her and some kind of far-away prince was off the table for the time being.

The thing with your curses was, the cursed one instinctively knew the cure the moment they got cursed. You ensured that, to give them the chance to go and fix the problem themselves. None of that 'someone must fall in love with you' nonsense. This particular curse could be fixed by seeking the nearest doorway, doing a little chicken-dance and clapping trice afterwards and et voilá, the curse was gone.

Easy-peasy. The princess should be back to her old self in no time.

You quickly got distracted by some asshole teenagers that wanted to buy itching-powder to prank someone and just as they left with a vial of the stuff in tow, a little boy hurried inside with tears on his face. He put down three copper, looking very, very scared and asked in a wavering voice if you could fix his dog, holding up a tiny and very weak puppy.

It was the first time someone had asked you for that kind of help. To heal. You grabbed harpy feather and reached out to rest your fingertips on the tiny puppy's tiny, feverishly hot head and the light magic spell you used felt like a warm embrace. As though someone powerful was wrapping their arms around you and the boy and the puppy with endless kindness and soft reassurance.

It was the most beautiful spell you had ever gotten to perform and the moment you were done, the feather turned to dust in your fingers, the puppy opened its eyes. It wagged its tiny little tail like mad and when the boy broke out into tears, it licked the tears away.

"Thank you," he sobbed and you gave the boy's head a few pats, resisting the urge to tear up yourself.

"Of course," you said, pretending like you weren't touched and glad and emotional. There was just so much dust in this stupid shop. That was all.

You gave him back the copper, telling him that he got the spell for free if he promised to take great care of the dog and to bring it to you if something bad happened to it again.

The little boy grinned, so relieved and happy you swore he was the reason sun shone through the window in that moment, before leaving with his puppy who looked perky and awake again.

You puttered around, restocking some things and you set the health tonics up by the counter, hoping that maybe now someone would buy them.

When, a couple of days later, a merchant asked for a spell that turned all his copper to gold, you heavily considered getting 'consequences' embroidered on your clothes as well. But he really wanted the spell so you gave it to him and of course he didn't want to buy a health tonic.

You were sulking on your counter when the door opened and a very fancy young man entered. You resisted the urge to groan like a blacksmith's bellows. A noble, again. Nothing but trouble.

"Good witch," he said with a small bow, the fancy feathers on his fancy hat bouncing perkily. "May I trouble you for a curse?"

You waved grandly at the sign behind you. "You may. Please read the fine print." The very big, very bold fine print.

He did, nodding solemnly. "I hear you offer curses that turn people into monsters?"

He must be a friend of that young lady. Lovely. Now that you thought about it, you hadn't heard anything else about the princess. Was her wedding off the table for good? Surely not, she had to have broken her curse by now.

Or had that noble lady pounced on the far-away prince instead and there would be a wedding announcement once a proper amount of time had passed to avoid rumors from spreading? Maybe the princess would go and marry another prince. Well, it was none of your business.

*.*.*

Would you like to read more? Would you like to check out other, already published short stories of mine? Would you like to support an artist so more stories can be written and published more often? Feel free to head over to my patreon and check it out!

If you'd like to read more of my other stories available here on Tumblr, give my Masterpost a shake! Every story is written with passion and love and I hope you have great time reading!

And lastly, thank you all so much for your support! Be it a patreon membership, leaving a like or reblogging with or without tags (and yes, I do read them all) or sending me messages, it all makes me so happy. It encourages me to keep going and it makes creating and sharing those creations with you all an absolute joy.

Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. I hope you have a wonderful day, lots of love to you all!

#my writing #preview #witches #found family #no romance #magic #fantasy #short story #I hope you'll like it!#i had a lot of fun writing this one

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silverinkbottle · 10 months ago

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Chapter 2:Titles and Tribulations

Summary: Sometimes moments are only fleeting. But the memories of them last forever.

A/N: Thanks for all the love on the last chapter! This one is a bit longer so please enjoy!

Chapter 1 Linked Below

Chapter 1: Oh, You

-> Chapter 3: Shopping Around

Titles and Tribulations

Well, the hotel seemed to be structurally sound as you peered up at the gleaming windows. A far cry from the pile of rubble that once cluttered the ground. Sighing under your breath, you raised your fist to rap on the gleaming wooden surface of the double doors. Your stoic expression shifted into surprise as your knock met bare air instead of solid wood. Followed by a piercing squeal of excitement as you found yourself dragged into the inside by hand first, feebly looking behind at the paperboys who ‘shared’ a shrug before running after you.

“Welcome to the brand NEW, Hazbin Hotel. We are so HAPPY to have our first NEW guest after our sudden refurbishment. Now as you can see-”

It was all too easy to tune out the little Princess’s words while making the appropriate nods and hums as you followed her flourished gestures. Charlie Morningstar wasn’t what you expected, but at the same time it was. A strange dichotomy of impossible bubbliness against the rumored fierceness that lurked underneath her smile. Not like you could have gotten an interview with the poor bastards that had gone against her a week ago.

“Oh, here is the statue of the bestest boy ever Dazzle! He was-”

Extracting your hand from her grip was like trying to scrape off slimy seaweed in the shallows. Yet, somehow you managed as you forced a polite smile on your face that seemed to dim in the brilliance of Charlie’s smile.

“Lovely scenery, Miss Morningstar, but I am not-”

Another squeak of joy interrupted your speech as Charlies was peering around your skirts. To the huddled forms of the paperboys, their ears flat against their heads as if they could sense something about the Hellborne Princess.

“Aren’t they adorable, these your kids- Look at their little buttons and vests. Just so-. Are..you alright?”

Her first question sent you into a coughing fit as you hastily waved off her concerns. Eyes watering as you managed the word ‘No’. It was impossible to protest as you found yourself ushered towards the bar and its’ equally grouchy but polished looking bartender.

“What can I get you? Aside from Charlie off your back, can’t help you there..”

“Gin. Tonic. Don’t you touch that.” Your last words were sent as a low hiss catching sight of a floppy ear peering around the bar front. Its paws trembling in excitement as the glass gin decanter glimmered in the lighting.

“A little booze never hurt no one. Trust me, toots.” The other bar patron waggled his fingers at you. Angel Dust, wasn’t it? He was all but baiting the souls as he dangled a shot glass above their smaller forms. The spider demon let out a yelp as small black holes materialized on their masks, eagerly drinking down the meager offer of liquor.

“Watch your pockets.” You retorted as you took another deep drink of your glass. Fingers tapping on the marble countertop as a timer. A telltale yelp came from their victim followed by the pair scurrying off their prize secured in their paws.

“Little bastards pickpocketed me,both of em. I must be loos’en my touch to not feel that.” Angel whined as you laughed into your glass. It made a hollow sound all too soon as there was a clink of ice. He was quick to scurry after them feebly chasing after the thieves. It was like trying to grab a shadow as the paperboys materialized their own ‘holes’ to hop in and out of utilizing the inner spaces of Purgatory.

“I warned you. Can’t even give them pocket lint, any items bind them further to this reality. Makes them little kelptos. Can’t tell you how many pens I have lost from that unfortunate hab-”

“FUCK.” Angel let out a yelp as he pulled back one of his arms, now bearing a fresh bite mark as he daringly stuck in hand in one of the tiny portals. Curious. He was far too curious as you withdrew your little black book from your pocket to add to your notes. It seemed to be a running theme of eavesdroppers as you sighed before lowering the book to allow Charlie a better look at it. At least she was too polite to rip it from your grasp.

“Angel Dust. Porn Star. Mafia ties? Power-” Charlie flushed over the word before sheepishly passing the book back over.

“So, a little black book of secrets is it? Been a while since I have seen one of those.” Husker rasped before holding out his paw to flick through the book. His eyes widened as he too quickly passed over the book.

“Are you some kinda journalist?” Husk growled with an edge of suspicion as you gave a wry smile. Something like that he was close enough. While Charlie, an apparent optimist clapped her hands together before once again taking your hands in her clutches.

“Maybe you can do a piece of the hotel. For its grand reopening. Oh, oh, we can start with the introduction of the new parlor room. We even installed new stained glass windows that really make the ambiance pop. Oh, please say yes, it would be a perfect-”

“Perfect time for her to leave. You mean, right darling Charlie?” Alastor’s less than pleased tone boomed over the room as all eyes watched the Radio Demon descend the stairs. Microphone in hand. As if it hadn’t been broken into two pieces like a match last time you saw it. No, this was entirely Alastor’s bravado instead of the mess that you met before.

“Better make me another drink, it seems.” You muttered under your breath as the faintest hint of smirk slid over your lips as Alastor’s gaze flickered from Charlie’s tight grip on your right hand, while your left slid protectively over the little black book on the bar.

“Hold that thought, Husker.” Alastor snapped as the bartender’s scowl deepened before slamming the decanter of gin back on the bar.

“Husker do this, Husker don’t do that. I have about had it with-” Husker’s grumbles were ignored by Alastor as he seemed to have grown a faint sliver of patience. An impressive feat if it wasn’t causing your glass to remain empty. Even the ice cubes were melting as you rattled the cool glass.

“Why should she leave? She’s a new guest.” Charlie protested as you chuckled at the thought. You, a Sinner looking for a chance of redemption. Perhaps, you should have tried to write funnies after all. Or perhaps the Princess of Hell had a strange bizarre sense of humor.

“Apologies Princess, I am afraid you have gotten the wrong impression of me.” You explained gently pulling your hand from hers as you tried to find the right words about the entire affair. It wasn’t like you had planned to move into the hotel to stir up the pot. Far from it.

“FOR THE LAST TIME I AM NOT YOUR SECRETARY. YOU CAN’T EXPECT ME TO WRITE DOWN YOUR THOUGHTS FROM LAST WEEK AND REMIND YOU OF THEM. CHARLIE, I CAN’T- A shrill rant was punctured by the ruffle of wings as a gray streak quickly took refuge behind the princess. Wings? A quick flicker through your notes as you could feel Alastor’s gaze burning into your hands with each whisper of the paper.

“Please don’t worry, Vaggie. I have a solution to your concerns.” You muttered as you slipped the book back into your pocket.

“Charlie, sweetheart, please tell your girlfriend, a genius like me needs-”

“Every thought dictated back to him like a parrot. Yes, I know that sir. I am afraid I hear your voice in my dreams. Or should I call them nightmares. Who knows what sort of information you stuffed into that poor girl’s head.” You chirped lightly as you swept your way past Alastor. As if he was a mere tree amongst the woods. Dropping into the smallest of curtsy as Luicfer clapped in his hands together in an all too familiar gesture. Like father like daughter, you soon found yourself caught in his grip, a familiar hand around your waist as he ushered you back to the group.

A shell-shocked, wide eyed group as all you could manage was an almost shy wave as Lucifer began to sing your praises without a hint of awareness.

“Everyone, may I present the newest staff member of the hotel. Well, my personal staff member. My ever diligent, steadfast and almost too prompt Secretary. It’s been my request that she take up quarters here.”

“Well, it was said work is a new kind of Hell. At least it will be a stylish one.” You deadpanned weakly as a burst of laughter broke the tension in the air. Your tail flicked angrily as Alastor wiped a tear from his eye as he managed to speak through his laughter.

“You. A Secretary. For HIM. You must be-”

Anger seized your heart as your tail thrashed about, your ears flat as venom dripped in your next words.

“Fuck you. I wasn’t aware I needed my ex-husband’s permission to do my job. One that I am quite exceptional at.”

“HUSBAND?” A chorus of voices rang through the silent foyer as Husker let out a low whistle before thoughtfully pouring the gin into your abandoned glass. The alcohol’s blissful coolness did little to dampen your temper as another word left Alastor’s curled lips.

“Till death do us part. I would consider this a technicality.”

“Oh don’t start that-” Husker protested as you grabbed the almost empty decanter, hurling it at the infuriating radio demon. His words fatigued like this wasn’t the first spat between lovers he had witnessed behind the bar. The glass smashed against the far wall as Alastor easily stepped out of the weapon’s range. His smug expression didn’t last long as he stumbled out of the way a sudden switch blade aimed for his gut. A single furry arm reaching out furiously swinging as another portal aimed for his knees. Draining your glass with a single long drink, you were quick to join the fray. The weapon of choice is a feathered quill, its sharp dripping crimson as Alastor fell into step with your challenge. A macabre dance of sorts as Alastor dipped into a mocking bow, ears tucking back to narrowly miss shining glint of metal.

“Fuck you. You broke those vows a LONG time AGO.”You snarled as you could feel anger begin to court something you hadn’t felt in years. Sentiment. The cool burn of the fucking ring still on your finger, like a vice trapping the flesh of a forgotten life, but would ruin you to amputate. A string tying to a much happier time. At least one with glimpses of the emotion.

Alastor’s hand caught your wrist with ease as you snarled when he removed the silken glove from your left hand, revealing the accursed piece of brass. A cheap little thing, but it once meant the world to some stupid woman. Alastor’s eyes widened for the briefest second as if he hadn’t thought that his mocking words from earlier held any weight. Or was it because he hadn’t expected your free hand to strike him across the face.

“I didn’t ASK your PERMISSION. I DON’T FUCKING NEED IT. I NEVER DID.” Your voice was a low hiss now as your hand drifted to your throat. Black ink was slowly spreading across the crisp collar in a slow haze as splotches seeped through here and there on your dress. Ink oozed across the floor like a slow haze as Angel hastily scurried up onto the couch away from the ooze. The slippery forms of hands reached out from the ooze like a drowning man trying to breach the surface, their stained hands gripping your ankles. Alastor kicked at far more hostile hands, their passive grasp turning into sharp claws eager to sink into flesh.

“So. You made some new associates, kit. As did I”

“ALASTOR, ENOUGH.” Charlie’s voice broke through the haze of violence as you bit back your retort under Lucifer’s cool glare. The ink dissipated, but the trembling of your form didn’t. Control was something you always lacked when your temper sparked. It was your fatal flaw, it made you reckless. It scorched you from the inside out as your hands curled around yourself protectively, fighting the urge to gag as if each breath provoked another splattering of ink from the depths of your throat.

“Breathe.” Lucifer muttered as he offered you a spare handkerchief. It was almost a shame to see the dark liquid greedily seep into the silk cloth like a drunk to drink. Angel was quick to pull up alongside you with a waste basket as you retched further ink into the bin.

“Had enough experience with the gutter to know the “oh fuck I am gonna hurl face”. Angel teased as you glared up at him. Managing only the faintest laugh as Angel winked cheekily at you.

“Well, that wasn’t the worst introduction to the hotel.” Charlie chimed weakly trying to lighten the mood as she stood in front of Alastor. Protecting you from him? Or was it the other way around. Or perhaps it was to spare the risk of another massive clean-up as an excited giggle lit up the room. A maid skittered about the room mop in hand as she invasively wiped a wet cloth over your face before darting off to the next puddle.

“Thank you, Niffty. We would be lost without you.” Lucifer mused as the maid gave a quick salute to the compliment.

“I mean I did do the stabbing of the nasty big bug” Niffty said in a sing-song voice as you connected the words. This, this was the Sinner that managed to kill the first Man?

“Oh, now I can see why you were so out of sorts.” You sneered as there was that telltale twitch of Alastor’s left eye.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh never again darling.”

“Well, now that this little reunion is settled. I do hope your files are in order. We have A LOT to cover.” Lucifer announced with a dramatic sigh. It was all false theatrics, you knew likely better than anyone of the renewed passion that had been lit in the King of Hell. The management of the realm itself, to remind the Sinners that he was in charge for a reason. With or without the rumors surrounding his prestige.

“Of course. Sir.” You answered flatly as you snapped your fingers once more. It was like watching a small parade of rabbits as the tiny creatures streamed into the hotel door. Needing little direction as Lucifer’s words began flowing like a river. Your pen dancing over the pages in furious shorthand. Allowing yourself to fall into the intoxicating haze of work into the long hours of the night.

“Now I think it’s time to call it a night. It was quite an eventful day for you.”

The words skittered over the page without a thought as your tired eyes read over them. It wasn’t diction, no, it was the start of a conversation. Lucifer observing you through steepled fingers as you put the finishing punctuation with a loud clack of the keys. Taking extra time to carefully remove the delicate paper from the roller, you wistfully blew over the damp ink. Ignoring the click of Lucifer’s tongue as he knew your procrastination tactics. He couldn’t exactly scold you for being considerate now could he.

“It won’t be a problem. It’s in the-” You began as Lucifer waved you over to the seat in front of his desk. Now you were feeling like some school girl about to be lectured by the teacher as you slid into the seat with a guarded expression.

“I wouldn’t mind it being a problem. Smug prick could use another reminder of his standing. As powerful as he is, he is still a Sinner. Once human with an apparent speck of a heart that can be rattled it would seem. Especially if you know how to stab at the soft parts.” Lucifer mused with a raised brow.

“Are you asking me to kill Alastor, sir. I wouldn’t be against throttling him in his sleep tonight.” You deadpanned as your fingers twitched at the thought.

“No. No. A bit of emotional torment is just dessert for me. Besides, I think Charlie would be a bit put out if it came to that. She was already so disappointed with the misunderstanding about a new Guest. Much less I had to talk her down from giving you a rousing speech after your little spat with him.”

You cringed at the imaginary conversation. You could all but see the wide-eyed princess flailing over the dramatics of love and how it’s worth fighting for. Possibly with an extra flair of confetti and trying to ply into a bit of romantic history. An impossible conversational trap that would make flaying feel preferable.

“I appreciate that, sir.” You muttered gratefully as Lucifer chuckled at your pained expression. However, you couldn’t help but feel like this was another trap when the devil’s expression turned from thoughtful to serious.

“I need you here. Charlie needs him here for some inane reason. Don’t push him too far, but don’t let him take advantage of you either. That’s a direct order. Now, off you go, we have plenty of nights to burn the midnight oil on.” Lucifer tutted before turning his chair, his own version of dismissal as you quietly left the study.

Your steps were aimless but seemed impossibly loud in the massive corridors of the hotel. Pale blue lighting drifting through the glass windows. As if it was a true moon outside instead of an endless haze of neon in the Pentagram below. What would the fireflies look like here? Like some bastardized version of the one’s from Earth, perhaps emitting fire balls instead of a soft glow. Fireflies dancing over the low tides of some forgotten lake as the early morning fog rolled in soon to be burned away by the rising sun.

“Oh, I know that look. Means it's time for a drink.” A hoarse voice broke you from your thoughts as you sheepishly ducked your head at the knowing words. It was almost embarrassing for Sinners to be caught lost in their memories from before, much to remember them in such vivid details. For many, regardless of age, their memories would come for them in their dreams. Sinners were meant to be punished, dreams ripping apart by the seams into their worst nightmares. Or callous reminders of their sins amplified by tenfold to send them bolting upright in their beds.

“Afraid that won’t help me much tonight. Today was a bit..excessive” You admitted softly as Husk snorted at your shoddy attempt of downplaying the chaos of the day. The cat demon’s wings ruffled as the pregnant pause filled the space. You could only imagine the questions that were burning to be asked. Ones that you would loath to answer without a bit of sleep.

“So, how did-”

“How many broads do you take on midnight strolls, Whiskers. Hurting my feelings here. I am only a bit late..”

Your luck may have been changing as Angel’s arrival easily caught Husk’s attention. Or more so, Angel demanded it as he stood behind the shorter demon with a knowing look. A moonlight stroll? You quickly covered your faint laugh with your hand as Husk’s gaze narrowed displeased.

“A mere accident. Enjoy your night.” You mused as the pair exchanged a quick glance. It seemed they were just as eager to escape the conversation as you were. The faintest notes of jazz punctured the silence as Husk rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“Course, he is still in a prickly mood..” Husk growled

Alastor and jazz was like watching the aftermath of a storm. Sometimes it was gentle lull ushering away dark clouds and foul weather. Other times it was the preamble to things to come as the restless notes went on into the early hours of the morning.

“Ah, he’ll get over it if someone puts him-” Angel teased with a wink as you could feel your face begin to burn like a coal over the open fire.

“Have a good night.” Your words cut over the suggestive tone, perhaps too abruptly as the pair's laughter echoed after your footsteps. As if running away from the mere implication wouldn’t let your mind dance over the words. Your nails dug into the skin of your palms as you could almost taste the burn of rye. The ghostly touch on the back of your neck as you ran your hand over your face. As if that would wipe away the memories starting to prickle in the back of your mind.

“Fuck.” You hissed as you realized your distracted steps had led you even closer to the source of the sound. Like the luring lull of a siren as there was a quiet rumble of a trumpet that sent goosebumps over your skin. All that was missing was the sweet scent of tobacco and low rumble of conversation. You startled backward onto the floor as the door slammed open at the crescendo of the song.

“Well, this is a surprise, do come in.” Alastor muttered as you silently cursed any entity for putting you in this position. Your dress slid up to above your knees, revealing the torn and ripped stockings beneath it as you hastily smoothed it back down. Alastor’s head tilting as he follows your hands up to your murderous expression before smiling that smug infuriating smile.

“A leopard can’t change its spots. An intriguing idea isn’t it?” Alastor mused as he lazily waved to the free chair next to the fireplace. The nostalgic force barreled through your skull as your nails sank into the soft fabric of the arm rest. Everything about the room did. The pale tone of greens of the wallpaper, its edges fraying with its deceiving quality. The gentle crackle of the fire tinted by the low notes of jazz. Even the curious restless tap of Alastor’s fingers as he waited to hear your retort.

“It can if the spots are painted on by another..” You huffed as you forced yourself to not fidget under his keen gaze. Like he was wanting to peel you open like a bit of wrapping paper over a shoddy gift.

“But what sort of paints would the King of Hell use?”

“Ones that I bought. I refuse to compromise on that.”

“Well, even paint begins to fade. Funny how that happens.”

“Perhaps I should use ink instead. That continues to stain.”

The words were barbed and pointed as neither side was willing to back down. Did he really think you all but threw yourself at Lucifer’s feet without a second thought? Clinging to the nearest chance to pull yourself out from torment and torture. For the minute of peace in exchange for blistered fingers and reddened palms.

“I am surprised you can’t see the stain on your hands. Seems like it was all over earlier.” Alastor quipped as you looked down at your hands. Still covered by the linen gloves as if that could conceal the blood on them. The dark sticky residue that once shown crimson, now tainted every single stroke of your pen.

“There are far worse reminders of our mistakes.” You nudged one side of your face, forcing it into a half smile as Alastor blinked once, but said nothing. You weren’t that blind to the fact that he was holding his cards close to the chest. Not willing to let the smallest risk of letting himself slip like he did before in the ruins of the radio station.

“Now let’s not dwell on the past.” Alastor proposed as you snorted at the clear diversion. There was a quick rattle of tea cups and the gentle floral notes of chamomile tea waiting to be poured within a blink of the eye. The hot liquid tasted slightly metallic on your tongue as you queried a brow but said nothing. The faint chime of the cup hitting the saucer was all too loud in the room.

“You seem..better.” Hesitation in your voice as if cautiously approaching an injured animal. A single slow blink of Alastor’s eyes was a silent warning. Yet you couldn’t help but brooch the topic.

“I am right as rain, my dear. Why wouldn’t I be?” Alastor hummed as you clicked your tongue in disapproval. Lying, he was lying to you. As if you weren’t the one that stumbled upon his little fit days prior. The obvious injuries inflicted on him by otherworldly forces, the faint twitch in his left arm when your gaze settled on it.

Now it was like falling back into familiar motions as your feet moved on their own accord to kneel next down to his chair. Your fingers diligently undoing the cuffed sleeve with a single snap of a button. Sharp nails curled under your chin forcing your focus from the fabric to Alastor. Less than impressed as you could feel your heartbeat thud a little bit faster from the malevolence of his ridgid form.

“Don’t act like a child.” You snipped as Alastor’s glare could have burnt into your soul. Well, if it still existed as you defiantly rolled up the fabric with a small hiss under your breath. Tendon and viscera was feebly trying to keep itself together by Alastor’s will. If infection ever existed in Hell, it would have to look like this at least it didn’t smell like rot.

“Pleased with yourself?” Alastor snapped coldly before pulling his arm away with a defiant snap of the button cuff. It was a mere glance but he was acting like you had proposed the idea of amputating the limb entirely. Now it was becoming nostalgic as a slow smirk spread across your lips as you leaned down closer to him. Your hands splayed comfortably over the top of the chair. There was a twitch in Alastor’s smile as you could all but see the same memories begin to play out.

“Still stubborn?”

“Always.” Alastor teased as his fingers sprawled over the length of your throat. Feeling your pulse underneath it. He was cheating in this little game of wills as a low hiss curled in your throat as his smile widened daring you to make the next move.

Any and all tension fled the room like a dog with its tail between its legs as the room’s door slammed open. A wide eyed and jittery Lucifer all but barged in without a single hint of volume regulation. A weary looking paperboy skittered after him with a blocky paper in its hand bearing the single word.

‘Sorry.’

“Cancel all my appointments tomorrow and fetch the coffee. I need to-”

Lucifer’s eyes went as a smirk slid over his snake-like features. His expression the picture of innocence as if he didn’t barge into the intimate moment. Hands tucked into his suit pockets as he slammed the final nail in the coffin for any chance of redemption.

“Am I interrupting something?” Smug, amused notes that made you want to crawl into a hole and be buried alive.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Your answer came first in a rushed hiss as you quickly stood up to grab the troublesome rabbit by its ears as it frantically scribbled on its scrap of paper to explain the situation. That it had attempted to lead away your boss, but he just got this odd look when he heard the jazz. Please watch the ears. The excuses made your grip all the tighter as the little creature squealed in protest as it was thrown out into the hallway.

While Alastor’s ‘No’ was far less pleased as the Devil was taking insurmountable delight in the situation. He smoothed out the rumpled edge of the sleeve with little ceremony as Lucifer seemed almost impatient for his next words. It was difficult to cover your laughter as the words never came, only the clatter of china and a loud sip of tea.

“Now, before I fetch that coffee. What is the issue?” You huffed as you snapped your fingers together allowing your quill the float aimlessly around you. Lucifer spun on his heel before grabbing you by the wrist with a bright smile

“I want to redecorate my office. It’s looking a bit..drab. That means measuring, shopping and all the other joys of furnishing. Now let’s hop to it. We only have a few hours till morning, moonlight is wasting away as we speak. Since I wasn’t interrupting anything..” Lucifer declared as he wrapped his arm around your waist, all but ushering you from the room without a single second to spare.

You made sure to burn the coffee and watched with immense pleasure in seeing him choke it down.

#hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #silverinkwrites

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impala-dreamer · 2 years ago

Text

An Exceptional Distraction

A Supernatural Story

~ Stake outs can be extremely boring. Distractions are welcomed, and even helpful in the long run...~

Dean Winchester x Plus!Size Reader, Nameless OMC

1,800 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Public Sexual Activity. Case work.

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

The place was fancy. Too fancy for the likes of a Winchester, but there he was, sipping an imported beer in a pale green bottle, watching as patrons walked by him without a care in the world. Not that he cared either. There was only one person he was worried about tonight. Alright, maybe two.

Y/N was up at the bar, her short, sparkling blue dress a heavy distraction to all that looked her way. But that was the point. She was bait tonight. And gorgeous bait at that.

She’d been scared almost to come out tonight. Not because of the murderous shifter they were tracking that had been snatching and then gutting women leaving the bar for the past two months, but because of that dress. It was tight, hugging every delicious curve, and she had many- short too, like, crawling up her thick thighs whenever she walked, almost showing-off-the-goods short. She’d been so self conscious that the plan had almost fallen through, but there she was, leaning over the bar with one perfectly round calf popped out, just begging to be ogled.

Dean licked his lips as his eyes grazed over the royal blue dress, especially drawn to the hem. “Fuck.” The distraction carried all the way from his brain to his slacks which tightened as his cock hardened. Sure that no one was watching, he pressed a hand down over his cock and took a sip of beer. “Gonna be a long night,” he muttered.

Long, it was.

After a few hours, it was clear that their mark wasn’t making an appearance that evening. Dean had even followed two suspicious looking guys into the back room only to find them grabbing lustfully at each other.

He’d quickly turned back around.

Y/N sighed and played with the straw in her near-empty drink. Tonic water and lime gave the appearance of a girl looking for fun without actually impairing her facilities. She toyed with the last ice cube and then sat back on the stool, wondering how much longer they’d stick around.

The bartender cleared his throat and Y/N looked up, painted lashes fluttering towards his handsome face.

He smiled and set a drink down in front of her. It was a whiskey, neat.

“From the gentleman in the booth,” he told her, nodding towards the far wall.

A long line of heavily upholstered booths sat along the back wall, each offering a miniscule amount of privacy and a superbly polished marble table to set your drinks upon.

Y/N looked back over her shoulder and the man in the booth raised his beer in salute, inviting her to join him. She thanked the bartender, dropped a twenty onto the counter, and took her drink with her as she sashayed through the growing crowd. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor, her dress sparkled in the dim lights. She looked good, and she knew it. Every pair of eyes turned her way, but only one set held her gaze.

“Mr. Winchester,” she greeted, standing in front of his table. “Thanks for the drink.”

Dean licked his lips and smiled. “Care to join me?”

She lingered, making him hold his breath for an answer. “I don’t know. I’m kinda busy. Working a case…”

“A case,” he teased, raising his brows with mock interest. “What are you?” he asked, leaning forward secretively. “A cop or something?”

Y/N laughed.

“You know if you’re a cop, you have to tell me. Those are the rules.”

Careful not to spill her drink, Y/N sat down in the booth next to him, turning so that her right knee was up on the bench. “He ain’t comin’,” she announced, breaking the game.

Dean nodded and tapped his fingers on the beer bottle. “Yeah. I don’t think he’s comin’ out tonight.” He lifted the beer to his mouth and eyed her over the rim. “Shame he’s gonna miss you in that fabulous dress.”

Heat rose to her cheeks and Y/N rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

Dean leaned closer. “I’m serious. You’re quite something. A truly exceptional distraction.” A shiver of arousal lit her spine and she shivered despite her best efforts to ignore it. Dean caught every tiny flinch and grinned. He dropped his hand from the table and set it gently on her bare knee as he sat back, letting the shadow of the booth wash over him. “It’s true. You look incredible.”

Y/N took a deep drink of the whiskey and cringed as it burned her throat. “Yeah, well not enough to attract a monster, I guess.”

Dean shook his head and let his fingers glide down into the soft cushion of her inner thigh. “Don’t talk like that,” he whispered, rolling his head to the side, watching her closely. “You’re beautiful. I’ve been watching you all night and… fuck, I… let’s just say I can’t stand up right now.”

Y/N refused to look at him, but bit her lip at the idea. “Is that right?”

His thumb traced the line of her lace panties. “Sure is. Got me hard as a rock watching you bend over that bar all night. That big, plump ass… these juicy thighs. Fuck… I wanna sink my teeth into you.”

She sucked in a quick breath as his thumb lightly stroked her cunt, pressing in just enough to make her teeth dig down into her lip. “Maybe… maybe we should get outta here and you can.”

Dean threw his arm around her shoulder and scooted closer, turning Y/N until she sat half against his chest. “Oh, I think we’re fine right here, don’t you?” His hand draped down and around, fingertips dancing over her collarbone.

Her eyes darted around the room. “There’s… people, Dean.”

“So?” His hand slipped farther down, into her dress. He tapped her nipple with his middle finger and it sprung up, giving her a jolt of pleasure. “No one’s watching,” he said, voice dropping to a deep whisper that vibrated through his chest and into her. “And if they are, so what?”

“So they’ll...they’ll see-” She swallowed hard as he plucked at her nipple, a gasp growing and dying in the back of her throat. She squirmed but he stopped her, his other hand returning to her thigh.

Dean pressed his lips to her ear and growled. “Let them see.”

Her mind melted in that moment; her eyes glazed over as they stared at the crowd in front of them, her blood raced, heart pounded. His fingers slipped beneath the lacy fabric and brushed teasingly against her slit. “Fuck…”

“Wet already,” he whispered, breath tickling her ear.

“Mhm.” Her body tensed, back muscles twitching against him, arching her tits into his hand. “This is…” Her eyes fell closed as his middle finger tucked into her pussy, pressing against her clit. “...We can’t do this.” The protest ended in a deep moan and she spread her legs just a tiny bit.

Dean smiled against her throat and twisted her nipple hard. “You don’t sound too convincing.” Lips on her pulse, he sucked.

“I… we’re working… Oh. God.”

Two rough fingers dipped inside and her body clenched around them. “What’s that?” Dean nibbled on her ear and Y/N relaxed, falling harder against him.

She spread her knees even more, as much as the dress would allow. “I- please.”

Dean strummed her clit with his wide thumb. “Please what?” he teased, eyes focused on her breathing, the slow, heavy rise and fall of her tits. “Please fuck you in front of all these people?” She shivered and he closed his hand around her breast. “Please make you moan loud enough for all those tight-ass businessmen to hear?”

Y/N sealed her lips shut to hide a whimper, but nodded quickly. “Yes…”

With a grin, he slipped a third finger into her wetness and began to pump in earnest. “You’re such a little slut.”

Her hips began to move, grinding against his hand, the heel pressing perfectly into her aching clit. “Yeah,” she agreed, breathy and lost in the rising pleasure. “I’mma lil’ slut.”

He pushed in deeper and a gasp locked her throat tight. Her body stiffened, internally still rocking, pulsing on his hand. Enraptured, Y/N turned her head and grabbed his cheek, forcing his lips to hers. She licked into his mouth, fingers dimpling his cheeks as he discreetly rubbed her clit, pushing her farther and father to the edge.

“That’s it,” he breathed, “come on… just let it go…” Green eyes sparkled in the dim light and Y/N stared a little too deeply, felt his touch a little too intensely, let out a cry of satisfaction a little too loudly as she came. The wetness dripped down onto his hand and Dean smirked against her lips. “Such a bad girl.”

Y/N kissed him hard and then took a breath, turning back away as she brushed his hands away, still shaking with aftershocks of pleasure while adjusting her dress.

After a moment, she stood, tugged the hem of her dress down to an acceptable level, picked up her drink and left the booth, heading back towards the bar.

“Thanks for the drink,” she shot back with a wink over her shoulder.

Dean watched her go, slowly sucking her taste from his fingers and shuddering. His dick was hard as a rock, but he could wait. Wouldn’t be too long now anyway.

“Didn’t hit it off?” The bartender asked as Y/N sat back down in her spot, a tiny swallow of whiskey left in her glass.

She shrugged. “Oh, him? Nah. Not my type.”

He smiled a tad too aggressively. “That’s too bad. More for the rest of us, I guess.” He let his hand drop to the counter next to hers, almost touching, but cautious not to.

Y/N feigned an interested smile and let her hand accidentally brush against his. “I suppose it is.”

Their eyes met for a long moment, and everything in his gaze told her they’d been waiting for nothing. Their mark was already there, watching, hunting, stalking his prey.

Spinning around on her stool, Y/N’s smile faded as she pulled out her cell and shot Dean a text.

Game’s played. It’s the bartender.

You sure?

I mean…

Well, get him to take you home and we’ll see.

You gonna follow close and save me when he tries to peel my skin off?

Dean laughed and looked up, catching her eye. “You know it,” he mouthed.

Such a jerk.

Y/N smiled and spun back around slowly, spreading her legs just enough so that Dean could see the dark wet spot he’d made.

Slut.

She laughed to herself; a sly smile prickling her lips.

Don’t you know it.

2023 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

@aditimukul @agirlwithdemonblood @amanda-teaches @akshi8278 @alwayskeepfightingsweetheart @b3autyfuldisast3r-blog @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @because-imma-lady-assface @bloodline1632 @charred-angelwings @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @covered-byroses @djs8891 @deanwinchesterswitch @deansyahtzee @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @iamsapphine @idreamofdeanie @ilsawasanacrobat @impalaspixie @jawritter @justcallmeasmodeus @kazsrm67 @kittenofdoomage @leigh70 @lovealways-j @lyarr24 @mariekoukie6661 @maggiegirl17 @mistressofallthingsgeeky @pandaxo79 @peachy-vans @rachiem4-blog @roseblue373 @sacriceria @samwellwinchesterthebrave @sexyvixen7 @spideysimpossiblegirl @spnexploration @stevekempscocktails @the-wounded-healer05 @thoughts-and-funnies @vulgar-library

#dean x reader #spn fanfic #dean winchester x reader #one shot #plus size reader

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xxanaduwrites · 6 months ago

Text

much ado about nothing, major

ii. bluell & blue skies

the main hub

pairing: john “bucky” egan x (ofc) maude “blue” bluell

warnings: this story will contain mature themes, descriptions of injury, blood, sexual content, swearing, as well as, physical and mental illness. proceed with caution.

— ii. some inappro-pro jokes courtesy of curt & mentions of beating a dude up, that’s all i got folks !

word count: 5.5k

there must be something or nothing at all.

The sound of clinking glasses, chattering men, giggling women, and tapping feet amongst the beat of swinging jazz filled the Officer’s Club and the ears of one Maude Bluell at roughly around 2100 hours.

The newly polished nurse of Thorpe Abbot’s infirmary leaned rather uncomfortably against a nearby wall with her fellow colleagues observing the function. Now changed out of her more suitable work attire, she stiffened like a board in the confines of her neatly pressed Red Cross issued uniform. Already becoming rather used to her usual loose white ward dress and cap, the fitted material of the more proper wear seemed foreign to her. Too foreign to be a uniform worn just a week prior, in route for base transfer.

The more she spent in the infirmary, the more time was proving itself to be heavier conceptually speaking and lighter actuality speaking. The truth of the matter was that Nurse Bluell witnessed enough loss in one week that could very well add up to more than whole lifetime.

So maybe — just maybe the Dirty Shirley Q was attempting to shove into Maude’s hand — wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “‘S not all that bad, Blue. Just a cherry little thing with a pinch of alc. ‘S like sucking up straight candy.” Susie slurred and the bright red liquid swayed like a wave in a storm trapped in glass.

“Not everyone wants to rot out their teeth and stain their tongues red like you, Q.” Lottie pointed out and grimaced at the concoction with a sweet cherry on top. To prove her point further, the blonde took a sip of her less colorful drink — a simple gin and tonic.

If the concept of “two sides of the same coin” could be defined by people, Maude was certain Lottie and Q were the perfect definition.

It became quite apparent early on that Lottie upheld a more serious and resolved persona, taste aligning simplistic and rather blander than her bubbly and eccentric colleague Q who flourished in a rather colorful nature.

In an odd way, even though the two could get into the occasional spat over their differences, they overall leveled each other out in a way where Blue wasn’t sure where she exactly fit in. How she found fit into such an established dynamic.

“And not everyone wants to deny every name on their dance card, but here you are,” She countered, clearly commenting on something Maude was unfamiliar with. Something that spiked a nerve in Lottie. The red headed nurse noticed the newbie's confusion drawing prominently in her features. “Lots has a look but no touch policy,” She explained, the drink flailing about even more dangerously as she exasperated, enough for Maude to accept this drink from her without a word.

Crossing her arms over her chest, the all work, no play blonde ignored her former colleague and turned to her new one. “It’s not entirely true. You see, I look at it this way. We touch men all day long –” Sue promptly cut Lottie off with a well timed snort, and Lottie sighed but continued on, “rotating between check-ups, wrapping wound after wound, and seeing them in their most vulnerable states…I just – I don’t know, something about it doesn’t sit right with me,” she shrugged nonchalantly, not knowing that her words laid heavily on Maude’s own chest.

“But, there’s no denying that the girl lovesssss to look!” Sue chirped in, nudging her friend’s shoulder who’s mischievous grin was hidden behind the rim of her gin and tonic. “Speaking of, has anyone caught your eye yet, Blue? See anything you like?” She mused, fishing for the hot gossip as she liked to do.

Had anyone caught her eye? Well a very certain major who had waltzed his way into the infirmary just this morning had, but could she admit such a thing when she was trying to convince herself otherwise?

“Oh I – I dunno,” Maude finally spoke up and blushed madly, cheeks promptly dusting pink.

She suddenly felt grateful for the Dirty Shirley and took a sip, the tart yet sweet mixture coating her tongue in a delightful way. The condensation of the glass felt cool against her now heated skin, and she prayed it would cool down her unease in the current conversation. If not, at least she could simply blame it on the drink. Not that she knew very well what it was like for herself. She wasn’t much of a drinker to begin with, but she had been around enough functions with family and friends alike to know how flushed face one could get on a glass or two – worse with a few more added into the mix.

“Give the girl some time. She just got here after all and we haven’t given her a run down yet on who’s who.” She noted. “Wait, have we?” She asked, turning to Blue for confirmation to which she shook her head in a delcarative no. “Oh then, this’ll be a thrill. Perfect timing then, ain’t it Sue.”

“Absolutely! You’re in good hands Maude Bluell. Can’t go wrong with Lots full boring government names in conjunction with my fun nicknames for the full effect.” Sue added.

“It’s not boring, it’s official and makes our job a whole lot easier.” Lottie reasoned. “At least I can identify each pilot by their title and rank efficiently with no hiccups on their health charts.”

“Hey! It was just one time, and in my defense it’s not my fault that two Majors decided to have the same goddamn nickname, and it’s no help when Croz only refers to them as the “two Buckys” in conversation.”

“Two Buckys’?” Maude questioned, rather perplexed.

“Yes, see the blonde over there. Strong cheekbones. Full lips. Bright blue eyes,” Lottie — as loud as Maude could hear over the blaring music and as subtly as she could, a good two gin and tonics in — pointed to the definition of such a man seated right in front of the Officer’s band.

Maude followed her eye and nodded in confirmation.

“That’s Major Gale Cleven,” She said in her left ear.

And on her right side Sue added in, “Buck, or in other words — if you couldn’t tell — the man Lots was fawning for before she found out he’s got a girl back home.”

Lottie shot her a look.

“What? Made it real obvious with those detailed descriptors. I’m simply stating facts.” Sue regarded Lottie while fetchinf the cherry out of her own Dirty Shirley “Anyways, Name’s Marge. Short for Marjorie. High School sweethearts from Wyoming or something like that.

Major Gale “Buck” Cleven — Maude repeated over in her head, trying to commit it to memory.

“Couldn’t help it. He’s a real gentleman. Quite reserved but extremely smart. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t gamble. Doesn’t dance with a single girl. It intrigued me.” Lottie concluded and then continued on, “next to him, to the right is Major John Egan.” Lottie trained Maude’s gaze just where she wanted her and just where Maude herself had not expected to be.

Major John Egan. Major Egan. The man Lieutenant Payne had mentioned in his demotion and replacement from today’s mission. The man who walked right into the infirmary at 0900 hours and churned something deep inside her, yet to be deciphered.

Out of his flying gear and signature sheepskin jacket, she took in the sight of Major Egan in his more formally pressed uniform, and her breath hitched. There was no denying how handsome he looked all cleaned up, but she wouldn’t make that known to them. Not now and especially not here.

“That’s Bucky.” Q was back in her right ear, and Maude wondered if this is what it felt to have an angel and a devil on your shoulders, whispering different things. “Confusing, aye?”

“Bucky,” she repeated aloud, a small laugh escaping the nurse as she twirled the straw around in her drink. “So it’s Buck and Bucky then, not the Buckys.”

“Technically, yes.” Lottie nodded.

“Quite redundant.”

“Precisely, but for good reason I suppose. Sue can explain that one further.”

“Oh yes!” She lit up. “So apparently, Major Egan has always been known as Bucky back home and when he first saw Major Cleven, well he couldn’t get over how much he looked like some fella named Buck from Manitowoc, Wisconsin — also his home — and they’ve been stuck like glue ever since. All in good word from Curt of course who filled me in on all this business.”

“Right…and oh! Over here is Captain Bernard Demarco.”

“Benny.” Sue cut in again.

“He’s the one that has that sweet pup Meatball running around, and….” Lottie kept the flow going, canning the conversation on the redundant nature of the Buckys.

Maude tried her best to stay attentive, taking in the passing faces and attaching them to their respected names, yet she couldn’t help but draw her gaze back to Major Egan who’s long fingers were tapping against the arms of the chair he occupied to the beat of smooth jazz as he spoke to his friend next to him. She attuned her bouncing stare to the drink starting to take effect in her system, but also to her remembrance of why she truly pulled up to the function — to find Lieutenant Crosby and properly congratulate him on his promotion.

Yet, through the whisking crowd of people, the target of her mission became indetectable.

At some point Katherine “Tatty” Spaatz, daughter of Lieutenant Carl Spaatz, and Helen — both Red Cross volunteers for the Clubmobile circling the Eighth Air Force’ First Air Division — joined in on the conversation, greeting the nurses, and meeting the new addition to their circuit.

Tatty recounted stories to Lottie of countless pilots trying to get in her good graces just to secure a promotion from her father. It never worked, while Helen continued to help Sue familiarize Maude with the crew on base. Helen was in the middle of trying to point out another pilot to the nurse when the band started playing a new song — a popular song that not only Sue knew very well, but Maude too. Blue Skies by Irving Berlin. Maude hummed it to herself the past week any chance she got. Any time she was feeling rather blue so to speak — ironically enough. And Sue — well Sue wasn’t one not to be observant.

“Blue!” She interrupted Helen’s tagging game by latching onto Maude’s arm. “It’s your song.” She proposed excitedly.

Maude, taken aback for just a moment, collected herself enough to correct the notion and Helen’s sudden raised brow. “Oh — I — ‘S not my song. I just like it.” She shrugged.

“But your Bluell. Blue. Blue Skies!” Q slurred shirly as ever. “Come on Blue. Sing for us.”

“Oh no I — I don’t sing,” The shy nurse mumbled out, not lying so to speak but not telling the truth either. Sure, Bluell sang, but only when she was alone. When no one else was present. When she had a good sense of privacy. Humming was one thing, but singing no — singing was a whole other ball game.

“‘S not true. I’ve heard you.” She assured, making escaping this proposition even more impossible.

Maude gasped. “When?”

“Just the other day. When you were out hanging the sheets up on the line,” the red head recalled, not giving up by any means.

As a newbie of sorts, Maude was appointed to hang up the freshly washed sheets outside to dry before the beds were made back up — neat and clean in preparation for the inevitable return of injured pilots. Q usually came out with a basket to collect the dry ones, and on one particular day, she had caught the nurse there — singing away in what she assumed to be a rather private area. Instead of making herself known, Q took a moment to listen to the newbie's voice, connecting to what she could only imagine to be what fluffy clouds would sound like if you could hear them in one’s ears, if clouds could in fact sit in such a way — soft and airy on a summer’s sunny day.

“My, well I —I” Embarrassment dusted Maude’s features as she found herself at loss for words in being discovered.

“Yes, she has quite the voice!” Lottie suddenly overheard the conversation, added in, piquing the interest of the Clubmobile girls.

Maude silently wondered if her colleagues and newfound friends were really her friends at all.

“Oh! Now I must know. Would you sing for us?” Tatty asked, absolutely intrigued by this information and ever-so slightly tipsy herself.

“I – I dunno,” Maude replied shyly, her fingers reaching up to the edge of her collar, tugging the material away from her now heated skin.

“It would boost morale,” Helen reasoned, actually considering the state of their boys and how music seemed to ease their souls.

Especially one Major John Egan who, little to Maude’s current attention, was absolutely fizzing with delight just across the way.

“Do you know what this is missing?” The Major probed suddenly to the blonde Lottie described in heavy detail only moments prior.

Buck, knowing his friend and exactly what he would be up to whenever music was involved did not hesitate in replying. “Nothing.”

“Vocals.” John announced, totally disregarding his friend’s input on the matter.

With a sigh, Gale reiterated, “no, it’s not.”

“I’m gonna sing.” John proposed, as if it was not already obvious enough to Gale.

Already ten steps ahead of his antsy friend, Gale’s reflexes proved to be on par and he eased John back down in his seat just as fast. In complete conjunction as one Nurse Maude Bluell was being eased herself. Right in front of the band and the lone microphone propped on a stand next to the conductor. A conductor who found himself rather confused with the sudden presence as well as the rest of the club when she nervously tapped it with a cherry red nail, freshly done up by Q. A necessity as the red head liked to say in her chain of convincing for the night. A chain that Maude had found herself unmistakably tied to for the rest of the evening with a reasoning of Biddick’s MIA on center stage.

“Looks like a lady has beat you to it.” Gale hummed in complete amusement. An amusement not reciprocated by his friend, slouched in defeat with his arms crossed over his chest in utter disappointment.

The nurse cleared her throat suddenly, trying to stifle her nerves and block out the faces that were drawn to her every move. So much so that she even had one Major John Egan attuned, eyes glued to her like a hawk catching their prey.

A twinge of familiarity washed over him as he took in the young woman with full red lips and pinned up hair, a complete contradiction to the nurse he saw in scrubs just a few hours prior attending to Lieutenant Joseph Payne. Yet, what captivated him, what really set in that sense of recognition were her eyes. Those hazy green eyes that had almost rendered him speechless in completing his promotional tasks for Croz.

“B—Blue Ski —“ the raven haired woman’s vocal chords betrayed her rather quickly leading the men — with a lack of better judgment enraptured with booze filled minds — to laugh at her mishap.

“Learn your place sweetheart!” Someone hollered far away. Too far away for Bucky to attach a face to voice so to speak, but close enough that he could make out every single syllable, every single word clustered in a sentence that made his blood boil tenfold.

He was no singer himself — hell he couldn’t carry a note for the life of him, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that singing — singing your heart out was freeing. It was fun. It was a way to forget the truth of it all. The truth of this reality, adhered to a war wrapped in violence and a future of uncertainty. A future only men lucky enough could promise.

Instead of jumping out of his seat, finding the man, and beating him to a pulp like he really wanted to for speaking to a lady in such a disrespectful manner — he decided on a different approach. An approach that would ease the clear embarrassment of the pretty raven haired nurse in front of him.

“Jack,” he whispered over to the pilot on his left, cringing at the scene. “should I sing?” He asked him, hoping to gain a better sense of backup clearly not tuned to his level headed friend.

To Bucky’s misfortune, Jack was with Buck on this one. “No.”

He tried again, this time with another colleague adjacent to buck. “Should I sing?” He motioned again.

And again. “No. You’ll just make it worse.”

John sighed. “Alright, you’re right. You're right.” He feigned a nod in agreement, putting on a facade that did not last long enough to see the light. Looking back at the nervous nurse caged in laughter of no good nature, John knew there was no shot in hell he’d leave her there imprisoned. Whatever bit of jealousy had set him off as he saw her hit the stage of sorts was long gone.

So, he hyped himself up, readying himself to take flight just as he did every time in a B-17, and tapped his fingers against the wooden edges of his chair. Letting out a breath, he finally stood up and danced his way over to the mic, leading Gale to send him a classic knowing glance of his that was reserved to him alone anytime he whipped up an antic.

“It’s my song, Buck!” He reasoned to his best friend just before turning around and coming face to face with the green eyed goddess.

Completely surprised, Maude nearly gasped at the sudden intrusion but collected herself enough to follow his gaze as he fitted himself behind her.

“May I?” The Major whispered against her ear, his arm brushing against her hip as he reached for the microphone in front of her.

His touch proved to be magnetic — electric even, and it shot something within her enough to keep upright and reply ever-so carefully. “My yes. Of — Of course, Major.” She went to step out of the way, but a warm and gentle hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her up against John’s side.

She could have melted then in his embrace, fitted so perfectly next to him as he grasped the mic and stared down at her as he began to sing….

Never saw the sun shining so bright

Never saw things going so right

Noticing the days hurrying by

And then, just as she was starting to feel comfortable being serenaded, but considering the prospects of a duet, Major Egan’s hand flexed at her side, signaling the tilt of the mic close enough in her direction that they could sing together.

Yet, to her surprise he let her have her moment alone.

When you’re in love. My how they fly.

And the lines came out clear — clearer than she could ever imagine, but that was all she would contribute. She’d let the Major take the reins on the rest of the song with a simple nod of encouragement.

Blue days

All of them gone

Nothing but blue skies

From now on

With a final flourish, he dipped the young nurse. Her heart dropped to her stomach at the sudden movement, sending shock waves throughout her whole body in a reminiscent way. One that reminded her of her childhood. It brought back memories of the very first time she ever rode the Coney Island Cyclone with her father. The creeks of the wooden structure probed nervous jitters as the roller coaster went up, up, up — only to bring sweet relief as the cars swooshed down, down, down. And down she was now with Major Egan’s charming features in her direct line of sight. Pretty pearly whites, deep blue eyes, and large warm hands leaving her breathless yet grounded in his embrace.

If it wasn’t for the cheers that rounded out amongst the ladies and the hardy laughs that echoed from the men, the Major and nurse could have very well been locked in their own world — where it was just the two of them, alone. But they weren’t alone. They were surrounded by a bubbly crowd of fellow airmen and red cross members alike who were now making their way to the floor to dance out their newfound excitement.

Yet, the caging of it all felt rather intimate to Maude — who was now being pulled right back up by Major Egan. With a bit of a stumble and a trip of a heel, he caught her before she could trip — a strong arm wrapping around her lower back, urging her upright like a straight torpedo.

Her cheeks reddened ripper than the deep shade of lipstick coating her lips as her hand subconsciously found itself situated on Egan’s chest. Palm fizzing against the eloquent beat of his heart.

“Hi,” he mused, eyes sparking in delight as he took in the small frame of the nurse in front of him — her lack of height noticeable at this newfound proximity.

His prominent figure towered above her, forcing her to crane her neck back and head upward to look him in the eye. It wasn’t surprising. Truly it wasn’t. His stature became apparent the moment she first saw him. But now, standing right in front of him, practically caged over his towering presence was intimidating. “H-Hi.” She managed out and then tumbled in a frantic frenzy. “Bucky — I mean J— Major.” She sighed in an effort to compose herself and settled on, “Major Egan.”

Maude’s fumble did not fail to surprise the Major. It struck a pitch of laughter out of him instantly.

A pitch that Maude didn’t catch as a reaction to his sudden charm of her. “My apologies.”

So John, well he would swing until he got a home run. “No need to fret, doll.” He reassured her. “‘M not a formalities type anyways. Nothing good comes out of being a tyrant in team sports.”

“You’re an athlete then?” Maude questioned, trying to annunciate her words as loud as possible considering the boisterous music in the room.

Bucky chortled and matched her. “Far from that. Much more enjoy being an observer. A listener. More of a reader nowadays to keep up with the score.”

“Understandable.” She nodded, tilting her head ever-so subtly to get a better reading of him. “And what team has the pleasure of your devotion, Major?”

“Bucky. Please. Call me Bucky.” He corrected her. “And baseball. The New York Yankees,” he replied and her eyes alit with a familiarity John picked up on without fail. “You like the Yanks, doll?”

“Yes — well no. I mean being from Brooklyn it’s only customary for me to be a Dodgers fan. But you — you’re not a New Yorker, so I’ve heard.”

“That’s right. You’re fairly acquainted with me, ain’t yuh? Yet, I can’t recall the same for you. No shot in hell would I ever forget a gal quite as pretty as you.”

“That’s rather kind of you, Maj — Bucky.”

“Got a name, doll? A nickname even? Rank?”

“Maude. Maude Rue Bluell. American Red Cross Nurse for the 100th bomb group. Just touched down last week. But, I’ve found myself replying to the call of Blue. Quite redundant in name. I know. Yet, I have a bit of suspicion that it’s more complimentary of my mood as of late,” she revealed, more than she intended. More than she even expected. Usually — in matters such as this one — she’d find herself to be rather shy and timid. Especially in the presence of such a devily handsome man as Major Egan himself.

But something — something in the way he spoke to her was easing. His teamwork mantra proved to be a strong suit in his personality. She could tell he was a good leader just by his attitude and stance — equalizing himself against a woman in such an untraditional light. Subconsciously, it made Maude more drawn to the young man in uniform.

The edge of his lip curved up in a smirk. “Blue, huh?”

Bluell only had a second to nod in confirmation before the Major grabbed her hand, spinning her in a circle in accordance to the music. He pulled her back just as fast, her back aligning perfectly against his broad solid chest. A strong arm wrapped around her stomach, slender fingers taking shelter against her hip.

He leaned over then, the combination of his lips and mustache tickling the delicate skin of her ear quickened the pace of her heart. “Seems I’ve found myself my very own Blue Sky then,” he whispered.

She let out a laugh. A real genuine one. Lips perking up in a sweet smile.

“Smooth, yeah?” He mused, his lips still close enough to brush a smile against her ear a second time and his voice still low yet husky enough to warm up her insides.

“Mhm,” she hummed simply, rolling her emerald eyes playfully in an attempt to conceal her affections. “Out of the park.” She mused, swaying back and forth in his hold.

“That’a girl!” He chirped as she spun out of his hold.

Their hands puzzled right back together instantly, feet tapping to the beat as they danced with the rest of the pairings on the floor. There they were, forgetting all their troubles in the heat of the party. Just as the other girls intended. Just as John intended. Maybe for once, Maude could admit that the Club was the best medicine for her troubles, even if it would wear off come morning.

John and Maude danced well off into the night, until the nurse’s heels left blisters on her soles and a sheen of sweat dusted the curls on Bucky’s forehead. The Major was one to take notice, channeling his inner gentleman as he excused himself to fetch the two of them refreshments from the bar.

Alone, she moved out of the boisterous crowd to meet the girls but stopped short once she noticed Lieutenant James Douglas approaching them.

Meanwhile, John was situated at the bar next to Buck when a call came through for them. “Buck. Egan”

“Sir.” Buck replied as John took a swig of his drink, waiting patiently for Maude’s to be fixed up.

“From who?” Bucky asked intrigued.

“Operator, I have Majors Cleven and Egan…” Red murmured before passing the phone to Buck.

Buck took it with ease, a chorus of his name ringing out of the speaker from a far too familiar New York accent. “Yup.”

“Ayeeee Buck is that you?” Lieutenant Biddick exclaimed on the line just as John was leaning over to listen in on the conversation.

“Curt.” Buck confirmed, leading John to follow suit an octave louder in a Bucky like fashion.

“Curt!” John banged his fist on the table, pleased to know Curt had made it.

Susie being nosey as she tended to be, did not fail to excuse herself from the flirting attempts of Douglas on Helen. She whipped across the floor in an instant, locking a careful arm around Bluell, dragging her to the bar with her. “It’s Curt!” She chirped, beaming from ear to ear.

“Buck! Buck!” Curt repeated as the girls found themselves at the bar. Q fitting herself right next to Gale on his right – Maude sandwiched between her and Red.

“Yeah, it’s Buck and John. Susie’s here too. Where’d you end up?” Gale spoke for the two of them.

“Ughhhh, that’s a very very good question, but we’re safe and sound ‘er.” Curt replied amidst his own boisterous surroundings. He pulled the phone away for a moment to ask, “Hey! Aye, wh – where am I?”

“Where are ya?” Someone asked far away. Too far away for John or the girls to grasp, but close enough for Gale to catch the tail end of.

“Where am I?” Curt repeated.

“In the devil’s dope son!”

“Ugh–ah we made a wee bit of a mess up ‘er.” Curt explained. “Well – the people are really swell and they’re looking after us. It turns out they don’t like the English much either, but they like me because I’m Irish!”

Again muffled voices took over. “You’re not Irish.”

“I’M IRISH!” Curt yelled, brushing smiles across the faces of Buck, Bucky, and the girls.

“No you’re not.”

“Hey, my family's Irish.” He was still going on, the group trying their hardest not to burst out in laughter. “I told ya I’m an American but anyways… Buck – hold on, hold on.” A rustling sound took over for a moment as Curt resituated himself. “Ugh, I wanted to call you and to let Sue know I’m ‘ight but…Thank you Buck…Thank both of you for saving our asses. I mean it.”

“Yeah, well alright you just get back here soon, Curt.” Buck replied.

“We miss you Curt. We’re glad you’re still with us!” John yelled.

“He’s okay. He’s really okay!” Susie bit back a smile.

“He’s quite alright.” Maude assured, resting a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Eh – John said he misses his little spoon.” Buck joked and Sue laughed.

“Heyyyy I’m the big spoon ‘er remember?” Curt chided. “Just ask my Sue. Where’s my Sue?” He asked, unraveling the lollipop she supplied him earlier.

“It’s gonna be cold tonight Curt!” John added.

Curt’s voice became muffled as he shoved the petite treat in his mouth.. “Gotta tell ‘er I’m sucking ‘er cherry rye now.”

“W–What?” Buck’s eyes widened up in surprise and embarrassment at the rather inappropriate and unexpected joke.

John did not fail to miss the twist of Gale’s features. He picked up on it rather quickly, his interest peeking instantly. “What he say? What he say?”

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You know what Curt. Lemme pass the phone. Sue, Curt wants to talk to you.”

She squealed excitedly and grabbed the phone. “Hi baby!” Soon her fingers were wrapped around the cord, mirroring how wrapped up she was in conversation with her man.

Maude watched her friend beam with a newfound sense of radiance. Her joyfulness bounced off of her like bright sunbeams, warming up Bluell just as much.

She was so stuck on the picture of her friend, she didn’t realize John had weaseled his way next to her until he was nudging his shoulder with hers. “Doll..” He pushed a glass of water across the table in front of her.

“Thank you.” She hummed. A smile was still plastered across her face as she took a sip.

“So much for being blue, huh?” John mused, completely infatuated with her smile. “Nothing but blue skies…from now onnnn…” He sang in her ear.

Her cheeks began to sting from smiling so much. “You're something else, Major Egan.”

“Well – I’d hope so. Rather be something than nothing at all, you know?” He replied thoughtfully, so thoughtfully that his simple yet profound words settled deeply within the confines of her chest.

“I –” She began to say something, anything really but lost her train of thought in an instance when a fellow pilot interrupted across the Club to make an announcement.

“Come on everybody! Bike race in the mess hall – who’s in?”

“I am.” Bucky stated.

“Me too.” Buck agreed.

And that was that. It was settled. The boys would be racing and Maude and the rest of the ladies would be pulled along to watch.

John grasped Maude’s hand then to do just that, but stopped her in his tracks as he leaned over to whisper, “wait – don’t I get a good luck kiss?”

His forwardness took her by surprise, and even though his charm was very well infectious, she found herself hesitant to appeal to his wishes. “I wouldn’t suggest pushing your luck, Major, but I’m not the kind of lady to oppose a reward in the face of a victor.”

“Ah,” He held their conjoined hands up and kissed the back of hers, sending goosebumps across her fully clothed skin. “More reason for me to win then, hm.”

“Precisely.” She hummed in agreement, right before he took off, dragging her along. Leaving her in a fatal attempt of matching his long strides as she giggled and yelped out his name.

Before she knew it, she found Lottie and the rest of the girls in the Mess, perched and ready to watch the race along with Croz who was mounting a bike not too far away. She congratulated him in passing, and he was happy to see her. It was all a frenzy of fun and games, absolute excitement – until it wasn’t. Until the boys were just reaching the finish line, – Bucky right behind Buck – and the alarms were going off. Alarms that reminded them of the war they were truly in. A war that kept them on their toes and left them taking shelter. Left John without his kiss and Maude running dry of her medicine.

There would be more blue days than blue skies for Nurse Maude Rue Bluell and Major John Bucky Egan – but this night – this very night proved to be the catalyst of something new for the two.

Something that would become much ado.

iiii!! idk how i feel about this but enjoy peeps. feedback would me amazeballs. also curt is wilddddddd 👀🍒🍭

love ya’ll,

xanadu

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#major john egan x nurse maude bluell #major john bucky egan x ofc #mota fandom #mota fanfiction #major gale buck cleven #major john bucky egan #lieutenant curtis biddick #lieutenant curtis biddick x ofc #maude rue bluell #callum turner fandom #mota fic #masters of the air fanfiction #masters of the air

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