#twiyor smut

[pjs-everyday]

*immediately loses their cool* lmao 🤓 // linework >> grayscale // ko-fi

[petri808]

A birthday smut fic for my first fan and now friend since 2017. Enjoy you slut lol @random-rave

*note takes place after latest manga chapters

While Loid finishes fixing his shirt cuffs, he reminds Yor about his plans. “I should be back before next week from the psychology conference. You’re sure you’ll be fine with Anya, or I can ask Frankie to babysit.” These longer missions of more than a day or two are starting to get under his skin. He suspects but won’t accept why and pushes on with his job.

“I’ll be totally fine. It’s only four days,” Yor smiles and helps him put on and button his suit jacket. Then she hands him his small suitcase. “Enjoy the conference, Loid.”

“It’ll likely be boring, but I’ll try,” he laughs and waves as he walks out the door.  

It’s perfect timing for Yor that Loid must fly to another country for a conference because she too has something to do. Unbeknownst to him, she’s arranged for Anya to spend the weekend at Becky Blackwell’s home, so that’ll give her plenty of time to get where she needs to go and back home in time to pick Anya up. She doesn’t feel great about lying to Loid and Anya, and it tore at her a bit, but she also can’t turn Garden down because of the debt she believes she owes them. 

Shopkeeper gives her the details of the mission, to slip into a home on the outskirts of the city and detain a subject believed to be trading in some kind of black-market goods. That’s all he’ll say, but here’s the strange part. Shopkeeper drills into her that when she arrives at the home at the pre-determined time, take whoever she encounters. When she asks for a better description, he responds the subject often changes his appearances, so they waited for intelligence to pin down where and when he’ll be somewhere to increase the chance of catching him.

“The subject is male, and approximately 6 feet tall, on the thinner rather than heavier set side. Now remember,” Shopkeeper repeats, “Be at the location, in the bedroom by 2 o’clock am and grab the first person that shows up. It’ll be him.”

So, the male subject is about the same height and frame build as Loid, Yor notes. Isn’t it crazy how the subject’s description can easily describe Loid, she thinks to herself. ‘Idiot,’ she scolds, that’s plain silly because it also describes a lot of other people in Ostania. This person sounds like a spy or at least a shady character if they’re often hiding their appearance, ‘and that’s definitely not Loid,’ Yor thinks to herself. Loid’s a popular doctor at the hospital and frankly she would notice if he was slipping out at odd hours or do black market dealings.   

The time has come, and Yor arrives at the location two hours earlier to scope it out. It’s an unassuming home, off whitish two-story with a dark-colored roof and a fenced yard. Even the neighborhood is made up of regular citizens. There is an open carport attached on the left-side of the building, curiously with no evidence of a car ever using it such as demarcations, old oil, grease, or rubber staining the concrete floor. The open-grass landscaping is kept nicely trimmed. After checking the surrounding area, she goes inside where it is pitch black because the streetlights illuminating the sidewalk are blocked by curtains, and dead silence, not even the hum of a refrigerator. In the home’s layout, the staircase is against the left side wall opposite the carport outside, and instead of an open banister design, a wall covers the underneath portion to create a closet and raises up seamlessly into a handrail support for the stairs. She doesn’t sense anything amiss so far and creeps upstairs towards the bedroom, noting the layout for an escape route as she moves. There’s a utility room, kitchen, half-bath, living room, and a dining room downstairs, while upstairs has three bedrooms, one slightly bigger than the others, and a single bathroom. Yor notes the sparse furnishings in the home, surmising it is just a facade. Since she didn’t find anything to suggest it, the place appears to be normal building. The sound of a dog barking a short distance away puts Yor in ready mode. Only a few more minutes left as she hunkers down in place.

Tick, tock… Tick, tock… Tick, tock… in the silent room, Yor’s biological clock counts down, hyper in tuned to the slightest sounds, her heart beating, to the crickets chirping outside. She hears metal sliding, perhaps a knob, then a hinge from a door opening then closing. Then sees the faint light of the downstairs living room peeking into the bedrooms open door. He’s here. More sounds comparable to moving around comfortably in a familiar place. The faint shifting wisp from looking out a curtain. A faint soft squish of a cushion being compressed indicating he’s sitting in the one single chair instead of the couch. A click of possibly an attaché case and the rustling of papers. Now that she knows his whereabouts, Yor creeps down the stairs planning on surprising the guy from behind to knock him out. She moves as carefully as she can on the wooden stairs, realizing any step could create a sound at any moment. So far, so good, Yor doesn’t hear any indications that the subject has moved from the chair. When she gets to the v point, she is no longer protected by a complete wall because the handrail portion begins. So, she stops to scope out the room and peaks. 

A loud bang— a bullet wizzes’ mere centimeters past Yor’s face and strikes the wall. Damn it! Yor pops up ready to vault over the handrail when she hears a familiar voice. Thinking it’s Loid, she steps out of the shadows to see a tall male with a similar build, but this man has brown hair and a mustache. Shit! Yor ducks down again, what is she thinking being so stupidly reckless like that! Just because he sounds like Loid, idiot she scolds herself, she could’ve been shot! Why is Loid’s voice the first to come to mind anyway as if he’d be here? ‘Get it together!’ she snaps at herself. 

“Yor?” That familiar voice calls out. 

‘How does he know my name?! And why isn’t he doing anything?! Wait and me?! Why am I hesitating?! Damn it! Damn it!’ Yor adjusts her grips on her thorns and in one fail swoop jumps up, vaults over the rail, and lands beside the couch in the living room. 

With less than ten feet between them, it’s a tense few seconds. “Wait!” The voice calls out, but Yor is determined to do her job and lunges at him. “Damn it!” He yells as he throws a lamp from a table next to him, but she sidesteps it and swings a thorn at his head forcing him to duck and lean back to avoid it. He tries to grab her thorn while leaning to no avail, but can slap it away, spin slowly, and use natural velocity to also push her arm and step past her to get away. Facing off as she stands with her thorns raised and ready to move, he tries one last time by holding up his hands. “Yor!” He rips off his wig and fake mustache. “It’s me!”

Her ruby eyes almost flash as they widen in shock. “L-Loid?” Yor is genuinely stunned causing her arms to lower unconsciously. “It can’t be…”

“It is me!” Loid pleads… yet ‘why am I hesitating. My mission was to secure the subject found in this location. I don’t know why Yor is here, but if she’s the Thorn Princess, she’s on a mission of her own. Stop it!’ His conscious snaps. ‘Forget the mission for now idiot! It’s obvious why you’re hesitating!’ Ever since the Wheeler spy mission Loid had to face the fact his affections for Yor are no longer platonic. She and Anya have become a real family in his heart. He’d become a spy to protect and keep families like this one from suffering like he had and so, to deny and destroy this little Forger family would be contrary to his convictions and beliefs. He thought he could simply bury the feelings and carry on. If nothing was ever brought to light by the end of the mission, he would simply pursue her naturally. Well, now the quandary is, does he give in to his heart or stay loyal to the mission?  

Yor shakes her head, this must be one of the subject’s tactics she was warned about! And the fact this guy is using her husband’s face flips her wrath button. “They warned me about the appearance changes, so I know you’re a fake!” She screams with a bloodlust oozing from her tone. Narrowing her gaze, she levels a thorn in his direction. “How dare you use my beloved husband for your twisted games!” And launches at him like a chained tiger that hasn’t had a meal in ages.

With blow after blow coming his way, there’s no time for Loid to process any of this, but that doesn’t stop his mind from replaying the words ‘beloved husband’ over and over again. The thing is, he knows that at full performance he’s no match for Yor and it’s obvious she doesn’t yet believe him. But that means those two simple words are the key. He needs to find the lock and convince her quick before she really does take him out. “I’m sure they told you be suspicious, but Yor, I swear, it’s me Loid!” During a moment of deadlock, he drops the gun in a display of truth, refusing to use it on her. 

“Liar!” Yor screams.

When Yor turns her head, ‘did I just see a quick sparkle in her eyes from tears?’ Loid wonders. “You asked me to not be so perfect, well here I am, imperfect, a spy who’d just destroyed his mission. Is that not enough?”

“Lies!” She screams again, but this time the tears are fully evident as a few spills down her cheek. Yor presses forward again, the faster she ends this, the faster she stops this fraudulent pain. She swings her thorn at his face, but he moves quick enough that she ends up slashing his chest instead. The man makes a hiss-like sound and covers his chest, touching and revealing the damage on his red-stained hand. She could see it cut through about seven inches across the upper center while the torn fabric of the man’s shirt and jacket flap open to show a painful but not deadly strike… But it’s enough to make Yor think twice. Maybe it’s because of the Loid face, because her instant reaction is as if came home injured. “Oh, no!” She drops the thorns and starts to reach out to help him, and she almost succeeds when she snaps out of it. She moves back a few steps, forgetting to pick up her thorns in the process. Her mind is just reeling. What if this is Loid, can she complete the job and kill him? Or will she choose to stay loyal to the Garden? And it’s not just about Loid, what about Anya? She can’t, just can’t hurt this child who’s become, real or not, her daughter. 

The reason Yor continues to do this gruesome job is to stop children from becoming orphans, so how could she live with herself after turning Anya into one? Wait! ‘He’s fake, he’s fake! You’ll protect Anya by stopping him!’ “I won’t let you trick me!” 

“I’m not!” Loid yells as he throws his arms up to block a punch to his face. But this time Yor appears to be tuning him out and hyper focusing on the fight as she throws punches, straight jabs, and kicks at a pace that he can barely keep up with. It’s just like the mock fight at the fake castle where Yor was winning and if she hadn’t knocked out, he would have been the one ending up on the ground out cold. For every four or five jousting strikes from Yor, Loid will get in one punch or maybe a kick. He doesn’t want to actually hurt her, just keep her from hurting him too badly. Her internal turmoil is evident by the tears she sheds despite her unrelenting blows. “Remember the night I asked you to marry me, and I lost the ring because of those bad men?” Even having to psychologically manipulate Yor hurts Loid, but he knows he cannot stop. “How about the first time I met your brother? Remember when we almost kissed but Yuri stopped us? Or that day in the park when you knocked me out and I woke up sleeping on your lap?” He manages to bear hug Yor from the back briefly. “Yor please! I… I‘ve fallen in love with you!”

Yor breaks free from his grip and knocks him backwards by jamming her elbows into his abdomen. She spins around fuming and crying. “See, fake! Loid doesn’t love me, it’s just for Anya! You bastard!” She makes a move and grabs one of her thorns. 

The genuine tears tell Loid Yor is at the breaking point. As soon as she grabs the thorn and plants her stance ready to rush him again, Loid does the only thing left he can think of. He drops to his knees with his hands up in concession, his head lower and shoulders slump in defeat. Surprisingly, it works immediately and Yor stops. He exhales loudly with genuine exhaustion and pain. “I tried so hard to deny that I’ve fallen for you, even when it’s right in front of my face. But for the first time since the war took my parents, something other than stopping another one finally took precedence.” Loid looks up with a genuine half-smile and tears streaming down his cheeks too. “You and Anya have become the family I lost. I lost one, just like you and Yuri, and I don’t want to lose another.”

“H-How are you so sure?” Yor’s heart is wavering, and mind is spinning. She tries so hard to ignore his words, these feelings roiling inside of her and do her job, but how can she? The longer she fights, those words circle around, and becomes twice as painful. Her own jabs cutting her deeply instead.

“More and more my resolve started cracking. I made mistakes or was distracted in ways that never happened before. Heh… Unyielding loyalty and emotional numbness… It’s how I became Twilight,” Loid shrugs. “I don’t regret it. I want to protect people, but…” He looks up with a genuinely tired smile, “guess the hearts something no one can control forever. I’d start thinking about you during the day, sometimes catch myself looking at you, but the final evidence… remember the night I came home when you asked me to let you help me, then Yuri came barging in? Well, that day he and I in disguise were after the same person and there came a point after he’d shot me in the arm, I hesitated to shoot back because I didn’t want to hurt you, so I just knocked him out and got out of there...”

A clanging sound causes Loid to look up. Yor has dropped the thorn, her body is shaking, she’s quietly sobbing, almost catatonic. He instantly stumbles to his feet to catch her as she sways, gently pulling her down with him into a seated position in his lap. “It’s okay, shhh, it’s okay,” Loid coos, hugging her tightly, resting his face to hers while soothing, smoothing his hand up and down her back with gentle pressure as their salty wet cheeks stick together. 

“I can’t do it,” Yor blubbers, “I can’t, not to Anya… I love you both too much! I’m a failure!”

“Yor,” he clasps her cheeks and forces her to look at him. “You are not a failure!” Loid shakes her, “Yor you are perfect! Look at how great of a mother you are to Anya and a sister to Yuri! They couldn’t be luckier to have you, and neither can I! I’m glad for that chance encounter at the tailors, because I couldn’t have chosen a better wife and mother to create a family with!”

“You-You really think so?” The absolute hope in her eyes… Her ruby gaze sparkling from all the moisture.

Loid smiles and caresses her cheek. “Even Yuri would have to agree with me.” Yor snorts a laugh at his choice of words, finally showing a glimmer of light. He laughs too as he cups and gently thumbs her cheek, keeping their eyes locked while leaning in. “You’re so beautiful…” he murmurs, with bated breath, their eyes closing slowly until the pressure of their lips seals the moment. 

For once, neither are nervous or scared for the long overdue and dormant awakening of such a powerful emotional synergy like love refuses to allow reason any chance to halt this beautifully passionate moment. Yor’s soft, sultry lips against his, short circuits the fastidious Twilight into a different sort of mission. He’s slept with countless women as part of his job, just going through the motions in a dispassionate manner— so, to make love to someone he cares for finally takes his virginity. Even their battle itself, the adrenaline rush of physical combat still runs through their veins. He’s always been amazed by Yor’s strength and physical fighting capabilities that meets and exceeds his own, making her his perfect match in every way. Frankly, it stirs more than just his heart as his primal side cannot ignore the thought anymore of her thighs cinched around him.       

In a slow, fluid motion, Loid guides Yor into a supine position on the carpet, soothing away her reactive tension by pressuring his kisses and threading his fingers through her hair close to the scalp, and supporting her head in his hand. He lies beside her on his side with a leg stationed between hers as support, so she doesn’t feel trapped yet and reacts because he knows she doesn’t have any experience in this field. “Does this feel okay?” Loid quietly questions between the heated kisses, “should I stop?” 

Oh, Yor feels the hard subject of this act pressing against her, yet she shakes her head ‘no’ whole heartedly without thinking of the answer. She’s spent her whole life caring for her brother and being an assassin, but she’s still a woman who feels biological urges. The girls at work often spoke of this topic and Yor will just nod along or feel embarrassed just listening, yet curious. “I-I want this too…” She blushes and hides her gaze, “but I don’t know what to do.”  

“Just like learning to fight,” he chuckles and places more amorous kisses. “I’ll lead, you follow.”

A look of happy relief floods Yor’s expression. “O-Okay! I trust you.”

Those three words… Loid pauses briefly from it because he knows she means it, but after just having learned they were enemies, it’s still a surprise to say it so easily. His eyes soften, almost tearing. “I trust you too.” 

He sits up and removes his jacket and shirt, bringing a bright flush to Yor’s cheeks. It’s not the first time she’s seen his chest, but it is the first time she’s really seen his chest in that way. She sits up as well and after Loid helps to unzip the back of her dress, she slips everything off until nothing is left. Now it’s his turn to blush since it is the first time ever seeing her like this. Loid unconsciously sucks in a breath of air to relieve the lack of oxygen to his brain, and at the same time a “wow” slips out causing Yor to hide her body with her arms. So, he quickly finishes removing the rest of his clothes before the embarrassment changes her mind. On the flip side of this duo, when Yor sees everything, he has to offer, her eyes widen and stares at Loid with the look of a lioness eyeing a fresh piece of meat. Something inside of Loid snaps. With a partial growl, from seated on his haunches, he suddenly grabs Yor by the waist and pulls her over and onto, straddling his lap. 

She squeaks in surprise from the move, gasping when the feel of his hard and fleshy cock presses dead center to her folds. Her arms wrap around his neck instinctively to keep from falling, but between his left hand and his thighs holding her up from her rump, Yor is securely in place. She’s given no time to process, as Loid’s mouth latches onto her right nape, trailing pecks and sucking gently but firmly along the skin of her shoulder and back. Only fevered moans break free from her, and thighs clamping tighter around his waist, pressing, and rubbing, fueling the smoldering burn in her core. 

Loid continues his oral ministrations, leaning back while using his thighs to raise her up and arch her back, his right-hand assists and guides her voluminous breasts within range. His tongue licks and pulses, pressures and sucks at the supple skin leaving pin-prick hemorrhages and future bruises, while his teeth graze the nipples to pull shuddering shivers and high-pitched moans that are music to his ears. There’s a throbbing ache ever present to remind him other parts want to play too, but with this being such a special time, there’s no way he’s rushing it. Yor isn’t making it any easier on him. The longer he toys and teases, the harder her hips start grinding in desperation. So, he changes tactics. Without warning, Loid puts Yor on her back startling and causing her legs to release their grip. He quickly shifts into a semi prone position, lifting her hips, hiking her legs over his shoulders, and diving in between her thighs to dine out. It happens so fast, all Yor can do is gasp and cry out a lustful moan that sends a shiver racing along his spine. 

The sounds of a salaciously wet dining experience melding with Yor’s breathy mewls and erotic moans fill the air. It’s like nothing she’s ever experienced before. Even the high of taking out some really bad men never gave her this much of a rush! Heaven help her, when Loid sucks hard on her clit, the stars flash and dance behind her eye lids, but when his teeth graze them… wow, the intense electrical shocks rippling through her body are sending her to the moon. “Loid!” Yor springs up onto her elbows in shock as his tongue pushes into her entrance, but quickly flops back with an arch to her back when his mouth forms a vacuum seal and the pressure along with him violating her hole becomes too much. “Loid!!” She cries out again, fueling him to push his tongue harder and faster to stimulate this area rich in nerve-endings. The aching, burning coil building within the pit of her stomach is too tight… Yor doesn’t know what this really means, but it’s taking away any power she has to control her actions. His name forms on her lips but cuts off before it can come out when a sense of an explosive force rips through her entire body. 

Loid braces as Yor’s thighs clamp down violently on his head. Her whole body locks up in a low bridge for a few seconds before collapsing into shivering convulsions from the orgasm. Her amorous cries fill the room like a beautiful serenade— the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He holds fast, using his hands to hold her thighs and hips down as best he can contrary to her inhuman strength while slowing down on his tongue tirade to bring her back down to earth. When he feels her starting to relax, he lets her body slip back onto the carpet a heavy breathing sheen of a mess.

At that moment, Loid slides up and partially to the side of her body, propping himself on his elbows briefly, leaning in to sweep up her lips and kiss some of the sweat away from her brow. She smiles at him after he kisses her lips. “Did you enjoy that?” She nods ‘yes.’ “Good, part two now,” he grins.

“Huh?” Her eyes pop open wide. It’s not over?

Yor’s eyes track his every move while he slips between her thighs, sits back on his haunches, and lines up. She bites her lip and breathing hitches as she feels the stretching pressure from Loids cock forcing its way through. No pain, just a tingling sensation left from her still sensitive core that causes her to shiver. As she stares up at his solid frame, her eyes moving over old battle scars, Yor’s heart skips a beat at the feeling of being joined to this man. Each slight movement he makes reinforcing that physical connection. She blushes a bit when she catches him staring down at her with the same indecency in his gaze. If sex always feels like this, she’s been missing out on so much!

With her pinned hair now mussed and errant strands framing her head, Loid can’t help but feel proud of catching this deadly angel all for himself. Part of him wants to ravage her body and soul, but not tonight. Enough of the heated exchanges, this is the first time he’s ever wanted to make love to a woman… and mean it. He moves into a mostly prone position, left leg extended back, with the right still based on the knee for leverage. He then guides her left leg up and coaxes it to hook behind his thigh, gripping and pulling her hip and pelvis tightly to his. The deep penetration and friction from skin rubbing against skin causes Yor to gasp a little with a shiver. Loid finally leans in, his left elbow bearing his weight, allowing his chest to settle over hers and head come to rest beside hers. He suckles at her neck while grinding and thrusting, starting off slow and steady, using the pressure and friction of their skin to heat things up. Through measured undulations— repetitive grinding that pulls mewling purrs, interspliced with a sudden longer length thrust that makes Yor whine or squeak from the deep hit. Repeating, Loid pays close attention to what gains the most rewards to service his princess in the way she deserves. This feels absolutely amazing… but it also means that Loid is hastening his own demise quickly with this position. When he feels the rising tide get too high, he changes positions slightly with both legs extending and slows down, shifting to less grinding and longer, deeper thrusts. He grips her hip to hold it from moving then pounds into her. 

Yor tightens her hook around his thigh, and grips to the back of his neck as well to make sure it goes in nice and deep. She’s loving this more than the grinding and wants to make sure she communicates her desires loud and clear. Each time Loid tries to slow down, she uses her powerful thigh muscles to pull him back to her. While it feels amazing to her, Yor’s aim is to make sure he’s satisfied too, not just her… whether he likes it or not! 

“Y-You’re gonna make me…” Loid grunts and grits his teeth as he holds back the dam. If Yor keeps this up…

“Don’t stop…” she whines, “don’t stop…” Whether she realizes it or not, her inner muscles are doubly squeezing his engorged cock to its straining point with each tightening of her thighs. 

His thrusts grow haggard and uncontrolled, breathing labored as his straining voice raises an octave… “Yor…” Loid squeezes his eyes shut when the pressure erupts, continuing to plow through the pulsing stream. 

When it finally slows, his body slumps while his breathing evens out. He kisses her lips and wraps his arms around her body, rolling them both into a side position where he curls their hips to stay connected. “Yor… I love you,” Loid whispers. Love sure makes sex feel even more amazing.  

“I love you too, Loid.” She rests her forehead to his, “But what am I going to do? Garden will expect a dead body.”

Loid thinks for a moment. It’s true they can’t compromise Yor’s standing with the Garden because that could cause more problems. “So, we’ll give them a body,” he responds. 

Yor sits up. “I don’t understand. How do we just find a dead body?”

Loid sits up as well. “I’ll take care of it.” 

The clock is ticking to create a cover for this whole situation. Loid knows WISE is going to question about Yor learning of Loid’s Twilight persona and whether she can truly be trusted, but that’ll wait for now. He calls up a sleeping Frankie and tells him to bring a prisoner that’s locked up at WISE’s headquarters to the house using the underground access tunnels, making sure to request a tall and slim guy that’ll fit the stature of who Shopkeeper believes is Twilight. Frankie finally arrives around 4 am. Loid opens the door of the closet under the stairs, moves a couple boxes, then undoes a secret hatch in the floor. He then helps Frankie bring an unconscious man up a flight of stairs from a basement looking room; Loid’s got the man’s upper half while Frankie carries the legs. As soon as they get into the living room, Frankie drops the legs when he sees Yor standing there in her Thorn Princess garb. 

“W-Wh-What?!” Frankie points at her. “Yor is the Thorn Princess! Wait, what went on—” he glances around the disheveled room with furniture upended or trashed. “Did you two fight?” His eyes get big as he now turns to Loid. “Was she supposed to kill you!” 

Yor just smiles and waves not knowing what else to do.

“We’ll explain once we’re safe,” Loid scolds Frankie. “Right now, I just need to make sure Garden doesn’t suspect Yor of anything.”

“Ohhhh.” Frankie realizes. “Hence the body.”

The two men help Yor kill the man and make it look like he’s been in a fight with the legendary Thorn Princess. A few slashes from her thorns do the trick. As they work, Frankie can’t help but keep asking, so Loid and Yor answer, explaining what happened that night— minus the sex, and that yes, they come clean about their feelings. Frankie teases Loid that it’s a good thing, because he didn’t have a chance against Thorn Princess, which made Yor blush fiercely and try to undermine her abilities. Of course, Loid tries to save face, but he does admit Yor is stronger than him. Finally, everything’s set. Body is staged. And the sun is going to rise very soon, so it’s time to go. Yor will slip out like she’d planned to originally, while Loid and Frankie will use the escape tunnel. Just as they’re about to go their separate ways, Loid gives Yor a kiss.

Frankie who’s halfway down the steps and can still see everything— “Ugh, you’re gonna talk about her even more now to tease me,” he sneers though there’s no malice to his tone. “Hurry up and let’s go!” 

While Yor blushes from the comment, Loid just ignores the man and gives her one last grinning peck on the cheek. “See you at home.”

[unhappy-sometimes]

fanfic writers: “im gonna have anya be away at a sleepover so loid and yor can have sexy time >:)”

meanwhile bond:

[pjs-everyday]

*immediately loses their cool* lmao 🤓 // linework >> grayscale // ko-fi

[localfandom]

im sobbing rn(all of the franky and loid duo fanfics are just twiyor stuff with franky as a bg character)

[1sadcat]

dat ass

[selfetishizing]

show me your chest on mine

loid forger/yor briar | 🔞 EXPLICIT 🔞 | 2 chapters | 9.1k words

pining, scars, mentions of war, resolved sexual tension, love confessions

An active imagination and late night contemplations.

Chapter 1 | AO3

Yor waits until she hears the click of his bedroom door before twirling in her pink pleated cocktail gown. Her skirt lifts up. Pinions sprout from her ankles. She flutters and sticks her tongue out to taste the sparkles and confetti falling from the ceiling.

What a joy life is, Yor  thinks, to be able to spend time with him!

She does this very routine of spinning on calloused toes and humming happily after every date with Loid once she has convinced herself that it’s the best date she had ever been on, and that she is close to piercing Loid’s ever-distant heart (just another inch to the left!). Though Yor was certain that tonight was going to be the night that Loid throws himself at her heels and confesses his true undying love for her, she couldn’t have been more satisfied with progress. The hours she had spent braiding and then unbraiding her hair, swiping dress after dress over her bare form in front of her reflection, and stabbing emeralds and pearls through her earlobe proved to pay off.

Yor crashes onto her duvet face first, kicking her feet and giggling into her pillow as she—as silly as it sounds— reminisces thirty minutes ago:

The date was not special. She was beautiful (so Loid told her after a quick once-over) and he was fetching (so Yor did not tell him) and they had dinner. Their relationship had progressed to the point that hand-holding did not trigger her impulse to clench her fist and launch it toward a somatic site. Tonight, her palms did not sweat in his hold—a huge development on her part. She could not say the same for Loid, who would steal glances at her and only make his inferiority to her all the more obvious. It was strange. As she got better over time at receiving lovers’ touches, Loid seemed to regress, losing the poise and suaveness that she always admired about him. Loid had become very uncool. It was dangerous to their fake marriage. It was adorable. It was infuriating. So they clinked wine glasses filled with apple juice and toasted to Anya learning to sort her light clothes from dark, another finished article page, and another file delivered to a cubicle. They shared a slice of fresh cream cake: Loid fed her a strawberry and she watched him turn into one as she wiped away the juices from her lips with the back of her hand. He was so uncool. Then, they walked home. Loid refused to spare her even a glimpse. Though it was endearing and boyish at first, she had become apprehensive. Tonight was supposed to be the night he would tell her. Where did his daring go? Yor had thought it must have been a miscalculation on her part. It must have been the dress. The plait. Or simply, it could have been the fact that he had gotten rather bored of her.  “Is this what it was like after dozens of dates with your wife?” whispered Yor in childish frustration. “You…don’t even want to look my way anymore.” Loid gazed at her—of course he would after a silly lament like that—stopping them in their tracks. Yor was pouting—this she knew by the way his brows knitted. He opened his mouth to speak before, to her dismay, looking away from her again. “It’s something like this,” he said, stare flitting from her eyes to her lips. She was too hot with embarrassment, with longing, to heed his breath on her cheek. “Though, usually by the third date, I wouldn't have to ask.” And he was near, so near that when she finally took notice of their proximity, he had only left the scent of his cologne in her hair when he pulled away just before they could touch. Loid cupped a hand behind his neck and apologized.  “I don’t know what possessed me to do that,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry, Yor. I must be getting ahead of myself.”  This time, Yor wasn’t vexed by his wayward eyes. Yor understood him. It turned out that they weren’t so different from each other; Loid was just beginning to take after her, and her, him. Yor nodded, leaving the rest to time. He had given her fodder for daydreams. The least she should do was give him grace. And they walked home, shoulders brushing every so often. Yor could have sworn she heard him exhale at each gentle thrill.

So there she had it. A near-kiss that, surely, will develop into a real kiss. The next date will seal the rest of her life—their life together. 

Loid will be kind, polite. He’ll hug her first, then tuck the errant strands of hair behind her ear. Like porcelain, he’ll cup her face in those big hands that seemed to carry the weight that she was slowly beginning to grasp. Loid will look at her with all the love stored in his heart and she'll melt there in his arms just at the smallest contact with warmth. He’ll say something sweet— You’re so pretty— and she would close her eyes, inviting him to press his lips onto hers.

The moment that they touch, Yor knows, will be glorious. Fireworks will explode. Pulses will be one. His lips will tickle hers and she’ll laugh against him. He’ll try to silence her with more kisses but she’ll just keep laughing to spite sleepless nights like tonight—nights she’d toss and turn in her bed over ruminations on their undefined relationship. There will no longer be a need for he-loves-mes and he-loves-me-nots. He will gift bouquets to cultivate in glazed hand-painted vases. She’ll keep them alive for as long as they love each other— forever— make crowns out of daisies for Anya, for Loid, twining the stalks tightly like the invisible bonds that drew them under this roof.

He will kiss her again and again until all she can taste are strawberries. Kisses will run down like thick syrup down her chin. She will wipe them away, fingers staining red, and lick them clean. His kisses will be so cloyingly sweet that she will be lulled to a pleasant sleep. And Loid will watch her slumber, waiting until she wakes up to kiss her all over again and send her back to those silly things, those wondrous daydreams.

Yor waits for that night. For now, memories will have to suffice.

The pressure of Loid’s hand on her back as he led her through crowds. (Yor unzips her dress, lets it pool at her feet. She is floating on a cloud.) His scent, strong, clean, lingering on her cheek. (She unties the cream ribbon in her braid; her hair falls down her back  in waves.) The bob of his throat as he unbuttoned the collar of shirt, loosened his tie. (She unclasps her bra. She is cold and hot at once.) The hum of his voice purring in her ear. (Yor hugs herself, leaning her profile over her shoulder as if Loid was behind her, coaxing her.) His breath, still hot on her mouth, moments before eclipse. (Yor makes sure that she is all there. She brushes the tips of her fingertips across the ridges of her arm muscles, down the contour of her sides. Yor doesn't mean to sigh when she traces the curves of her chest, holding them full in open palms.)

When she looks down at her body, she is awash in pink. In the veil of romance, shadowy hands map over the expanse of her torso, exploring unmarked territories and planting lilies. They give names to them— stunning, lovely —compliments he has uttered to her many times. His words tickle her ear and she gasps sharply, cupping her mouth immediately to swallow it back down into the pit of her belly.

Loid is all over her—his cologne, his fingertips burning her skin, his whispers caressing places most intimate. Yor, trembling, burrows  in her bed, feverish with want .

Imagination seemed to be a formidable opponent as she writhed against herself, resisting the throes of pleasure. It was wrong—yes, she knew Loid didn't deserve to be subject to her debauched fantasies. But what was she to do with all of the love given to her by Loid? What else was there to do but sprinkle it over herself—pixie dust— to somehow summon him over her so that she would no longer have to wrestle with anticipation, with loneliness? 

Yor wonders if there's a word for being close and far at the same time as she presses her thighs together, biting her knuckles to muffle her moans. She feels desire curl in her stomach so intensely that she has to lay on her side and hook a leg over a pillow, grounding her pelvis against it for purchase. Though she resigned herself to not using her hands to temper her salacious reveries, the body always finds a way to release. Her hips rock slowly at first, relenting hesitantly in her futile attempts at control. Electricity shoots from her core and strikes ripples throughout her body. She whimpers, ashamed by how desperate she had become in her pursuit of skinship—ashamed at how good it felt with just the mere thought of Loid beneath her, taking in the force of each of her thrusts and returning it tenfold. He’d make noises she had never heard before—grunts, groans, whines. Her name in long airy drawls, stretched out into song, into prayer. His urgent pleas— more!— as she fell onto him over and over again, pumping herself of all of the affection she held for him.

Loid, always so composed, so collected, crying actual tears! Crying from tension, from pain, from pleasure with every snap of Yor’s hips connecting to his own! What would it take, she wonders, for him to sob ? A whisper? A finger rubbing wedding wings and infinities on his chest? A split-kiss? Her hand caught in the silk of his hair, tugging, grasping, as she had her way with him? 

Yor, in a hazy stupor, sits up and straddles her pillow, practicing on her model. She closes her eyes and listens to everything in her thrum. She waits a moment, lets her recollections of Loid suspend from the ceiling for reference, before tentatively squeezing her heartbeat.

Her phantom lover manifests. He wraps his arms lazily around her waist and pushes her flush against him. Yor gasps and he chuckles insouciantly, sneering at her credulousness. The cold flicker of his eyes tell her everything she needs to know—that she is a wicked girl. Indelicate. He is mocking her lack of restraint. Her longing. Their languishing. 

“It’s something,” he whispers lowly, collapsing his open palms on the flesh of her buttocks. He grips. Hard. “Like this.”  

And he takes her. Again, and again, and again.

Humiliation becomes tangible and she, lust-drunk and delirious, bounces pathetically on it. Yor throws her head back and sighs his name, an incantation and repentance in a single breath. She is liquid, has melted all over the petals of her pillowcase. He plays with her, kneads her, until all strength leaches from her, until she is but a shallow imprint and damp sheets. She is nothing.

A cry of frustration, of rapture tears from her throat as the mounting pressure reaches its precipice. To have felt the frisson of dreams, only to be left unfulfilled… 

A knock at the door. “Yor?” 

Bittersweet.

Chapter 2 | AO3

Twilight can’t sleep.

Not that he sleeps most nights. If ever there's a moment left to himself, his mind will almost always run strange equations and probabilities. He visualizes these numbers as candidates moving across a politicized landscape, and Twilight would close his eyes and lay in his bed, plotting every possible outcome and how it would affect his workload, and how his workload would cut into the time reserved for his girls.

(The pawns’ movements were unpredictable. He could never get a checkmate.)

Sometimes, ghosts will visit him: it will be his mother, a woman whose face he can no longer remember. Some nights, she’ll assume the appearance of a woman he’d seen matching that description: a tailor, a baker, or a stranger he had passed on the street. It will be a comrade from the war: a boy in a uniform two times his size, rattling on knobby knees. It will be lives he has taken: suits with bullets square in the forehead, aristocrats wan from sleight-of-hand poisonings, and boys from the other side of the border—boys distinguished by the colors of their uniforms, the make of their guns. 

Twilight takes them all in stride. He welcomes them into these penitent walls, lets them stand around his bed, hanging their featureless faces over him as he wracked his brain for names, voices. 

(They never come. They never leave.)

Tonight, however, he was visited by a peony pink vision of Yor. She stands at the foot of his bed, hands politely folded in front of her skirt. The plait of her hair rested neatly on her right shoulder, ribbon star-bright under the faint glow of the waxing moon. He blinks, once, twice. Yor is still there.

Her expression is unchanging. Bordeaux eyes twinkle like jewels. Night glistens on the pout of  peach lips; Twilight blushes at the fleeting impulse that takes him. He refrains from indecency by imagining a smile there instead of his open mouth.

Outside, a magnolia branch raps on his window, on the cage of his thumping heart. Wind pushes past the jambs; white petals flutter like feathers from an angel and draw toward Yor in some ceremonial homecoming. They sway as they descend to his toes. Yor is still.

Somehow, the sight of her unsettled him more than the past. Yor, whom he was beginning to learn—every quirk and every wrinkle—was unreadable to him now. Why had it been her, he wondered, that haunted him? She was in the other room, beating, being; specters, on the other hand, were not of this world.

It does not take him long to process the absurdity in his mind. Twilight theorizes that with dusk came a certain death—the shedding of an old self for rebirth the following morning. In front of him is Yor before the midnight threshold, just as he left her. 

Twilight has the inclination to call out to her, beckon her to bed next to him so that she may rest, release back into the ether. Instead, he turns on his side, screwing his eyes shut as he remembers their walk home together, side-by-side.

He should have kissed her.

Twilight wonders about the other characters he had played in the past before—shy research assistants, cocky old-money heirs, steely accountants—and wonders if muscle and mind remembered those discarded identities at that pivotal moment of contact.

Loid Forger was confident, suave. And Yor tonight was dazzling, willing, waiting. 

Loid should have kissed her.

Twilight, pushing his pillow over his face, groans. It would have made sense. They'd gone out together so many times, held her hand in his own. He danced with her, let his fingers trail down the curve of her spine. He had let his touch there remain; he relished in knowing that Yor never thought anything of it—that it would be a moment thought to have been lost to time. But Twilight knew that quiet strokes were his to keep even long after this mission was complete.

Maybe he’s beginning to understand himself. There was selfishness in distance; as much as he pushed it down, there was hope that he'd be able to emerge as himself to Yor and Anya. No longer would he have to dote, to care under false pretenses. Yor would kiss him, learn to love him as him—whoever that is. Not Loid, nor that boy before the first bombing.  Twilight isn't so sure himself.

What he is sure of, however, is the burn of his ears, the thump-thump, thump-thump of his heart whenever she’s near. And for quite some time, he had known this: by the way he hides into himself when she gazes at him, smiles; by the way he stutters when she tilts her head and calls out a name he refuses to claim; the way he aches in bed at night just at the mere thought of her… Every facet of his being, those hidden and on display…

He was in love with Yor Briar.

It was a love so strong that he became ill with miserable desire. Though they had spent all evening together, he was tender from missing her. Morning is too long a wait. The irrational urge to leave his bed and whisk away dreams to have her under his palms, warm and requiting unlike the afterimage before him, swept over him like a spring storm. 

Twilight mutters to himself. What was he going to do? Knock on her door? Wake her up? What would be his excuse then—“Hi, sorry about earlier. I forgot to kiss you, but I remembered just now as I laid in bed thinking about you. Shall we?” Knowing Yor, she would believe every word, failing to pick up the motives underneath seemingly innocuous invitation. He wanted more than a kiss. He wanted to consume her, wholly, fully, have her always be a part of him—body and soul. 

So intense was his desire that he became feverish from longing. He curls pathetically on his side and groans, pressing his damp forehead into the heels of his palms. The central nervous system worked in strange ways. It couldn’t distinguish embarrassment or fear from excitement. From the top of the head to the toes, one’s entire body flushed from a self-induced affliction caused by memories and confused feelings. It’d cause perspiration, arrhythmia, a closing throat struggling for air. Something close to death.

Twilight could have wept from the sensations—pleasantly warm and bitterly frigid—attacking him.  Briefly, he wonders why the body worked against itself in such instances. What made nature so averse to love? What made him so averse to it?

Somehow, he gets out of bed, walks to his bedroom door. His hand is on the knob, and just before he passes through, he looks back at the vision of Yor. She faces him. A smile encourages him to go on. 

He turns his wrist, steps out. The apartment, bathed in azure, looks entirely foreign to him. The fractals of light from the window splintered onto the walls as if beamed through a prism, prophesying near-futures in imagery Twilight—learned and cunning as he was—could not make out.  What happens from this point forward will decide the rest of their lives under this roof. This he knows by the way he, like a man possessed, draws to Yor’s bedroom door. 

A home in metamorphosis: this was the decisive act that will fracture the chrysalis—the decisive act that would conceive  an entirely new man. Like the morning soon approaching, crossing over into Yor’s bedroom would shed yesterday’s Twilight, leaving it to hang on a coat rack to be destroyed along with the shifting scenery of the apartment.

Holding his breath, he primes a knuckle to knock on her door.

The rustling of sheets, then a sob.

Twilight steps back, cowardice pushing him back against a wall. He closes his eyes, sucking in hair through grit teeth as he reconsiders his foolish attempts to satiate his yearning.

You're far gone, Twilight muses. Not of this world. Up in the galaxy between two undiscovered moons amidst abandoned orbiters. You’re stranded. Alone. Maybe you were the ghost this entire time.

Far gone. Stranded. Alone. It doesn't matter. Right now, Twilight is so close. Yor is so close. Behind that door, she is there, awake, stirring, and… 

Another sob.

“Yor?”

Before he could understand the weight of rapping on her door, the name sizzling hot on his tongue, everything stops. He stands motionless, shocked he had been so brazen. Twilight tells himself that this was for the mission for the thousandth time—that the fate of the world hinged on whether or not Yor would let him in. If he could not get his affairs settled tonight, how was he going to face Yor come morning? How was he going to face her, he naively wonders, for the rest of their lives?

So he waits, though she may have begun to feign sleep. He knew it would have been more cruel to walk away and leave her to weep into the night. This time, he’ll be there for her, even if a barrier is between them. 

Yor is light on her feet. He hears the drum of her soles against the wood, faint as droplets falling from eaves right after a sunshower. Twilight remembers about her pastel gown from this evening; he imagines a fairytale ballerina behind that door practicing all five positions, stepping gracefully to and fro as she contemplated facing another unremarkable suitor.

Twilight smiles despite himself, hiding it away with a hand in the event that his fabled lover presents herself to him. Quiet as Yor was, there was no mistaking the creaking of the floor beneath her weight as she paced nervously around her room. She was just as bashful as he was. It was reassuring, endearing, considering how much she— how much he—had changed over these past few months.

Yor, whom he had always thought good-natured and gracious, pouted at him tonight. Pouted over a make-believe ex-wife. Pouted over his unfocused gaze—that it looked everywhere but her. Jealousy is a dazzling color on Yor—this, Twilight realized after seeing the way her cheeks puffed and rounded, her lips pursed and puckered—ripe for the picking.

Yor’s beauty was unquestionable. Her cuteness, however, could fell a man—wring him of all thought and color and feeling until he was all out and empty; reduce him to heartbeats when he’s by himself at night, ill with visions of her darling visage.

Maybe it was just a matter of reframing. Twilight had thought that if he gave himself to Yor, he would be lost completely. What he failed to realize was that there was the real chance of reciprocity in honesty. 

“Loid.” She peers through the tiny slit of her door, hand curved over its edge to indicate that she will not close it on him. “Hi.”

“Sorry. Were you asleep?”

Yor pauses a moment, deciding whether or not she should tell the truth. She shakes her head.

Honesty.

“Did you need something?”

“No, I—” Honesty! “I couldn't sleep either.”

Choosing honesty gets you nowhere, it seems, as Yor only receded further back into her quarters until only half of her face peeked from a narrow space. Did his response from their date make her more conscious?  Was she terrified too—of love and its rejections? Its possible requitals? 

“I was thinking about what I said tonight,” says Twilight, taking a chance. There are tremors in his throat. He persists. Despite, despite, despite. “I was thinking about you.”

The door opens slightly—an assent to a more subliminal plea. Yor rests her cheek against the edge of the frame, frantically looking for the right words to say. She settles with, “Wait here,” and scuttles back into her room, door gently clicking behind her.

Twilight can hear the swish of clothes sliding against the floor. He smiles, tickled by the thought of Yor haphazardly kicking her gown underneath her bed to tidy up for an unexpected guest. She's so kind, ponders Twilight, to think of him as someone worth neatening for. Someone of some importance to her.

Twilight coughs behind a fist, erasing the elation from his expression as Yor approaches the door again. It clicks open and she steps to the side, gesturing for him to go in.

Twilight can see her fully now: the long black wave of her hair untwined from its bow. Strands stick to the pearl of her face like tendrils of a flower, swirling spirals down to her neck, her shoulders. She looks feathered, blurred softly by starlight. Ethereal. Yor had always been charming but to have caught her in the liminal space just before morning, in this so by so room made familiar, made dear now that he has passed through it, he realized there was divinity in woman. Forward as it may be, selfish as he has become, Twilight thinks that he could gaze at her forever: Yor in her nightgown, undone by day, stripped of pretenses and dazed by the intimacy of two pulses in her secret hideout…

How cute.

Postcards from her brother flipped to their written side taped on the wall alongside Anya frescos. Family portraits in gilded frames: Briar, Forger, Briar-Forger. Jewelry and other knicknacks he had gifted her displayed proudly on her desk, her nightstand. White lace curtains swaying fitfully with the wind from an open window, each panel of fabric dancing and entwining each other like two shy lovers. Yor sitting down on the floral covers of her bed, a hand folded atop the other. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” she whispers, light as a breeze. She preoccupies herself by folding and unfolding a crocheted throw, unsure if she’d like it laid over her lap or on her pillows. He opts for distance, sitting on the red chair at her bedside, recouping his lost courage. She looks at him from beneath hooded eyelids, demure, girlish, sighing whenever their stares meet. “It’s funny. We’ve lived together all this time, and yet this is the first time you’ve really been inside my room.”

Twilight manages a chuckle, twiddling his thumbs as he takes in Yor’s quaint dwelling. The warmth of it all overtakes him and he feels tender with faint nostalgia for something he can’t quite name or remember. “It is, isn’t it?”

It doesn’t take long for vulnerability. Yor tilts her head, warming up to his comforting tone. “Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

He hums. “It’s very you.”

“Very me.” She smiles. “Hm. What’s that like?” 

“Well,” breathes Twilight, “it’s inviting. I feel like I’ve known this place my whole life in some distant past, some other life. As soon as I walked in, it was like—whoosh! ” He mimics a wave with his hand. “I’ve definitely been here before. Sat in this very chair. Had this exact conversation.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Yor titters, pivoting her body in his direction. “A man like yourself must have been in countless girls’ rooms. Mine is no different.”

Intrigued and somewhat flattered by her observations, he, unabashedly, urges her on. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re always sure of yourself and never leave anything unfinished. That’s what they call persistent, right? A trait among public enemy number one for girl parents.” She taps on her lip with a finger, seriously contemplating his question. Yor is so lovely. “And you’re handsome and pleasant to be around. There’s no doubt that you are popular with women. So surely you've seen a lot of rooms and decor… Among other things.” 

Among other things. The phrase hangs in the air, watching them with big beady yellow eyes. Yor avoids its stare, but Twilight acknowledges it, makes its acquaintance. The implication is not lost on him. Yor is no fool—a man at her door at this hour can only mean one thing. Courteously as he tries to play it, Twilight— Yor— knows he is, at the root, a debauched man. The lives he has led flow away from his  body like a river’s downstream current until he is nothing but his rudimentary person—a creature starved of heat, of friction. 

“Persistent, handsome, and popular,” Twilight drones. A corner of his lip tugs up. He cannot stop himself. “You make me sound like some mindless flirt. Is that how you see me?” 

“Of course not!” She shakes her head with such vigor that Twilight has no choice but to believe her. “I haven't the capacity to tell you even the half of it, Loid. Frankly, I think it’d be too embarrassing. But since you're here, I think you ought to know I haven't had a good night’s rest because of you.”

“Me?”

Light catches in the reflection of Yor’s eyes. She is set ablaze. Twilight, caught in her flame, can only hook a finger on the neck of his shirt, pull it forward, and throw his head back as he lets the evening air cool his sweat-sticky skin. 

“Yes,” whispers Yor, lips stained with the sanguine juice of some forbidden fruit. Twilight nearly moans. “You.”

“Shall I leave?” he asks. Twilight is at the brim and he knows with one word, one gesture from Yor, he will implode, spatter himself over discarded clothing and silken sheets. Twilight will let her devour him until he is nothing but the frame of his pathetic vessel.

Tense with affliction, Yor allows a beat of silence to decide her fate. Then, scripture pours from her mouth—“Stay”—and their future is forged, there, in the room Twilight knows his love will be made known. The apartment rearranges itself like a rune morphing ancient ruins into a palace, and Twilight gropes through the opaque dreamy mist that has clouded over his body, the maze that has manifested in the space between him and his lover. Somehow, he is beside Yor on the sanctity of her bed. He is home.

Twilight stays. More than stays. He lingers, leaves trails of himself with the pads of his fingers along the soft descent of her jaw.  They trail south, down the slope of her neck to her clavicles. He plays with the brown ribbon on her collar, wrapping it around his hand as he tugs it off. Her tiny breaths puff hot on his hands; Twilight steels himself to move more slowly, delicately.

Conscious of her blooming complexion, Yor moves to hide her face with a hand. It is quickly seized by Twilight. He guides it to her chest and intertwines their fingers from the back of her hand. He gently presses their held hands against her heartbeat, eliciting a sharp sigh from his dear darling wife. Twilight cannot help himself. He untwines from her and flits his fingers at the hem of her nightgown's skirt, hiking it up to her upper thigh. The drum of his touch on her knee is enough to make her tremble. 

“You tell me I'm persistent, but I’ve been avoiding you all this time. When I look at you, I become painfully aware of myself. I want to be perfect for you, but in truth, I’m awful.” Twilight leans his face close to hers, lips brushing the shell of her ear. I love you, he wants to confess. So simple is the phrase, succinct, raw, and yet he cannot bring himself so vulnerable. Everything comes out carnally, all wrong: “I want you so bad that I can’t think straight. That I can’t breathe.”

With the firm precision of a ceramist, she molds her palm over the hand on her knee, sliding it up the strong sculpt of her leg and curving it toward the inside of  her thigh. She applies light pressure, allowing Twilight’s imprint to cast on her body, marking herself as his.

“Show me,” she rasps with a dash of daring. Her eyes flutter shut, gentle as the bat of a hummingbird's wing. She knights her champion. 

Mesmerized by her command, Twilight kisses her sweet. Kisses her again, and again, and again, confessing with every push and pull of their lips.

He sups the nectar from her split swollen lips like a man  left to meander a landscape desolate of life—parched. Silvery syrup runs down their chins; he catches it with the flat of his tongue, licking the contour of her neck to her collarbones. Yor quivers, stifling a moan. He yanks the sleeve of her nightgown down to plant wet kisses along the round of her bare shoulder.

“Loid,” Yor sighs, turning that miserable name into something warm. Beloved. She tilts her head in his direction, the dark cape of her hair enveloping him, pressing him closer to her. He cups her face, admiring bitten lips and half-lidded rubies. 

“I’d like to see you,” Twilight pants, mouth open on the column of her throat. “May I?”

Her eyes drop, brows furrowing as she scrutinizes the shape of her existence. Twilight immediately perceives the nervous habit that unknowingly presents itself to him. In lieu of reassuring words, he kisses her on the cheek. Her lips lift, a crescent indenting where his lips had been. His admiration and affections have been sealed in wax, ripped apart, conveyed, accepted. Yor reaches out, weaves through the close-crop of his blond hair, and guides him toward her. She plants a kiss of her own square on his forehead, returning the gesture tenfold. Twilight feels a blush rise to his cheeks.

“I like you a lot, so it’s alright, I think. It’s okay,” she tells him, brushing the hair away from his face. “I trust you.” 

Yor catches sparkles from his feathered wisps in a fist and sprinkles it over herself as if it’d transform her into someone else—a lady with soft edges and milk-smooth skin that flushes pink under the lightest of touches. A lady worth standing at Twilight’s side.

Holding her breath, she pulls the top of her nightgown down past her arms. She tightly screws her eyes shut as she moves it over the mound of her chest down to her waist, refusing to see herself jut so obscenely before him. The sleeves of her nightgown fall on her bed defeatedly, lifeless arms spread out like a wraith at the mercy of Twilight’s judgment. 

Yor is a woman sculpted from clay rather than marble—this, Twilight concludes as he appreciates the jagged and raised skin scored over the expanse of her bust. Rather than subtractions, she is a composite of additions—of stories untold, of trials conquered, of countless disciplined hours. Scars never lie. As he runs his fingers over the white-marred skin stitched over the hard ripples of her abdomen, he knows hers is a shared tale of survival and of loss. Harsh light casts over her, carving dark shadows over the frayed canvas of her body. The effigy of Yor is so hauntingly, so achingly honest; it is in that moment Twilight decides that she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

He peels his shirt off in one fluid motion. Twilight looms over her, allowing her to take in the breadth of his kneeling contrapposto. His is a series of wounds cleaned and sealed with bottles of whiskey and lighter flame, stitched closed from the loose threading of a uniform. He is attrition embodied, War’s perfect soldier. Wonder, fear, and attraction swirl in her blown eyes as she reaches out to touch him. Before she can lose heart, he leans down until her nails graze his chest. Twilight shakily exhales as Yor tentatively travels forgotten paths on his flesh under her fingertips, exploring the country she was told to despise.

Twilight watches her with vague interest, mindful of the places her fingers stay and when she chooses to avert her eyes. With a swipe, Yor unseams him, and the memories he thought he had long discarded inundate him. She arrives first at the small nick on his upper bicep—the front doorstep of his childhood home. It was summer, and he was happy. School was out for break and he had excitedly run home to ask his mother permission to play with the other musketeers. A thorn from of the rosebush just outside of his front door caught in his sleeve, and blood spread through the white of his shirt like pigmented watercolor. He stayed home that afternoon. His mother cleaned his arm and sewed a garden onto the tear of his shirt.

Yor follows the long spiked pink scar carved at his right side down to his navel. He was sixteen then, newly enlisted in the army. He was fighting with a boy from the Ostanian infantry in the forest. They were all mud, sweat, gasps, and gunpowder as their bodies writhed and wriggled against each other in a desperate fight of undefined loathing. He remembers how easily the boy’s blade had sliced him as if he was nothing more than a whetstone for sharpening, and how he had thought about death as he caked clay onto his open gash. One of the greatest acts of love, Twilight came to realize, was mercy as the other boy limped away from his expiring body. 

Love and loathing. Two boys were buried in the forest.

“I haven’t made some terrible mistake, have I?” she laments, voice nearly breaking as he lays her down on the mattress, head supported by his open hand. 

Silver tears spill and pool at her clavicles. And maybe he understands. She is twenty-eight and she will never be soft. She is still grieving the woman she should have been just as Rowan is sixteen—will be sixteen forever—and Twilight grieves a childhood so short-lived. 

Flawed as they are, as they embrace, chest against chest, twin flames, Twilight feels as though he has found the missing pieces of himself in the woman splayed before him. Wrapped in the warmth of her arms, Twilight deliriously believes that the war must have been some grand and twisted conspiracy for them to meet under this roof. The intimacy of an embrace frightens him, but he cannot bring himself to part from her. Not now. Not ever. 

“We fit too well,” their lips meet, long, sweet, languid, “for it to be a mistake.” 

She mewls behind a hand as he gropes her other breast, relishing how her plushness spills between the spaces of his fingers. His hand rolls, fingers pinch as he sculpts her into the image of bliss. Twilight catches a bud in his mouth, hardening with the heat of his yearning. He releases her with a gentle pop, a shimmery string connecting his lips to her bosom.

“Where does it ache when you think of me? Here?” he asks in a low voice, licking a fat stripe along the side of her breast. His knee nudges against her core and she squirms beneath him. “Or here?” Yor’s breath hitches as she instinctively grinds down to rub herself against his leg, impatient and eager. The arch of her back against the bedsheets. The erratic roll of her lifted hips. Yor works herself on him with a fervor he had never known her to possess. Beads of sweat collect at her brow as she unrhythmically ruts on him for delicious friction. Twilight laughs quietly; he cannot contain the delight the sudden realization brings him. “Oh. You've done this by yourself before.” 

Yor blooms all the way down to the swell of her chest. She stutters as she thinks of something just as intelligent to say as Twilight smiles stupidly at her—dimples and all—flattered and pleased with himself. The words are weak, fragmented, meek, “I’ll pass away if you continue to tease me,” and she covers her face with her arms in humiliation. The smoke is practically steaming from her ears. It only encourages Twilight.

“You’re adorable,” he coaxes, taking hold of her wrists in a hand and pinning it over her head. Yor pouts, twisting beneath him as if she were completely powerless against him. Of course, she isn’t. It would be easy to break free from his hold. Twilight is much too familiar with the impact of her palm applied across his face, the high kick of her heel aimed at his chin. The danger of eliciting such a reaction from Yor entices him, and so Twilight, true to Yor's hasty description of him, persists. 

The fuzzy daze swathing her casts some lulling spell, and she relaxes as he superimposes himself over her. His desire nudges on her thigh, extracting a hum from Yor. 

“Where do you want me?” Twilight asks, words caressing the shell of her ear. As soon as he releases her, she wraps her arms around him, pulling him down flush against her, chest to chest, cheek to cheek. Profile tucked along the length of her neck, Twilight deeply breathes her in, mapping the trajectory of her day. Vanilla shampoo. Patchouli perfume. The musk of their tryst. 

“Anywhere. Everywhere." She ogles him pensively; she is all lust and,  audaciously enough, love as she submits to obscurity and anticipation. He slides down the plane of her body, nose parting her down the middle as if he were slicing her open, peeling away her skin to expose some celestial being beneath the layers of warmth. Twilight stops at her stomach and kisses the mole near her navel. Tickled, Yor giggles, abs tightening beneath him. “Well, maybe not there.” An intense heat  rushes southward; Twilight remembers patience and counts to fifty before moving between her thighs.

Dear God, Twilight thinks to himself as he tugs the skirt of her nightgown down. They move in tandem, she raises her hips up and Twilight slips it off, letting it flump onto the floor. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. The satin of her panties were pearlescent under starlight, designed with a tiny ribbon at the top, made transparent by prurience. Something about the juxtaposition of her virginal image and the licentiousness streaked over her longing is almost enough to make Twilight come right there.

“Look at me,” he tells Yor, breath hot on her core. Lazily, she lowers her gaze, bedroom eyes scorching the sweep of his face. He does not break their stare. “Watch.”

Countless times he has looked at her face, memorized every mole and wrinkle, but tonight, it is as if something finally clicked. Chaste as she may have seemed under moonlit halation, Twilight knew by the way she gasped as he licked her clothed heat that Yor was not so different from him. How many nights has she throbbed with loneliness when he was just a few steps away? How long has she muffled his name into the abyss of her bedroom, only for it to echo back and mock her?

Yor cries his name out, cadence stuttering as he thickly laves his tongue over her slit over the translucent film of her panties. Frustratedly, Yor grips a fistful of his hair, urging him to do more. Twilight only chuckles at her impatience, shooting vibrations to every nerve ending in her body.

Twilight kisses her nether lips before pushing the fabric to the side, sticking to her like a second skin. A snapdragon in oils: pinks, reds, and purples smeared over the pale of her night-dyed complexion.

“Please”  whispers Yor. “I won’t last any longer.”

Instead of obeying his wife’s urgency, he parts her with a finger, letting her sweet slick coat his finger. He locks eyes with her as he sucks down to his knuckle, messily dragging it out of his mouth to show her just how good she tasted. Pushing her thighs up to bend her knees over his shoulder, he burrows his face into her heat, devouring lips ajar. His tongue circles around the nub of her core, flicking, teasing. Yor is reactive as ever; she shivers beneath him, toes curling as he dips one, two fingers between her petals until she clenches around him. Shyly, she rocks her hips against his hand and open jaw, attempting to finish herself on his face and fingers until she sees bright white.

“Loid, I think I—”

“No.” Twilight stops abruptly, opting to lick up the soddenness along her inner thighs and soaked fingers instead of allowing Yor to reach the precipice of her bliss. “Not yet.”

Yor is not pleased; she retaliates to his absence childishly by tossing her pillow aside, cherry lips pouting. Now that she had experienced the pleasure of his mouth on her, for him to part at that crucial moment connoted a sort of loneliness, self-loathing  Yor no longer wanted to identify with. Twilight will let her finish, she decides as she hooks a leg around his waist, whether he likes it or not.

It happens quickly. A whirl, floating sheets, and Yor straddling him. So many times he has been in this very position: there, pinned under the weight of the opposition, wine-drunk proprietresses, nepotistic heirs. And each time, he was able to maneuver the situation in his favor using tried-and-true tricks methods learned from the battlefield. Weak spots and shifting force. Flirtations and fake tears. Yet, under Yor, he felt himself enter a sort of inertness. He can only gawk as Yor shifts on top of his pelvis, her arousal staining the gray of his sweatpants. 

“Can you handle it?” he asks—challenges. It was an audacious question. Try as he might to continue  his seductive drawl, there was no denying the trembling of his words—fleeting as the flowers he’d seen drift into his bedroom. He looks at her from the shutter of his lashes, and he reminds himself that it is okay to be nervous, to not know the next steps. Yor may have been right about him laying in many girls’ bedrooms, but the crucial difference was that there was truthfulness here. He wanted this, and in allowing himself that want, he could feel the rush of those vehemently raw emotions—anxiety, rapture, adoration—coalesce in his hollow body, letting it translate without script in the pads of his fingers. With shaking hands, he cherishes her, holds her waist and embosses her onto his flesh. 

Yor dips down to claim his lips, drawn and cloying, pulling back as if she had just broken through the glass surface of a pond. Her mouth is glossy with herself, and Twilight, embarrassed by his attempts to be as titillating as possible to her, wipes her bottom lip with a thumb. The weight of her cheek leans into his palm, ink hair descending like the darkest dusk. 

Yor kisses his thumb, slips it in her mouth to show him other ways she’d like him. His heart nearly bursts at this facet of Yor. The paragon he had built of her had shattered completely in the hall of his mind, pieces repurposed to something mutable and equally beautiful. He thinks it’s something akin to those clichés—those loves-at-first-sights and meet-cutes. Twilight is falling for her all over again, and naively he thinks it will be like this for the rest of his life.

“Yor." The tone is undecipherable. He isn’t quite sure why her name had slipped from him in the first place. Maybe he was scared that she would no longer answer. To his relief, she responds in earnest, toying with the waistband of his sweats. She shoots him a look and he nods a little too ardently for his liking. Yor scoots back, allowing him to pull himself free from the constraints of his clothes.

His length, stiff with desire, points upward. To Yor, it must have looked so red and angry and intimidating by the way she blushed and averted her gaze.

“Hey,” Twilight coos, patting her leg affectionately. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I want this,” she says with the stark determination of a sergeant. How solemn. Twilight clears the chuckle that threatens to escape his throat. “I’ve just—Not with anyone. I never thought I’d get this far. I’ve had ideas about how I’d like you, and you’re here now, and that— ” her gaze drops to his groin, “that is very real. Immensely real. So real that I’m questioning whether or not I’m here with you. Are you a dream? Must I wake up now?”

It’s hopeless. He is laughing heartily now, fully-bellied and deep, as he listens to his dearest Yor babble about his hardness. “I’m real. Can’t you see what you do to me?” 

“I don’t want to disappoint you, is all.”

He holds her face in his hands, gently squishing her cheeks until her lips puckered. “I happen to find you to be the kindest, most beautiful and endearing spirit I’ve ever had the fortune of knowing. I don’t think anything you’d do would disappoint me.”

“If I fell asleep at this moment? What then? You’d be devastated.” 

“I’d tuck you in. Kiss you goodnight. I’d watch your sleeping face until sunrise,” he drones, fingers gliding through her disheveled tresses. He brings a lock to his lips and wishes for good health and good fortune.

“And if I hurt you?”

“I probably deserve it.” His hand is on the plush of her hip, grounding her lower half on his. Yor is oblivious to his plight. She sways, her heat brushing against his as she thought of another impossible scenario. He sucks in a breath, resisting the urge to take her right there. “Yor,” he begged, trying to distract Yor from her misguided train of thought.

“What if I’m actually the worst person you know? Like mean? Evil? A murderer… Or something like that.” Unknowingly, as she adjusts her seat on his lap, her folds perfectly hug the base of his length, eliciting a sharp curse from Twilight.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, throwing his head back. She rubs on him hot, so hot that he is lightheaded and sees stars stipple in the black cape of her hair. He grips his cock in his hand and positions it so that it is enmeshed between the stick of her panties and her viscid slit. 

Sex hangs thickly in the air, and Twilight, intoxicated by it, can only watch as Yor drinks in the feeling of the vehement throb of his length sliding against her. She treats it like a battle; there is nothing gentle in the way she grinds on him. The song she sings is harsh and succinct as she clamps her thighs tight around him, considerate of the fast pace she had set up for herself. Yor is fluid; every part of her body moves in ripples and waves. With every action, a reaction: a roll of her hip translates to a jiggling chest, to Twilight, mewling kittenishly, reaching to fondle her. It whets her appetite, lights a blue flame that engulfs their coupling in a single heretic pyre.

“Yeah. Just like that,” he hisses, just barely controlling his volume. Close. So pathetically, delectably close from this alone. Twilight stutters weakly at her mercy as she undoes him bit by bit.

Curiously, she strokes his cock with a finger through the cloth of her panties, causing Twilight to jerk his hips upward. Yor palms the base and presses it firmly along her slit. Her eyes roll back and her lips part in a wordless cry. Her body goes slack for a moment, creating an opening for Twilight to gain leverage over the situation. He fucks himself between her hand and her wet folds, thrusting ungracefully, erotically. Every sinful, rhythmic cant of Yor’s hips is met, and the world crashes down around him. 

“I’m close,” says Yor, riding him through her peak. They piece the negative space: she plasters herself in the outline of his body for purchase as he grips her hips tight, sure to leave a bruised afterimage in the morning. 

“I love you,” he breathes, capturing a moonbeam in her hair. The words penetrate her skin, her flesh, her bones and she is full. She is complete. So enraptured is Yor that she kisses him delicately on his cheek, imbuing new life into Twilight. He reaches for that faraway image—a billowy tableau of a girl in wedding white prancing along a meadow blooming with peonies and chrysanthemums. Twilight gazes at Yor with glassy eyes; he wonders if it’s alright for him to imagine such lovely things. She smiles warmly. He bows his head at the altar of her heart, and he weeps.

──────────⊹⊱❀⊰⊹──────────

The day starts without him.

Twilight wakes to skittering and an indented pillow at his side. Laughter rings throughout the apartment, crescendoing and decrescendoing as Anya chases Bond down the hall. Blearily, he watches as Yor walks into her bedroom with a towel around her neck. She is glowing, floating.

Should have woken up earlier, Twilight muses. He blushes when his motive surfaces. He pretends to be slumbering, pulling the covers to his nose when vignettes of the night before trickle into his sleep-laden body. 

Yor had already caught him. She sits at his side and caresses his cheek with a cool finger. “Good morning.”

“Woke up late,” he mutters timidly, refusing to look at the magenta peeking from the neckline of her shirt. 

She laughs. “Yeah. But that’s okay. I’ve got Anya all packed and ready to go.”

“Were you waiting for me?”

Yor shakes her head. “I’ve got things under control. It looked like you needed the rest anyway.”

Twilight tilts his head and she’s there, cuddling his side, head slotted in his shoulder, watching their unspoken feelings come alive. He lets out a contented breath. With that one exhale, he expels a rush of colors that splash into his monochrome world. Everything is dyed a pastel orange. Yor’s skin blushes candy apples as she waits patiently. Waits for an answer, a disaster. Waits for him to say the word, make a move.

“I think I’ll call in sick today. Replenish my energy,” says Twilight. He hugs her head close, cheek nuzzling her forehead. “You know, you’ve kinda got a fever running.”

Yor smacks a hand on her face. “Do I?” 

“We should both stay home. Take care of each other.”

"But I feel fine.” She is so clueless. Twilight wants to kiss her sore.

His head is spinning glittery gold, unraveling and twining their bodies together. Her bedroom is made into their own slice of paradise. Bluebirds are chirping. Church bells are ringing. Samba hearts are pulsating. Their shadows are dancing on the walls. They’re laying in their makeshift linen reeds, woven together, embracing.  

Should he snap a picture? Stick-and-poke it onto his bicep under arrow hearts? Stitch it into the breast of his shirt where it can never get lost? 

Cute. Too immature for the feelings Yor is making him feel.

Pretty. Too naive for the way Yor slowly beams and flushes when the message finally registers.

"Hey. Marry me?" he asks, kissing the top of her head.

"Silly. We're already married!"

"I'll marry you a hundred more times. Honeymoons every morning. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Or maybe we could share a room."

It’s her mirth, the crinkles of his eye and the rose flush of her cheeks. Her arms that always hold him— that never let go. It’s her big heart. her smile, her laughter, her kindness, her off-beat humor, her love for life. Love for others. Love for him.

What a joy it is to live alongside her.

[firewoodfigs]

Sorry I’ve been so inactive on this hellsite LOL I deleted tumblr for a bit as part of my routine ~ digital detox ~ but I’m back for a bit so here’s a bit of smut :) depiction of an average corporate girlie degenerating from stress or something like that

[emulsifying-cherry-soda]

I WANT THE SPYXFAMILY MANGA TO GET REALLY SPICY AND NSFW. I WANT MY SMUT.

[mango-fizz]

i had a dream that loid bought yor a dildo bc she was too shy to get one herself and every night he could hear her moaning and he was jealous, she couldve asked to use him instead (but its fine its not like their marriage is real after all haha he doesnt mind haha its okay he'll totally get over it haha)

[nightofnyx8]

but i'd risk it all just to be with you

-

“Even in times of sickness or sorrow, I pledged myself to you.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Please don’t shut me out this time.”

“Yor,” Twilight looks at her with the same regret he always does when she brings up their supposed fake marriage. “That wasn’t even real.”

“It was real to me.”

-

A Spy x Family oneshot

Rating: M

read on ao3

[enragedpineapple]

Fanfic Challenge!!

Thanks to the ICONIC @whateversawesome for tagging me!

My fics are a mix of Spy x Family, Game of Thrones, Obitine, and Spider-Man!

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag some people! If you have written fewer than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway!

Didn’t Mean To Fall In Love: Shots rang out behind Twilight's head as smoke billowed through the dark hallway. With his gun held tight in his grasp, Twilight crept around the corner, spotting two masked individuals. Both were holding large rifles and had grenades strapped to their legs. Twilight, as quietly as he could manage, reloaded his handgun, pointing it straight at the man closest to him.

I Just Need You Now: There's something to be said about first kisses: they were magical. Yor grew up fantasizing about how her first kiss would go down... and who it would be with. Yor never really worried too much about the last part, she was always too busy to focus on romance and dating. But since meeting her faux husband, Loid Forger... she always found herself imagining just what it would be like to have her first kiss with him.

Dancing In The Dark: Twilight writhed in the cool metal chair he was bound to, blood trickling down his arms as they were rubbed raw by the old rope. His captor was an Ostanian mafia boss who had been deadset on capturing the spy for weeks at that point. He pressed a gun to Twilight's temple, cocking it as he laughed.

New Years Revelations: Anya could barely sit still as she waited for Yor to finish ironing her dress. It was New Year's Eve, and the Forgers were running around the small West Berlint apartment, tidying up and cooking various foods. They were throwing a small party, in fact, their first since they had first come together all those months ago. Franky and Yuri were coming as well, and like Anya, Yor could barely contain her excitement.

The Delusions of a Dreamer: The year was 42 BBY. The Mandalorian Civil War was spreading across multiple sectors, killing hundreds. In a spacious mansion at the center of Kalevala, in an open pink and blue bed chamber, sat at a vanity made of oak and gold... Satine.

You’ll Be Okay: Yor walked down the dark hallway, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. There was little light in the building, only the moon and many stars illuminating the shadows. Yor stood straight, striding in elegance with her golden needles held tight in her grasp. She had been sent by the Garden to assassinate the ruthless spy, Twilight, who had been messing with many of her missions lately.

Patience: Silence wasn't unusual in the Forger household. During the day, there was silence as Anya was at school, and Loid and Yor were stuck at work. In the afternoon, the loudest thing in the house was the television blaring the latest Bondman episode. And at night, there was quiet dinner conversation followed by deep slumber.

Time Comes Around: "Something's happening..." Peter watched in horror as Mantis quickly faded away. Or rather... disintegrated. Her whole form turned to ash, and she was blown into the distant sky.

A War for Revenge: Westeros. A Western located sector of the known world. Home to the well known Seven Kingdoms. First ruled by Aegon the Conqueror: A Targaryen. An enigma. Now ruled by… well, that is still yet to be determined.

Promise Me You’ll Stay: She was on her knees, tears streaming from her face as she shook in front of her love. Darth Maul looked upon her in amusement, Obi-Wan Kenobi in fear. Satine knew she was about to die, but she couldn't lie and say she didn't deserve it. She felt as if she had failed. Failed her sister, her nephew, her people... Obi. Death was her penance, but she wasn't ready to go yet. Lost in her thoughts, she hardly noticed Maul rise from his chair next to her.

I’m tagging:

@aerequets @cat-anime345678 and anyone else who wants to participate! 🫶

[enragedpineapple]

I’m in finals weeks rn so apologies for the lack of new content, but y’all should go ahead and catch up on Didn’t Mean To Fall In Love before our next arc kicks off!!

Reblog with your favorite fic you've written! 😊

[buf309-art-binder]

curious since you love drawing twiyor a lot, would you ever consider/draw NSFW art or comics of them? Just curious.

Well... I think I can answer you more clearly if I draw something about it 😌

Yeah, I simply like their family dynamic more than their romance.

Joking aside, unless otherwise stated somewhere in the script, all versions of Twiyor in MY fancomics are AroAce.

Because I'm one myself, and I want presentations, darn it.

Kudos to Twiyor smut writers/artists in the fandom though🥂 You guys are super great.

Just... you aren't gonna find that at my place. Sorry about that 🙇

[firewoodfigs]

when the sun came up — a modern twiyor au set in London

chapter 5/6: you who thawed the frost of fear

Summary: Stray strands of thought, and straying fingers. (Rated E)

[be-it-so]

Okay, after the last chapter we need to admit, Endo is definitely reading twiyor fics.

Just look at last arcs.

We had a conversation between Yor and her colleagues about sex in marriage in ch. 79

And I've read lots of fics that started exactly the same, the whole description of one of which was "Loid and Yor fuck for the mission"

Then we have "Twilight loosing control of his body the moment he sees his wife" in ch. 86

Which, again, is very often shown us in fics.

And now we have sharing-one-room situation? Not bed, unfortunately, but still

So I declare with all confidence, Endo is reading our fics, the smut ones included