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shalotttower · 4 months ago

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The Art of Disappearing (part 1)

Title: The Art of Disappearing Fandom: Resident Evil Village Characters: Lady Dimitrescu x Reader (female) Summary: Lady Dimitrescu enjoys wine; you enjoy living. You pray to god those don't overlap. Word count: 1800+ Notes: mentions of death, implied torture and violence, NSFWish, WINE Part 2

Hiding in plain sight is a skill honed by necessity here.

Melt seamlessly into the decor of drapes and velvet curtains until you're indistinguishable from them. Become wallpaper with eyes that stare and mouths that don't open, and arms that only pick, and pass, and scrub, and fold.

You're not the girl who was locked in the cellar last week.

You're not the girl who dropped a plate yesterday.

You're not the girl whose blood got so deep into the dining room rug that it's better off being burned.

You want to say that you won't be that girl, but you can't promise anything anymore except that dinner is at 6 o'clock every evening unless stated otherwise by Lady Dimitrescu. Your schedule revolves around hers entirely, like planets rotating around their dying sun, even if it's not your shift. There's no such thing as a day off in the castle.

But there're such things as a quiet day, or a normal day, or a bad one.

Today is a bad one.

Lady Dimitrescu's favourite lipstick is missing.

It's a very rare, expensive shade, like the red shell of a ladybug, or the last breath of a maiden. Your ears pick up the word being murmured from one maid to another — 'if anyone sees the item, return it to the Lady's vanity immediately'.

You hope that someone finds it soon. Nobody here is dumb enough to steal, so it's probably forgotten somewhere. But you don't say it of course, because Her Ladyship doesn't forget anything and you still need your tongue intact.

---

Lady Dimitrescu likes wine; you enjoy living.

You pray that the two never overlap.

So far luck has been on your side — for six months now you've been working in the castle. You've cleaned stains from carpets and floors without asking what they are (because it was clear even without questions); polished silverware until you could see yourself reflected in them and arranged flowers countless times to learn which ones Lady favors over others.

You were a mouth that didn't speak and eyes that saw nothing. A piece of furniture with legs and arms.

As long as you do your job and keep a low profile, you're safe. Humans thrive in delusion, and so do you. It keeps you sane, what an oxymoron that is.

---

At three in the afternoon, you clean the bathrooms.

Bela is the neatest among the three, and Cassandra leaves everything scattered around for maids like you to collect and place where it's supposed to be. Daniela is... unique. You're not sure how she manages to get stains and fingerprints on such random surfaces. Sometimes you wonder if she does it on purpose.

Daniela loves fun surprises.

Like sneaking up on you when you're on your knees, scrubbing the tub. She pokes your shoulder. "Hiya."

Your heart drops into your stomach.

"Lady Daniela," you greet while trying not to let your hands shake under the apron.

She's smiling sweetly today, like she didn't just scare ten years out of you. You're not fooled and know better than to trust that expression. Nothing in this castle is innocent and saccharine and nice. Especially not the daughters.

"Can I help you with anything, my lady?"

Please say "no" and leave.

Daniela rocks on her heels then leans forward, inspecting your work.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

She's bored, you realize. Great. Bored means unpredictable behavior, and unpredictable behavior means trouble for everyone else who isn't Daniela herself. You wait for whatever she wants — entertainment? food? — patiently despite the churning in your gut.

"I'm bored," she announces.

"Yes, my lady."

"Let's play a game. Hide and seek, like little ones."

Six months have yet to make the instinctive urge to flee within you die out whenever one of them wants something from you directly. You'd think that this whole time might've increased your chances of survival, but humans thrive in delusion. In reality, everything is a gamble here. An embroidery of chance and circumstances that determines if you will live another day, that's all.

"I would be honored, my lady."

The bathrooms must be finished by five, and it's almost four. You're not going to make it on time.

"Who is going to hide first?" You ask after a moment.

Daniela claps. "Well you, of course, silly!"

Of course.

---

Hiding in plain sight is a skill honed by necessity here. Melting seamlessly into the decor of drapes and velvet curtains.

But you're not a vase or a coat rack. You're just a girl who's been in the castle for a while and has gotten good at being invisible. You can't hide your heart beat. Your scent and the warmth of your skin are impossible to erase.

"Ready or not, here I come!" Daniela's sing-song voice carries from the other end of the west wing, and then fades.

She didn't count to ten. You know because you've been counting along, just to have an idea of how much time there's left until she finds you. There're no harbored hopes about the opposite happening. Hide and seek is one of Daniela's favourite games, and she dedicates herself to it thoroughly, with great interest.

It's not about winning the game — that much you realized early on when she played against other maids, plucking one out and chasing her around the castle before dissolving into flies with a cackle.

It's about the entertainment good enough to satiate her.

You're not the most agile, not the fastest. Even after six months your knowledge of the castle's layout is patchy, but you try to think logically. What places will she check last? What will Daniela expect you to choose?

Closets are off limits. So is the library, unless you want Bela on your tail as well.

Your mind wanders.

There're so many rooms in this castle that you haven't seen once during all of your shifts. You're always cleaning hallways, sometimes the daughters' parlors, and nothing more.

Down the stairs, past the servant quarters, is a place where rumors are born. Of thick barrels stacked to the ceiling like dominoes and wine in various stages of production. It smells sour-sweet down there — like fruit rotting in August.

Wine that never runs out in Dimitrescu castle as long as there're maids.

That's what others say, at least. Nobody has come back to confirm.

Would she look in the cellar? Would anyone?

It's the last place you'd search if you were looking for someone insignificant and replaceable.

You take off your shoes so that your steps don't echo in the expanse of marble and stairs.

---

There're all kinds of things down here. Broken furniture that's been tossed aside for disposal, boxes and crates of unidentified items, old paintings of people you don't recognize.

And wine.

A lot of it in barrels and bottles, some of which are labeled, some aren't. You walk past them, following the corridors of dusty brick. The air smells like mold and fermentation, damp. It reminds you of the lakeside by your grandmother's cottage in summertime and you feel strangely nostalgic.

You miss home.

The thought is dangerous and you quickly push it away, back to where it belongs — in your memories. Home doesn't exist anymore.

Time passes. Minutes go by without the sounds of buzzing swarms or doors creaking open somewhere nearby. No voices either, except for your own breathing and heartbeat that fill up every corner of silence. You find a nook between the stacked barrels and settle there with your knees pulled to your chest.

The place is colder, uncomfortably so. Cool ground sends its chill through your stockings.

You've done everything you could. Found a good hiding spot, a perfect one, and it's out of your control from here on.

The art of disappearing is simple: be nothing and wait until time decides if you're worth staying like that or not.

---

Daniela finds you after your legs start to numb from sitting.

"Found you," she grins from ear to ear.

Her flies settle as she solidifies into flesh with a giggle, girlish and mischievous. It could be cute if not the bloody smudges around her mouth and chin. She crouches down in front of you, close enough for you to see the specks of gold in her eyes.

"Congratulations, Lady Daniela."

Your fingers dig into your skirts.

Daniela tilts her head; a fly crawls on her cheek before taking off. "I win! I get my prize now."

You didn't know you were playing for a prize. But nobody tells you anything in this castle until it's too late, like that you're not supposed to open windows in winter, or that you can't touch Daniela's books because she has them organized alphabetically.

"What would you like, my lady?"

Another fly lands on your lips, a thick creature with translucent wings and little fuzzy legs. They tickle but you resist the urge to make a face lest she takes it as an insult. At your question her expression turns impish, one of those you never fail to associate with trouble.

She reaches into your apron's pocket... and pulls out a lipstick.

You stare at it — a simple elegant tube with a golden cap.

"Look what I found!" Daniela waves it in front of your face like it's a toy.

Your blood freezes over. How did it end up there? You've been working for hours today yet you don't recall ever picking it up off anywhere. Where-

"My lady, I didn't take it!" you blurt out in horror, when it dawns on you. "I swear, I wouldn't! I would never-"

Daniela blinks owlishly and then breaks into laughter, clutching her stomach. Her smile is so wide that you can see her gums stained with coagulated blood which makes your stomach turn. The flies swarm and dissipate around you both, disturbed by her unrestrained mirth.

"Silly," she interrupts your stammering. "I know! You should've seen your face!"

Oh thank god.

You're so relieved that for a second all air leaves your lungs.

"...you tricked me?" you ask quietly after a moment, a bit more composed now when the accusation of theft doesn't hang over your head.

"Mhm," Daniela nods and wipes tears from her eyes, still giggling.

You're not sure if it was funny to anyone except her.

Her smile lessens gradually and eventually vanishes from her lips altogether when the initial amusement wears off. Something coy appears in her demeanor, sheepish even, as she fiddles with the lipstick in silence.

"Can you put it back in mother's vanity?" she grabs your hand suddenly and places it into your palm.

That's when you realize that you never even once questioned where she got it from. But Daniela gives you a pout with a warning look, like she's able to tell exactly what you're thinking. All questions die instantly on your tongue; you nod.

"Yes, my lady. Of course."

"Good," she pats your knee. "Don't forget! Or I'll eat you."

Flies descend onto your skirt, buzzing around Daniela's fingers until she disappears into dozens of black insects.

You know that she meant every word.

#shalott fanfiction #resident evil village #lady dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu x reader #yandere?#maybe #dk yet

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cherryredlove · 4 months ago

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☆ you spin me right round ☆

Modern! Record shop owner! au Aemond Targaryen x Bar owner! reader SMUT

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

You're the blooming business owner that owns the chic new bar in town, The Alchemist's Guild. All that's left to do is befriend your sourpuss neighbour, the cool owner of the music shop Targaryen Tracks. Maybe a crisis will do the trick?

Word Count: 1.9k

Themes: SMUT, 18+, rough oral smex, pearl necklace, sex in semi-public place

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

Owning a bar was always a dream of yours, and now that dream has finally come true. The place you purchased is a hidden gem on the artsy quarter of the city of King's Landing, nestled between eclectic shops and quirky businesses, with just enough foot traffic to guarantee interest. You’ve christened it The Alchemist’s Guild, and you hoped it'll become the hottest bar in the area soon.

Every bottle and glass has been carefully selected, and you’ve spent countless hours transforming the run-down space into a chic, cosy haven for anyone seeking to unwind. Edison bulbs hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the polished wooden surfaces and plush seating. The shelves behind the bar are stocked with an impressive array of gins and wines, and the scent of fresh herbs and citrus fills the air.

The only hurdle now? Making friends with the neighbours, particularly the one who runs the music shop next door, Targaryen Tracks.

You’ve seen him a few times, Aemond Targaryen, always dressed impeccably in black, with silver hair and an ever-present scowl etched onto his face. His shop is a world of its own, filled with vintage records and obscure music that you occasionally hear through the walls.

Today, after a couple of good days of business, you decide it’s time to introduce yourself properly. Maybe you can even convince him to partner up for some musical collaborations, adding a unique touch to your bar’s atmosphere. With a deep breath, you step into Targaryen Tracks, the door chiming softly as you enter.

Aemond looks up from behind the counter, his single blue eye meeting yours with a curious, almost guarded expression. He nods in acknowledgement, though his lips barely form a smile.

"Hi, I’m Y/N," you say, offering a friendly smile. "I just opened the bar next door, The Alchemist’s Guild. Thought I’d come by and say hello."

"Aemond," he replies curtly, giving you a once-over before returning his gaze to the record he’s examining.

The shop is a paradise for any music lover, with rows upon rows of records neatly organized by genre and era. The atmosphere is nostalgic, and you can’t help but feel a pang of admiration for the meticulous care he’s put into curating his collection. You too take great pride in organisation and decoration.

You take a moment to look around, pretending to browse. The silence stretches between you, and you rack your brain for something to say, anything to break the ice.

"You’ve got quite the collection here," you venture, picking up a random record and pretending to study it. "I’ve been thinking about hosting some vinyl nights at the bar. You know, set up a record player, get some more out there stuff playing."

Aemond’s eye flickers with mild interest as he raises an eyebrow. "That so?"

You nod eagerly, hoping to engage him further. "Yeah! I think it’d be great to have something a bit more unique than just playlists. It’s a vibe, you know?"

He studies you for a moment, considering your words. "I suppose it could work," he admits, a hint of intrigue in his tone. "What kind of records are you looking to play?"

"Honestly, I’m open to anything that sets the right mood," you reply with enthusiasm. "Jazz, blues, rock, maybe even some classical if it fits."

Aemond nods, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I might have a few recommendations."

A spark of hope flickers inside you. Perhaps this sourpuss neighbor of yours isn’t as aloof as he seems. Maybe there's a chance for some collaboration after all.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

Business at The Alchemist’s Guild is booming. You’ve managed to create a buzz around town, and the place is packed almost every night. The combination of exquisite drinks and the cosy atmosphere has made your bar a go-to spot for many locals and visitors alike. It's become a favourite with the artsy scene in the quarter, putting you firmly on the map.

But tonight, as you’re hosting bustling Saturday evening, disaster strikes. The trusty sound system crackles and dies with a sad whimper. Panic sets in as you realize that without music, the bar loses a significant part of its charm.

As the clamor of conversation fills the air, you frantically fiddle with the cables and speakers, hoping for a miracle. But nothing works.

Just when you're about to lose hope, an idea strikes.

"Hold down the fort for me, Dyana!" You call out to the bartender you employed.

You dash out of the bar and head straight to Targaryen Tracks, where Aemond is about to close up for the night.

Aemond looks up at you as you barge into the shop, mildly surprised to see you so flustered.

"Aemond, I need a huge favour," you blurt out, trying to catch your breath. "My sound system just broke down, and I have a packed bar with no music. Can you help me out?"

He pauses. "What do you need?"

"Your records," you say quickly, hope rising in your chest. "And your record player and speakers. Just for tonight. I’ll give you free drinks for a week in return."

He narrows his eye, contemplating the offer. After a moment, he nods. "Fine. But you handle the equipment with care."

Relief floods through you. "Thank you, thank you so much! I promise I'll be careful. You can even handle changing the records if that's better. "

Together, you gather a selection of records, and Aemond helps you carry them over to the bar. With his expertise, you set up the record player, and soon, the rich, warm tones of vinyl fill the space, transforming the atmosphere instantly.

The patrons love it, and you can feel the tension leaving your shoulders as the night goes on smoothly. True to your word, you offer Aemond a drink on the house as a gesture of gratitude. He graciously accepts your Greyjoy Gin and tonic with a small smile.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

As the night draws to a close, the last of your customers finally trickle out, leaving the bar empty save for you and Aemond. The soft glow of the Edison bulbs casts a cosy light over the room, and the record player softly spins its last tune.

"Thank you again," you say, leaning against the bar, feeling the exhaustion of the night catching up to you. "You really saved me tonight."

Aemond shrugs, a faint smirk on his lips. "It was interesting. Your patrons seem to appreciate good music."

You laugh softly, nodding in agreement. "I owe you. Seriously, free drinks for a week."

He takes a sip of his drink, regarding you with an appraising gaze. "Maybe we can make this a regular thing. Vinyl nights, as you said. I can curate the music."

"That would be amazing," you reply, feeling your heart race a little. "I think it’d be a hit."

As you tidy up the bar, Aemond helps, and the two of you chat more easily than before. You discover that beneath his stoic exterior, he has a genuine passion for music and a dry sense of humour that you find surprisingly charming.

With the bar finally clean and ready for the next day, you both take a moment to relax, leaning against the counter again.

As the last record winds down to silence, an unexpected tension fills the air. The kind that lingers between two people until someone is brave enough to try.

It’s Aemond who makes the first move. His eye locks onto yours, and you see a flicker of something you hadn't quite noticed before. You feel your body light up.

Before you know it, he’s closing the distance between you, his presence commanding and electric. He pauses, giving you a moment to stop him if you wish, but you find yourself drawn in by the intensity of his gaze.

And then his lips are on yours, firm and insistent, sending a jolt down your spine. You kiss him back, matching his fervour with your own.

Aemond’s hands are on your waist, pulling you closer, and you respond by wrapping your arms around his neck, grasping at his hair. His mouth is hot and heady, and you moan into his as his hips grind against yours.

You barely notice as you’re backed against the bar, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat of the kiss. Aemond’s hands are exploring now, tracing a path down your sides, and you let out a soft sigh of approval, urging him on.

The kiss deepens, his touch is confident, and you can feel the hardness of his cock against your tender pussy. Your body reacts, arching into him to relieve your aching sex.

Aemond unzips your trousers, moaning at how wet you are, before gliding his fingers into your soaked heat. You cling to him, mewling, and bit down hard onto his neck. Aemond’s long fingers move inside you, fingering you with a beckoning motion. His eye rolls back as you grasp his cock in your hand, massaging through his trousers.

Aemond hoists you up onto the bar's counter, kissing you roughly before kneeling, facing your soaked pussy. Your hands grip his hair, urging him onto your heat. His tongue flicks out to lick your juices, and the moan you let out spurs him to bury his face.

His long nose is shoved against your clit, rubbing you in the mot perfect way as his tongue laps you expertly. Your thighs squeeze his head tightly. One of his hands grips your soft thigh hard, the other resumes its ministrations inside your tight pussy, making you choke and feel the hot lick of pleasure push you higher and higher. You grind against his face, Aemond sucking your clit with suchbvigour that you cry out, cumming hard on him. You cream against his tongue, and he laps it all up with a deep moan.

Once your head has stopped swimming at the pleasure of your high, you wobble down and fall to your knees. His thick cock sits right in front of your face, and he slowly parts your lips with the red cockhead. It's huge, you run out of mouth room pretty quickly as his hands grip your hair. You moan, the vibration making his hips stutter, and begin to suck him hard.

"Your lips look so beautiful wrapped arouud me baby," he rasps out. "I'll cum if you carry on."

Enthused, you bob your head faster, hollowing out your cheeks and rubbing your tongue right against the slit of his tip. When you fondle his balls with your hands and swallow hard, Aemond releases a strangled cry of pleasure, face-fucking you hard and fast. He lets out an unintelligible moan as he cums. Some of it leaks down your throat, but he pulls out to cum all over your face and neck. You gasp at the hot white ropes of cum that decorate your collar bone.

Panting, he helps you up, swiping his cum off with a finger and parting your lips for you to swallow it. He kisses you gently, salty and sweet.

"Want to come back to mine?" He asks, eye glinting. You nod eagerly, kissing him sweetly. His hands hold you firmly, and you thank the Gods for your sound system breaking.

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

AN: save me modern aemond targaryen save me! love writing that so gimme ur feedback and send any requests! if u like this sort of stuff check out my masterlist!

#modern house of the dragon #modern aemond targaryen #modern aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hosue of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader smut #modern aemond targaryen x reader smut #aemond targaryen smut

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noira-l · 3 months ago

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𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁

Summary: You are the person people turn to on exceptional situations. Your next target is a young and ambitious cult leader - Geto Suguru.

pairing: cult leader!geto suguru x assasin!reader

wc: 8,3 k

genre: dark themes/suggestive

warnings: mdni, dark themes, morally grey actions, violence, stalking, slight gore, attempt of assasination, power dynamic, sexual tension, knife play, slight body harm, death.

author's note: I wanted to write something about Geto, hopefully however I came up with a good portrait of his character. He is my favourite btw ;3

Collector.

That's what you were called.

The title had stuck, a moniker that felt both accurate and hollow. You collected, yes - but it was never just about the objects. It was about something deeper, something rarer, something alive.

Unique techniques.

Not the hereditary ones, from great clans or families. Just the ones that little is known about, not known, or the ones that haven't been made yet.

And you had a reputation for it.

Famous, or infamous, depending on who you asked. The kind of fame earned through the silent, systematic harvesting of cursed energy. You killed, it was the way you did it. The way you absorbed the very essence of what made a sorcerer powerful. The techniques you consumed left traces on your soul, each one evoking something different. Some were strong, a burst of electricity through your veins. Others, weak, barely more than a whisper of sensation.

Your obsession grew, not with the power, but with the experience of it. Each time, you could feel it, the energy unraveling and weaving itself into you, like a rare wine tasting. It wasn’t about mere survival or strength, it was about savoring. You tasted techniques like a connoisseur, dissecting every note, every pulse, analyzing the flavor of it as it coursed through you.

You might sometimes wonder what the limits of this obsession with novelty and rarity are. You could not, like another connoisseur, buy wine from the faraway provinces of some country or taste cheese from an exceptional animal.

How far would this hunger take you?

You had to get something that belonged directly to the people, and that was quite hard. Well, unless people sometimes come to you on their own with new flavours.

You were proud of your collection.

The rain drummed against the rooftops of Tokyo, creating a symphony that was familiar to a city teeming with underground life. In a cramped, smoky alley, where the light of the street lamps barely reached, stood you.

Your black cloak blended with the darkness of the night, and your hair hid a face that few had the opportunity to see. In a world where pushing the limits of human ability was an everyday occurrence, you were something of a legend. Not surprisingly, your speciality was collecting unique abilities from those, who no longer had the chance to use them.

The black market was a place where you felt somewhat at home. Years spent here had even made you a friend of the place. Here you found everything you needed for your unconventional operations - from forbidden curses to information that could tip the balance in your favour.

It was here that you were to meet your new client.

You waited for him in one of the low, barely lit bars where the ghosts of the past mingled with the smell of tobacco, alcohol and darkness. The man who entered was wearing a fancy suit, but his nervous movements betrayed that he did not feel confident in the place. Before taking a seat opposite you, he looked around as if to make sure no one was following him. His silhouette seemed so small at the large wooden table in the corner of the bar.

"Is that you?" he asked quietly, although a note of arrogance could be detected in his voice.

"To the point." you replied dispassionately, lifting your gaze "I expect you have something interesting for me."

"Geto Suguru, cult leader, very powerfull." you've heard this name before, but you don't know a lot about him.

"Do you think he's worth adding to my collection?" you drilled him with your eyes.

"He…" he gazed too much into your gloom-shrouded eyes "He knows how to make curses obey."

Oh...

Could it be

Curse Spirit Manipulation?

Interesting.

"Geto disregarded my sponsor." the guy in the suit continued "My client was willing to invest in his cause, but this kid…. rejected him as if he was worthless. Now… now he wants someone to show him where he belongs. And who better to do that than you?’" he smiled emotionlessly.

A unique technique, one you've heard of before.

From a certain assassin who met him once.

"Conditions?" you asked, folding your hands on the table. Your movements were quiet, almost hypnotic, as if your every decision had been carefully thought out rather than the result of a moment.

"Silent work, no witnesses, no connections." replied the man opposite, nervously intertwining his fingers. His voice betrayed that he was not used to such conversations. His sweaty forehead and trembling breath indicated that being in your company filled him with anxiety.

"Price?" Your gaze penetrated him as if you were looking for weaknesses in him that you could exploit. You were definitely someone who didn't need to raise your voice to control the situation.

"Isn't adding such a unique skill to the collection a price in itself?" his lips trembled in an attempt to emphasise the merits of the task, although he clearly lacked confidence.

You lifted your gaze, your eyes hidden beneath your eyelids penetrated his body thoroughly, as if you were contemplating whether you would just get bored with him. He was of little importance to you, merely a relay of an order. Uncertainty hung in the air, and the silence between you became heavier than he could bear.

"Forty milion yen." you said in a calm, composed tone. Your words were like the blade of a knife - precise and merciless.

The man almost chuckled, his eyes widening in surprise.

"B-but-" he began to protest, trying to find words to lower the stakes. His hands began to move restlessly, looking for a foothold on the table, but found no solid footing.

"Mininaly." you interrupted him by leaning forward slightly, though without changing your expression. Your voice remained calm, but now there was a note of hardness in it that was impossible to ignore. "If you don't agree, then go find someone else to do the job."

Your words had a finality about them that left no room for negotiation. The man froze, as if he felt a chill run through his body.

He knew there was no other option. In the world in which he lived, your services were of the highest calibre, and trying to seek someone else would be tantamount to failure.

"My supervisor will not be happy with this." he lowered his gaze, driving it into his palms.

"Do I look like i care?" you asked unbothered.

He sighed, knowing that he had lost this invisible battle. He spoke after a while.

"I agree." he said quietly, although bitterness could be heard in his voice. "Forty million."

You smiled slightly, though there was not a hint of warmth in your eyes.

"Good. In that case, consider that what you wanted is already in progress."

𖤓

Was it really him?

You sat perched on the rooftop, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the city. The light fell just right, angled so that you remained invisible to him, but his figure stood clear as day before your eyes.

The photograph the client had given you was clutched in your hand, but now, comparing it to the man below, you no longer needed the image. The details had already seared into your mind.

His face was pale, flawless, as if carved from marble. The features were sharp yet elegant, each one contributing to a striking intensity that seemed to pierce through the space around him.

His eyes, those beautiful eyes - held a focus that unnerved you. Brilliant, fierce, as though the weight of the world rested behind them. They cut through the air with the same razor-sharp precision you’d seen in the photograph, but here, in person, they were alive, filled with something even the best camera couldn’t capture.

A cascade of inky black hair fell over his shoulders, shimmering slightly as it caught the light. It was long, flowing like a dark waterfall, framing the cold perfection of his face. Every movement seemed deliberate, almost regal, as if the air itself bowed to his presence.

The robes he wore were beyond extravagant. Ornate embroidery, each thread painstakingly sewn to create an image of grandeur, wrapped around him in a way that was almost otherworldly. The craftsmanship was undeniable, luxurious, every fold and crease meant to accentuate his authority. You could practically feel the texture of the fabric, sense the weight of the cloth just by watching him. Each stitch was perfect, every piece of ornamentation serving to emphasize the careful artistry that clung to him.

It has to be him.

The photograph could never truly capture the weight of his presence, but now, watching him move, you were certain.

Geto Suguru - Cult leader, Special Grade Curse User, the man your client wanted dead. The man whose cursed technique you craved to collect...

..was truly a captivating view.

𖤓

For the next few months you followed Geto Suguru from obscurity, like a shadow that never disappeared, no matter how intense the light of day was. By the third week, his patterns were etched into your mind - when he woke, when he slept, where he trained, who he trusted.

The first few weeks were standard.

Observe routines, write down habits, identify behaviors, learn about character, relationships and safety measures.

One of your techniques allowed you to dissolve into the shadows, unnoticed and unseen. It was fitting, then, that you had become exactly that - a shadow in his world, always there, always watching, never revealing yourself.

You first started with something basic, like listening to his speeches at cult headquarters, drawn by the intensity with which he spoke about his purpose.

His views were radical, even bizarre, clashing with your own sensibilities. Yet, as unsettling as they were, you couldn’t help but acknowledge that in some ways, he might be right. Not in everything, admittedly, but in enough to make you question.

He was undeniably charismatic. People hung on his every word, their eyes fixed on him like he was their savior, the one who could bring them the salvation they craved. It wasn’t surprising, pleanty of people were so lost that they belive in everything someone can say.

What did surprise you, however, was the sound of his voice. You couldn't expect this. It didn’t match the man you’d been watching from the shadows for so long. You expected something sharp, commanding—something that fit his tall, lean frame and his tilte as a leader. Instead, his voice was affable, syrupy, a smooth stroke across glazed canvas. There was a warmth to it, a richness that flowed over his audience like a soft breeze, disarming them with its elegance and making his words feel like they effortlessly slipped into their minds.

He had the ability to inspire, to reshape people’s perceptions of reality, to make his visions feel like truth. Even you, standing in the background, found yourself momentarily caught in his web of persuasion, wondering if, perhaps, there was something to his philosophy after all.

But the longer you followed him, the more you saw beyond the facade.

This elegance and smoothness hid another, far darker side. Beneath that affable demeanor and polite smile was a man who could remain utterly composed, even as chaos unfolded around him. It was unnerving to witness, how he never flinched, never lost his calm, even when the situation demanded anything but tranquility.

You saw it firsthand. There was a time when a sponsor - someone who had promised to support his cause - failed to deliver. The punishment was swift and brutal. A curse, summoned with the same grace he used in conversation, wrapped itself around the unfortunate man. It began to devour him, piece by piece, agonizingly slow. The room was filled with screams, the air thick with fear and the stench of death.

But Geto remained still. His smile never wavered, his eyes never betrayed the slightest flicker of emotion. He simply watched, as though he were observing something routine, unremarkable. His voice, when he finally spoke, was as calm and smooth as it had been during his speeches, as if he were discussing the weather, not the violent death happening before him.

That was the duality of Geto Suguru. He could shift seamlessly between the benevolent leader his followers adored and the cold, calculating figure willing to let a man be torn apart without so much as a blink. It wasn’t just cruelty - it was control. A calculated display of power, meant to remind those around him that while his voice may be velvet, there was iron beneath it.

In those moments, you saw the full depth of the man you were tracking. He wasn’t just charismatic. He was dangerous. A force that could twist both his power and his personality to fit any situation, never losing his grip on the people or curses that surrounded him. It was chilling, and yet, it was precisely this balance of charm and ruthlessness that made him so compelling.

So hard to pin down, and even harder to predict.

𖤓

When he returned from his speeches, cradling his two children in his arms, everything about him shifted. His smile, so often reserved or calculating, softened into something genuine, warm, and deeply caring. The two girls, nestled against him, wore smiles that radiated the purest joy you’d ever seen, sincere in a way that disarmed you completely. And you understood why. In those moments, they weren’t in the presence of a cult leader or a powerful sorcerer - they were simply with someone they called a father.

He cooked meals for them, simple and unpretentious. In the mornings, he walked them to school, carrying their bags and making sure they had everything they needed. He helped with their studies, patiently guiding them through lessons with the same focus he applied to anything else in his life.

He spoiled them endlessly, indulging their every whim with sweets and new toys, as if trying to make up for the darker realities surrounding their lives. Bags of candies would mysteriously appear in their hands after long days, and their rooms were filled with the latest toys, dolls, and trinkets. It was clear that nothing was off-limits when it came to their happiness.

Sometimes, you’d catch him spending entire afternoons with them, playing in their room or on the roof of the worship headquarters. Their laughter echoed through the walls, so out of place in such a grim environment, yet entirely natural in their presence. These moments seemed pulled from another life, a life that didn’t belong to a man of his power and position. In those hours, Geto wasn’t the man who summoned curses or commanded followers with radical ideals. He was just a father, a teacher, someone who valued the simplicity and joy that his children brought into his world.

It was a strange dichotomy, seeing this softer side of him. It made you question how someone who could sit calmly as a curse devoured a man could also hold so much tenderness in his hands when it came to his daughters.

Watching him with them, it was impossible not to acknowledge that, whatever else he was, he was a devoted father, a man who, in those private moments, seemed to find a kind of peace.

The perfect kind of tranquillity that you could easily disturb. They are lucky that you were commissioned to do a clean job, without additional casualties.

You would take advantage of this visible weak point, without any problem.

𖤓

You observed him daily, each training session a display of skill honed with painstaking precision. His movements were fluid, deliberate, a mastery over both body and cursed energy that left little room for error. Every gesture, every technique, was calculated down to the smallest detail. There was no wasted effort.

He began each session with strength exercises, his body moving with a kind of restrained power that spoke of years of relentless discipline. Clad in a dark, form-fitting training suit, his movements were both fluid and precise, the fabric hugging the sharp lines of his lean, muscular frame. The suit itself was simple, practical, black with subtle markings along the seams, designed for ease of movement yet offering no distraction from the task at hand. His long, dark hair was usually tied back, but occasionally a few loose strands would slip free, sticking to the nape of his neck as beads of sweat formed along his skin.

Push-ups, pull-ups, lunges - he moved through each exercise with a sense of rhythm, his body cutting through the still air like a blade. There was no excess movement, no wasted energy. His core strength was visible in the way he balanced himself, the quiet strength of his legs when he transitioned from one position to another. His breathing was steady, controlled, as if he were channeling not only physical strength but mental focus into every motion.

Everything before moving on to what fascinated you most - his control over curses.

Each curse, once summoned, was inspected with meticulous care. What surprised you was his flawless memory of each one, no matter how recently acquired. He never seemed overwhelmed by their numbers, as though he held their essence in his mind as clearly as if they were physical objects in his hands.

Often, he would stand in the middle of the square behind the base, surrounded by the dark entities he had summoned, and simply think. You could see him piecing together strategies in his mind, testing new combinations of curses. He would send projectiles flying, measuring their reach, or summon smaller curses to see how they interacted with one another. He was always refining, always pushing the boundaries of what his curses could do.

It was almost hypnotic to watch. His ability to devise new strategies and possibilities was relentless, and more than once, you caught yourself silently offering suggestions, wondering if his latest idea could be improved upon.

Even though he trained alone, there was a sense that he knew he was never truly by himself. He always seemed vaguely aware, as though he could feel your gaze, but he never let on. For him, training wasn’t just preparation for combat, it was a form of deep concentration, a space to plan, strategize, and reflect.

In the moments when he paused, resting after hours of intense focus, you could almost sense his thoughts drifting. He seemed distant then, as if his mind was wandering far beyond the physical space around him, perhaps contemplating the weight of his purpose, the future, or the fate of the world he was trying to reshape.

𖤓

There were days when you accompanied him on trivial matters—mundane errands like shopping, blending in among people as if nothing about his life was extraordinary.

It was strange, really. He always chose shops run by sorcerers, no matter how inconvenient or far they were. In these places, his demeanor softened. His face would light up with a gentle expression, his posture loosening. When speaking to fellow sorcerers, customers, salespeople, shop owners, he was almost casual, relaxed. He’d exchange words about everyday matters, asking after their lives with genuine interest, smiling as he listened to their problems or needs. It was a side of him that showed a quiet, almost paternal care for his own kind.

However, when sorcerer-run shops weren’t an option, he would settle for regular stores, those run by non-sorcerers. On the surface, his behavior didn’t change much—still polite, still composed. But after watching him for so long, you began to notice the subtle differences. There was a barrier, invisible but palpable, that separated him from everyone else. Even as he spoke to them, he remained distant, almost indifferent. His face held the same gentleness, but there was a quiet detachment beneath it, a sense that he was more than they could understand, and he made it clear in the smallest ways. It wasn’t arrogance, exactly, but an awareness of the divide that existed between him and the rest of the world. He was accessible, yet never truly one of them.

𖤓

On one occasion, you watched him as he sat at his desk in the dim light of his flat, practicing calligraphy. The black ink flowed across the paper with a precision that mirrored the discipline in every aspect of his life. Each brushstroke was planned, filled with a quiet sense of calm and inner balance. For him, this was not just art, it was a form of self-improvement, a meditative practice that demanded focus, patience, and reflection.

His face, normally composed, now carried an intensity of concentration that fascinated you. His eyes were sharp, tracing each line as though it held more significance than just its form. Every letter he wrote seemed to symbolize something deeper, every stroke a reflection of his life, carefully crafted but never without purpose. You could sense the connection between his mind and the ink, as if the act of writing was a metaphor for the control he sought in all things.

At times, his hand would pause mid-stroke, his brush hovering just above the paper. His brows furrowed slightly as he studied the work before him, considering how best to proceed. His concentration was palpable, as if the next mark could determine the balance of the entire piece. He would tilt his head just so, analyzing how the ink should glide over the expensive parchment, the way it should settle, just as his long black hair cascaded down his back with an effortless elegance.

When an error occurred—a stroke too thick or too light—he never hesitated. He would calmly set the paper aside and begin again, his patience unwavering. Sometimes, he would discard entire pages, whole phrases rewritten until they reached his exacting standards. You knew that many nights, he worked late into the hours of dawn, refusing to rest until the parchment was perfect, every line a testament to his dedication.

The completed works that hung in his office were impressive—each one a masterpiece of balance and precision, filled with a quiet power that matched the man himself. They weren’t just pieces of calligraphy; they were expressions of who he was, his relentless pursuit of mastery in every facet of life. Watching him, you couldn’t help but admire the depth of his commitment to both the smallest details and the grandest designs.

𖤓

One night, you witnessed something that shattered your carefully constructed perception of him. As usual, you stood cloaked in the safety of shadows, concealed by a cursed technique that allowed you to observe Geto closely without consequence. He sat alone in his study, dressed in his night robes, hair wet and loose, falling smoothly over his shoulders. The dim lamplight cast a long, solitary shadow across the room, highlighting the stark loneliness in his posture.

In his hands was an old photograph, though the details were initially too obscured for you to make out. His shoulders were slumped, eyes fixed on the image, completely still. The sight was so unlike him, and before you could piece together why, you saw it, a single tear sliding down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, as if trying to maintain his stoic façade, but it was futile. More tears followed, staining the photograph. It was a rare, raw moment, one that you had never associated with someone like Geto Suguru.

It felt wrong, almost invasive, to witness this vulnerability, but curiosity gnawed at you. You stepped closer, using the cursed technique to remain hidden, desperate to understand what had broken the man you thought was unbreakable.

And then, you saw the photograph.

Three people stood side by side, radiating camaraderie and carefreeness. On the left was Geto, unmistakably younger, with his hair neatly tied into a bun. His expression was calm, indifferent even, yet there was a rebellious spark in his eyes, emphasized by the crude hand sign he flashed at the camera. The person in the middle had short, reddish-brown hair and a radiant smile, eyes closed in pure joy, clutching a lollipop. And on the right...

Your heart skipped a beat.

The person standing slightly taller had striking white hair, wearing round sunglasses that had slipped slightly, revealing crystalline blue eyes. He was grinning broadly, flashing a peace sign with the same carefree energy.

Your senses sharpened, and the realization hit you with startling clarity. Those eyes - everything about him matched the description you had once heard. You studied Geto’s face again, now buried in his hands.

He knew him. There was no doubt now.

This job, already complex, had just become far more interesting.

You were tasked with eliminating Geto Suguru, and yet, standing there, watching him fall apart in the privacy of his grief, you began to feel that he was more than just a target.

He was the gateway you had long sought to get the information you needed to find.

He was a flesh and blood man who had his own desires, hopes and secrets. Secrets that may never have been meant to be uncovered, but which were now beginning to attract you more and more.

You knew that your task was coming to an inevitable end. But as you looked at it, feeling its complexity, you began to wonder if it would really be the end.

Were you in a position to find out the information you were looking for, before he expels his last breath?

𖤓

The night outside the cult’s headquarters was still, an undisturbed blanket of silence cloaking everything - a perfect contrast to the work that lay ahead. You moved effortlessly, slipping through the darkness with a kind of elegance born from experience, your presence vanishing into the shadows like ink on black velvet. The building loomed above, riddled with traps, intricate wards designed to keep the unprepared at bay. But of course, you were different. You had planned for this, down to the smallest detail.

Time, as always, was a matter of precision. You watched, waited, not in haste but with the patience of someone who has done this before. The secretary, rarely one to leave her station, finally rose. Her footsteps, barely audible, faded as she disappeared into the depths of the hallway. It was then that you moved, an invisible force in the room.

The security system awaited you next, but it was no match for the methodical motions of your hands. The control panel’s buttons yielded to your touch, each one pressed in deliberate succession. A soft, almost imperceptible click signaled the system’s deactivation, and the silence that followed was absolute. No one would suspect. Not until it was far too late.

Geto Suguru was still in his office. You had known he’d be here - his habits were a well-worn path you had studied for weeks. He liked to linger, alone, long after the cultists had gone, the weight of his decisions pressing into the late hours. Tonight was no exception.

Your feet carried you soundlessly behind him, your cursed technique weaving a veil of invisibility over you like the thinnest layer of silk. He strode ahead, his robes flowing in the faint light as he made his way down the hall. The door to his office closed with a quiet click.

This was it.

You slipped inside just as he settled into his chair, oblivious to the disruption in the air around him. The lamplight threw a soft, golden hue across his desk, illuminating the cluttered expanse of papers, scrolls, remnants of a long day. He sighed, a sound that conveyed the heavy burden of leadership as he leaned back, readying himself for the night’s work. That’s when you stepped from the shadows, your form coalescing into view like a slow brushstroke on the canvas of his solitude.

For a split second, he froze. But then, instead of fear, amusement painted his face. His laugh was low, almost a purr, as if death itself had become an old acquaintance.

"So, death pays me a visit tonight?" his voice, smooth and unruffled, slipped easily into the quiet. "You’re not the first, you know. There have been others. All of them thought they could do what you’re here for."

Before he could even think of making a move, you acted swiftly, severing his access to his cursed techniques in a single, decisive moment. His power - so closely tied to his identity - was locked away before he could call upon a single curse. He blinked, a flash of surprise crossing his face, but his composure remained almost unnervingly intact.

"Don’t bother." you said, your voice sharp and unwavering, cutting through the quiet like a blade poised just above skin. "The katana under your desk and the dagger on your thigh - neither will help you now."

His gaze flickered toward his desk, where the concealed katana lay waiting, then down to his thigh, where the dagger’s hilt was nestled beneath the folds of his robe. A small, knowing smile curved his lips, but he didn’t reach for either weapon.

With slow, measured steps, you moved forward, taking the seat across from him, the tension in the room palpable but controlled. There was no urgency for violence—no rush to end this confrontation. You had the advantage now, and that knowledge kept you calm, steady.

"Let’s talk." you offered, your voice void of malice, almost casual, as if you were suggesting a conversation over tea.

Geto leaned back in his chair, still smiling, though you noticed the flicker of intrigue behind his eyes—he hadn’t expected this.

"A conversation, is it?" he mused, his tone light, but the undercurrent of curiosity was unmistakable. "Interesting. You have me at a disadvantage, and yet here you are, offering words instead of death."

"I wouldn't call it disadvantage, I'd call it mercy, but however you prefer."

His hand hovered over the desk, the motion slow and deliberate, no longer a threat. He knew, as well as you did, that his usual methods of escape or attack were useless. The fight was already over, and now all that remained was the question of why. You could feel his curiosity hanging in the air, thickening the tension between you, though it remained strangely civil.

"Very well." he said finally, folding his hands in front of him. "Let’s talk. But tell me, what do you hope to gain from this conversation?"

"Information." you said, leaning back in your chair, mirroring his posture, your eyes never leaving his. "Corpses don’t talk."

Geto’s amusement lingered, a faint glimmer in his dark eyes, but beneath it, you could see the subtle shift in his demeanor—he was keenly aware of the limits now imposed on him.

Without his techniques, without his weapons, the usual paths out of situations like this had been cut off. Yet, even in this vulnerable state, he wasn’t rattled. If anything, he seemed curious, his attention sharpened by the unpredictability of your approach.

You leaned back in the chair, your gaze unwavering on Geto Suguru, who still wore the faintest trace of amusement on his face. Yet, beneath that surface, the tension in his posture was unmistakable. He knew his options were narrowing—no techniques, no weapons, and certainly no room to strike back.

"Years ago.." you began, your voice calm but pointed, "you participated in the mission to protect Riko Amanai. We both know how that mission ended."

For a split second, his smile faltered. His gaze sharpened as he processed your words, but he didn’t interrupt. He was waiting, measuring you, calculating your intentions. You didn’t bother giving him the space to respond.

"Toji Fushiguro.." you continued, watching his reaction as the name slipped past your lips "... he claims he killed Satoru Gojo during that mission. But we both know Gojo is alive. Untouchable, even. So I’m curious, what did Toji use to hurt him? Was it a tool?”

The atmosphere shifted. For the first time, Geto’s eyes darkened, the mask of playful indifference slipping entirely. The name 'Toji Fushiguro' was a raw nerve, one that visibly rattled him. He shifted in his seat, and the subtle tension in his jaw told you everything, the memories, the bitterness, the unresolved pain from that mission were surfacing.

"Why do you think what he says is true?" he asked, his tone cold but steady. "Satoru is alive and well."

"Toji may be a bastard and a fraud -" you replied, leaning forward just enough to make your point clear, "-but he’d never lie about killing Six Eyes. His pride wouldn’t let him.'"

The room felt heavy with the weight of that truth. Toji Fushiguro’s reputation as the "Sorcerer Killer" had been well-earned, but something had given him the edge over someone as powerful as Gojo. Something dangerous, and you needed to know what it was.

Geto’s expression hardened. He was stone-faced, but you could see the flicker of something behind his eyes—loyalty, perhaps. He wasn’t going to betray Gojo easily. That much was clear.

"Even if I had that information.." he said slowly, his voice cool but unwavering "..why would I give it to you?"

Your patience, thin to begin with, began to fray.

And then, suddenly, Geto moved, faster than you anticipated. His hand shot out, aiming for your hair, while his other hand reached for your wrist, intending to slam you against the table. His reflexes were precise, well-practiced, and had you been anyone else, he might have succeeded.

But you weren’t anyone else.

His hands passed right through you, grasping at nothing but air, as if you were made of smoke. A faint, amused smile touched your lips as you watched him realize his mistake, his hand still extended toward you - now useless.

You let out a soft, almost mocking laugh, that echoed in the silent room.

"I told you, Geto." you said, the amusement in your voice unmistakable. "That kind of play belongs in the bedroom. And it’s not going to work here."

His eyes narrowed, frustration flickering beneath his calm exterior. His hand dropped back to his side, but his expression tightened, a clear sign that he hated this feeling of helplessness. He wasn’t in control anymore, and you had just reminded him of that fact - subtly, but unmistakably.

You leaned forward, your tone dropping to something quieter, more dangerous, your gaze locking onto his.

"So." you said, voice sharp enough to cut through the air "Will you tell me? What did Toji use? I know he wasn’t lying."

The room fell silent again, the tension now palpable as Geto weighed his next move, knowing full well you weren’t leaving without answers.

You sighed, a subtle edge of exasperation creeping into your tone as Geto maintained his stubborn silence. His loyalty to Gojo was admirable, but it was beginning to wear thin, his resolve starting to crack under the weight of your persistence. You weren’t here to exploit weaknesses, but to prevent a far greater threat—one he seemed too proud to acknowledge. The real danger wasn’t you. It was the ones hunting for the same answers you sought.

Without breaking eye contact, you stood from your chair. In one fluid motion, you teleported behind him, your movement so swift that he barely had time to react. Before he could resist, your hand gripped a fistful of his long, dark hair, pulling it back gently, yet with enough force to assert control. At the same time, chains of cursed energy materialized, wrapping around his wrists. They were meant to cause pain, enough to hold him still, preventing any further struggle.

"You’re still silent." you murmured, your voice low, close to his ear. There was no malice in your tone, but a quiet firmness that left no room for misinterpretation. "I’ve already told you. This isn’t going to work. You can resist all you want, but we both know this conversation won’t end until I get what I need."

His body tensed, muscles coiling with frustration as he tested the chains, but they held fast. His pride kept him from yielding easily, but the tension in his posture was clear. You tugged his hair back, just enough to force his eyes to meet yours, the angle sharp. His expression remained hard, but there was a flicker of something else behind the frustration. Perhaps curiosity or perhaps the first signs of understanding.

"I don’t want Gojo dead." you repeated slowly, each word measured, leaving no space for doubt.

"I need to know what can hurt him. Where his limits lie. Because someone else is looking for those answers, and when they find them, we both know what happens next. Sorcerers fighting for power, tearing each other apart. A new era of chaos, like the Heian one. And we both know how dangerous that is."

Geto’s gaze faltered for a moment, his jaw tightening as the weight of your words sank in. His silence was no longer one of refusal—it was hesitation, contemplation. You pressed forward, knowing the balance was tipping.

"Is that really what you want?" you asked, your voice softening, shifting from a demand to an appeal. "Your vision of a perfect world -will it survive if everyone’s fighting for the title of 'the strongest'? If they’re killing each other without mercy? Gojo’s absence would plunge everything into chaos. You’ve seen what happens when balance is broken."

His resistance was weakening. You could see it in the slight tremor in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw slowly easing. The room felt still, heavy with the gravity of the situation. You tighten your grip on his hair, letting him know the meaning of your words.

"I’m not your enemy." you whispered, the intensity in your voice tempered with sincerity. "But I need to know. What is the one thing that can kill him? What did Toji use?"

The room hung in silence, the tension palpable as the moment stretched between you.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Geto exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly as though the weight of the decision had finally settled on him.

He looked up at you, eyes dark but resigned, and spoke quietly, his voice barely a breath. "The Inverted Spear of Heaven." he said. "It’s the only weapon that nullifies cursed techniques. That’s what Toji used to kill Satoru, if only for a moment."

You listened intently, hanging on to Geto's every word as he spoke, and as he revealed the truth, you tightened the chains around his wrists just a little more.

"But Gojo survived," you prompted, voice steady, though tension hummed between you. "How?"

Geto's gaze met yours, calm but resolute. "Because Gojo always comes back," he said, his voice soft yet certain. "He was pushed to the brink, but in the end, he found a way. That’s what makes him different. Even when you think he’s finished, he’s not."

There was an unspoken challenge in his eyes, a tension that, despite his current position, had not broken. His breathing had steadied, but the energy in the room was thick—simmering with something unresolved. His body remained taut, muscles straining against the cursed chains, though his eyes, steady and dark, dared you to push further. That fire inside him, despite everything, still burned.

You leaned in closer, voice a soft, intimate murmur yet laced with the same unyielding control that held him. "I kinda like this," you mused, letting your words linger in the air between you, "how hopeless you are in my grasp. And I think... maybe you do too."

For a split second, something raw flickered in Geto's eyes, something dangerous and defiant. He didn’t reply, but the tension between you spoke volumes. Despite the chains binding him, despite his power being stripped away, there was a part of him that refused to submit. It was that glimmer of rebellion that made this moment all the more electric. He knew what's coming.

Unexpectedly, his voice broke the silence, soft but with a strange calmness. "If this is my end, can I at least have a last wish?"

Your brow arched, amusement curling at the edges of your lips. "I never do that, but I will make an exception." you replied, your tone indulgent, as if granting him one final luxury before the inevitable.

His lips curled into a faint, bitter smirk, laced with something darker. "Kill the one who sent you after me."

You laughed softly, dark and teasing, impressed by the audacity behind his words. "Clever." you murmured, the spark of amusement glinting in your eyes. "I agree."

He was lucky that you have developed a fondness for him.

You released your grip on his hair, though the cursed chains remained, holding him still. Reaching for the knife at your side, you pulled it free in a slow, deliberate motion. The blade gleamed in the dim light, casting a soft glow as you held it between the two of you.

Gently, you lifted his chin again, this time with the flat of the knife, and traced the sharp angles of his jawline with your fingers. His skin felt cool beneath your touch, and you could feel his breath catch momentarily, his body tensing beneath the intimate pressure of the blade.

"It’s a shame… really." you murmured, your voice quiet, almost regretful as the blade hovered dangerously close to his throat. "A huge loss to let that beautiful face wither."

Your hand grazed his cheek in a tender, almost intimate gesture that stood in sharp contrast to the violence promised by the knife. You could feel his breathing quicken at the contact, his body responding to the unexpected softness. But then, as if accepting his fate, Geto exhaled slowly, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips, his eyes softening with a sense of calm surrender.

"I didn’t think death would be so beautiful." he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, yet carrying the weight of his resignation.

You returned his smile, something sad and knowing flickering in your eyes as the knife rested lightly against his skin. His fate was sealed, and you both knew it—yet there was no fear in him, only acceptance.

𖤓

The alley was shrouded in darkness, the dim flicker of distant streetlights barely reaching the edges of where you stood, as though even the light hesitated to touch this forgotten corner. The air hung thick with the remnants of rain, a dampness that clung to the walls, slicking the pavement that gleamed faintly under the errant shimmer of passing headlights. The city buzzed in the distance, its pulse faint but steady, yet here, in this narrow, forsaken space, time seemed to slow to a whisper. Shadows stretched long, silent sentinels watching as you waited, patient and still, against the cool brick.

Your senses were sharp, attuned to every murmur of the night. It wasn’t long before the man arrived, his form out of place in the cloak of darkness. Wrapped in a cheap coat, he moved with a fragile unease, his footsteps soft but betraying the tremor beneath. The tension grew, the air thickening with each step he took toward you, until he finally came to a halt before you. His face, gaunt and pale beneath the scarce light, gleamed with the sheen of sweat, though the night was cool. His voice, shaky and uncertain, trembled as it cut through the stillness.

“Is it done?” The question, brittle as a dried leaf, hung in the air.

You let the silence linger, tasting his unease before you nodded, your voice steady, emotionless. "It’s done. No one’s seen Geto Suguru for a week now. His followers grow restless. You must have felt it."

Relief washed over him, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world had finally been lifted. With fumbling hands, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, nondescript bag, thrusting it into your hand with the desperation of someone eager to escape the moment. "Thank you… for your services," he muttered, the words rushed and hollow, already turning to leave, his back to you before the exchange was even complete.

But something held you still, the weight of the bag wrong, off. Lighter than it should be. A frown crept across your features as you opened the clasp, the soft click echoing through the alley. Inside, the faint glimmer of money caught your eye, but it was too little—only half of what had been promised.

"Wait."

The word, simple yet edged with the weight of authority, stopped him in his tracks. He turned slowly, his face twitching with forced calm, a weak smile stretched thin across his lips. "What’s the problem?" he asked, though the flicker of fear in his eyes betrayed him.

You held the bag aloft, its lightness speaking volumes. "This is only half."

The man’s face twisted, pride battling with uncertainty as he stammered a response. "My supervisor said it was a fair price. After all, you’ve gained Geto’s power, haven’t you? That’s worth more than money."

There was a false confidence in his voice, but it crumbled under the weight of the moment. His chest puffed slightly, as though pride alone could shield him from what was coming, but his eyes - nervous, darting - told another story. He stood on the edge of something sharp, something inevitable, and he knew it.

You sighed, a soft sound like the wind through withered leaves. "He said you’d do something like this."

Before he could react, his body seized, convulsing violently as his legs buckled beneath him. His neck was covered by a barely visible thread, that sunk into his neck by a single stroke of your finger. You snapped your fingers and the thread penetrated deep into his flesh, opening his throat. In an instant, he crumpled to the wet ground, eyes wide in shock, life flickering out like a candle in a storm. The shadows seemed to deepen, the silence folding in on itself as the man lay still, his fate sealed without fanfare.

From the dark, a figure stepped forward, emerging from the shadows as though he had always been part of them. His robes flowed like ink, blending into the night, his movements fluid, almost serene in their grace. His inky black hair cascaded over his shoulders, catching the faintest hint of light, while his sharp, flawless features held a cold beauty, carved from darkness itself.

"I told you he’d cause trouble." Geto said with a slight, knowing smile, amusement dancing in his eyes as he glanced down at the lifeless body.

You tossed the bag over your shoulder, unbothered, meeting Geto’s gaze with a cool, unyielding calm. "You’ve got two weeks to pay me the rest."

Geto chuckled, a sound like velvet, though there was an edge beneath it, something darker that lingered. "And how do you know I don’t have that money now?" His voice, smooth and playful, hinted at the game he enjoyed.

You raised an eyebrow, your tone steady, laced with certainty. "I know more than you think. Your funds aren’t what they used to be."

His laughter was soft, almost charming, but beneath it was the sharp glint of calculation. "Two weeks, then?" he echoed, as if testing the waters.

"Two weeks." you repeated, your voice carrying the weight of finality. "And if you try to cheat me, I’ll finish what I started."

For a moment, the alley held its breath, the world balanced on the edge of your words. Geto’s smile didn’t falter, but the spark of danger flickered in his eyes, acknowledging the truth between you.

And then, without another word, you dissolved into a swirl of black mist, your form blending into the night as though you were nothing more than a shadow yourself. The alley fell silent once more, the city’s distant hum the only sound that remained.

#geto suguru x reader #geto suguru #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #cult leader geto #geto x you #suguru geto x reader #suguru x reader #jjk #geto x y/n #suguru geto x y/n #jjk dark content #jjk suggestive #jjk suguru #jjk curse users #dark themes

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fourtyforever · 8 months ago

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Get in losers were making a fic rec masterlist

Hi y’all it’s me, your local multishipper, and I’m about to be the change I wish to see in the world by putting all the best f1 fics in one place.

Maxiel

cool things to say to your soulmate by @powerful-owl (E, 14k)

A collection of shorter soulmate stories by the great em powerfulowl. Essentially the maxiel thesis as far as I’m concerned. If you ever catch me talking about the goose fic, this is what I’m talking about. Fun story: this was actually the first F1 rpf I ever read and I blame it for why my standards are so fantastically high.

Thursday girl by @boxboxlewis (M, 3k)

Max is outed by the press. Shocking emotional impact to word ratio and off the charts tenderness. Short and sweet and low key a comfort read to me.

the being unknown by anonymous (E, 12k)

Body swap with really unique and emotional vibes. Ngl this one hurt me (in the best way). A fantastic and heart-wrenching take on the horrors of 2022.

Charlos

win or lose (it’s how you play the game) by @f1-stuff (E, 18k)

Hickey bet between charles and carlos. Cannot get over this fic for as long as I live: the silliness is off the charts, the vibes are literally the most perfectly balanced tenderhorny I’ve ever read and the writing is just really that good. I think about this fic minimum once a day.

last night by venerat (E, 24k)

College au. Ngl this one is just especially spicy, but also very very funny and fully captivating top to bottom (see what I did there? haha). Also a great ensemble cast here, which I always love.

Once more (before we die) by @f1-stuff (M, 6k)

Fantasy AU where charlos are princes of warring kingdoms. I love this AU and I love the tenderness between Charles and Carlos that we get out of it. I’m usually not really an AU type of gal but this one really did change my mind.

Playing games by @vegasgrandprix (T, 4K)

Gay chicken. WIP, but I can already tell so clearly exactly where this is going and that is delightful to me. Honestly this really is how they act like 90% of the time already.

Yukierre

match made in heaven by venerat (T, 4K)

Pierre is yuki’s matchmaker. this one is just so sweet and sooooo silly. Comfort read 100%

Loscar

Are they gay or European? (the answer is both) by periwinkle_bumper_cars (T, 30k)

Logan keeps walking in on other drivers in compromising positions. 100% balls to the wall silliness from beginning to end and just completely delightful the whole time. Background carlando, kmag/hulkenberg, brocedes, maxiel, and honestly the ensemble cast is what takes this one from great to top tier.

Landoscar

By a thread by @mctwinkdom (E, 32k)

The classic Australian thongs misunderstanding (gone sexual). Incredibly silly, amazingly hot and honestly a top-tier character study of both Oscar and Lando. A great study in unreliable narration as well (probably part of what accounts for my previous point).

carried away by orphan account (E, 22k)

Fake dating. Honestly this one got me in my feels so much more than I expected from the premise. Sweet and a little bit angsty and just a delightful read all the way down.

Strollonso

green light, red wine (and I don’t feel fine) by @vicsy (E, 19k)

Mafia AU where lance is the son of Fernando’s arch nemesis. THEE strollonso fic of all time I tell you. Unparalleled characterization on the part of both nando and lance, fantastic ensemble cast, FANTASTIC writing, and off the charts unreal spiciness. If you haven’t read this yet then what are you doing

El dick plan by @waddlingpenguin (E, 800)

Lance says ‘daddy,’ both Fernando and Lawrence answer. Short, sweet and SILLY.

camera roll by @penaltyboxboxbox (E, 5k)

Sexting/sex tapes. Overall nice and spicy and just fantastic characterization. Also absolutely crucial is the companion art also by dave penaltyboxboxbox which is literally like the ice cream on top of the cake for such a wonderful fic

silver platter by @wewentcarracing (E, 10k)

getting together fic featuring long suffering estie bestie. Honestly the fic is amazing and spicy and just so well written but Esteban’s ever growing dismay is lowkey my favorite part. Works as a pretty great lance character study as well.

Brocedes

Roseberg’s vs haminkton by @jean----ralphio (E, 16k)

Tattoo artist versus flower shop, except they’re rivals. This is like…just how they are honestly. Absolutely stunning ensemble cast and absolutely hilarious buildup to lewis and Nico finally getting together. Side order of seb just being a massive shit stirrer which honestly I think is the role he belongs in

The real reason nico rosberg retired by periwinkle_bumper_cars (G, 3k)

Secret Santa (gone horribly wrong). This is…..also just how they are unfortunately. The rancidest of vibes but also screeching-out-loud funny.

will be updating this on the reg so stay tuned for more good fics. also maybe if I am very lucky someday I will have my own fics to add to the list. definitely I need to become slightly more insane before I can start writing for this fandom but believe you me I’m well on my way.

#fic rec #f1 fic rec #maxiel #charlos #yukierre #loscar #landoscar #twinklaren #strollonso #brocedes #hope you all enjoy :P

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noisycowboyglitter · 4 months ago

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A Glass of Riesling: The Ideal Wine for Beginners and Connoisseurs Alike

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A Merry Christmas gift is a token of love, appreciation, and joy shared during the holiday season. It's a tangible expression of the festive spirit, bringing warmth and happiness to the recipient. Whether it's a thoughtful present for a loved one, a fun surprise for a child, or a small token of gratitude for a colleague, a Merry Christmas gift is designed to create lasting memories and strengthen bonds. The act of giving a Merry Christmas gift is a cherished tradition that fosters a sense of community and generosity.

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kesujo · 1 month ago

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Chapter 10: Miss Athletic

Previous chapter here.

When Taeyeon mentioned to Seojun he was free to use the house however he wished when both she and Tiffany were away, playfully adding on that those would be the ideal times to bring over girls, Seojun didn’t actually think he’d be bringing home someone any time soon. Yet here he was, bringing home a girl when both of his mistresses were away on some business.

“Wow, this place is huge…”

That being said, Seojun didn’t know how to proceed. Usually, it was pretty straightforward with a succubus, but from all that Seojun could tell, Boa (as she liked to be called) was a normal, female human being. She was every bit stunning as a succubus normally would be, which was why Seojun’s first assumption upon seeing her was that she was one, but as they talked, he began to consider differently. It was ironic, in a way; not months prior, Seojun wouldn’t have even thought to consider anyone to be anything but a human being, but after being immersed in the world of demons, his first thought was to jump to that conclusion. Reminding himself that most females he would meet would, in fact, be human was a good thing to keep in mind going forward.

But, now what, now that they were at his residence?

Boa did present herself as flirtatious, but that wasn’t the go-ahead to jump straight into sex. Should they watch a movie or something first?

“Do you want anything to drink?”

“Sure! What do you have?”

“Let me check.”

While Seojun perused the kitchen for beverages, Boa sat on the living room couch Seojun directed her to, looking around in awe. “I don’t mean to pry, but are you really rich or something?”

Seojun smiled to himself.

After concluding that Boa was most likely a normal human being, Seojun made sure to mask his involvement in the world of the supernatural. While it was never explicitly told to him, Seojun understood it as an implied rule that demons and involved parties should keep their existence a secret. And he wasn’t about to break that rule to a woman he just met, even for a woman as charming as Boa.

“I guess you could say that, although I don’t live here myself. My roommate is out on business right now, so I have the place to myself for today.”

“I see.”

“We have soju, but we also have wine if you want that. There’s also some vodka and mixers if you wanted to make something for yourself.”

Boa laughed. “Wow, you even have expensive tastes, huh?” One of Boa’s main charming points, to Seojun, was her laughter. It was very unique: it could be described as dainty, or maybe drawn-out and breathy, as if she was trying to sustain notes for a second or two at a time in the cadence of laughter. “Soju sounds great!” As Seojun collected the bottle and picked out two shot glasses, Boa chimed in again. “Not one for furniture, are you? Or is that at the behest of your roommate?”

He couldn’t just say that it was because the additional open space allowed Taeyeon to stretch out her wings wherever she wanted inside the house and not have to worry about knocking things over. “Yeah, I’m pretty content with what we have already.”

When Seojun brought over the bottle along with two shot glasses, the slightly tan woman looked over and beamed at him. “Thanks! I—oh, wow, your arm is pretty big.”

One thing Seojun didn’t expect as a result of finishing the Servant Ritual with Tiffany was for him to gain so much muscle. Tiffany explained the perk of being her Servant is that his stamina explosively increased to match Tiffany’s own Trait, and the increased muscle mass was a means to that end. Although he did start working out more, since Taeyeon was still his personal trainer and all, seeing such drastic change in his body almost felt like cheating. Not that he complained about how much better he looked, and apparently also how much better he looked to girls.

“I’ve been working out a lot recently.”

“Oh, really?” Seojun nodded, taking his first sip of his drink after sitting down next to her on the couch. “Same! We should go together some time! Which gym do you go to?”

What was the name of the gym, even? Seojun always referred to it as ‘Taeyeon’s Gym’ in his mind and ‘the gym’ when talking about it with Taeyeon … what was it even called? “It’s a pretty small one, I don’t remember what it was called though…”

Boa laughed at that. “You’re that focused, huh?”

Seojun ended up smiling—not necessarily at her comment, but at her twinkling laughter. Its happiness was so infectious, it was hard not to smile. “Yeah, you can say that.”

“I bet you have your own personal trainer, with how rich you are.”

Did he want to even admit that he was living with his personal trainer? That might lead to a line of questions that made Boa realize it was strange for a personal trainer to live in such a big house, and that wouldn’t be good for the secrecy he was trying to maintain, so he ended up saying, “Yeah, she’s pretty great.”

“Oh, a she…” Oh wait. Did he mess up? Was he not supposed to reveal the gender of his personal trainer? Was it improper to talk about other women to the woman he brought home? “I bet I can show you some exercises that she couldn’t.”

Instead of taking on a jealous tone, Boa instead took upon a competitive one. Seojun could see the fire in her eyes, but also within it a hidden element of playfulness that seemed slightly different than the one she used at the café. “Oh?”

“Let’s move this table,” she said, emptying her glass with a final swig before setting it on said table. Seojun followed suit before bending over and, in one fluid motion, picked up the entire table. “Oh wow, look at you! You make that table look so light~”

Seojun grinned, pleased his efforts to show off paid off well. “It’s not that bad.” That was a lie; Seojun could feel his muscles straining, having to take careful steps to both manage the weight of the hefty piece of furniture while balancing the glasses sitting atop it. But Boa didn’t need to know that. Maybe this Succubus Servant glow-up he experienced in the last few days was starting to get to his head—but as someone who never got female attention to suddenly swimming in it, it was hard not let it get to his head.

After placing the table gently outside the living room, the sight he was met with when he turned his head back towards Boa made his jaw drop to the floor.

Boa had her back facing him, having already placed her neatly folded pants on the couch and was currently stripping off her top. Although she didn’t quite have the curves Jessica or Tiffany or Sunny had, she made up for in the well-defined lean muscle she sported on her legs and glutes. As she folded the shirt in her arms, she turned around and shot Seojun a dazzling smile. “Like what you see?”

Seojun nodded. “You look great, Boa.” She might’ve been even smaller than Taeyeon or Yeoreum, but her body was definitely built more athletically. She looked like she might’ve jumped right out of the magazine cover of Sports Illustrated—if Sports Illustrated was more erotic in nature, that is.

“Join me,” she said, beckoning to him with a finger. Like a moth to a lantern, Seojun obeyed, throwing off his shirt in a much wilder fashion than Boa. “Oh, wow…” Before, her surprised exclamation was brighter and more flirtatious; this time, her voice had taken a huskier tone, her lustful eyes swallowing up the six-pack that had developed on Seojun’s lower chest.

“We aren’t going to stretch before we start?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint, “You’re about to stretch out my pussy, aren’t you?” As Seojun whipped his pants and boxers off, revealing his semi-erect cock, Boa suddenly froze. It was her jaw’s turn to drop to the floor this time, her eyes bulging out of their sockets. Her tongue quickly darted out of her mouth, wetting her lips. “Oh yeah, that’ll definitely stretch me out quite well.”

“It’s not even fully erect yet.”

Boa shot him a disbelieving stare. “Stop lying! How can that get any—oh my god…” Seojun felt himself getting harder and harder as she continued to stare, turning fully around to get a proper look at it. “Wow, I don’t even know if I can fit that inside me…”

Seojun tried not to stare too hard at her perky nipples sitting atop her relatively small breasts. Despite their size, they were still extremely shapely and looked incredibly soft and made him want to feel them up, both with his hands and his face. All boobs were great boobs, that was Seojun’s motto. “That’s why we exercise, isn’t it? To improve ourselves?”

Boa nodded, eyes stuck to Seojun’s cock like a magnet. As if in a trance, she got down to her knees, hands reaching out and wrapping around his veiny member. Seojun hissed, the delicate, soft touch from the slightly tanned woman causing his arousal to deepen. “Oh my god, it’s getting bigger…”

“What was that exercise you were gonna show me?”

“I’ll need to do some preparations before I show you,” was her reply promptly before diving headfirst onto his dick.

Seojun let out a guttural moan, the sudden sensation of her soft lips encircling his cock and her wet tongue licking around its circumference. His legs and arms tensed, but was somehow able to restrain himself from grabbing her head and shoving her the rest of the way. And from how she barely was able to swallow a third of his cock before stopping, that was probably a good thing.

“It’s so hot … your balls feel so heavy with cum,” she noted, gently caressing his testicles, “For me?”

“Only if you earn it.”

Boa grinned. “Well, better get started then,” she said, leaning forward while sticking her tongue out. Another hiss escaped Seojun’s mouth as her tongue pressed against the underside of his member, carefully coating the rest of his cock with a layer of saliva. The slurping sounds and the way the wet, pink muscle seemed to linger on his dick made him all the hornier for when Boa pulled back, satisfied, and turned back around.

“What kind of…” Seojun trailed off, watching Boa lower her torso onto the carpeted floor of the living room, craning her back downwards with her legs folded under her stomach, accentuating her firm butt that was now facing him. Hidden between the two plump cheeks laid her cleanly shaven pussy, its pink folds barely shimmering in the room’s light.

“First, grab—oh!” Boa was promptly cut off when Seojun kneeled down behind her, placing his right hand gently on her ass.

“You need some preparation too,” Seojun told her, reaching between her cheeks with his index and middle finger to press against the beautiful, pink lips covering her womanhood.

“Ooh…” she gasped, a shiver going down her body as Seojun rubbed the moist folds sensually. “Seojun…”

“You’re already a little wet, but I think you need a little more, don’t you?”

“Fuck, your fingers feel so g—good!” The last words were spoken in a surprised squeal when Seojun pushed the two digits inside her briefly. But, just as quickly as they entered her, they left, leaving Boa with a dissatisfied whine. “Seojun…”

“You’re so sexy, Boa, and so responsive.” To emphasize his point, Seojun brushed her clit with his thumb, causing the mewling woman to nearly jump at the rush of dopamine rushing through her system.

“God, Seojun…” Her back arched more, pushing her hips and her plush bottom further towards him, as if encouraging him to continue doing what he was doing. However, feeling fickle, Seojun refused.

“I think you’re about wet enough,” he said, cleaning off the juices that rubbed off onto his fingers before backing away from her. “You were going to show me an exercise?”

“Oh…” Seojun had to hold in a chuckle at the disappointment that was so obviously in her voice, but it didn’t last long for Boa’s peppy energy to return. “Right! Grab onto my feet and lift them up to about your chest level.” Seojun followed her command, splitting her legs by grabbing an ankle in each hand and lifting them off the ground. As he did so, Boa similarly pushed herself off the ground, her palms planted firmly on the floor. “You’ll probably have to pull my ankles a little bit behind you to reach me.”

“Reach…?” Seojun’s question dissipated as he looked forward and down, at the now glistening folds of Boa’s pussy.

“Go on, stuff my tight little pussy with that monster of yours.” As the words left her mouth, Seojun pulled her legs backwards, leaning his upper body forward to make sure the tip of his dick was properly aligned with her core. “Oh!” Another surprised squeal erupted from Boa as Seojun steadied his hands, properly aligning their sexes while incidentally slathering his swollen tip with her juices before pushing them past her pussy lips and into her core.

The two moaned in unison, Seojun only able to push in half of his length before meeting resistance.

“Oh, god … fuck, it’s so big.”

The tightness with which Boa’s pussy gripped his dick was like no other, even better than any of the succubae he’d fucked before. Not only was it blisteringly hot, the damp, fleshy walls exerted a kind of pressure on his shaft that almost made it feel like he was in danger of losing circulation to his reproductive organ, and might’ve actually been concerned were he not supernaturally enhanced not once, but twice by now.

“God, you’re so fucking tight, Boa,” Seojun managed to grunt, pulling his cock out before pushing further in with the combined thrust from his hips and backwards pulling motion on her ankles with his arms. “Are you trying to cut off my dick?”

Boa let out another lascivious moan, her back arching, her arms holding her upper body in the air trembling slightly as her pussy sucked in more of Seojun’s penis. “I’m—I’m sorry! Please, punish my naughty little pussy!”

Despite how tight Boa was, the progress he was able to make was extraordinary. It only took a few more thrusts for Seojun to find himself completely buried inside the athletically built woman, who was showing no signs of duress from essentially being in a primed pushup position, with her legs suspended in midair as opposed to resting on the ground.

“Your naughty little pussy is working really hard, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, fuck,” Boa moaned, juices splattering onto his groin with every thrust, “It’s been so long since it’s been stretched out this much…”

“And I thought you were trying to show me an exercise.”

Boa giggled. “I thought we could start off with this one to get me accustomed to your size. But now that you’re fully inside me, fuck do I feel like you’re splitting me apart.”

Hearing that invigorated Seojun more, earning Boa another squeal of pleasure as he increased the vigor and intensity of his thrusts. “You’re so light,” Seojun grunted, having a little difficulty getting words out with the strength he was exerting trying to pump Boa’s insanely tight pussy, “this is barely a proper workout on my arms.”

“Aw, how sweet of you,” Boa said, giggling slightly. “In that case, do you wanna try the next exercise?”

After some difficulty extracting his dick from Boa’s tight snatch, she quickly transitioned into a face-up laying-down position, directing him to kneel between her legs. She then rested her right leg atop his left leg while lifting her other leg up and resting it on his shoulder. “Go on, come back inside,” she said, her hands sensually rubbing her ample bust.

Seojun took a few seconds to admire the flopping wet, pink folds of Boa’s pussy, realizing this was the first human female he’s ever had sex with. That being the case, how could she be tighter than a succubus? He wasn’t sure if it was the novelty of Boa being a human being or if it was something else, but he swore that Boa’s pussy felt better than anyone else’s. If only he could—

“Wait.”

When the sudden realization dawned on Seojun, his face paled. Boa, seeing this, looked at him with a questioning gaze. “What’s wrong?”

“Shouldn’t I be wearing a condom?”

Hearing that caused Boa to break out into a smile which eventually grew into laughter. “How sweet of you to think of that!” Ever since he lost his virginity, Seojun never had to worry about protection; after all, he never had to worry about impregnating a succubus or any STDs or anything. But, now that he was dealing with a human female, those concerns were a problem, right? Seojun hoped he didn’t come across as shallow or rude or anything, which judging from Boa’s response, didn’t seem to be an issue. “You don’t have to worry about any of that, you won’t be getting me pregnant any time soon.”

Hearing that made Seojun breathe a sigh of relief. “Sorry, I—”

“Do you fuck barebacked a lot?”

“It’s not that, no,” he lied, “it’s just, seeing you got me so excited that I forgot about all of that.” Now that he thought about it, did they even have any condoms in the house? Taeyeon mentioned how he was free to fuck human females, but never mentioned anything about protection. Maybe he should start buying some…

“That’s sweet of you,” she said, smiling, “I would’ve said something if I cared about that,” she said. Was she on birth control? Or maybe she had some kind of surgery? Whatever it was, Seojun paid no more heed to the topic; she seemed trustworthy enough, and there were more important matters at hand anyway. “Now, are you going to just stare, or are you going to get back into your workout?”

This time, Seojun obliged, using the downward penetrating angle to push his length back into the fiery inferno of Boa’s pussy.

“Oh fuck,” Boa gasped, her back arching as the slick rod slipped back into her hole. Her eyes slammed shut, fingers subconsciously going to her swollen nipples and pinching them with as much ferocity as Seojun used shoving his cock back inside Boa.

Using Boa’s left leg slung over his shoulder as leverage, he dug his knees into the carpeted floor and thrusted at the downward angle. However, this time, without having to worry about the stability of their position, the process was much smoother—that, combined with the hot visual of seeing Boa play with her breasts and her ecstatic face of pleasure turned Seojun on even more. Barely a minute into settling into this new position, they had already reestablished their momentum: Boa lifted her butt slightly off the floor, meeting each of Seojun’s thrusts with an upward bucking of her hips while the manic, lust-filled man drilled relentlessly into the smaller woman below him. The wet slapping sound of their groins, damp with the juices sputtering out onto both of their gonads with every thrust, connecting soon joined the chorus of erotic sounds filling the house.

“I-I bet you aren’t getting these types of workout sessions with your personal trainer.”

Seojun thought to Taeyeon and the numerous times they’ve fucked, but surprisingly, now that he thought about it, never once during their workouts. Seeing Taeyeon in her gym outfit never failed to turn him on, but their focus was always the workout, not sex. He’s even gotten a titjob at the gym curtesy of Sunny, but never anything from Taeyeon. “You’re right, I’m not.”

“Are you feeling it yet, in your abs and glutes?”

To this, Seojun shook his head. “It’ll take more than a few minutes of this to get me tired.”

Boa smiled, a mixture of arousal and amusement on her lips. “Can you last until you cum?”

Instead of answering with words, Seojun elected to answer with renewed vigor, another surprised, lust-filled moan erupting from Boa’s lips. This time, instead of just relying on his hips, Seojun used his grip of her leg to pull her towards him in conjunction, spreading his legs out for a more solid foundation.

“Fuck, Seojun!”

Panting sounds started to intersperse her moans and gasps, her breathing growing heavier, and her chest rising and falling at a faster rate. “Are you close?”

She nodded, fingers desperately rubbing on the rock-hard teats of her breasts. “Yes, so close…”

While all the signs of her impending orgasm deepened his arousal, what did it was the tightening of what already felt like a death-grip her pussy had on his shaft. “Do you want it?”

She nodded again. “Yes, please~”

The transformation from the cheerful, bright girl she was to the mewling, submissive adulteress she was now only added to the heights of arousal Seojun was experiencing. “You want it inside?”

“Yes!”

“You want me to pump your naughty, tight, slutty pussy with my cum?”

“Yes! Please, yes!”

Seojun couldn’t help but grin, a surge of pride swelling inside his chest at the fact that he managed to get such a stunning woman to be begging for his semen. “Then here’s your reward.” With a final grunt, he pushed his length all the way inside Boa one last time before unleashing, unloading stream after stream of his hot, sticky substance straight into the womb of the mess of a woman that was laying before him.

“Fuck—Seojun, it’s—fuck, it’s so hot!”

By the time Seojun’s orgasm subsided, slivers of his seed were already trickling out of their hot connection. Boa laid on her back, panting heavily, her arms splayed out messily on both sides. “Well, I think at least your pussy got a pretty good workout, taking the beating it just did.”

The competitive fire reignited at her words. “Are you saying you need more to get a proper workout?”

Seojun grinned back. “I’m saying I could go for round two if you’re not too tired already.”

Boa happily took the challenge, staying in her face-up laid down position, but this time, instructing Seojun to hover over her in a primed pushup position. She then swung her legs over his waist and secured them behind his butt, her soaking wet pussy lips licking the swollen tip of his dick. “You’ll have to do pushups to get your orgasm this time. Let’s see how long you can last now.”

Seojun felt a surge of competitiveness within himself, readily taking on the challenge by starting with the first pushup. A pleased hum reverberated through Boa’s throat as his dick was reinserted into her hot core, her breasts brushing against his chest as he held his body in the lowered position for a few seconds before pushing himself back up. “One.”

“Do you think you can last until fifty?”

“Do you?”

Boa grinned back. “Try me.”

Seojun lowered himself again, this time maneuvering himself so that he could plant a kiss on the supple skin on her boobs before pushing himself back up. “Two.”

“God, Seojun, you’re really stretching me out so much … God really blessed you with that dick, huh?”

To a normal human being, someone like Sunny could be considered a Goddess. She certainly wielded the powers of one, and Seojun considered her one himself because of the augmentation she blessed him with. Of course, none of this were things he could share, so he ended up just saying, “He did.”

“And now, I’m getting blessed by getting fucked by it.”

Instead of answering, Seojun completed another pushup. “Three.”

While Seojun was doing most of the work, Boa wasn’t being completely inactive. In order to give Seojun the best angle of penetration, she had to keep her lower body angled upwards, her legs that were wrapped around Seojun’s waist following the up-and-down motion of Seojun’s pushups. In order to ensure his dick never slipped out, Boa had to push her hips up, but only slightly since of his exceptional length.

Seojun couldn’t remember the last time he did pushups—maybe for school or something, as pushups never was a part of his workout routine—but the added feeling of Boa’s slick, tight walls gliding along the sensitive nerves of his recently elongated cock along with the slight burn he was starting to feel in his arms and chest wasn’t entirely unwelcome. In fact, Boa’s presence—her encouragement through the chorus of moans she was singing and the excellent body she was offering to him on a silver platter—made the experience of doing pushups for the first time in years all the better.

Every single dip downwards caused Boa’s body to shudder, the creampie still sitting inside her pussy being pushed out of her hole slightly with every full insertion. The mixed fluids started to trickle out of their connection, down her back and onto the floor, but Boa paid it no mind; her mind was filled with Seojun as much as her pussy was his dick.

“Forty-three.”

“Mmm, your cock feels so good, Seojun.”

As opposed to before, Seojun’s movements were significantly slowed down due to the mechanical limitations of his arms. The slower, more sensual sex was less stimulating, but no less enjoyable, and definitely gave Seojun more time to appreciate Boa’s body, from her supple breasts to her tight abs to her even tighter pussy. “Are you sure you can last? Forty-fo—”

Seojun was interrupted by the sudden sound of the door opening. “Ah, so this is where you are, Boa.”

Seojun had no doubts that the voice was Taeyeon’s, but why was she addressing Boa as ‘sunbaenim’?

“I see you still have yet to lose your youth, doing stuff like this to us still.”

Seojun looked down to Boa, who had a sheepish grin on her face. Was she not a human being after all?

“You and Sunny both—you know all you have to do is ask, and I’ll let you have Seojun. You don’t need to sneak around like this.”

“But it’s more fun this way!”

As Boa said that, horns sprouted from her head, a sleek, midnight-black tail whipping out and around Seojun’s lower torso.

“Boa … so you were a succubus this entire time?”

She offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I thought I would try to give you a taste of what sex with a human female was like, although it was more difficult than I imagined to keep myself in check. You do smell absolutely delicious, and your semen is even better than it smells.”

“Right?”

Again, there was something about the prideful way Taeyeon huffed out her chest in response to Boa’s comment that made Seojun feel great. Going from a more or less a nobody in his previous life to immensely desired in his current life was a boost to his ego he never thought he would experience, but was eternally thankful he did.

“The second we leave home, you bring a girl home to fuck? You horny dog~”

“Taeyeon, Tiffany, I thought you were out on business?”

“We were, on business to meet with the mischievous demoness you’re inside right now.”

In hindsight, why wasn’t the fact that her pussy was so tight not a sufficient hint to be able to deduce Boa’s status as a succubus? But, in his defense, she played it off extremely naturally—she had no reaction to his ‘scent’, no over-the-top reaction to his cock like most succubae had, and similarly didn’t react particularly strongly to his semen. Why was that? Was it her Trait? Or, maybe, she was more experienced than Taeyeon and Tiffany? But was that possible?

“Kwon Bo-ah here is one of the first succubae ever.”

Hearing that, Seojun looked back down at Boa in shock, only to be met with a playful grin. “Nice to meet you, Taeyeon’s new Servant!”

“She’s also the reason why the succubus community can come out of hiding—her Trait has to do with memory, and she’s gotten powerful enough to be able to affect the entire world with it.”

Admittedly, that was one of the things that Seojun thought about once; if Taeyeon was known by so many people, wouldn’t it become problematic if, decades down the line, the people she was doing business with were aging and retiring while Taeyeon was still at 100% capacity, looking no older than the day they met her? Wouldn’t people get suspicious?

So, Boa was the answer, huh … but to be able to affect an entire world’s population? From what Seojun understood, Taeyeon didn’t even have the ability to use her Trait on anyone she wasn’t directly touching, the only exception being Seojun since he was her Servant … just how powerful was Boa?

And he was fucking her?

“Taeyeon, don’t tell him all that! We were just starting to have fun!”

“Well, at least let us join then!”

Boa sat upright, Seojun’s dick still firmly lodged inside her, turning around to face his two mistresses. “You know you don’t need my permission to join. He is your Servant too, right Tiffany?”

He’s had threesomes with Taeyeon and Tiffany, and even that was a bit much for him. But now, with Boa added to the mix? This was definitely going to test him, that was for sure.

Next chapter here.

#taeyeon #kim taeyeon #snsd #soshi #smut #kpop smut #girls generation #succubae #The Pet of Kim Taeyeon #kwon boa

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delusionalbitchinthehouse · 3 months ago

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Can't get the whole "Do you think you'd kill for me one day ?" "Yes, of course I will my darling" out of my head, but make it the Papas x their most devoted ghouls. Basically murder ghouls offering very morbid gifts to the Papas. They like it.

TW for morally grey characters - both Papas and ghouls - blood, kind of body horror, I guess ? I think it is. It might be a bit disturbing, so. Read with caution.

Earth bringing a beautiful bottle to Primo's office one day, something definitely meant for rituals, a masterpiece of carefuly crafted glass, full of a dark red liquid. Too dark to be wine. He simply sets it on a shelf, under the First's cautious eyes, and in an instant, Primo knows.

"Won't it...coagulate, or...I don't know, dry, rot ?" he asks from behind his desk, setting his glasses down in front of him. Earth smiles, adjusting the bottle so that the light catches it just right.

"I made sure it won't."

Primo smiles when the ghoul takes his hand and presses a kiss to the ring he's wearing.

"Take care not to drink it, your body wouldn't like it much."

Primo cocks an eyebrow.

"You gift me a full bottle of blood - human, i presume - and I'm not even allowed to drink it ? How very tragic."

Earth's chuckle rumbles in his chest.

"You can only wish to be a vampire, but, do not act like this isn't a power trip for you. Having someone's blood displayed in your office. Being able to admire its unique color."

Primo's smile widens.

Secondo looking up from his work, carefully setting the ancient book he's restauring on the side when Alpha leans against the doorframe, hands behind his back.

Once he's sure he has the former Papa's full attention, Alpha steps in, setting something on the desk, between Secondo's hand.

It's a paperweight, the kind he loves, heavy half globe of glass, in which is trapped a curiosity ; Secondo has a growing collection of those.

It's the first time, though, that an eye is staring blindly at him from within its transparent confine. A beautiful shade of brown, that eye, rich and deep, with flecks of gold ; Secondo leans closer to examine it.

"Fascinating," he comments, "you know me too well."

Alpha grins, rounding the desk to stand behind Secondo's chair, massaging his tense shoulders as he whispers against his ear.

"Took me a while to find the color I wanted, I know you have a thing for that kind of brown eyes."

Secondo hums, turning the paperweight this way and that, letting light bounce off it, projecting rainbows on the wall. It will definitely have a special place on his desk, so that Secondo will be able to gaze at it whenever he wishes to.

Alpha kisses the corner of his mouth, almost reverently, and Secondo puts the paperweight down, letting his eyes flutter shut.

Omega helping Terzo dress one morning, but just as the former Papa is about to move away, his ghoul tugs on his sleeve, shoving something in his hand.

What the rosary is made of is, Terzo immediately knows. The beads, the inverted cross, they're an ivory white that is quite impossible to mistake for anything other than it is.

By the way Omega hooks his chin on Terzo's shoulder, arms wrapping around his middle, the former Papa has no doubt it's important for him, that gift.

"It's lovely, my dear ghoul. Did you make it yourself ?"

Terzo really means it. The piece of jewlery is delicate and elegant, something he'll wear with pride.

"I did. I'm glad you like it."

A pause. Terzo takes a moment to bask in Omega kissing up his neck, before he slips the rosary around it.

"Should I ask who's bones I'm wearing ?"

Omega chuckles, face now burried in his hair.

"You know better. All that matters is that you look fantastic, wearing someone's bone."

Terzo does, so he simply smiles, admiring how the necklace rests on his chest in the mirror, sinking into Omega's embrace.

Dew, wordlessly slipping a bracelet around Copia's wrist after practice. He looks down, surprised, as the ghoul lingers, hovering at his side.

A thin chain, trinkets dangling from it, mostly tiny coins with infernal symbols engraved on them and....oh. Teeth. Well, they sure look healthy.

Copia takes to examinate them, tests the point of a canine, pleased to find it still sharp, humming under his breath.

"That's quite the work you've put in, Dew, thank you. It's beautiful."

The fire ghoul takes Copia's hand, turning it until he can kiss the inside of his wrist.

"I figured you'd like it. They're perfect, aren't they ?"

Copia takes another teeth between his two fingers, holding it up for further inspection, smiling at how flawless it is.

"They sure are. Wish I had that kind of dental care, eh."

Dew snorts, tail gently squeezing Copia's hips, who let himself be pulled in the ghoul's side.

#they're fucked up yes I know #but that's half the fun !#that idea just popped into my brain so here you go #earth ghoul #primo #papa emeritus i #alpha ghoul #secondo #papa emeritus ii #omega ghoul #terzo #papa emeritus iii #dewdrop ghoul #copia #papa emeritus iv #nameless ghouls #the band ghost

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crosshairlovebot · 1 month ago

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bewitching mr. batchbury / crosshair x f!reader

pairing: crosshair x f!reader

description: ever since you met him and he ignored you, mr. batchbury has completely infuriated you. but as you spend time with the batchbury's as their sister's companion for the social season, your feelings for him become confusing and you cannot get the handsome silver-haired man out of your head.

REGENCY AU

word count: 8,649

warnings: none. kissing (making out, neck kisses). secret crushes. hate to love. misunderstandings. crosshair being annoying.

after writing regency hunter i knew i had to write regency crosshair too :') this exists in the same universe as hunter's piece so there are allusions to his romance :) this was so fun to write! crosshair has always been mr darcy coded to me so there's definitely an influence from p&p! i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

also posted this on ao3. feedback is welcomed, reblogs are appreciated.

PART ONE

Mr. Carlisle ‘Crosshair’ Batchbury was completely and utterly infuriating. It did not matter that he was cripplingly handsome, uniquely distinguished by his strange grey hair, tall and lean stature, and a smattering of a port wine birthmark over his right eye – his personality was maddening.

And yet, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Acting as a companion to his little sister, Meg Batchbury, for London’s social season, you had spent many hours in the presence of the infamous Batchbury Brothers.

After returning from the war where they had started as lowly soldiers trained under a Commodore of the Royal Navy, they had made their fortune by collecting a wealth of prize money with an unbroken streak of successful battles. The band of brothers had been the talk of the ton, their rise from rags to riches captivating every gentleman and woman – but it was the mamas and their daughters who found themselves completely taken by them. When they’d ascertained the brothers had only enlisted to secure a future for their sister, their hearts were all of a flutter – for handsome, brave soldiers who were family men made perfect husbands.

The eldest Batchbury – Hunter – was already married, much to their dismay. But that still left three viable brothers for them to sink their lacey fans and dance cards into. When they’d heard the Batchbury’s would be attending this year’s social season, cries of delight were heard across the ton.

As a favour to your friend – the eldest Batchbury Brother’s wife, you’d promised you would accompany Meg to various balls and act as her companion and confidant for the season. Meg had expressed her desire to attend this year, now that her brothers had returned home. She’d been regaled with tales of fancy parties, endless food and dancing, and wanted to experience it for herself.

“It’s…a little more than that, Meg,” you’d told her carefully, cautious of her ideas that had seemed to be formed naively. “The point of these balls and parties is for matchmaking.”

Meg had waved her hand, dismissing your words. “Oh, I am aware. But I’m not interested in such things at present.”

You’d frowned. “But attending the social season does send the message that you are interested.”

Meg just grinned ruefully and shrugged. “Then I’ll just do my best to avoid it.”

You had shaken your head, smiling along with her. You’d sighed with some relief, knowing you’d not have to try and steer her from unsuitable matches or chaperone strolls in Hyde Park and could just simply enjoy time spent at extravagant balls and luncheons.

You were past the age of eligibility and the thought of simply attending a London social season to enjoy it was simultaneously scary and exciting. To know there were no expectations on you from your own family or on Meg, it was freeing.

You had joined the Batchbury’s at their London residence, and from the very moment you set foot inside the newly acquired townhouse, your eyes were drawn to the youngest Batchbury brother, Crosshair.

You’d been welcomed enthusiastically by Meg, who had petitioned her brothers to attend the London social season, much to their behest. But they had been kind and amiable when you were first introduced. You hadn’t been sure what to expect, but you had been surprised at how large they all were, and their history as soldiers was clear with their injuries and the weathered look of their faces. You already knew Hunter, who’d just returned from his honeymoon and itching to return to the country to his wife, but Wrecker and Tech had all been a picture of politeness upon introductions, meeting you with manners that were clearly practised. But Crosshair had stood behind, arms crossed, a scowl etched into his brow with no sign of it disappearing. He’d immediately met you with hard eyes the colour of coffee that were so scrutinising you had flinched.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Batchbury,” you’d said as you curtseyed, trying not to be bothered by his gaze.

Mr. Batchbury had looked you up and down, brow remaining creased as he seemingly evaluated you before his eyes met yours for a moment before looking away from you without greeting. You’d been puzzled by his lack of manners, and then hurt by his rejection and then angry, for who was he to be judging you? He did not even know you. And from that moment, Mr. Crosshair Batchbury was a rude annoyance you endured only for his siblings, despite his handsomeness – which only added to your irritation.

How cruel, for such beauty to be wasted on someone so dreadful.

He held that same hard gaze now, watching you from the other side of the Kenobi’s ballroom. The room was filled with people, and a string quartet played a cotillion that had those on the dance floor that separated you from Mr. Batchbury bouncing lively to the music.

It was the final ball of the season, and at the request of Meg, she wanted all the brothers in attendance tonight and they were completely powerless to say no.

Being in such close quarters with the four brothers for the season meant you not only saw their brash, loud, clever and cunning natures, but also the immense love they had for their sister. Each brother was different, but it was obvious what connected them all was their strong sense of family and loyalty. You had observed it all.

Wrecker’s love was boisterous and loud and coupled with fierce hugs and booming laughter. Tech’s affection was more subtle, but you’d find it in the way he consumed knowledge with the intent to share, to provide answers to questions his family asked; prepared for any situation. Hunter’s care was gentle and warm yet with a firmness that was steadfast and immovable. Crosshair, despite your feelings towards the other less amiable parts of his personality, showed love quietly, often through gesture or merely listening. He would grumble at Wrecker’s affection, but never push it away. He would listen to Tech’s ramblings even when everyone had vacated the room. And when Hunter’s strength managed to wane, Crosshair would swoop right in, ready to support in however he could.

Seeing this kind of love juxtaposed with the other parts of his caustic, sharp and, quite frankly, snarky personality was what vexed you the most; knowing he had the capacity for such softness and kindness but chose not to use it.

And actively chose not to use it with you.

You sipped your champagne, meeting his gaze from across the dance floor, ignoring the warmth that ignited your rest at his gaze. He mirrored your movements with his own glass of brandy, and you couldn’t help but drop your gaze to his lips that lay gently on the rim of the glass and think back to that moment in the greenhouse at the Across the Stars Ball where they were anything but gentle on your own.

Prince Anakin Skywalker and his wife, Queen Padme Amidala held their annual ‘Across the Stars’ ball at their London palace and it was the event of the social season. Everyone who was everyone in the ton was invited, and that now included the Batchbury family – much to Meg’s delight and her brother’s chagrin.

Meg had been ecstatic upon receiving the invitation and begged for her brothers to accept so that she could attend. As the first ball of the season, it was the first time all the brothers would be seen by the eyes of the ton, and you watched on from your place in the drawing room as they argued about etiquette and dancing, of which they had little experience.

“If we go, we will be expected to dance and socialise,” Hunter told his brothers.

“Sounds like a marvellous time!” Wrecker grinned, rising to his feet from where he sat on the settee that he practically dwarfed.

“You don’t know how to dance, Wrecker,” Tech pointed out from the armchair, raising an eyebrow as he looked up from his book, a wooden cane he used to aid his walking lent against the side table. He pushed his spectacles up his nose. “None of us do except for Hunter, who had clandestine lessons in a garden maze with his now wife.”

The eldest Batchbury blushed, port wine stain darkening as both Meg and Wrecker giggled. You smiled too, a book open on your lap.

Mr. Crosshair Batchbury remained silent from his seat on the writing desk, where he was penning something diligently in a notebook with his non-wooden hand.

Perhaps one of the most admirable traits about Mr. Batchbury was that he taught himself how to write with his left hand after losing his right in the war. Meg told you that he had spent weeks holed up in his room alone, practising his script until it was perfect and unsmudged. It was quite remarkable, to be so determined.

Now, he observed his siblings with his steely gaze as he casually dipped the end of the quill in ink, raising and lowering the feathered tool gently in the pot, sparing it no glance.

You always wondered what he was writing in that notebook. He never seemed to be without it. It lived in the back pocket of his trousers, and you’d often found him in different places throughout the townhouse, writing in it.

Once, early in your stay, you’d seen him lounging in a bay window that overlooked the streets of London, one leg outstretched and the notebook leaning on the other he’d pulled up as he wrote in careful hand. You’d almost walked past him, but your footsteps had stopped on their own accord. The sun was hitting him just right, bathing him in a golden glow that made the silver strands of his hair glitter and the warmth of his brown skin radiate through the small alcove. He had on a cream-coloured shirt, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, the collar of it wide and its ties undone, scandalously revealing the dip in his lean chest. His left side was closest to you, and his hand was poised so the side of it didn’t drag over the graphite words he'd just penned. You could see his wooden hand rest on the book to keep it steady.

He barely fit in the small space, one foot of his long legs pressed flat against the wall opposite him and half bent at the knee. He didn’t look comfortable, but he never really did anywhere in the house. He always looked like he was trying to slot himself into the new life they’d acquired but could never really find the right position for it to work.

When you thought back to that tableau, you were sure that was the moment you realised just how handsome he truly was, and the moment your thoughts and feelings for the standoffish and biting Mr. Batchbury became all muddled.

Sensing your eyes on him, you watched him flick his gaze to yours. “What?”

You flinched as his hard brown-eyed gaze landed on yours with a piercing fierceness. “Nothing. My apologies.”

Mr. Batchbury looked at you, his eyes trailing over you before moving back to your face, studying it before he returned his gaze to his writing, pencil moving once again.

You swallowed as you watched his movements, and the words fell out of you before you could stop them. “What are you writing?”

Mr. Batchbury froze, and he looked at you with a scrutinising regard. “Why?”

“I’m just curious. You never send any letters, and whenever I see you, you’re always penning something.”

He narrowed his eyes at you and continued on, suddenly trying to bridge this distance between you that both puzzled and annoyed you. “It must be something you love.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“What you’re writing.” Your face burned, but maybe if you found a connection; a common ground, then maybe this strange dynamic between you would end. “If you return to it every day, you must love it.”

Mr. Batchbury stared at you before slamming his notebook closed and standing up. You watched him as he sent you a scathing look, eyes hard and port wine stain a deep red. He brushed past you without another word before stalking away. You were shocked and completely and utterly confused. What had you said? What had you done? But your befuddlement just returned to the anger and disdain you’d already held, but now multiplied.

Mr. Batchbury was rude and unapproachable, nothing you did would change that. So, you were done being amiable towards him. No matter how attractive he was.

Coming back from your memory to the drawing room, you shut your book and stood, making your way across the room, nearing the writing desk.

“Perhaps I could give you all some lessons? So you can dance once or twice to keep up appearances. I would suspect that the quadrille would be easily mastered by former soldiers.”

Wrecker and Meg’s eyes lit up and they spoke simultaneously. “Would you?”

You smiled at them and nodded. “I would be happy to. Dancing is the best way to spend a party.”

“And build affection between partners,” Meg smiled, reciting something you’d told her.

“Well, yes, that too,” you smiled, and you saw something grey move in the corner of your eyes as Meg jumped up darted towards you to through her arms around you. “How wonderful! We can start lessons this afternoon, so we are ready for the ball on Saturday.”

“Whatever you want, Meg,” you gently untangled her from you and clasped her hands.

She grinned, squeezing your hands before turning to her brothers, of whom Wrecker and Hunter seemed genuinely happy for her. “Isn’t this exciting? A real ball!”

“Yes. It is most thrilling,” Tech kept his eyes on his book, his voice unenthused despite its sincerity, but it made you smile. You looked towards the writing desk and saw Mr. Batchbury’s scowl had only deepened, the quill in his hand unmoving and dripping ink on the page.

“Are you not excited too, Mr. Batchbury?” you slid over to the desk, eyes drifting down to the inked parchment as subtlety as you could manage, but Mr. Batchbury swiftly closed the notebook with a soft thud, preventing you from reading anything.

“It’s rude to impose your eyes on personal writings,” Mr. Batchbury’s raspy voice hissed at you. It was like a coiled snake, and it lit up your insides in the most improper way, wrapping itself around your bones and staying there long after you left his presence. His eyes met yours in a blazing stained gaze. He was so alluring, his face all angles and silver hair kept close to his head. There was a ghastly-looking scar on the side of his head he sustained during the war. His brother Wrecker had one too. But it did not detract from his good looks, at least not to you.

You stopped yourself from rolling your eyes and instead slid him a look that showed your distaste. “My apologies. I had no idea of your writings being the personal kind. But you still haven’t answered my question Mr. Batchbury, and one might say that is rather rude too.”

Your back and forth with Mr. Batchbury no doubt tired everyone to no end, but no matter how hard you tried, you simply were incapable of ignoring his remarks. Something in you needed to put him in his place, but it only seemed to spur him on more, driving the wedge harder between you both. It no longer mattered how many times Meg had to step between you two, it did not do anything to change your behaviour towards each other. You could not stand Mr. Crosshair Batchbury, and he could not stand you.

He scoffed in response. “I won’t be attending dancing lessons. Nor will I be attending the ball.”

“But you must!” Meg pleaded to her brother, but his coffee-coloured eyes only remained on you.

“What a shame,” you said, no disappointment in your voice at all. “But perhaps it’s best. No one will want to dance with someone so impudent and rude as you are anyway.”

Mr. Batchbury’s lip curled in a snarl before he pushed his chair back roughly, wooden legs screeching on the floorboards, snatched his notebook and stalked out of the drawing room.

“Must you provoke him?” Meg sighed. You watched the room’s remaining brothers share a glance at each other that you could never decipher.

You dropped your shoulders, suddenly feeling bad that you’d upset Meg. She was so lovely, like a little sister. You looked at her sullen face, her blonde hair swept into a braid and tied with a red ribbon – the Batchbury’s had seemed to adopt it as their family colour. She was so full of light.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” you said sincerely before holding out your hand. “Shall we learn the quadrille?”

That afternoon was spent teaching Meg and Wrecker how to dance a slew of dances that would be performed at the Across the Stars Ball including the quadrille, the cotillion, the scotch reel, the Naboo country dance and the waltz. Tech played the piano, unable to dance due to his injuries, and you paired with Hunter, who made the perfect partner for your instruction since he knew the dances already. Wrecker and Meg laughed as they stepped on each other’s feet and spun around. Their laughter was infectious, and you and Hunter and Tech laughed along too until you were all laughing so hard that you were unable to dance, and Tech was unable to play.

You caught your breath, hand on your chest as it heaved inside the confines of your corset, smiling at Meg as she pantomimed how ridiculous Wrecker had looked only minutes ago when you thought you saw a flash of grey hair up in the balconied eaves of the townhouse’s small ballroom. You frowned. Surely you were imagining such things.

It seemed as if the entire population of London was in attendance at the Across the Stars Ball, their ballroom was full of gentlemen and women, debutantes as well as members of the aristocracy and even parliament. Everyone was dressed in their finest gowns and suits coloured in rich navies and purples, gold and silver embellishments, fitting into the celestial theme perfectly. You swore you saw the elusive Duchess Satine Kyrze who rarely ventured from her country estate in Mandalorshire and even laid eyes upon Prince Reginald from the far-off Kingdom of Kamino, or Rex as he preferred to be called – the ton’s gossip mill had come to the conclusion that he was a close friend of Prince Skywalker.

You watched along with Tech as the Batchbury siblings – minus the youngest brother – took to the floor. Hunter and Wrecker took turns dancing with Meg, much to her delight and the scrutiny of the ton, but the Batchbury’s cared little for impropriety and more for their sister’s happiness. After lessons this week, they had taken to the dances fairly quickly and you smiled as they performed the steps as if they’d been doing them all their lives.

Hunter switched out with Wrecker, needing to catch his breath. You smiled at him.

“Are you missing the wild seas yet, Hunter?” you joked.

Hunter returned your smile. “Not even the decks of the Marauder could’ve prepared me for this.”

You laughed before Hunter excused himself for a drink. You sipped your champagne, listening to the whispers from those around you as they discussed the Batchbury’s debut at the most anticipated ball of the season.

“They’re a little…odd.” The voice dripped with pretentiousness from behind you, her tone all nasally.

You watched Wrecker lift Meg up and spin her around in an improvised turn that was not part of the choreography, both laughing loudly with glee. They were having the time of their lives.

“Odd is putting it kindly.” This voice blubbered with pompousness. You gripped your champagne glass tightly.

“This is why I believe we need to stop just anyone from acquiring fortunes, because this happens. Common people have no place here.”

You just about broke your glass, and your shoulders raised as you were seconds away from turning around and dressing the pair of snobs down, but Tech put a hand on your arm to stop you.

“Pay it no mind,” he said evenly, his hands returning to the top of his cane in front of him.

“But they’re being so cruel,” you protested, shoulders sagging.

He shook his head before pushing his glasses up his nose. “It is nothing we are not used to. It no longer affects us. We know who we are, and that’s all we’ve ever cared about.”

You softened your smile at him. You knew how the Batchbury’s had grown up in destitution and had endured many hardships to get to where they were now. You had grown fond of them all since joining them as Meg’s companion, and it just wasn’t right that people thought they were undeserving of their fortune. Out of anyone, they deserved to be happy and live without worry. You wished all of the ton believed that too.

You placed your now empty glass on a passing tray before turning to Tech. “I’m taking some air.”

“Leaving so soon?”

You whipped your head to see Mr. Batchbury in all his handsome glory. Similarly to his brothers, he was dressed in a dark grey tailored suit embroidered with silver thread, unintentionally matching his hair. His front pocket held a red pocket square, like all his brothers as a representation of their family. He towered over you, his trousers accentuating his long legs as they tucked into his shiny black knee-high boots. You flushed as he looked at you, the corner of his mouth upturned in his infuriatingly attractive smirk.

“Mr. Batchbury,” you stammered out. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

“As am I,” Tech blinked behind his spectacles. “You have expressed your distaste for these events, Crosshair.”

Crosshair scowled out at the dance floor, his eyes finding Meg and Wrecker. Hunter was held up somewhere, no doubt the bar was filled with people of the ton wanting to make his acquaintance, much to his discomfort.

“Yes, well, I don’t like being left behind,” Crosshair spoke bitterly, grabbing a glass of champagne from a tray. He sipped it, grimacing at the taste. You knew he hated champagne. “Is there nothing stronger?” he complained.

“There’s a bowl of punch on the other side of the room that has been spiked with a liquor that tastes like an oil lamp, if that is more to your taste,” you said dryly.

“Funny,” Mr. Batchbury drawled before downing the rest of the champagne. The string quartet finished the music, and everyone gave a gentle applause. People moved on and off the dancefloor in a sea of bodies as they prepared for the next dance of the evening.

“Care to dance?” Mr. Batchbury held out his left hand towards you. You looked up at him in shock, mouth agape.

“I’m sorry?” Had you heard him right?

Mr. Batchbury rolled his eyes and emphasised his outstretched palm. “A dance. Would you like one?”

You looked at him incredulously. He wanted to dance with you? The man who did not hide how much he disliked you and your presence in his household with his family. The man who did not acknowledge you at all and when he did, did so with such disdain that it was tangible. And yet he held out his gloved un-wooden hand towards you.

You looked at Tech who watched the interaction with interest, a look on his face you couldn’t decipher. You crossed your arms at Mr. Batchbury. “Is this a trick?”

“Would you give me an answer,” he hissed, growing impatient and agitated.

You studied him for a moment, trying to find any mischief or dishonesty in his gaze, but found none of it. Was he truly asking you in earnest? You couldn’t fathom it. It crossed your mind to reject him, to say no and humiliate him in front of everyone but something tugged in your chest. He’d come here of all places, even though he vehemently expressed his dislike for balls and intention not to attend. Even though he never seemed to feel comfortable in this new life he had and to dance with you in front of everyone was making a spectacle of himself.

And Mr. Batchbury, you had learned, did not do anything he did not want to do, and it seemed as though he did indeed wish to dance with you, but you could not place why. No one had asked you to dance in such a long time, and you doubt Mr. Batchbury made a habit of asking anyone to do anything at all, much less dance with him. It simply seemed…cruel to reject his offer – and you could not deny the part of you that actually wanted to dance with him; to be close to him in a way that wasn’t through argument.

Your inconvenient crush on the youngest Batchbury brother should not be encouraged…but it would be nice to dance.

Cautiously, you placed your gloved hand into his, his fingers wrapped around yours securely, but not tightly. His palm felt firm and strangely comforting against yours as he led you onto the dance floor and you watched the side of his face in fascination. He looked at you when you reached your position on the floor and dropped your hand. You looked up at him, his hands behind his back, and he stared down wordlessly at you, his eyes studying you intensely. You averted your gaze, landing on Wrecker and Meg in the next row, who were watching you both with curious expressions.

Your eyes slid back to him when the music began, and you met his bow with a curtsey. His eyes never left yours as he took your hands gently in his and performed the first step, moving towards each other and passing by the shoulders. He was poised and effortless in his movement, which surprised you.

“I thought you did not know how to dance,” you whispered, not sure why your voice decided to lower so.

Mr. Batchbury didn’t answer, the corner of his mouth twitching like it was about to smile. You frowned as you came together again.

“You didn’t attend my lessons with your family,” you whispered again a little louder.

You almost tripped over your own feet when you saw Mr. Batchbury’s mouth lift into a small, amused smile. Your frown deepened which only seemed to make him more delighted. What could he possibly be smiling about? You held his hands as you spun in a slow circle, his thumbs gently resting on your knuckles, brushing yours. You watched him, the way his whole face seemed to change just at the lift in his expression. The way the crease in his brow went away, the smile lines on his face deepening and his eyes filled with mirth. It was breathtaking.

Your mind then went back to the flash of grey hair you saw up in the balconied eaves of the Batchbury’s ballroom and it all became clear.

“You watched, didn’t you?” you asked, though you knew you were right. “From the eaves.”

Mr. Batchbury was silent for a moment, his smile falling back into that pensive line, as if he was annoyed you’d seen him and caught on to his little game.

“And if I did?” he countered, passing by your shoulder again. He hardly ever answered a question directly and it drove you to such frustration. You rolled your eyes.

“Why would you not come down and learn properly? Are you embarrassed, or do you simply hate me that much?” you held hands again, moving down the line on the dancefloor.

Mr. Batchbury scoffed, a light puff of air from his nose. “I don’t hate you.”

“Could’ve fooled me, sir,” you snapped back, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

The dance continued, and you moved towards him and turned so your back was to his front, and one of his hands found your waist and the other held your hand. You lay your hands on his as you both moved in a circle with some other couples. Your chest tightened as you felt his hands on your body as he pulled you close to him. You felt his hand rest in the dip of your waist, and you were so aware of the way his fingers flexed against your palm. His touch ignited your body in ways you never believed was possible and you tried to control the heat that rushed to your cheeks and up the back of your neck. How could he illicit this response from you when you were constantly at odds? It was nonsensical.

You were hoping he couldn’t tell your fluster when you felt him bend down to your ear, breath tickling you there.

“I do not hate you.” His voice was like gravel, and you felt the vibrations of his low voice move down into your bones. It flared through you, goosebumps prickling across your skin, and you fought off a shiver that threatened to travel down your spine. You spun away from him, returning to face him once more.

Mr. Batchbury looked at you with that same pensive, almost emotionless expression, and you felt the irritation in you rising as you passed by his shoulder again, circling him.

“You always ignore me when I am in the room, and if by some miracle you do acknowledge my existence, you reject any civil conversation with me with caustic barbs and scowls. You all but yelled at me when I innocently inquired about what you write in your notebook. So, please explain to me why I should believe you don’t hate me when it’s clear that you do.”

Mr. Batchbury’s expression remained impassive despite your blunt claims, fanning the flames of your ire until they were ablaze with fury. You wished he was not so handsome, that his touch and proximity did not affect you so – it made this all the more difficult and confusing. You returned to your place and watched as he passed by your shoulder, circling you. You waited for his response, waiting to see how he came to his own defence, but it did not come.

He had nothing to say, and that hurt even more. For it meant he truly did hate you.

You laughed humorlessly, shaking your head, feeling tears begin to prick your eyes and you tried to hide your hurt as the music came to a close, thankful your dance was over.

You curtseyed as he bowed, chastising yourself for getting upset at how he treated you. He did not deserve to mould your feelings in this way. You shook your head again, face aflame and tears threatening to spill down your cheeks in front of everyone – in front of the person you loathed the most yet whose eyes haunted your dreams. You quickly walked off the dance floor without another word. You ignored the calls of your name from Meg and instead made your way towards the doors that led to the gardens.

When you made it outside, the cool air prickled your skin, and you took a deep breath, closing your eyes. There were small droves of people outside among lanterns, their chatter an even din to your ears. But you needed to be further away. Stray tears falling, you went down the steps and into the gardens, away from the ball and the people.

The Queen and Prince’s staff had not placed the lanterns everywhere, and soon you left them behind as you walked through the well-kept gardens towards the glass building which could not be anything but the greenhouse, your feet crunching softly on the gravel pathways. You wrapped your arms around yourself and looked up at the sky as you walked, at the constellations that littered the blue night with glowing dots. You smiled tearfully at the reminder that you were only a small part of something much bigger, and nothing could truly matter so much when the stars existed. Even if it felt like the opposite.

When you reached the door, you pushed it open and closed it quietly behind you. The temperature was much warmer than it was outside, and you could feel the heat seep into your skin. You walked further in, marvelling at the various plants that grew and seemed to flourish in this environment, some of them you’d never seen before in your life. There were fruit trees and shrubs, flower bushes and others. The greenhouse was lit inside, giving the plant life an orange glow in the night. You walked around stone fountains and admired the stone statues, letting the ball and its people slip away.

You didn’t know why you were so hurt by Mr. Batchbury’s actions and lack of words. Something about him flared up a part of yourself you didn’t like. You hated meeting his barbs with cutting remarks, it was exhausting. You hated ruining your time spent with the Batchbury’s, so aware of their youngest brother and primed for any words that may be sent your way. You spent almost every waking thought fixated on Crosshair Batchbury and no matter what you did, nothing could sway your mind elsewhere. Always thinking about his stupid words that fell from his pretty lips and his even more stupidly handsome face with those searing brown eyes that spread fire through you when you looked into them.

You kicked the edge of the fountain with a frustrated sound coming from your throat and then sat on the edge and put your head in your hands. You felt more tears fall down your cheeks and you sniffled, wishing you had a handkerchief.

You could not deny it to yourself any longer.

You were completely enamoured by Mr. Crosshair Batchbury, and the hurt you felt was because you wanted him to like you. You kept fighting with him because it was the only way he would look at you with those pretty eyes of his. Ever since that first introduction, you wished his attention to be filled with the love, care and kindness you knew he possessed. But his handsome angled face would only ever send you daggers. So, with nothing else to do, with no explanations to why he did not like you, you just kept arguing with him, over and over again. But nothing ever changed. Whatever you did, whatever you said would never win him over, and you were exhausted.

You deserved better than that.

You heard footsteps running inside and you quickly straightened, eyes wide. You wiped your face and hoped your eyes weren’t so red. The footsteps stopped and you turned to your right and scoffed when you saw the source of all your hurt, confusion and desire standing there in all his glory.

“What do you want, Mr. Batchbury?” you asked, but did not want an answer. He looked at you, beautiful brown eyes trained on your face, and you watched them search your features for something. You laughed humorlessly and kept talking.

“Wanted to see if I finally cracked? If your words, or lack thereof I should say, finally landed their blow? Well, they did, sir. They did. You win. I’m not playing this game with you any longer, I am tired of it.”

“What game?” he croaked out, standing there all tall and handsome with a crease in his brow you wanted to press away with your thumb. Oh, how you wished he’d just been nice to you. It would’ve been so much easier.

You stood up and smoothed your gown. “Our arguments. I don’t want to have them anymore.”

He looked at you, incredulous. “The ones you started?”

“I did not start anything!” You hissed at him, balling your fists. “You did!”

Mr. Batchbury took a step closer to you, his voice deepening with disdain. “Please enlighten me, because I distinctly remember you disliking me from the moment we met, and nothing could change your mind.”

You rolled your eyes before narrowing them at him. “That’s rich coming from you, Mr. Batchbury, seeing as though you were the one who decided I was not up to your standards upon our introduction.”

Mr. Batchbury reeled back. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you spat, taking a step towards him. “You looked me up and down and decided that was it, you’d seen enough of me. And now I simply plague you by existing. Shall I reiterate my words from the ballroom?”

“I know perfectly well what you said.”

He was so close to you now and you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. When you were this close, you could see the uneven outline of his port wine stain across his eye, the deep red a contrast to his brown skin. You watched the way the colour flared with his emotions, and you wanted to place your fingertips over it, feel if it was as hot as his anger. He scowled down at you, his shoulders broad despite his lean frame. He was intimidating to most, and he knew it – but he never scared you. This attention that he gave you in these moments only solidified your wish for him to look at you in other ways. For those burning eyes of his to look upon you with love and not disdain. You drew yourself up as tall as you could, meeting him in every way except the way you wanted to, hoping your voice didn’t tremble.

“So, you do not deny it? That you took one look at me and decided I was not worthy of your company.”

Mr. Batchbury’s face softened ever so slightly. If you had blinked, you would’ve missed it. “That’s not what happened.”

You smiled only to hide the immense hurt that only seemed to cut deeper with every moment he continued to look at you like that. “Oh, please, spare me.”

Mr. Batchbury’s eyes searched your face. What did you look like to him right now? You must look unkempt with the mess of your emotions. You were not good at hiding any of them, all the anger and hurt seemed to show up in the creases of your face and across your skin. Did he feel bad about the mess he had made you? Did he feel anything which was not frustration and vexation towards you? You could not imagine it. His face had softened marginally since the beginning of this spar, but the only thing it could be is pity; pity that you believed such things, pity that you couldn’t take the arguments anymore.

Pity that you felt for him in ways he could never fulfil.

You felt your eyes brim with tears, and you took a step back, putting distance between you. Being so close to him was not helping in any such way. This had to stop.

“You know, sir, just because you are rich, tall, and a handsome war hero does not mean you can treat people like they no longer matter. You and your family are wonderful people. The love you have for each other is truly remarkable and if I ever had a family, I would hope they are as close as yours is. I love your brothers and sister dearly, but it does not take away from the fact you have continued to provoke and anger me, and I will no longer allow it.”

Something shifts in Mr. Batchbury; he straightens and his once steady feet falter as he looks at you, like he’d just been knocked off balance. You stare at each other, his eyes wide and yours full of hurt and surrender. He blinks, processing your words, and you realise what you’ve just let slip from your tongue.

Handsome. Handsome. Handsome.

Wonderful. Wonderful. Wonderful.

The words linger in the air between you both, and you feel yourself stiffening as your mouth opens slightly, before closing again. You could not take the words back. Your secret was out; he knew what you really thought of him.

Despite all the insults and affronts towards him, you did think he was wonderful and handsome, and the love he showed his family made a different kind of warmth seep through you. Not the warmth of anger, but the warmth of admiration and love.

Mr. Batchbury seemed to recover from the weight of your words, shifting on his feet, but his eyes never left you. You watched his face soften, harden then soften again, the creases around his eyes and mouth betraying his usual stoic face. You watched as he took a tentative step closer to you, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke.

“You won’t, will you?”

You felt the breath of his words tickle your face and you looked up at him, heart beating so fast you were sure he could hear it in this quiet, empty corner of the greenhouse. You swallowed. What was he doing? His words sounded like a challenge, but his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it; softer than it had ever been towards you.

But you’d been burned by him before, and you stood your ground, on guard for the insult that would surely follow. Your voice was low with your response, mustering up as much challenge as you would with his eyes looking down on you.

“No, I won’t.”

You were unprepared for his next words, delivered in that same softness as before but not coated in an uncertainty that puzzled you and caught you off guard. “What will you allow then?”

You blinked up at him, eyes moving between his. Were they even softer than before? Your eyes trailed down his face and watched the way his lips pressed together. You quickly met his gaze once more, your reply coming out strained. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Mr. Batchbury voice was unnervingly gentle as he said, “Will you allow this?”

He silently lifted his gloved hand and put the end of it between his teeth. You watched the movement, eyes trained on his mouth as he pulled it off and let it drop from his mouth to the floor. Then he took your hand in his bare one softly, and his wooden one cradled your elbow. Your breath hitched at the touch. His eyes left yours only for a moment as he pinched the seam of the tip of your silk glove, just above your middle finger. Then his gaze returned as he tugged, slowly pulling your glove from your arm until it was bare. Your chest began to rise and fall rapidly as you moved your eyes between his and his movements in quick darts.

“What are you doing?” Your voice rushed and breathless.

His voice was calm, if not slightly bored as he dropped the glove to the ground. “Seeing what you will allow.”

Mr. Batchbury began to do the same with your other glove, repeating the movements carefully. You blinked up at him, your heart racing and your stomach flipping over itself once you felt his hand move across the bare skin of your arms and hands. His palm was not rough, but it was not quite smooth, either. It was dry, warm, and large and completely engulfed your own hand, and you imagined his other hand would’ve felt the same if it had not been lost. His hand was a working one; a hand that had held rifles and pulled on ropes; a hand you knew held his sister’s when she was little; a hand that learnt how to write when he lost his other; a hand that carried around his leather-bound book tightly; a hand that had held you close to him when you had danced; a hand that removed your gloves so artfully you felt the sensations move through your entire body.

A hand that was, in fact, gentle with you in ways his words had never been.

You stared at him, and he looked at you as he held your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture that seemed almost instinctual. He’d done that during the dance too, you realised. You thought it had been done absently, but what if…it was intentional? You searched his face and saw a vulnerability you had never once seen grace his features. It made him look boyish, and something in your chest bloomed before you realised what you were doing.

You were holding hands with Mr. Batchbury in a greenhouse, and his skin was warm against yours.

You shook your head, face aflame. “This isn’t proper,” you choked out.

His voice was soft once more. “Do you want to stop?”

You looked at him. You had lamented only moments ago of how you wished he would show you the kindness he showed his family, and now here he was, holding your hand. How did he move from throwing barbs towards you, to such gentle gestures? How had the hostility between you shifted so quickly into softness? Your surrender to this game between you, your secret feelings towards him that had finally revealed itself after hiding them behind venom-soaked words. Something in that had changed the way he looked at you, how he spoke and how he held you.

What did it all mean?

But as he looked at you, finally looking at you with something other than hate, you couldn’t bring yourself to push him away.

“No,” you whispered.

His eyes softened once more, and it was an expression you’d grown very fond of in the past minutes, and you found yourself getting lost in the tourmaline of his eyes. They were the colour of a fireplace, of cinnamon sticks in hot cider – and maybe that was Mr. Batchbury to his core. Sweetness on the edges of the tart acidic warmth that permeated you as you consumed it.

You wanted to reach up and touch his face, see if the stubble that lined his jaw was rough against your fingers, you wanted to trace the line of his port wine stain, and see if his eyes closed with the touch, or if they stayed trained on you.

You felt your cheeks heating as he continued to look at you. What did he see now when he looked at you? Still the mess of anger and hurt? Or the unhidden feelings of enamour you had hidden for so long?

You felt his hand on yours squeeze before he swallowed, and slowly moved his face closer to yours. It was a cautious kind of movement that left room for you to push him away, but you couldn’t – or wouldn’t. And instead, the thump of your heart filled your ears as his lips inched closer to yours, both your gazes dropping to each other’s lips. He paused and you felt the breath of your name over the lips.

“Yes,” you breathed back.

“I have never once hated you,” Mr. Batchbury whispered before he pressed his lips to yours.

You had never kissed anyone in your life, and all your knowledge came from novels or chatters overheard from servants. But this kiss wasn’t like anything you have ever heard or read. It started off sweet, tentative a little unsure as you both tried to figure out what to do and what felt good. He pulled you closer, so you were pressed up against his chest, and his arms went to your hips whilst yours draped themselves over his shoulders. He lifted you so your feet were on top of his, and you pressed your tip toes into the tops of his boots as the kiss deepened, both of you finding your footing as you grew used to the ministrations. He smelled like the fireplace his eyes matched, and you breathed him in as Mr. Batchbury’s lips claimed yours. Your body was on fire as felt his tongue at the seam of your lips and you couldn’t hold back a moan as you tasted him. He tasted of the champagne he’d downed earlier, and you could feel the hardness of his frame against you, like nothing was close enough.

“Enchanting,” you thought you’d heard him say between kisses.

The kisses you’d heard about had never detailed the kind of passion and want this kiss held. The greenhouse’s heat coupled with the heat of this embrace was making you hot all over, your body tingled with the need for more. And as the kiss went on, you both became more frantic, gasping between each kiss. His hands moved up and down your back, holding you securely against him and your bare hands grasped at the short strands of his silver hair that lay at the nape of his neck. He groaned as you tugged at them and kissed you harder, his hot mouth slanting over yours as he pulled you in deeper, bodies pressed together like nothing was close enough.

“Mr. Batchbury,” you breathed as his lips left yours to move down your jawline to your neck. You pressed your hand against his cheek and felt the stubble, confirming the roughness of it you had imagined. God, you wanted him everywhere – improper be damned. How could something that felt so good be so improper? Why were people denying themselves this for the sake of propriety? You feared you could never get enough of this, of him.

“Crosshair,” he insisted, just like his lips as they pressed into your skin, nipping at your exposed collarbones.

“Crosshair,” you repeated before he swallowed your breath with his lips once more.

He let out a groan that you felt vibrate into your lips and chest and something about that sound, the deepness and loudness of it in the bubble you both had made, brought you back to yourself, and you remembered where you were and realised what you were doing.

You pulled away, chest rising and falling, eyes wide and cheeks burning. Your face was so close to his, and you took him in. His eyes were blown, brown irises bright, and his mouth parted with swollen lips. His port wine birthmark was a deep red as his skin flushed. You felt his chest press into yours as he breathed hard, and he blinked at you.

In his face, you saw a man who’s kissed you senseless, who held you to him, who’d touched your bare hands, and had been so gentle, all you had ever wanted him to be with you and yet, you felt yourself freeze.

Was this real? Or another cruel game at the expense of your feelings? One where he told you he never hated you, kissed you until your knees buckled then spat cruelties later on? Was he lulling you into complacency so his acid tongue would burn you when you weren’t expecting it?

The thought hit you like a twelve-horse carriage and the guard you’d foolishly let down flew back up. You’d lost your mind; taken by your fantasies. Mr. Batchbury was never gentle with you, no matter how much you wished it – why would he start now?

You couldn’t be sure. But you were not going to be hurt by Mr. Batchbury again – your heart couldn’t take it.

He rasped out your name, your kisses still lying in his throat and you felt yourself jolt before wrenching yourself out of his embrace.

“I have to go,” you strained out, already feeling your eyes burn with tears.

You watched his expression change into one of shock and then indignation. “What?”

“This shouldn’t have happened,” you choked before turning away from him and running back through the greenhouse the way you came, leaving Mr. Batchbury behind.

i hope you enjoyed this FIRST installment!! bc ofc! what is a regency romance without a steamy encounter!! ANYWAY stay tuned!!

(i am travelling for a bit so part 2 will be posted sometime in december! thank you for your patience!)

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