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netherfeildren · 1 year

Text

Forfeiting My Mystique

Pairing: Ezra x F!Reader

Summary: You're a girl made of golden gossamer, a work of art come to life, and Ezra, well he's dedicated his life to collecting beautiful things.

-OR-

An Ezra Art Collector AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: voyeurism; kind of objectifying? (not sure how to tag the strange shit going on here); ezra’s weird; mommy issues; references to past childhood abuse; touch aversion/touch starved (at the same time); sugar daddy vibes; size difference; oral sex (f! receiving); butt stuff lite; dom/sub undertones; power dynamics; self esteem issues x2; panty thieving; masturbation; obsessive behavior; possessive behavior; brief mention of recreational drug use; brief discussion of parent death

A/N: This is extremely self indulgent - basically I wrote it for me, but you guys can read it too. I know I took some liberties with Ezra's characterization but whatever.

Inspo (and some of the dialogue) pulled from Lenny Kravitz’s Paris town house Vogue tour, Jeremy Strong’s favorite things GQ interview, and “Marianne” from Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin.

Title is from the poem by the same name by Kaveh Akbar.

Word Count: 12K

Read on AO3

Ezra has always loved beautiful things. Since he was a child, his mother taught him to instill an appreciation for beauty into all facets of his world. She herself, a gorgeously beautiful creature, was well versed in such a life. But beautiful as she was, she was also cruel, selfish, capricious to her very core, and she’d turned him into a strange amalgamation of a man by proxy. At once also cruel and selfish and capricious, but hurt and soft and gnarled, as well, so that he was also made gentle and aware and hopeful. That above all else, his greatest weakness, always hopeful. Perhaps, to the point of naivety, the point of peril. For he looked for beauty in all things, and to do that, he was forced to bestow his hopeful eye upon even the ugly and harsh things of the world.

And so he’d dedicated his life to finding those beautiful things. An art collector by virtue, they called him. A vulture, a scavenger, a treasure hunter. A man full of greed and pride, demons and too much money. All he thought of himself as, was hungry. So yes, perhaps a scavenger, a morsel of greed within the marrow of his bones, always looking for the next sublime artifact, painting, statue – person. But he also liked to think of himself as a protector of those beautiful things, of historic things. Things that changed the very face of humanity, shifted the tide of the world. A collector – always in search of the next life changing sight. Always certain the world was filled with endless possibilities for beauty, for loveliness, for sensuality, for something to captivate, to overwhelm him.

The first thing he sees are your feet. Standing in the gallery over from the one you’re inhabiting, people he doesnt know or give a fuck about talking at him, schmoozing and preening and prostrating themselves. Probably hoping he’ll cough up a couple million euro for whatever cause they’re pretending to crusade behind at the moment. He can see only the quarter bottom half of the famed performance artist he’d heard so much about. The entire exhibit tonight had been built around you, and it had the whole of Paris raving and ravenous for a piece of the lovely morsel they so claimed you posed as. Shallow and vain creatures that the peers of his echelon were, they were easily amused and easily bored by the smallest passing fads. At once desperate to be the first to see or speak of a thing, and consequently, the first to discard it as dépassé.

He’d made the trek all the way to the Left Bank from his townhouse in the 16th arrondissement, to see the performance of the woman whom his associate, Oruf, had said would change the way he thought of a living creature forevermore. Big words from a little man, Ezra had no real inclination to believe.

The angle of the wall blocks most of you from his view – granting him the sight of only your knees down. Your feet are small, he can see the tiny square shape of your nails, the gleam of them under the soft warm overhead light – lying on your side, one slotted above the other. The fine architecture of your ankles – delicate, the blue hued veins crawling like vines up the top of your foot, lost to the pale of your skin. The smooth, glossy slope of your calf, up to the flat round of your patella. It’s all he can admire from where he stands. Pretty legs, but nothing to lose one’s head over so far.

The person talking at him is interminably long winded. Ezra would like nothing more than to beg them to shut the fuck up and be on his way. He wants another drink. He wants to see you in full. He’d heard so much about the woman sitting for the live art exhibit. You’d been heralded into a creature of myth by the wagging tongues of Paris. He wanted to discern for himself the level of sanctity you deserved. He wanted to see your face.

Finally, he’s able to demure from the conversation, the promise of ten million euro for the charity of the sycophant’s choice, promised off-handedly – any amount of money would’ve been too little to get the gaping, begging maw to quit it’s yapping.

He slinks along the shadows of the walls, a vulture in its natural habitat. The lights brought down to a low warm hue, meant to shape itself along the contours of your skin, bring out the soft gleam within you. Surely the oldest trick in the book, that of light and shadows. He moves further into the room slowly, your back to him. The plush round of your bottom comes into view, two little dimples gracing the low of your back, the notches of your spine, up, up, to the heavy mantle of your hair. You’re resting on your hip, your torso twisted so your chest is pressed to the chaise you lounge on, your head laying cradled in the circle of your bent arms. There is a tiny, delicate outline of a sparrow tattooed at your shoulder. He watches the slow rise and fall of your back, the shadow of your ribs – he’d feed you more if you were his. The thought comes unbidden – a little shocking – a lovely bottom, beautiful, long hair, but for a man like Ezra – one who so wholly avoided any sort of ownership by another or over another, the thought of such intimacy, something to cause revulsion, not desire, coming from his own psyche, it’s almost distressing to acknowledge as his own.

The crown of your head gleams like a halo in the soft overhead gallery light. The room is muted, voices hushed, and the patrons rove around your unmoving body, the rhythm of your breath the only discernible sign of life on your form from back here. Oruf had claimed that you did not move a single millimeter during the entirety of the three hour long performance. He sure as fuck didn’t believe that. He was having a quite, self proclaimed, contrary and bitter season, by his own choosing, and was prone to bouts of obstinance and general disagreement at anything and everything that presented itself to him. He was choosing, as of now, to not believe in your myth.

He moves further around the center where you lay in repose. He needs to see your face. That will give him the answer he’s come here for.

There’s a large group standing right in front of you – rudely pointing, whispering, and he feels a surge of annoyance at the sight of them. You were here to be observed, appreciated, not fucking ogled like some cheap attraction, and he was here to see you – they needed to get the fuck out of his way.

Finally, they shuffle off, leaving the space directly in front of you open. He makes the final round above your head, comes to stand before you. Oruf had said the only part of you that moved were your eyes.

They fall on Ezra now.

It could have been as if, in that moment, you’d gotten up, naked as Venus, to shriek directly in his face. That powerful was the force behind your gaze – a punch to the gut, his mothers handbag swinging unexpectedly, purposefully into his stomach as he scurried meekly behind her as a child.

He pulls his Jacques Marie Mage frames from his nose. He needs to look away from the searing power of your attention. He needs a moment to collect himself, taking deep breaths as he studies the glasses, runs the tip of his finger over the bridge. He’s held frozen in place by the feel of your gaze still upon him.

He decides in that very instant he has to have you.

When he looks back at you, your eyes flit away. He is dismissed – made ravenous. On the verge of tears, perhaps. Look back at me, look back at me, look back at me. What sort of reaction is this to a woman whose name he doesn’t even know? Nonsensical. Perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation – the edibles he’d downed before coming, maybe he’s having a bad reaction.

But the gift of your slow, lazy gaze roves around the space he inhabits now, everywhere but directly at him, almost like a punishment for having looked away from you first – even for a second.

He’s never considered the prospect of trying to buy a person. The moral question or dilemma of it. He decides he doesn’t necessarily care. Whatever he has to do to get you to leave this place with him, he’ll do. What he’ll be able to bring himself to let happen after that, if he’ll even be able to touch you, be brave enough to let you touch him, remains to be seen. Inconsequential too, he finds.

He circles the gallery for close to an hour before he can no longer help himself, can no longer feign casualness. The rest of the art here is pale and dull in the light of your luminescence. He finally comes to a stop in a corner diagonal from where you face, in the shadow of the sculpture of Paolo e Virginia. At this moment, he feels certain Puttinati prophecised your existence, to so depict the vision of reverence he’s feeling for you in this moment.

The performance is three hours long. In that time you don’t move your body at all, Oruf was right – lying with the stillness of marble. The only thing that moves are your eyes, and you watch the patrons closely, examine them. Your gaze is part of the art, part of the power of it.

The visage of you is shocking, not for your nudity, but because in a lifetime filled with unimaginably lovely things, you are, by far, the most magnificently gorgeous creature Ezra has ever laid eyes on. It is like a recurring bullet to the temple over and over again for the visceral shock you pull out of him.

Finally, finally, your gaze falls on him again. The meeting of your eyes, like the strike of lightning against the earth. He can feel his cock thicken, grow heavy, just at the touch of your gaze. It’s voyeuristic – unexpected – he can’t remember the last time he got hard. He feels almost perverted, sporting an erection at the mere sight of you, surrounded by all these people in this crowded gallery.

He can’t see your breasts entirely, pressed to the chaise as they are, only the full, pale sides. He wonders desperately at the color of your nipples, the shade, the hue. He’d like to imprint it in his mind. Know the taste of them, as well, of all your skin – wonders if the color there matches that of the skin between your legs. The thought causes hunger to climb like fire up his chest into his throat, saliva pooling heavy in his mouth at the mere suggestion of your cunt in his mind.

His eyes leave you for a moment, to cast the wide net of his gaze around the room, at the other men. He wonders if they’re hard too, if only your naked skin, lying still in repose, has the power to make their blood rush, their muscles thicken. He is not pleased by the thought of that. And when he comes back to you, you’re still on him. Gaze roaming down his body, taking in the fine cashmere sweater, his perfectly tailored suit, built to hang in a precisely designed loose cut over his shoulders, down his long legs, the incongruous sneakers, back, back up to his face, the spot of blonde at the front of his hair. A single delicate eyebrow crooks in a minute arch at him. It is all the answer he needs

You are looking back at him. It’s all he needs to know.

As the three hour mark comes to a head the lights dim even further until only a singular overhead spotlight falls upon your form. Your skin glows, seems to flare brighter for a single moment, and then a golden sheet of gossamer begins to slowly fall from the ceiling, and right before it lands upon your body, you finally move. Your body stretches, toes pointing and curling, long arms stretched in an arc over your head. The fine lines and slopes of your body coming into startling clarity for one moment, and then you turn over, away from him, where he can’t see your face anymore, and curl in on yourself. The golden gusset falls upon your coiled form, as if you’ve finally been put to rest. The lights dim until all that’s visible is the luminous gleam of the shroud over your curled body.

You are a girl made of golden myth and gossamer, and he must have you.

“Hello, Sparrow.” He steps into the small, warm space of your dressing room.

You turn to face him, you’ve been waiting for him. “Hello,” you say slowly. “You were watching me.”

“Everyone was watching you.”

“Not like you were–”

“No… not like I was.” His accent is some strange sort of concoction of eclectic European – at once French, but also slightly Germanic, with an inflection of deep American South at the end. The vowels and consonants rolling off his tongue, smooth and hypnotizing like the warm pour of honey, and then, suddenly, inflected with a bout of sharpness. Something that snaps you awake, forces you to come to attention, to pay attention to him. That was all it was really, you could tell, a forceful, demanding grab for attention at all times. He called it to himself, seduced the people around him into ardor. Whether they knowingly chose to be entranced or not, was not up to them.

“Ezra,” he gives an imitation of a little flourished bow. You give him your own name in return. “You were watching me back.”

“I couldn’t help it.” He had demanded it of you, after all, no need to lie now.

“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.” You turn back to continue packing your bag.

“I’m not very hungry.” You feel him come closer, hear the subtle hint of pleading desperation in his sensual voice that has pleasure coiling deep in your belly.

“A drink then.”

You’d like to be on clear ground with this man who you can see, even now, is an enigma not to be trifled with unconscionably. “Where? At your house?” you turn to crook a sardonic brow at him.

“Would you like me to take you to my house?”

“Yes. If that’s what you want too.” You’d already decided, didn’t see the point in prolonging the game.

His security takes you out the back of the gallery, dark Maybach rolling smoothly up as soon as you reach the curb, and you feel the searing phantom heat of his large palm hovering over the small of your back.

He hasn’t touched you a single time yet, and everything within you is coiled tight, waiting for that first graze.

He pulls the car door open for you himself, and then his driver is there, smoothly offering you his hand to help you step into the sleek interior. The leather beneath you is buttery chocolate brown and you press your thighs together. His security had taken your bag from you, and you felt bereft and listless without the protective clutch of it within your hands now.

He follows after you, sliding gracefully onto the seat across. You can see he’s wearing two gold chains around his neck that rest in the dip of his collarbones, and your mouth waters at the sight. The car pulls quietly away from the curb and then you’re merging into the busy city traffic, ensconced in the quiet of this liminal space he’s stolen you into with him.

He crosses one knee over the other, one thick arm thrown languidly over the back of the seat. You can see a small gold signet ring gracing his pinky – some sort of crest emblazoned on it.

Fucking family crest kind of rich. God. You don’t know if you’re prepared for this.

You cock your head to the side, the muscles in your neck are a little stiff and sore from holding your pose for so long, and you let your neck roll back on the head rest.

He’s quiet, still observing, as if you’re still existing within the walls of the gallery, and not being spirited away to his home so that he might have his way with you.

“Are you going to fuck me?” Might as well be blunt, you think, now that you’re here. He was so gorgeous in that room, watching you, circling you like a beast hunting in the wild. There was really no other way this night was destined to end, but with you beneath him, taking him into your cunt.

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t respond, only gives you a melodic little non-committal hum, continues to look at you from the seat across with those deceptively guileless eyes. You want him to snatch you by the chin and spit in your mouth.

The drive ends in front of the grand façade of a pristine Parisian townhouse on a secluded street in the 16th arrondissement – flanked by national embassies, no less.

You are very, very far from home. In a Paris you’ve not ventured into in all your years of living here.

He helps you from the car, finally, finally, finally, thick palm wrapping entirely around the thin of your wrist. Everything within you coils and pulses, tight and wet. His skin is warm and dry, you can feel the pull of rough calluses on his palm. You’re sure he can feel the hammering staccato of your pulse through the thin membrane as you stare at the way his fingers overlap completely around the circumference of your limb.

He lets you step into the foyer ahead of him as one of his staff sweeps the door open for the two of you, ready and waiting for their master to return with a respectably quiet, monsieur, mademoiselle, in greeting. There’s a huge Basquiat in the entrance hall, across from the sweeping staircase.

“Lots of his art came my way,” he says at your obvious admiration, shock, desire to tuck tail and run back home. “We weren’t friends, but I was roommates with a guy he’d lived with. His last girlfriend was best friends with my girlfriend at the time, so when he died we had one of the first calls.”

“It’s wonderful–” Your voice is full of awe, eyes taking in a type of home you’ve never seen before up close like this. Something out of a picture book that sits on the coffee table of someone wishing for more.

“How many bedrooms does it have?”

“Well… they get used for different things – so I’m not sure. Let’s call it eight.”

You huff a small laugh, run your finger along the keys of the opulent crystal Steinway. “Let’s call it eight, sure.”

Now that you’re here, that he hasn’t overtly said he’s brought you here for sex, you don’t really know what it is he wants from you. A bad thought, but an honest one.

“Drink?”

“Yes, please.”

He leads you into an elegantly lush reception room, hovering hand again at the place above the small of your back. There’s a gargantuan crystal chandelier hanging at the center of the room, two enormous elephant tusks flank the elaborate mantelpiece. The room is a mix of eclectic eccentricities, both neutrally elegant and demure in its obvious wealth, but inflected with touches of vibrant color and idiosyncrasies to bring the room together in a way that you think must reflect the house’s owner.

He moves to the bar, choosing the green bottle of twenty year Laphroaig and pours a knuckle into two crystal tumblers. He’s quiet, subdued, and the lack of small talk to fill the silence has the backs of your knees itching and sweating.

There’s a glossy red panther sculpture prowling across a gold and ivory lacquered coffee table. He comes to hand your glass to you. “That’s a museum piece. I can’t remember where I got it, but it’s rare.” You can’t tell if he’s trying to boast, to impress you, or merely share his satisfaction at owning a piece of art worthy of a museum's gallery. You’d already discerned that at the Basquiat’s first glance, shit, at the first sight of the house. It was a veritable museum on its own. You were sure the number of museum pieces in every room were too many to count in a single night, nay week.

You don’t sit as he goes to do, but start to slowly circle the room. An imitation of his slow roving of you earlier at the gallery. The peat whisky is bold and smoky, a surprising hint of something akin to seawater, but also mellowly sweet. You think that this must be what his skin tastes like, his come – an amalgamation of all the different flavors on the wheel. Saliva pools heavy on your tongue and you take a deeper sip, eyes flitting to him.

“Three hours is a long time to lay so still,” he says.

“It is. But I’m used to it by now.”

“You must be tired.”

“Not particularly – perhaps a bit stiff.”

“Have you been doing this for a long time?”

“Not so long, but not so short, either.”

“So just the right amount?”

“Yes.” He’s quiet for a moment then, still watching, watching, watching. His gaze upon you feels like the drag of a specter’s fingers along your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. You wonder if this is how he felt while you watched him in the low light of the gallery. Hunted. But no, you imagine there isn’t anything that could make a man such as this feel like prey.

“Can I draw you a bath?” You pause at this – firmer, more familiar ground, finally. This is what you’ve been waiting for. His request for you to get naked for him, to let him into your body. It’s what you want also. He’s not rushing this, and it’s making you feel unstable, unsure of the ground you’re treading here together.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

He leads you upstairs, to one of the guest bedrooms. The en suite, one of his favorites in the house – dark marble tub in the center of the room under a low hanging crystal chandelier. The French windows let in the soft glow of the moon outside, and he draws the bath for you as you peer through the glass. The reflection of your face in the windows, eternally distracting.

When the water is warm and ready, a splash of Neroli Portofino Body Oil poured under the stream, he turns to you. He’s hesitant – both of himself and you, equally. It’s been a long time since he’s touched a body not his own, and he feels the slight anxious tremor of his hands. Although he can’t be sure if that’s strictly attributed to nerves, or all the blood in his body pooling in his cock at the moment.

“Can I take your clothes off?” said as gently as possible, so as not to spook you.

Your gaze is as direct as it was while you lay watching him, surrounded by half of Paris. “Yes.”

He starts at the tiny bow holding the front of your soft silk blouse together – the weave so fine, it’s almost translucent, and he can see the outline of your evasive nipples he’s been so desperate to see. He pulls on the string letting the neck of the blouse fall open, then down to the tiny pearl buttons holding the rest of it together. All without touching your skin.

You’re panting, face already flushed, eyes bright, almost fevered. His balls are tight and heavy, ready to come, just with this. Just at the mere fucking vision of you ready and panting for him. His belly clenches and then he pushes the silk off the fine bones of your shoulders. The wings of your collarbones, the shadow of the dip in them the most tempting image he’s ever beheld in his entire life. He wants to dip his tongue into the tiny pool, fill them with ambrosia and drink directly from your skin.

He feels his cock begin to leak.

The zipper at the side of your skirt is next. He watches the rise and fall of your ribs, the tremble of your throat as he pulls it down slowly, revealing the rest of your skin to him. There’s a tiny lace thong around your hips, robin's egg blue. Oh, he will be stealing that for himself.

He finally lets himself touch your skin as he pushes the scrap of lace down your legs, crouching smoothly to his knees to help you step out of it. He takes in the sight of your small feet up close now. The fine tendons of your musculature entirely too fucking beguiling. He ghosts the tip of a single finger over the top of your foot and you moan for him. So goddamn sweet and wanton.

He unfolds to his full height and pockets your panties. To be inspected at a later time, pressed to his nose and mouth so that he might drink the scent of you down into himself. He tips his chin at the tub now, holding your wild gaze, breaths coming in short little gasps. Your cheeks are flushed the color of your nipples. The tiny wisps of hair at your neck and temples beginning to curl deliciously in the humidity of the bathroom. He could spill his seed just at the look in your eyes, he’s sure of it.

“In,” he orders, crowds you towards the edge of the tub and grips the bend of your elbow between his thumb and index finger – as little contact as possible – to help you into the water. “Sit.”

You immediately obey, and that fills him with more pleasure than the sight of your naked skin. The control you’re granting him right now, allowing him the privilege of ordering you for the sake of his own comfort – he’s going to reward you very well for being so good for him.

He bends over the edge of the tub, hovering over your beseeching upturned face. He brushes his thumb softly over your full bottom lip. “Good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut, you look down into the water, a lovely pink blush blossoming over your cheeks. “Relax. Soak for a while.”

He can tell you want him. Badly. The flush of your cheeks down to your breasts, rosy little nipples peaked, your quick breath. That want, compounded doubly by his refusal so far to really touch you — his inability. The more he stays his hand, the more you want him, and the more you want him the harder his cock grows, the more frightened he becomes. He thinks it’s very true, that old adage, the harder you try to push a woman away from a man, the closer she will go to him by virtue of rebellion.

You sit in the warm bath for close to an hour, and he watches rapturously, hypnotized by the slick wet of the water rolling over your skin, from his seat on an ottoman at the center of the room. The weight of his gaze on your skin, almost violent in its intense desire. He wants to lick every single droplet from your body and then bite into the heavy lush weight of your tits until his teeth are imprinted in the soft flesh, bruises sucked into the pale globes. He hopes you’ll let him. He hopes he’ll let himself.

Your returning look is equally wanton. He watches your gaze trained and hungry on the heft of his cock hiding beneath his trousers. You spread your legs for him beneath the water as you wash yourself, putting on another show, private, just for him. An unjustly jealous wrath stirs within him, coiled and hissing, at the thought of any other human on earth ever getting to see you the way he is now. Largely a passive man, the violence that surges within him has him surprised and not, in equal measures. For he thinks that no being ever having beheld you, could ever possibly be driven to feel any other way than obsessively possessive over such a creature as yourself. You’re like a siren in this moment, languishing in the warm water of his bath, in his house, where you agreed to come with him tonight. A nymph willingly slinking into the depth of Tartarus, knowing she’s in peril of being wholly devoured by the beasts that lay at its depths, and still going anyways.

He helps you out after a while, tiny little fingers and toes soaked to wrinkles, elbow once again caught between his two fingers, and the heat rolling off your skin sears him. Has a violent tremble running jaggedly down his vertebrae.

He wraps you in a plush white towel, pulled from the warming rack, helps you dry your long hair. Then goes to his room for one of his shirts to put you in. He pulls one he’d worn a few days ago off the pile from the chair in the corner. He wants to know you’re sleeping in something that’s already been on his skin, that smells like him, that you’re soaking now in his own scent.

As he pulls the towel from around your body to once again reveal your bare form to him he presses a soft kiss to your naked waist – can’t help himself, the soft slope entirely too beguiling. Overtaking any apprehensions he may have, and his gut clenches with fear and desire. He can feel the weeping of his cock dribble down his thigh as he presses his lips to the warm, fragrant skin.

You’re quiet, watching him, letting him do with you as he wants. His own little sentient doll, created for his pleasure only. “I have a farm in Brazil,” he says. He rounds your form, starts to braid the long strands of your hair into a single plait. You put up no protest – it feels like water, slipping through his hands. “We grow organic fruit and vegetables and there’s cows, lots of cows. We never kill them, they just live there, graze.” One of his favorite places in the entire world, but perhaps, second to the place he resides now, staring at you, dressing you, touching your hair. “I love it there, I’ll take you.”

“Okay,” you say easily. “I’d like that,” the gift of the gentle curve of your smile. He wants to lick into your mouth, fuck you with his tongue, slap your pussy and watch the blood rush to the surface, feel the tight clench of your asshole as he fills you with his come.

“Will you let me watch you play with your cunt?” he asks gently.

“Won’t you do it?”

“I’m scared to touch you yet – to find out if you’re actually real.” He feels an uncharacteristically self conscious blush mar his cheeks. “I–I’m not ready. I want to watch first.” He comes to kneel between your parted thighs that dangle off the high bed. “Pet your cunt for me – show me how you like it, sweet girl. Please.” He is not above begging. Not for this. Not for you – for the sight of you playing with your wet, pink pussy.

You spread your legs wider, give him the tantalizing peak of your bare sex, your glistening folds. You’re already fucking wet for him. He feels an unrestrained growl claw up his throat like fire. His mouth goes dry, parched. The only way to sate himself, to drink straight from the source of your glossy slick.

You press your fingers to the pearl of your clit, swollen and needy already, he can see. You start to swirl little circles over your slippery flesh, your wet mouth falling open in a gasp. “That’s it, yeah–” he whispers, bringing his face in closer to the apex of your thighs so he can smell you directly from the source. His eyes flutter as he breathes in the scent of you, the deep amber and citrus from the bath oil, but beneath that, entwined in the rich notes, the musky scent of you. Fucking mouthwatering. He hears himself moan, the sound pulled almost unconsciously from his body.

“Inside– put your fingers inside. Let me see you fuck yourself.” You press a single finger in, all the way to the last knuckle, and start to rock your hips. He can feel your gaze on his face, the weight of it heavy and pleading.

“Ezra– p–please, please, you do it,” you beg, let your head roll back as you press another finger in and start to rock your clit against the mound of your palm in earnest.

“But you’re doing so well, sweet girl. About to make that little cunt come for me. Look–” He gives you the weight of a single palm on the bend of your knee and you moan deep and ragged at just that compact touch. He can’t help himself – he pulls the edge of the t-shirt up to bare your tits to him and holds it up against the base of your throat where he cradles the delicate column in his hand – the entire large span of him completely engulfing your smallness. “Your thighs are trembling, treasure. You’re going to do it just for me, aren’t you?.”

“Y–Yes, yes–”

He pushes your knee in his grasp wider, opening you more for the fileting of gaze. “Make yourself come – I want to see it. Fucking come,” it’s a demand you answer, just the sound of it causing the heat of your skin to seemingly ricochet even higher. You start to come – he watches the clenching of the muscles in your stomach as you grind your fingers deep. He can hear how wet you are, the sopping wet squelch of your pulsing cunt, and he worries for one second that he’s about to come in his pants.

You let out a reed high mewl, like you’re singing just for him. “What a good, good girl you are,” he praises, and your eyes flutter shut, pulling your fingers away so that he’s left to admire the clenching of your stretched hole. He can see the glossy shine of your slick sliding down the crevice of your ass, and he wants to lick through your sticky arousal so fucking badly he bites down on his cheek until he tastes blood. He bends his head to press his brow to the edge of the bed between your spread thighs, tightening his grip around your knee until you whimper in pain. He loosens his hold immediately, thumb brushing soothingly over the bend before he stands, lets out a long breath. He stares down at your panting, flushed form. Wet and sated after your orgasm. Fuck all the art in the world. He’d set fire to every single masterpiece he owns in this very moment if he was granted the gift of getting to watch you come even one single time more.

He passes his palm over his mouth, feeling the soft bristles of his scruff. He’d like to see the smooth insides of your thighs rubbed raw with it, he’d like to see the stretch of your cunt as he stuffs you full of himself, the milky white of his spend leaking from all your holes.

“It’s time to put you to bed,” he says instead.

Your brow creases in the sweetest little frown, red mouth puckering, still panting. “You’re not staying?”

“No, sweet girl. I think it’s best if you sleep here tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“But–”

“It’s alright. There’s no rush.” He leans over you to press a lingering kiss to your brow, pulls his shirt down to cover your breasts. You give him a little whimper, and he allows your hand to come up to clutch the thick swell of his bicep, the heavy muscle there bunching at the feel of your grip. He moves to help you settle beneath the silk duvet, pleased beyond belief at the sight of you tucked into a bed in his home, wearing his clothes, flushed and wearing the sated look of a recent orgasm.

“Goodnight, treasure.”

“Goodnight, Ezra.”

You find his room later. You can’t help yourself, following the glow of the soft light spilling between the crack of his slightly open door, like he’d left you a bread crumb trail to follow, like he knew you’d come searching. You can’t sleep knowing he’s so close, this dazzling creature come straight from a dream. Twisting and turning in the plush monstrosity of a bed he’d left you in. His shirt, butter soft, the dark, gray blue swimming around your much smaller frame. It smells like him, his cologne – you recognize the scent of Le Labo Another 13. Musky with the softest most subtle hint of jasmine, paired with something earthier – greener, and folded between all that: the soft saltiness of his sweat. Why would you sleep when a figure from your very fantasies was right here in the flesh. Your cunt clenches, wet and aching, even after he’d watched you make yourself come. You need more, want to feel the press of his cock inside of you, the heavy weight of it.

He’s sitting up in bed, reading something on an iPad, glasses propped low on his nose. He looks up at your small knock, not waiting for his permission to slip inside.

“I promise, I’ll be good.” You hold your hands up in surrender. “I won’t touch you. We can put a pillow between us if you like.” You move towards the bed.

There’s a large stack of books sitting on his bedside table, flooded by the warm moss stained light of the antique Tiffany lamp. A single idiosyncrasy of old world charm in a room made stark by its bright modernity. The pile is made up of a book of paintings by Howard Hodgkin, the diaries of Alma Mahler, The Spectator Bird by Wallace Stegner, the fourth volume of In Search of Lost Time – you appreciate his excellent taste – and at the very top, laying open, facedown, as if he’d just put it down a moment ago, My Struggle by Karl Ove Knausgaard. You find it fascinating to see a book that spoke of life in such a granular way — realistic, simple, a normal man in a normal world, speaking in such extensive, caring detail on the small things in his life — on the bedside table of this enigma, this person who seemed to be, by far and large, a different species to all other men you’d ever met before. To see the spine so cracked and worn — as if he’d read it over and over again, in search of the equation for that simplicity, to thus inject into his own existence – a way to embalm his own world in such appreciation for the small but infinitely significant moments. You wonder if it’s taught him much— if he’s been able to find and implement whatever it was he’d searched for through so many reads.

“Alright,” he says easily, but the look in his eyes is slightly wary. You recognize Glenn Gould’s rendition of the Goldberg Variations playing softly on the surround sound as you crawl into his bed – under the silk smooth sheets, bringing a pillow to blockade you from him, protect him. You don’t want him to be uncomfortable, but you desperately want to be close to him also. The two of you have barely talked tonight – too caught up in the observation of one another, like two animals circling in the wild. You want to talk to him. Want to hear the sound of his deep voice vibrate through your nerve endings.

“Intimacy is… difficult for me,” he says slowly, swallowing. “It’s hard for me to get close to people… emotionally, physically. I need time to — I suppose, to warm up to them.”

“That’s — that’s okay. I understand,” you say, because you do, because you’re the same in many ways.

“It’s why I love art,” he continues. “You can be close to something, feel its warmth, beauty – whatever feeling it is the artist intended to pull out of you, from a distance. Untouched – it’s untouchable. That comforts me for some reason.”

“I think – I think I understand that as well. Something, perhaps, about the idea of a thing remaining as it was initially conceived as, for all time, undisturbed by outside influences.”

“Yes – yes, exactly.” His eyes are alive with the fire of being understood.

You look down at his straining erection. You can’t help it. “You’re hard,” you say. You want to touch him so badly it’s a physical ache inside of you.

“I’ve been hard since I first saw you.”

“Let me help.”

He shakes his head, “Not yet.”

“I was embarrassed that the other patrons would be able to tell how wet my pussy was lying there staring at you.” Shocking words. His eyes flutter shut, fuck, he murmurs under his breath, brings his hand up to rub at his jaw. You’ve noticed he does that a lot – a tell of sorts. He takes several deep breaths, the tension seeming to seep out of his body by sheer force of will.

You take him in as he settles back into the pillows, relaxing, or at least pretending to. His face, smooth and serene, laying there watching you, despite his heavy erection, but the look in his eyes – it’s also slightly provoking. As if he wants you to challenge him, question him, but also afraid, perhaps, that you’ll force his hand, that he’ll be forced to give in to what you both want before he’s ready. You decide to choose mercy – change the subject. More curious to see how he chooses to play this out.

“Let’s play the question game.”

“The question game?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he turns to lay on his side, facing you. Both of your hands are tucked beneath your cheeks. He’s wearing a soft, worn sweater, a tiny hole at the collar, the sleeves stretched and overly long. Oh, this may just be too much for you to handle.

“We’ll start with something easy – what’s your favorite color?”

“That’s easy?”

“Yes.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing.

“Depends on the day,” he says very seriously. His blinks are slow, his pupils huge and dilated in the warm light of the lamp. You wonder if he’s taken something. Every time he blinks the thick fringe of his lashes fans over his cheeks, the pause of his languor allows you a moment to appreciate them.

“That’s not an answer – you have to give a real answer.” You want to reach your finger out and brush along that thick fringe, through the patchy hair on his face, threaded through with the smallest hint of silver, stick your nose in his hair and smell him right at the source.

“It’s the only real answer there is – no one’s favorite color stays their favorite color forever.”

“Do you do this a lot?”

“What’s that?”

“Make things purposely difficult.”

A flash of his brilliant white teeth, “Oh, always.” You want very badly for him to bite into your flesh.

“Okay, fine. What’s your favorite color right now?”

Without hesitation: “The color of your eyes – they’re very strange,” you can tell it’s a compliment, and he finally touches you again. A single finger, just the tip, to the point of your chin, tilting your head back slightly for his inspection, as if you were one of the pieces in his collection. You think you may become one by the end of this. You think you’d like that very much. You can feel the slight edge of his fingernail dig into your soft skin.

“I already agreed to fuck you. You don’t have to woo me,” you breathe. You realize that, as of yet, he’s not overtly asked you to have sex with him – you throw the words out anyways, hoping to provoke him. This is too much. This man is too much. You don’t know what it is about him, but you want him desperately, like no one you’ve ever wanted before. You want him to overwhelm you – to take you by force. To take all choice and will and autonomy from your hands. You don’t care what will come of this, what will become of you after he’s done with you, if he discards you, forgets you – none of that matters. All you care about, in this moment, is that he finally decides to take you, that he gives you the opportunity to let go, to relinquish control. To unfold from the pose for just a moment. A slightly deranged spark fizzes in your belly. Your heart pinches a burning little pain at the thought that he hasn’t kissed you yet, that you still don’t know the taste of his mouth.

“None of my answers satisfy you. And yes, I do need to woo you. I find it very necessary.”

You try and emulate an unaffected scoff, his finger is still on your chin, but you feel your brow unwittingly fold into a confused frown. There is a tight knot of want coiled at the very center of you, burning hot and smoldering, and you need him to pick it apart with these strong fingers. He takes his hand away. The look on his face is very telling. He can read everything going on in your mind, you can tell. He looks like the cat that ate the goddamn canary. You try and take a deep, calming breath. “Alright, now you have to ask me one?” you divert.

“Me?”

“Yes, you – that’s how the game works. I do one, you do one.”

“Alright,” he’s quiet for a second, contemplating, “Do you have siblings?”

“No, I’m an only child. Do you?”

“I had a brother, Damon. He died when we were younger.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, well– it was a very long time ago. But thank you. His daughter, Cee, is my ward now. ” Not his niece, not someone mentioned in any capacity as his family. The connection, maintained as if at a distance — his ward — cold. But he gives himself away, his tender vulnerability made transparent, with the sudden flash of bright fondness in his eyes at her name, despite his trying to remain aloof. You are not so easily fooled. You see him despite his attempts to deflect from the true core of himself.

His gaze is so mercurial – at once relaxed, uncaring, and then flaring into something bright hot like a flash fire. But remote, remote always. Like the very center of him, his true gaze is very far away, very deep within him, and this gaze, the one he presents to the world, is merely a farce, a mask. A shroud he pulls over himself to keep others out. His own golden gossamer. You’re shocked that he’s shared this with you.

“My parents died when I was very young,” you offer, your own morsel of ragged soul in the face of his sudden vulnerability.

“I’m sorry to hear that, as well.”

“It wasn’t so bad, after the fact. I went to live with my aunt – my mother’s sister. She was a dancer. My childhood was… unconventional, but wonderful.”

“What about it was unconventional?”

You laugh a little, looking up at the coffered ceiling above you, the thick beams a rich, glossy mahogany. You feel his gaze on your face like a brand. He has not stopped looking at you since he first started. In a sea of years being observed, his gaze is singular in the pleasure it brings you.

“She was a dancer. I mean—” you hum, “What wasn’t unconventional about it? We lived in New York for several years, then Budapest for a time, and then she brought us here, to Paris, where we stayed until her death – where I’ve stayed since. Her girlfriends were always around – fellow dancers, costumes and makeup, drinking and men. They taught me how to smoke when I was eight — Gauloises like a fucking chimney, at all hours of the day, after that — I forced myself to stop a few years ago. Now I only have one on special occasions, sometimes.” He looks at you like he knows you’re the sort to make a special occasion out of a trip to the market. “She had many lovers. Parties… disaster everywhere, but the riotous, happy sort – not the tragic kind.”

“No?”

“No. Perhaps, to the outside eye it may have appeared different… I don’t know. No life for a child, I think. But it was wonderful. She always protected me. But– but never like a mother. She was never like a mother – more like – a friend, or an older sister.” You laugh fondly at the memories, but also a little sadly. In the eyes of an adult now, you’d never want such a life for a child of your own, as exciting as it was at the time.

“One time someone told me I ended up as I did, naked for the world to ogle at, as a means to earn money, because of her. Because of how she was. And perhaps they were right, but… but not in the way they meant — to insult me. She taught me what art was, gave me the means to turn myself into it.”

“Who the fuck said that to you?” His tone makes you look back at him now. All the mystery in his gaze is gone, only fury burns now – very clearly. If he’d let you, you’d cup his cheek, soothe him.

You can see he isn’t ready yet, though. So all you say is: no one that really mattered – the truth, but you can see that it does not soothe him.

“What about you? What was your mother like?” You can appreciate how easily distracted he pretends to be, the deception of it, merely another shroud.

Another one of his long pauses, filled with his eyes on you. He gives you the gift of his touch again. Thick fingers picking up a strand of your hair, running it between his grasp. You feel the slight ghost-like tingle of the tug along your scalp, there but also not, and a jerking shiver moves through you. All the hair on your body standing on end. Fuck, this man.

“She was very beautiful – very cruel,” he says slowly, mesmerized by your hair sliding through his fingers.

“Cruel to you?”

“To the world.”

“Why?”

“But also me.” Succinct in its truth. The thought is a terrible one – for anyone to have been cruel to this magnificent dream of a man. The backs of your eyes pinch. Another long pause. “Hmm,” he tilts his head side to side, still sliding your hair through his fingers, twisting it gently around his hair. He gives it a tiny tug, and you want to scoot forward, even just the smallest bit, just to be a little closer to him, to feel the brush of his belly against yours with the movement of his breathing. “It’s difficult to say – unhappiness, bitterness, boredom. A great and complicated concoction of things that made her into the eternally complex creature she was.”

“She died?”

“Yes. She killed herself.”

“Ezra– I’m so sorry,” the words leave you choked and breathless.

He says it so plainly, starkly, like a slap to the face, one not meant to cause pain or harm, but shock. One meant to cause fear, something to say, look at how fucked up I am, stay away or I’ll infect you with it too. You scoot closer now, you can’t help it, and he goes immediately still, frozen – eyes wide, hesitant, but you don’t touch him. Your hair is still clutched in his hand, and his eyes move back and forth between your own and his hold on you. You’re close enough now, though, that you can feel the heat rolling off his body. Your eyes flutter shut, you say again: “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“She was too vain to grow to old age.” You feel him relax, comforted by the indication that you’re not going to touch him just yet. “I think she felt it was the only recourse for her.”

You open your eyes again, and he’s still staring at you. You so badly want to know what he’s thinking, to feel the press of his mouth against yours, to know the taste of his tongue, the feel of his incisors pressing into your skin.

You pivot three-sixty again: “Do you want kids?” He lets out a loud barking laugh at that, head thrown back so the tendons in his neck jump out starkly. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Wet and jealous.

“This is a very difficult game,” he says, giving you a sly look.

“We don’t have to play anymore, if you don’t want to.” A great lie – you never want to stop playing with him.

“No, I want to keep going.” He slides his whole hand into your hair now, palm cupping the entire side of your head in its broad expanse, and you can’t help the desperate moan that claws out of your throat. His responding hum is all-knowing. “I don’t know. But I love being… I like being able to imagine it.”

Your mind has been lost to a daze induced by the heat of his palm. “Children?” you murmur.

“Yes.”

Your fingers are twisted into the front of your shirt, clawing at yourself to maintain respect for his boundaries. “I want them. Lots of them. I hated being an only child. I always felt alone. I want to have lots of babies.” And his eyes flare with heat at that. The first blazing sign of lust in them tonight. Everything else before this, you realize, was merely a low simmering boil. The fist in your hair tightens so that your head tilts back slightly, the line of your throat exposed for his eyes to follow.

“Lots of them?” You nod your head minutely, wide eyed, equally ensnared by that look in his gaze as you are by his hand.

“Then you shall have them, Sparrow.” You let out a shuddering breath, turn your face into the pillow, enjoying the slight pull to your sensitive scalp as his hand follows, try to breathe deep, temper your racing heart. You’re so wet, you can feel it seeping out of you in a constant throbbing stream. The conversation serving as a more intense form of foreplay than anything else you’ve ever done with a man.

“It’s my turn again. When was the last time you fucked someone?” Blunt – thrown at your face to throw you off kilter. Oh, he fucking loves this. A broken little whimper claws out of your throat at that. Your cheeks are flushed, you can feel them burning, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. The smug look in his eyes taunts you, tells you he knows just how soaked you are. But it is also wild, as wanting as you are.

“Hmm?” he presses.

“Three years ago.” It’s his turn to be shocked now. You see the pause of surprise in that bright light within his gaze.

“Three years? Why?”

“You’re not the only one who finds it difficult to be close to people.”

“And yet you agreed to come here with me?”

“And yet I agreed to come here with you.” You don’t return the question. You wouldn’t like to know, you don’t think. And you can tell he sees that in your gaze, for he doesn’t offer up the information either. You like the mystique of him. Like some eldritch beast, a deity of old, something amorphous, not to be contained or understood. The unknowable aspect of him is appealing to you for reasons you haven't quite figured out yet, despite this game of questions you’re flirting with.

You go next: “Are you lonely?”

“Yes, very.” A pause, and then: “You are too.” This is no question. He can see it, recognizes the same scent of it that permeates the air around him, following you. “You seemed it, laying in the center of that crowded room, naked – bared for everyone to see.” It is not said cruelly. He is only telling you that which you already know about yourself, that which is plain for the whole world to see. “And then shrouded in gold, as if you wanted to hide that vein of aloneness that flows through you – it didn’t work very well.”

“Do you think everyone could see it?”

“No.” Good. You only wanted him.

You take another turn, you can’t help but break the rules with him. “Have you ever been with someone who– who you didn’t really want to be with, but you were– you were so lonely and needed… something… or someone?” All the surety you’d posed your previous questions with is gone now. He’s already discerned so much of you, what’s a little more bared skin? “So you just– you just settled for being with that person even though you knew it was wrong, and the only thing on your mind was the other person you really wanted to be with?”

Without hesitation: “Yes.”

“I think that’s the only type of relationship I’ve ever had. Although, the other person hasn’t really existed – just – just something I’ve thought up in my own head.”

“I accidentally called her by the other person’s name. She never spoke to me again. It was terrible– terrible of me.”

“I want to touch you so badly,” you plead suddenly. Unable to hold it in anymore in the light of all he’s shared with you. Your voice cracking and begging. “I want you to touch me, so badly.”

“I know.” Yes, he does. “You want me to fuck you.” All you can do is let your eyes flutter shut, try to continue to breathe, nod your head.

“Why was your mother cruel to you? What did she do?” You feel like crying now.

“Many things… I had terrible night terrors as a child. Scared her half to death. I’d scream and cry and sleep walk. For years. She didn’t know what to make of me. Some sort of demon come from her very womb to possess and haunt her house. She hated me – would lock me in a closet furthest from her bedroom to keep my howling away from her.”

The blazing heat of anger floods your cheeks, your eyes filled with tears, and he clicks his tongue, smoothes his thumb over the slope of your cheek. “None of that, sweet girl.”

“You were just a little boy – she should have– she should have comforted you. Helped you.”

“It wasn’t in her nature. You cannot fault a thing for not being what it was never made to be. She was a killer of soft things – within herself, within me too, I think. Or she tried, at least. She tried to kill everything soft she came into contact with. But she did love me. In her own way – a wrong way, but she did. That comforts me immensely.”

“That she loved you even if it was the wrong way?”

He nods, “And that I loved her – despite all her flaws.”

“Why?”

“I… I appreciate the idea of being a bad person, and still being able to find someone to love you.”

“You’re a killer.” It is not a question for you already know the answer – you can see it in his eyes, it is his inheritance. You know that either way, it won’t make a difference to you.

“I am, indeed. But, are you?.” The soft curve of his cunning smile is so incredibly beguiling. The most tempting thing you’ve ever seen in your entire life. You shake your head, you’re not, you never have been. You think it must be very obvious at first glance, for the patronizing look he gives you as he asks anyways.

“Sometimes I can be very bad,” he whispers slowly, drags the tip of his finger over your shoulder, down the swell of your breast, stopping just shy of your peaked nipple, circling the point.

“What do you do?” your voice is breathless, beseeching.

He smooths his thumb over your bottom lip, pushes between to get inside, presses down on the hard edge of your bottom teeth to inspect the wet gleam of your tongue. “I steal beautiful things for myself–” His voice is like smoke – his confession fortuitous, on the verge of disappearing. His mystique enshrouds the both of you. You hope you disappear alongside him.

“Is that what you’re doing now? Stealing me?”

“Yes.”

“I think I like being stolen.”

He wakes, very late into the night, or very early in the morning, the confounding blue hue of the outside world seeping in through the heavy drapes over the tall windows. Shielding the two of you from the real world.

Your body is entirely draped over his own. You’ve invaded him in your sleep, taken over all the space and air and thought he’s ever possessed. The soft weight of your breasts presses into his chest, your head tucked in the hollow of his clavicle so that he can feel each pass of your damp breath wash over his throat and chin. He expects to feel overwhelmed, uncomfortable, perhaps even disgusted, so much skin, so much heat, your legs intertwined with his – but all he can focus on is the fullness of your tits pressed up against him, the hot wet apex of your cunt against his thigh. You’re wet in your sleep for him – he can feel your dampness seeping through the silk of your extra panties.

One of your hands is curled over his shoulder and he brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to the soft, small palm. His hand dwarfs yours, swallows it whole. He sucks each one of the tips of your fingers into his mouth, bites down as gently as he can. Your hips start to shift over him, needy cunt trying to unconsciously rub up against his thigh.

He’s going to fuck you now. His cock is hard, aching, leaking, balls heavy – has been for ages, but finally, finally his mind has caught up. Thank fuck.

He passes his palm down the smooth line of your back, pushes his t-shirt you’re wearing up your back to get to your skin. This lovely smooth back he’d spent almost an hour staring at in that gallery. He feels a terrible, unfounded curl of jealousy, once again, that anyone else in the world has ever gazed upon the magnificence that is your skin. He wants it to be only for him, he wants you to be only for him – to own you.

His hand moves down to clutch the full swell of your bottom, pushes under your panties to take a handful of your bare flesh. He bends his knee slightly to put more pressure on your core and starts to roll your hips over him. You let out a soft little moan, sleepy, so sweet.

“It’s time to wake up, Sparrow. I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Ezra–” you murmur, coming to. Your body seems to take stock of the situation before your mind does, little cunt suddenly grinding down more firmly onto his thigh. You let out a moan that goes straight to his cock. He grips your hips and flips you over, settling between the spread of your thighs, slotting his length into your wet cleft, he starts a slow rock that has his head pressing up and into your clit.

“Tell me how you want to be fucked.”

Your eyes are glassy, dazed and confused. He says again, “Tell me how you want to be fucked, or I will decide for you.”

And then your soft little voice, grabbing him by the balls and showing him that as sleepy or drowsy or small as you may appear, you’re still aware of the power you hold over him: “I think I’d like you to decide for me, please.”

Fuck– he deepens the pressure of his thrusts so that his tip presses into your opening over your panties. Your jaw is hinged open, panting wet breaths as you moan for him.

He sits back on his heels then, pulls his t-shirt up over your head and then slides your panties over your hips and down your legs, grips your knees to spread your legs wide for him.

He was right, your cunt is the same color as your nipples. Beautiful.

It’s drooling, begging for him, and oh, how that fills him with pleasure – for such a beautiful thing to desire him, as much as he desires it. He ghosts the back of his knuckles over your slit, using his thumbs to spread your lips wide – he bends for a taste, moans deep and long from his chest.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet. Do you want me to feed your cunt, baby?”

“Ezra, please – yes – I want it so bad.”

“I know, I could see – all night, I could see how hungry you were. I’m going to eat you now.”

Please, please.

He settles between your thighs. Soft little licks to your swollen clit, then down to thrust his tongue into your hole. He grips the back of one thigh to press it up and back into your chest, uses his other hand to press down low on your pelvis, gives you more pressure as he sucks your clit back into his mouth. He can feel the clench of your pussy around his tongue, the shake in your thighs. Your keening moans move through him, have him grinding his aching cock into the mattress. You’re going to come in his mouth, he can feel it, taste it, your slick running from you, sweet and musky, all for him.

Your hands clutch at his curls, pulling and tugging hard as you arch your back and start to orgasm. Ezra, Ezra, Ezra. It’s a litany, a benediction. You are a work of art come to life to sing into his ear.

He gentles his mouth over your quivering sex, laps slowly at your pulsing entrance. He wipes his mouth over the tender slope of your inner thigh and goes back to his knees, licks his palm of your wet as he watches your gaze on him.

He cradles your small foot in his hold. He likes the thought that he can grasp that which has carried you through your life, in his hand. For some reason, it fills him with immense pleasure, the feel of your soft foot, the thought of you walking through life, walking through the world, towards him, to find him. Always him, only him.

There is a wound in him, dark, and putrid, overwhelming his existence always. It was only through the cathartic fulfillment of holding a beautiful thing in his hands that he felt reprieved of the terrible thing. He feels that reprieve in this moment, with the delicate weight of your small foot cradled within his palm.

He brings it to his mouth and digs his thumb harshly into the elegant arch, forcing a moan out of you, deepening the curve of your spine, then drags his teeth along the instep, presses a soft kiss to your first toe. He can see the clench of your little hole at his ministrations, the flush of your skin from the peaks of your breasts to your cheeks.

Your breath is hitching, breasts quivering with your gasps. He bends to lick into your mouth, thin ankle still held in his grasp, finally, finally taking the taste of your tongue onto his own and you moan, wanton and desperate, your legs wrapping around his waist to bring him closer.

“I’m going to give you my cock now,” he presses into your skin, open mouthed kisses to your throat, your neck, your breasts. He nips a gentle bite to one swollen little nipple.

He grasps the base of his cock, passes his hand slowly from root to tip once, twice, and then presses the flushed head to your clit, grinds there for a moment, you jerk, then moves down to your hole, feeds you just the tip. You cant your hips, try and take him deeper, but he holds back, pulls out and moves back up to circle your clit again, and then back down again to press inside. “No, no, no, Ezra, please – I need it so badly – so badly.” He watches a tiny tear, track down your temple and back into your hair, and he gives you the entire thick length of him at that, fucks inside, all the way to the end of you.

“There? How’s that?” He presses a kiss to your breast, sucks it into his mouth. The taste of you is godly. “Is that better, needy thing?”

“So good – so good,” you sigh. Stretching your arms high above your head, arching your back to let him in deeper.

“Fuck, yes–” he groans. He sits back on his heels, grips your hips and starts to give it to you hard. The strong swing of his hips causing the soft jiggle of your tits with every thrust. Your eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, soft mouth open and wet. So fucking beautiful.

“Will you let me fuck your ass too?” Your head is already nodding, all rational thought currently being fucked out of you. “You will, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes – anything you want.”

“Good girl.”

He changes the angle, fucks up into that spongy devastating part of you he plans to own after this is done, and he starts to feel the tight pull of your inner muscles working to suck him deeper. “That’s it, beautiful, just like that. Taking me so wonderfully.”

“God– I– I’m–” you press your palms to his belly and he brings one of your ankles up to his shoulder, presses a kiss to the bone.

“God isn’t here right now – just me–” He grits his teeth, gives it to you harder. He can feel his orgasm start to pool, hot and liquid, at the base of his spine, balls drawing up tight.

“Give me another, Sparrow, one more. Need to feel it around my cock,” spit through clenched teeth.

“Oh, fuck – that’s so good,” you moan, and then you’re milking him, pulling his come out of him with the tight wet clutch of your muscles.

“Fucking perfect, yes – just like that.” He lets his head roll back on his neck, hand grasping your ankle as he fills you.

He watches you eat your pain au chocolat. Sitting in the warm morning sun of the observatory. Tiny bites of the flaky sweet bread, dollop of chocolate sitting at the corner of your mouth that he plans to lick off in a second. He is mesmerized. He knows, empirically, he probably looks like a fucking creep, staring you down as he is, but he can also see the subtle preen in your gaze when you glance up at him every so often. You enjoy this part of your play as much as he does, so it seems. The watching.

“Will you let me take you somewhere today?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Brazil? I’d show you the farm.”

You swallow, the most guileless eyes he’s ever beheld, shining in the light. “Brazil? Really?”

“Of course, treasure. Or anywhere you want. Your happiness is mine to watch over now. I would do anything for you.” As he says it, he can tell, you did not lie when you said you’d like to be stolen.

#ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect fic #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect fanfiction #prospect 2018 #prospect fic #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #ezra prospect smut

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bridenore · 1 month

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HD fic recs : Career - Aurors (part 3)

Here are a few recs in which both Harry and Draco are aurors. This is part three of three and focuses on longer fics (more than 50k). Listed in alphabetical order, as always.

All Our Secrets Laid Bare by @firethesound [149k]

Over the six years Draco Malfoy has been an Auror, four of his partners have turned up dead. Harry Potter is assigned as his newest partner to investigate just what is going on.

Away Childish Things by @letteredlettered [153k]

Harry gets de-aged. Malfoy has to help him.

Can’t Get You Out of My Head by @femmequixotic [14k]

After he sees Harry Potter naked in the Auror showers once, Draco can’t stop thinking about him. Lost In Your Arms by @femmequixotic [257k] Three months after their brief encounter, Draco has almost forgotten about Potter–or so he tells himself. Then a Dark wizard shows up on the Auror radar and all hell breaks loose. Draco will have to choose between everything he holds dear–everything he’s worked so hard for–and a few stolen moments of passion with a certain green-eyed Inspector, once his sworn enemy and now something rather different entirely. He’ll make the right choice, won’t he? Who is he kidding? He’ll ruin everything, as per usual. Bad choices and the name Malfoy go hand in hand. These Secrets In Me by @femmequixotic [357k] Auror Special Branch team seven-four-alpha–Sergeant Draco Malfoy, Constable Pansy Parkinson, and Constable Blaise Zabini led by their SIO, Inspector Harry Potter–must handle personal and political fallout from the implication of Ministry employees and Aurors in the scandal around escaped Death Eaters and a Dementor uprising at Azkaban. On top of that, their original target, Antonin Dolohov, is in the wind. With all the ruckus, it’s a good thing they have help from Unspeakable Hermione Granger, American Unspeakable, Legilimens, and Harry’s recent ex, Jake Durant, Blaise’s legendary necromancer grandfather, Barachiel Dee, and his potions expert mother, Olivia Zabini. What could possibly go wrong with an army of best friends, ex-lovers, and family? Especially when you add the strong-willed Parkinson clan to the mix. Meanwhile, troubling new leads arise, taking Our Team in a surprising direction. And Draco, still hiding his relationship with his SIO from the upper echelons of the Auror force, is definitely not falling in love with Harry Potter along the way. Not at all. Don’t be ridiculous. Dare To Think by @femmequixotic [388k] After recent events in New York, Seven-Four-Alpha are set to return back to London. They’ve captured their primary target, but by no means settled their case. They’ve still got rogue Dementors at Azkaban, prying investigators from Luxembourg, and a far larger Death Eater threat to manage, not to mention pressure from their own higher ups. Draco is reeling from his loss, and Harry is trying to be the best boyfriend he can, which may mean not being Draco’s guv any longer. Harry’s uncertain what his team’ll find as they press deeper in the investigation, but he knows they will all be tested, perhaps more than they can bear. But they haven’t a choice, have they? It’s the bloody Death Eaters, after all, and the political integrity of Wizarding Britain and their magical allies hangs in the balance. Set Me Free by @femmequixotic [196k] *Incomplete

Seven-Four-Alpha are back in London with available resources of the Ministry tracking their every move. Draco Malfoy remains lost, last seen in Thibodaux, Louisiana, as MACUSA was closing in. Harry is raging, barely in control of his magic, and the rest of the team are battered and unsure. Their recent failure haunts them, as does the spectre of a MACUSA-Ministry alliance under the control of the Quahog administration and its shadow puppetmaster, Aldric Yaxley. The Dementor crisis with Luxembourg is brewing in the background, as is a conflict with Rodolphus Lestrange. And that’s not even mentioning the bargain Blaise struck with Death to return his cup. The team have very little energy or resources for one fight, much less several of this magnitude simultaneously. Should they fail, though, political tyranny will grip both sides of the Atlantic and evils recently banished may return. Each of them is fighting for something they hold dear, but no victory comes without a price. Still, desperate situations call for desperate measures, and desperation appears to be all they have.

A Case of You by @epitomereally [97k]

Draco was doing just fine working as an Unspeakable in Paris, hanging out with his living and ghostly pals, inventing new spells, and definitely not thinking about Potter. Then, Lucius just had to break out of prison and turn his world upside down. Now, Draco has to return to England, where he is forced to confront how family ties bind us—and one infuriatingly fit Harry Potter.

If the Fates Allow by Saras_Girl [80k]

What’s that crackling in the walls? Harry has no clue at all. He’ll eat some cake and drink some wine Because he is completely FINE. –A story about life’s disregard for our plans. [2017 advent story]

Kaleidoscope by Saras_Girl [104k]

If Harry’s honest, the last thing he needs is a house full of Draco Malfoy, but partners are partners, and perhaps, the thing he wants the least will turn out to be absolutely everything.

Left My Heart by @emmagrant01 [85k]

Auror Draco Malfoy has disappeared, and Harry Potter has been sent to San Francisco to find him. (Post-Hogwarts, set in February, 2004. Written before Half-Blood Prince was released.) Surrender the Grey by @emmagrant01 [151k] Draco Malfoy returns to London after five years of self-imposed exile to start a new life with Harry. But will the secrets of the past destroy everything they’ve worked for? Sequel to “Left My Heart”.

The Light More Beautiful by @firethesound [81k]

Thirteen years after Draco accepts Potter’s help escaping the horror of his sixth year, he returns to England where he makes the unfortunate discovery that Potter is still as obnoxious as ever. And worse, more than a decade overseas hasn’t been enough to dim Draco’s obsession with him.

Listen To Your Heart by @ladderofyears [65k]

Draco and Harry are Auror partners and secret lovers. They have been tasked with helping to solve the Cursed Objects Case, a series of mysterious crimes that have been terrorising the magical population of London. When Draco is faced with an unplanned pregnancy, their previously ordered life is thrown into disarray.

Merlin, Give Me Strength by Aelys_Althea [86k]

Draco retreated after the war. Despite the Wizarding world turning a smiling, forgiving face to any and all with a black name and stained reputation, he wanted none of it. All Draco wanted was to be left alone. Unfortunately for him, Harry Potter doesn’t want to leave him alone. And more than that, he finds himself with the most unlikely of house guests that he just can’t seem to rid himself of. Why is life never simple?

The Pure and Simple Truth by @letteredlettered [65k]

Harry, Draco, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, and Pansy go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Pansy, and Hermione go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione and Ron go to a pub. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Ron, and Pansy―you guessed it―go to a pub. I could go on. In fact, I did. Harry, Draco, Hermione, Pansy, Ron, Blaise, Luna, Goyle, Neville, and Theodore Nott go to a pub. In various combinations.

Take the Air by @dysonrules [51k]

Someone or something is attacking Muggles and leaving them for dead. Auror Harry Potter is assigned to the case, but with his usual partner unavailable, he is stuck with the most annoying Auror ever to walk the halls of the Ministry.

Too Cold Outside (For Angels to Fly) by @gracerene09 [62k]

The Auror Department and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures are working to create a new division partnering human wizards and Magical Beings in order to more effectively police crime involving any and all classifications of Magical Creature. Auror Harry Potter jumps at the chance to join the pilot programme, but he starts to regret his rashness when he discovers who he’s to be partnered with: Draco Malfoy.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

#my recs #drarry #drarry recs #theme rec

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the-reader-in-the-rye · 2 months

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TOWL analysis so far (spoilers):

Knowing the TWDU and how it loves it's "come full circle" style of writing, I've noticed something intriguing.

Okafor wanted to reshape the CRM, after his death, his legacy is left in Thorne and Rick's hands (let's portray Thorne as the left hand and Rick as the right--for thematic nuance).

Okafor's first lesson with Rick and Thorne is about "the cold war"--a disagreement on who has right to power under which form of civil governance--essentially Okafor vs CRM / CRM vs survivors.

It's now known that all top brass will be in the outpost that Rick and Thorne were overseeing.

In episode one, Okafor tells Rick to "swear on the sword", and how he'll "know the time".

Nat tells Michonne "you can believe a little longer and still know when to leave".

Both Rick and Michonne are iconically stripped of their character strengths through props: sword and boots.

[edited] "the only way you get away is if someone is here, making sure."

Now TWD is known for their transparent foreshadowing--and sometimes they try to force inorganic storylines to come full circle (season 8 with the "my mercy prevails over my wrath" and season 9 with the "forced friction between the coalition essentially closing with the signing of the charter".) However I give Danai, Andy and Gimple props because they understand these characters and their motivations, and are artistically behind the helm.

So this got me thinking:

In episode three, Beale makes this speech about Okafor:

"Okafor had a wife and he could have seen her again had he stayed on mission... He dropped the bombs and ended everything he was, everything he had [camera pans to Rick]. He showed us that our enemies can be our salvation [camera pans to Anne/Jadis] if we look at them differently [camera pans to Thorne].

[Beale unsheathes 'revolutionary war general' Hugh Mercer's sword--a man who fought on 'both' sides, was closely linked to George Washington, and died fighting on the 'right' side according to American history.]"

Onto narrative parallels:

Rick, at this stage, is post burning away the letters and phones, "ending everything he was".

Anne and Thorne are played as two sides of a coin; one could die on the wrong side and the other could back the right side. Possibly, both could work together, since they're both ambitious and self preservation comes naturally to them, and end up being the key to Rick and Michonne's escape.

The fate of Okafor's legacy has to fall to one of his chosen 'hands': either Rick or Thorne. For Rick, it's dismantling the CRM to get free (potentially targeting the top brass in one fell swoop) for Thorne it's committing to a mission (except she no longer believes in Okafor's mission completely because of the Echelon briefing, she's losing grip on where she stands, and she's depicted as someone who stubbornly knows where they stand--trying to kill Okafor, stubbornly forcing Rick to return because she knew the CRM would go after his family, etc).

'Swearing on the sword' could mean appointing someone to power using a symbol of revolution, it can also mean swearing yourself to loyalty--so Rick might have to swear allegiance to Beale or the CRM (maybe in front of Michonne).

Michonne may need to turn her back on Rick at some point "know when to leave" and yet do so knowing "she needs to believe in them a little longer". So Michonne will likely have to make a leap of faith -- maybe jumping out of the helicopter counts? More likely this will come into play during the 'swear on the sword' scene.

Rick will only be fully Rick when he puts his iconic boots back on. Michonne will only fully be Michonne when she has her sword. Rick and Michonne can then proceed to "do anything together" when their characters have been restored through their ownership of iconic props again.

Thorne is most likely the someone "there to make sure Rick and Michonne can stay safe and gone". I don't think she's written in any romantic/spurned/rejected capacity, she's more like a kindred spirit, but one who believes in the CRM mission because she can't go back home. Most likely, her character is written to be a house of cards--either she topples or she stays strong and protects her 'family' while staying on Okafor's mission.

Of course there is a worse, more on the nose reading of the camera panning to Rick when Beale said: "Okafor sacrificed his wife for the greater good" and I am not playing that game!

#richonne #the ones who live #twd towl #the walking dead #towl spoilers #rick grimes #michonne

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danaredbeard · 29 days

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The real reason the CRM fell so quickly.

Rick was imprisoned by force even kept on a leash at the beginning and did everything to escape. Later, he imprisoned himself by fear. He was afraid of the three pages of scrawl that Jadis wrote about his family and community. That is why Michonne tore it up and cried, this stupid piece of paper kept him away from her for years.

Listening to this lunatic Beale you could see Rick almost physically get sick. All these years he lost because a Beta b$tch has Daddy Issues. Later Rick tells Michonne he is just angry at the loss of time with his family.

In the end the CRM was just a bunch of B’s clinging to each other in hopes of survival by destroying those who may challenge them. The only part of the Echelon Briefing I think Jadis and Pearl heard was that they will be in elite company and safe.

People keep saying it is “rushed”. How? At this point can’t we tell a Beta B$tch a mile off? He killed Omaha, gassed Michonne and her friends, should they have waited for him to kill Portland… to make sure he is a bone fide Big Baddie? The opportunity presented itself… and that is who they are they “Make sh!t happen”. It could have been stretched out, Rick was disgusted and now he was the one begging Michonne that he wanted to just go home.

At the end of the day, there is no difference between Beale and the 3 scroungers Rick and Michonne saved in the woods who then turned on them. Beale just took an opportunity that presented itself and killed off another city to protect himself. Rick and Michonne are doing the same with this opportunity “Live by the sword of opportunity, die by the sword of opportunity” or something like that.

Michonne spent an entire episode breaking the mental chains the CRM had on Rick. Episode 6 was the payoff he had to return to the scene of the crime and see clearly, no hesistation. He saw his only friend Thorne was too far gone to be save and he saw that Beale was a lunatic. What he saw made him angry that he wasted so much of his life with these fools.

Michonne gave him Clarity.

This is the world Shane would have created… and it is ugly.

I like that they did not glorify yet another sociopath with fascist tendencies.

So not rushed, also the CRM still exist all Rick and Michonne did was cut out the cancerous part.

What I would like to see for the future: I always considered Rick in the model of Cincinnatus, the reluctant Roman leader. He was asked to became an absolute dictator and when order was restored he quit and went back to his farm.

If there is a season 2, I see Rick being begged to take over the CRM and lead the fight against the doomsday clock of humanity.

#the ones who live #the walking dead #rick grimes #michonne grimes #towl #twd towl #richonne #michonne #towl spoilers #twd spoilers

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portaltothevoid · 5 months

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God Called In Sick Today — Chapters 1 & 2

Summary: It’s the ghafia fic you didn’t know you needed… When a mission goes south, Copia is left scrambling to figure out a plan to get the mayor-to-be in favor of the Emeritus family. That’s where Arianna Diodati, the Mafia Princess of his (very Catholic) rival, comes in. He plans to use her as a bargaining chip to get what he wants. Did he place the right bet or did he take more than he bargained for?

Word count: 5.8k ~//~ Warnings: mafia au, copia x oc, death/murder, gun usage, angst, physically and verbally abusive relationship, domestic violence (between oc x oc), (brief, almost subtle) dacryphilia, kidnapping, dark copia, cliffhanger, enemies to lovers, slow burn

A/N: Surprise! It's a double feature! Fair warning, the next chapters won’t be up til I have a few under my belt so that they can be posted regularly and since I’m still working on You’re Losing Me as well… it might be a while. But I am so so excited for this, that I had to give you all a taste! Massive, massive thank you to @fishwithtitz @da-rulah and @copias-juicebox for beta reading and listening to me talk about this non-stop as I worked out the plot 🖤(photos in mood board all found on pintrest and dividers by @gothdaddyissues!)

Chapter One -- The Sermon and The Plan

It was never a good sign when Papa Emeritus IV demanded a mandatory mass that wasn’t on Sunday. Usually, meetings such as this would be for the upper echelon of the clergy and the Ghouls, but this time around, every single member of the Satan’s Ministry was in attendance. No one dared speak or even look away from their Papa as he stood, eyeing everyone in the room like the disappointed father he was.

Those in the front row could hear his leather gloves squeak against the oak of the pulpit as he gripped it like a stress ball. His unique set of eyes, one green and one white, focused on one specific Ghoul. His expression darkened like an approaching storm, which made for his already intimidating skull-painted face to become menacing. As for the Ghoul, if it weren’t for the silver-horned mask covering his face, even Papa would have seen the beads of sweat dripping down the sides of it. He knew he was the reason everyone was here and why Papa looked beyond furious. He knew it the moment he saw the blue and red flashing lights at the docks.

“As most of you know,” the Satanic pope began, “our latest operation was thwarted by carelessness. All of you deserve to know why, but first, it isn’t a true Mass without a sermon, hm?”

He clasped his hands behind his back as he turned to walk to his right, addressing those in the pews in front of him. “Pride and greed. Two sins that often go hand in hand. Sins which we celebrate here. It seems I need to remind you all that the celebration of sin, any sin, does not give one a free pass to do whatever the fuck they want, eh?”

He turned again, to walk to the other side of the sanctuary. “Every coin has two sides. At what point does living in sin, celebrating sins, become a hindrance?

“Pride. An excessive belief in one’s abilities. Pride can make one think they are untouchable. Pride is the sin that pushes us to achieve greatness not just in the name of Satan, but for ourselves. And there, we find greed. A desire for wealth, for gain. But, again I ask you all, when does celebrating these glorious sins become a hindrance?”

Now, he was in front of the pulpit. Leaning against it was a cane, something he only brought out for show or to inflict pain. While he was addressing everyone, his dichromatic eyes landed on the trembling Ghoul in the center. “Excessive or grandiose sinning becomes a deterrent when it puts the lives of others at risk, when it puts an institution, a family, that you’ve devoted your life to at risk.” Grabbing the cobra head handle, Papa gracefully jumped down to walk in front of the first row. “Many of you are aware of a mission we set out on recently. A mission to save helpless women and children from a sex-trafficking ring. There also was to be an exchange of money. These degenerates were exchanging quite a large sum of money for this transaction. Those prisoners were denied the choice of freedom we offer here. We were denied what was to be used as payment to put the malleable Gregory Osorio in our corner. We have very little time to come up with this sum to get a powerful, up and coming politician in our corner. One who could turn votes in our favor. One who would look out for us. One who would defiantly oppose the Diodati dickheads.

“This mission was not successful. By the time our Ghouls arrived, the prisoners were ‘rescued’ by the police. The money – that should have been ours – confiscated. I know many have wondered how this could have happened. Well, children, the answer is simple.

“Pride… and greed…” he spoke slowly, as he walked down the center aisle, dragging his cane along the ends of the pews. “Someone felt too secure in themselves… Felt they could just… open their fucking mouth to anyone who would fucking listen… while not realizing… They were fraternizing with an informant for the enemy.” He paused his promenade. “This was not a simple mistake. This was blatant negligence from someone who I know, for a fact, knew better. This Ghoul broke our Sacramentum Secreti (Oath of Secrecy).” He began walking again. His cane hit a pew with every word. “Internal problems will be dealt with.”

He stopped. Everyone turned to look at Papa, except for one Ghoul. Papa reached over, using the tip of his cane to force him to look at his figurehead, his boss. With a look that could kill and a wave of his hand, he indicated the Ghoul to walk in front of him back up to the sanctuary.

After twenty paces, “Ghoul, you seem to be limping. I wonder why that is… Is it because your pain and suffering is a message from La Famiglia Diodati?” he remarked snidely.

When Papa planted himself behind the pulpit, he pointed the cane to indicate a spot on the ground. “Kneel,” he commanded. On shaky legs, the Ghoul did as he was told.

Papa dragged his gaze up to the choir loft before him, where one of his best Ghouls was waiting for the signal. Painstakingly slow, he looked back at the insurrectionist. “Per aspera, ad inferi,” he prayed. Again, he made eye contact with the one in the choir loft, giving a solitary nod.

In the blink of an eye, the Ghoul to Papa’s right jolted back slightly, a red dot forming in the center of his forehead. As deep burgundy liquid dripped from it, the congregation gasped, and the Ghoul toppled forward onto his masked face with a deafening thud.

Papa bowed his head, but his eyes passed over everyone clutching their rosary beads in front of him. Somehow, this look was more sinister than it was at the start. “Let it be known that internal problems will be dealt with,” he paused dramatically, “by whatever means necessary.”

And with that, he turned heel and left through the back door, concluding mass.

“Do we really need Osorio this time around? Putting our efforts into driving back the Diodatis would be more beneficial,” Secondo, the second oldest Emeritus, argued. The highest members of the clergy and of the Emeritus family were gathered in their meeting room reserved for familial “business” matters.

A leather clad fist slammed on the dark cherry wood table. “And what the fuck do you think getting Osorio on our payroll would do?” Papa snapped. Secondo just rolled his eyes in response. “We’re running out of fucking time.”

“There’s that charity gala, or whatever the fuck, tomorrow. I could just use my lascivious charm to reel in Osorio,” Papa’s predecessor and brother, Terzo, waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Papa pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his luxurious leather office chair.

“Copia, he actually–and it pains me to admit this–might be onto something. That gala could be a way in,” the eldest Emeritus agreed as he pressed his elbows into the table, his fingers interlacing in front of him, as he stared down his youngest brother and the church’s current Papa.

Terzo waved his hand and his smirk deepened with Primo proving his idea had some merit.

“We have nothing to give Osorio! The whole point of that mission was to dangle that money in his face,” Copia countered.

“So instead we ask him his price,” Terzo shrugged nonchalantly.

“How many of Sal’s men will be there?”

“I believe just his right-hand, Alessio Fidanza and his fiancée and probably only a handful of his associates,” Primo relayed.

Copia’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of the fiancée. “Isn’t that Sal’s daughter? The prim and proper Mafia princess?”

“Sì.”

“For what it’s worth, my advice as your consigliere would be to attend this gala for recon purposes only. Yes, our time is running out, but we still have time to sway Osorio.” For the first time an older woman, who everyone called Sister Imperator, spoke up. She had been keenly observing Copia’s every move, just as any mother would her son, carefully watching knowing he was especially volatile right now.

“And Sal, what about him? He’ll be there too?” Copia asked, ignoring the woman beside him.

“As far as we know, yes.”

A wicked, devilish smile spread across Copia’s face, exaggerating the black paint reminiscent of a rat’s skull around his mouth.

“No… Copia, what are you thinking?” Sister Imperator asked hesitantly. She knew that look. They all did.

“Oh we’ll get some information. We will find out Osorio’s price and we will get Diodati’s attention.”

“Elaborate, brother,” Secondo said wearily. They knew Copia had just hatched a plan and from the look on his face, it was going to be far from easy.

“Diodati thinks he has the upper hand, sì? We can kill two birds with one stone. Show him who has the power here and get the money from him to pay off Osorio so those Catholic fucks can’t use God as a basis for politics.”

“And how exactly… would we do that? Are we intercepting one of their shipments or–” Sister Imperator began to ask hesitantly until she was cut off.

“It’s simple,” Copia stated. He leaned back in his chair casually this time, his elbows perched on the chair’s arm rests. He waved his hands in front him as if he was presenting a physical idea. “We kidnap la Principessa di Dio.”

Chapter Two -- You Should Be Scared

The last thing Arianna Diodati wanted to do was attend some pompous charity event chained to her fiancé wearing a designer dress she hated and a fake smile. She thanked God that she didn’t have to endure the after parties; she could retreat to solitude and her husband-to-be could do whatever (and most likely whomever) he wanted there. Not knowing what happened at those parties used to ruminate in her mind like a catchy pop song… until she actually found out.

The infidelity bothered her at first, caused her to lose sleep at night, and question her worth. She used to be confrontational. She used to stick up for herself. She used to care. Arianna learned the hard way that Alessio Fidanza never actually wanted her or truly loved her. Maybe at first he did, but as time marched on, she came to realize the only thing he cared about was having an in with the most illustrious mafia family in New York City. The closer he got to her, the closer he got to Arianna’s father aka the boss of the Diodati family, and the higher up in the ranks he rose, the less he paid her any attention – or respect. In less than a handful of years Alessio was promoted as Salvatore Diodati’s right hand man. He learned the ropes, got enough blood on his hands, and eventually helped call the shots. She was used to her father dictating her life, but now, finding herself under the thumb of another man? There were only two things she could do: watch her life pass her by from behind barred windows and pray to God someone would eventually notice (and care enough about) her imprisonment to save her.

Nevertheless, she admired herself in the mirror; for once, she wore a dress that made her feel confident. Her black cherry red curls cascaded around her face. For a moment, she could see a sparkle, or a glimmer of hope, returning in her hazel eyes as she noted how the asymmetrical dress framed her body perfectly. Satin jersey panels on the two thirds of the dress accentuated her curves as it snaked down the length of it. It draped up, slightly off one shoulder while the other was a simple strap clad with the subtle (yet signature) Versace Medusa emblem. That side of the dress was a simple satin. A slit allowed one of her toned legs to peek through adding an air of sexy sophistication to the look. She was almost smiling until she heard her fiancé behind her.

“You’re wearing that tonight?” And with that snide question, the sparkle in her eye dimmed once more, returning to their usual lackluster shine.

“Um, yes? I showed it to you, remember? You said it would be fine…” she said hesitantly, her voice dancing on eggshells, and her small smile fading.

Alessio scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Do you think I pay attention to half the stuff you show me? If I saw something like that, I would have remembered. Wear the other Versace dress. The one I had Roberta pick up for you.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Specifically for tonight,” he added, his tone proving he had little patience for her tonight.

“But what’s wrong with this one? It’s not like it’s–”

He sprung at her, his nostrils flaring as he gripped her arms tighter than a blood pressure cuff. She fought back the tears that pricked in her eyes. “You look like one of Satan’s whores. Now,” he spoke through gritted teeth, “put on the other dress.” He shoved her back, her arms flew out to find purchase on the dresser beside her so she wouldn’t fall. The few perfume bottles that toppled over made an almost deafening sound amongst the tension. Her breathing was ragged as she glared at him. His look back at her served as a warning.

She never understood how someone who claimed to be so devoted to God could be so evil, but she had to trust God’s plan for her. This all had to serve a purpose, didn’t it?

Her eyes closed as she composed herself, doing her best to stuff down the ever-raging storm of anger that lately seemed to be constantly brewing inside her. “Yes, Alessio. It’s the one still in the garment bag?”

Slowly he rolled his head up to look at the ceiling, before bringing it back to glare at her. “Obviously, you dumb bitch. Hurry up and get fucking changed. I can’t afford to be late tonight because of you,” he spat as he walked out of their room.

Once more, she took a deep shuddering breath, her whole body trembling on the exhale. Stepping out of her preferred dress, she left the almost four thousand dollar garment lying crumpled on the floor.

Now as she looked at herself in the mirror again, she saw a stranger she didn’t even recognize despite the only thing that physically had changed was her dress. She noted how her eyes seemed more hollow. The color in her face had paled. There was nothing but a stranger who once had dreams and ambition staring back at her. None of this felt real.

The worst part of it all was that under any other circumstances, she would have loved wearing this. It was a black viscose material. A slim-fitting, hooded crêpe dress with a plunging V-neckline that was much more revealing than her own choice, but this one had long sleeves and went down to her mid-calf. There was a criss-cross belt also adorned with Versace’s Medusa logo, only this one was more prominent than the one on her choice of dress.

She let out a humorless laugh as she adjusted the long sleeves. All she wanted tonight was to feel confident, to show off some skin, because things had been relatively quiet as of late. Alessio was kept busy, his attention divided elsewhere. For the first time in a while, her arms didn’t look like an abstract painting.

If she had been the one to pick out this dress, her sentiments towards it would have been different. She didn’t want to hide, but this was what Alessio wanted her to wear. There was no way around that unless she wanted to pay the price. Letting out a heavy sigh, she put the hood up. This dress felt like the most high end and lavish prison jumpsuit. No one would know how much it felt like she was wearing shackles, a stark reminder that her choices were never own. But at least tonight she wouldn’t have to come up with a lie to explain the fresh bruises on her arms.

A single tear slid down her face, which she quickly wiped away. With a shake of her head, she put her emotions under lock and key, tucking it away into a dark corner of her mind. She practiced her million dollar smile and nodded to herself, putting her shoulders back and her chest out –a mirage of confidence and happiness– and made her way to the Bentley that was waiting for her.

No matter the formal event, the routine was almost always the same. Arianna would find her father, talk to and dance with who he (or Alessio) told her to, have two strong drinks (but no more than that or else she’d have to deal with a very irate Alessio), fake pleasantries with the other ladies who were just as much a prisoner to this life as she was, then once the crowd began thin, could she retreat. Tonight would be no different. At least, that's what she had assumed.

She greeted her father with a kiss on the cheek. “Arianna, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he father said, ushering over to a man that was just about six or seven years older than her. He looked just like everyone else here like he came from money and would stop at nothing to get more. “Greg, this is my daughter, Arianna. Arianna, this is Gregory Osorio, our soon to be Mayor.”

This Greg guy let out a low whistle as he looked Arianna up and down. “Sal, you weren’t kidding. She is absolutely stunning. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so many things about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” she said with a smile that would never quite reach her eyes.

“Oh, absolutely! Your dress looks like it was made for you. Ah, how do you say it… You look… bellissima!”

“You’re too kind. Alessio convinced me to wear this tonight. I have to give all the credit to him,” she laughed, keeping up the ruse of niceties as Alessio dug his fingers into her side. It was his retaliation for the subtle jab she just made at him, even though these people would never ever know that it was.

“Fidanza, you are a lucky man!”

“I thank God everyday for her,” Alessio said, giving one more bruise-worthy squeeze on Arianna’s waist. He dropped his hand when everyone’s attention snapped towards the door. The group that had just arrived turned heads as they sauntered in.

“Who invited those Emeritus fucks?” Sal snapped.

“Copia put a call in himself to my office about a sizable donation for tonight. I figured if he's willing to be a top donor–perhaps even the top donor tonight–they might as well enjoy some of the festivities, no?” Osorio responded cautiously. “If you’ll excuse me, Sal…”

They exchanged nods as Gregory meandered through the crowd. Sal snapped his fingers. “I want eyes on them. They’re fucking up to something. Never once have they given a shit about things like this.”

“On it, boss,” one of his men said before he disappeared amongst the throng of people.

Arianna never liked the Emeritus family. In fact, she borderline hated them with their menacingly painted faces and blasphemous way of life. She never quite understood how they rose to rival that of her family. Perhaps they really did make a deal with the devil.

“I’m going to grab a drink,” she said quietly. Alessio just waved her off, her father already in a passionate discussion regarding something she couldn’t care less about.

She made her way to the bar, getting the attention of one of the bartenders. “Your usual, Ms. Diodati?”

“Yes, please,” she smiled.

It wasn’t long until she felt a pair of eyes on her from the other end of the bar. She looked up to see Copia, the ringleader of the Satanic circus, staring her down like a hunter watching its prey. It sent a shiver down her spine, but all he saw was the scowl that encapsulated her face. That only made him smirk at her.

She rolled her eyes in disgust, looking away from him. Out of the corner of her eye, though, when she knew his attention was back on someone that wasn’t her, she couldn’t help herself from taking in his appearance. She hated to admit, he looked… elegant. His burgundy pants were impossibly tight in all the right ways. It pained her to acknowledge the way they perfectly hugged his thighs. He had foregone his suit jacket, leaving just his matching burgundy vest and black dress shirt and tie. His sleeves were rolled up and she could see his muscles flex as he grabbed his drink.

Her eyes lingered for a few seconds too long. This time, he caught her watching him. His mouth curled up again into a sly half-smile as he took a drink. His dichromatic eyes never left her. The instant her drink hit the counter, she brought it to her lips and weaved her way through everyone back to Alessio in hopes of putting distance between her and whatever exchange had just taken place.

Shortly after she resumed her role as the token arm candy she was, did her father tense up when a leather clad hand slapped his shoulder. “Salvatore! Come stai (how are you)?”

“Copia,” he greeted stiffly. “To what do we owe this… surprise?” The words rolled off his tongue as if they made his skin crawl.

“Can’t a man just be willing to support a good cause such as this?”

Sal’s only response was to purse his lips. Copia was reveling in the fact that just his presence alone was getting under his enemy’s skin. “Say, Copia, did you hear about the girls that were rescued from trafficking by the docks the other day?” A condescending smirk now replaced the sour look on his face.

Copia’s eyes darkening was the only acknowledgement of Sal’s jab he let slip. “Ah, yes, thank the Gods below they’ve been transferred from one prison to another, being treated as criminals instead of victims.”

“Well, a whore contained is better than a whore on the street.”

Copia laughed sneeringly. “Ah, and I’m sure by whore, you mean a two-bit one. Tell me, though, what are the plans after this? Anyone escorting you to the after party?” he smirked as it was Sal’s turn for his expression to darken.

Arianna didn’t realize she was watching this with bated breath, or that she was clinging to Alessio until he shook her off him. Copia's eyes immediately darted to Arianna’s fiancé breaking free of her almost death grip to take a step towards him. “You know, since you’re here, a thanks is in order,” Alessio said cunningly. “Those girls couldn’t have been saved without the helpful information one of your soldiers let slide right off his tongue. I’ve gotta say, that was a lucky group of girls.”

“Life’s just a game of luck, isn’t it?” Sal chimed in with a shrewd smile directed at Copia.

“And I thank you as well, gentlemen, for helping me shed some dead weight.” The tenison grew thick as the flames of their rivalry were fanned with each remark. “But, a real man makes his own luck.” He casted a quick astute glance with an accompanying nod to Sal before he turned to directly face Arianna. “Perdonami,” he murmured gently, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “Arianna, e come stai stasera, principessa (and how are you tonight, princess)?”

Her heart thumped wildly against her sternum and her eyes flashed nervously over to Alessio. She knew somehow this man’s unprompted actions would be her fault. Both men noted immediately how her body stiffened. One was amused by her fear while the other felt a pang of pity. “Bene, grazie (good, thank you),” she piped up meekly.

“Would it be alright if I stole la bella donna (the beautiful woman) for just one dance?” he asked the two men beside him, only taking his eyes off Arianna for a mere second.

Giving Alessio a slap on the back, “She’s practically yours now, son. That’s your call to make,” her father laughed as he walked off towards the bar.

Arianna widened her eyes, begging Alessio to say no. Rolling his lips between his teeth as he pondered his decision quickly. He nodded, another sly smile curling the edges of his mouth. “One song wouldn’t hurt, eh? Careful though, she’s a pistol. Hope you can handle her. Lord knows some days I barely can.”

Copia laughed dryly. “I think someone of my stature knows how to handle one of those quite well,” he challenged, ushering Arianna away quickly.

Alessio reached out and grabbed her by the arm, just like he had earlier, turning her towards him. She inhaled sharply through gritted teeth at the pain as he had constricted her already tender bruises. “I’ll be waiting by the bar for you,” he hummed as his eyes flicked back and forth between Arianna and her new dance partner, before they lingered on her. She knew that look on his face. It was another warning. Without a sound, he let go of her, and followed the path of her father.

Copia’s arm snaked around her waist. He made it a point to do it gingerly, but that did nothing to calm her rattling nerves. “You’re trembling, cara,” he noted quietly, turning to face her, placing a hand on her hip on the same spot Alessio’s fingers left painful imprints. Her eyes fluttered shut when she involuntarily shied away from him. He eyed her curiously as he switched hands, placing one on her opposite hip and taking her hand in his other. She never quite understood the random ballroom dancing that happened at some of these parties.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

A sinister laugh quietly bubbled from him as he leaned to whisper in her ear, “You really should be.”

“And why’s that?” she challenged as they stepped in time together. Unsure of how, or why, but she could feel some of her old fire ignite inside her.

“Now, now, if I answered that it would ruin the surprise.”

She spoke in a way so her lips didn’t move, but Copia could understand her muffled words perfectly: “My father has eyes on you, you know.” This came off as more of a warning of caution than a threat.

“I’d expect nothing less from him. The real question is, does he have eyes on you?”

“I highly doubt it. I’ve proven to him I’ve learned from my rebellious ways,” she scoffed.

“Oh?”

“The consequences aren’t worth the… It serves no purpose anymore.”

After a few beats of silence, Copia asked, “Why do you let them treat you like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like they own you.”

For the first time since their dance began, she looked directly into his two-toned irises. Her breath hitched. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone, never mind a practical stranger, had even acknowledged her feelings or that she might have any at all. Her life wasn’t her own; it was already planned out. She could picture her life with Alessio as if she already lived. It’s mostly the reason she had become a shell, a carbon copy of herself. She felt like she was standing on the edge of a tall cliffside with no one to pull her back and no one who noticed, or even cared… So why was her father’s sworn enemy acting as if he did? And why in God’s name did it make her stomach flip and her heart flutter? “Because they do,” she finally managed to say through barely parted lips.

As the song ended, Copia regarded her with a smug, yet sympathetic look. He stepped towards her, pressing his body against hers, bringing his forehead down to hers. Standing there frozen, there was nothing she was able to do except stare into the most intriguing pair of eyes she’d ever seen. “Il mio agnellino (my little lamb)…” he purred. A devilish smile creeped onto his face. “I’ll see you soon.”

He abruptly left her standing there like a deer in headlights with her heart hammering in chest, and disappeared into the crowd. She sucked in a deep, ragged breath as she looked around checking to see if there were any witnesses to what just happened.

That man was evil. She knew this. He was ruthless. He worshiped the devil. He was the enemy.

And yet, what terrified her the most wasn’t his veiled threats, but her reaction to them. There was an allure to him, an air of mystique. Someone heard her faint cries for freedom… She shook it off and went to find Alessio, fearing what he would do if she waited any longer.

Arianna caught his eye as she walked up to him leaning against the bar, alone. He knocked back the remainder of his drink and forcefully grabbed her wrist, dragging her out to a deserted hallway. Not a single person batted an eyelash as they rushed past.

Once he assumed they were completely by themselves, he forced her up against the wall. Her back stinging in protest as the coolness of the concrete seeped into her skin. Unbeknownst to the nowhere-near-happy couple, Copia and his ghouls were waiting in a nearby room. Every part of his plan was falling in place like dominos.

“Alessio wh–” Arianna started to question, but was cut off by Alessio slamming his fist on the wall right next to her head.

While he now had her caged in, he pointed a finger in her face. “What the fuck was that about? You fucking wanted to dance with that vermin?”

She stared at him in horror. Even though she knew he would pull this card, it never made it easier any time it happened. “What are you talking about?! Did you miss the look I gave you? I wanted nothing to do with him! I wanted you to say the ‘no’ that I couldn’t!”

“You wanted–” he scoffed. “You wanted me to say no? Since when do I make your decisions for you?”

“Only every fucking day of my life!” she spat back at him, seething. Though he embodies sin and everything unholy, when Copia switched the hands on her hips, when he noted her fear… Those actions, so subtle, spoke volumes. She was reminded of what it means when a person has compassion, empathy, and even a trace of humanity inside them. If she ever experienced that with Alessio it had long be wiped from her memory, overridden by every terrible thing he had done to her and put her through.

The rage that erupted from him, the hatred that bled from his eyes, haunted her nightmares. Instantly after the words left her mouth, her whole body tensed. When the blow from his hand landed across her face, she didn’t even have time to react before he gripped her arms again, somehow even harder than the two previous times.

“You think you can just go dance with another man without looking like one of the devil’s whores? Maybe I should have let you wear that dress, since here you are, being one instead of just looking like one.” He shook her as he berated her.

“Alessio, please, you’re hurting me,” she whimpered, tears streaming down her face as her fiancé screamed at her. His voice drowned out from the thumping music and the raucous party-goers in the other room.

“You little fucking cunt, if it wasn’t for your father I would have left your pathetic ass years ago,” he snarled through his teeth just before he tossed her to the ground like a rag doll. “Get the fuck home. I don’t want to deal with this right now. And you better think of a good way to make this up to me…” he warned before he cracked his neck, fixed his shirt cuffs, and sauntered back into the party.

Quietly, she sobbed into the tile floor. Her body was alight in a flame of pain. “Please, God. Please help me. I can’t… I just can’t…”

A hand gently touched her shoulder. She recoiled, flinching, and pressed herself into the wall behind her.

“Oh, Principessa,” Copia tutted. He crouched down in front of her and used his thumb to wipe away her tears. She watched as he brought his hand closer to inspect how they glistened on his leather glove. His eyes bored into hers as he brought his thumb to his mouth, nearly sensually cleaning off her agonized tears with his tongue. Fear coursed through her harder than the adrenaline did when she spoke back to Alessio. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but it seems that God called in sick today,” he leaned in closer, hovering over her forebodingly, “and he sent me to handle your prayers,” he cooed disparagingly.

He stepped back from her, offering to help her up. She stared at his hand, her eyes wide with panic. When he waved it to snap her out of her trance, she scrambled to her feet. Automatically fearing supposed repercussions.

“How much… how much of that did you hear?” she whispered.

“All of it.” With a snap of his fingers two ghouls appeared, seemingly out of nowhere from Arianna’s perspective, and grabbed her arms. Their grip firm, but it wasn’t lost on her how they somehow managed to avoid touching where Alessio had hurt her.

“Wh-what are you doing? Let me go. Let go of me!” she cried out, feebly attempting to wriggle from the ghouls’ grasps.

Copia stepped forward, taking her face in his hands. His thumbs stroked her cheeks. With his face inches from hers, that diabolical smile reappeared. “I’m sorry about that too, but I can’t allow that. You see, il mio agnellino, you won’t be going home tonight.” He snaked his hands down from her face and along her neck before he leaned in so close to her, his breath tickled her ear. The way his lips moved against her skin sent shivers down her spine. “I told you. You should be scared of me.”

As he backed away from her, a third ghoul put a cloth over her mouth. Her screams were muffled as she tried to thrash and escape from her captors. Soon, her movements slowed and her vision blurred. The last thing she remembered seeing was that haunting pair of eyes, one green and one white, watching her with a smirk that rivaled that of the devil’s, before something covered her head and plunged her into darkness as her body went limp.

Next Chapter || taglist: @gorie-talks-a-lot @haelithra @love-is-all-you-need-13 @lydzlore @megachaoticstupid @onlyhereforghost @state-of-longing @werich @whenparadiseislost

#the band ghost #the band ghost mafia au #mafia au #copia #mob boss!copia #mob boss copia #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus 4 #papa copia #copia x oc #papa emeritus iv x oc #the band ghost fanfiction #ghost bc #ghost bc fanfic #copia angst

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o-wild-west-wind · 8 months

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so after the s2 teaser drop the pirates have been ping-ponging inside my brain for the past few days rapidly enough to reach a boiling point and I think it’s just cooked a theory: the Kiss™ was, for all intents and purposes, a marriage proposal—and Ed’s not raiding weddings just because he feels like the possibility of a future marriage is off the cards, but because he sees himself as, quite literally, having been jilted by a man who just said yes to his proposal.

Prefacing that a) I know the historical context is not (and absolutely should not) be given much weight in this show, and b) I am not a historian (so please correct me if I say anything patently ~falshe~) but that said and with my only qualification as being a Certified Slut for period dramas, I think a case could be made that this show—and Ed specifically—could be assuming an era-specific formula for romance.

While the majority of society was kind of a free-for-all when it came to sex/marriage/etc. in the 18th century, the upper echelons were still bound to a relatively strict level of propriety, as well as transactional views of a relationship; and at the same time, this was a period when the notion of marrying for love was rising in popularity (Stede, of course, is the poster child of someone forced into this contradiction). For the upper classes, you'd be lucky to get a period of courtship before the actual marriage, because if you did, it meant you got a shot at getting to know the person you were going to end up with (and had the potential for love). And—as such—courtship was kind of a thrilling, romantic thing with a few common qualities: it tended to be very public, very loaded & grandiose, and very brief, and even though it didn't have to end in marriage, marriage was always the end goal. You can probably see where I'm going here.

I think it's easy to read the "you wear fine things well" scene as a possible soft-launch of their courtship, and Lucius's nudges solidify it. Courtship was traditionally full of big, romantic gestures—maybe planning treasure hunts and setting ships on fire weren't typical ones, but they sure do count—and as much "getting to know you" as possible. Like dating, it was the time when you'd learn the other person's values, hobbies, preferences, etc., except perhaps to a shallower degree given the typical lack of privacy. If anything, Ed and Stede have a leg up in this respect.

Now, I do think it's a misconception that the majority of marriage proposals in this time happened after, like...3 weeks of knowing each other, but the trope is there for a reason. It was a lot more common for the engagement period to be the time you really got to know each other, and it wasn't abnormal for the engagement to last longer than the actual courtship; a marriage proposal kind of WAS the first truly official step in someone's relationship socially, emotionally, and physically. And while this might not have been true of the rungs of society Ed has been a part of, it definitely would've been true of Stede's.

Now, I don't think Stede is really thinking consciously of all of this during the timeline he's with Ed; he's intent on breaking all the rules he's felt strangled by his whole life. But Ed—he wants all that. He loves the idea of an aristocratic life, but he's also a romantic who wants an aristocratic love. Like how so many of us romanticize Jane Austen novels because it's a world we're so far removed from, Ed probably romanticizes love in Stede's world. He doesn't want the free-for-all he's been living; he loves the thrill of a courtship, of gentlemanly sensibilities, of the metaphorical dance of it all. And when an upper-crust gentleman appears to have initiated this courtship—and when he's being encouraged by everyone (except Izzy, but there's even more romance in rebellion) to reciprocate—he's going to indulge in it with all his heart. He's literally living a romantic novel dream world, and once he's sure of Stede's feelings, he has absolutely no reason not to expect that their trajectory is marriage. Sure, Stede is a pirate now—but he's still a gentleman, and isn't that what being wooed by a gentleman means?

So when they're in a desperate situation and the bar for grand gestures can't go higher, and they experience true privacy for the first time ever, and Stede kisses back, and he says yes to running away together—and Ed even asks for confirmation to make sure it’s all for real—"yes?" "I think so?" "yes!"—that's as good as a vow. That's a promise on par with a proposal. And this is probably when it clicks for Stede, too—he hears Mary's words, "we never would've chosen each other," and suddenly he realizes that he can finally choose love! And so there they are: relationship made official, 1700s style.

Cut to Ed, crashing weddings and stealing little cake toppers in dramatically tragic, anachronistic fashion—because, well...they were supposed to get married, weren't they? Because that's what gentlemen are supposed to do, or so he thought. But in reality, gentlemen aren't romantic; they're just fickle.

And let the divorce arc commence.

#i went for a thesis brainstorming walk and came back with this can i send this to my advisor instead #and apologies if this has been said before and I didn't notice i've been awol from fandom for a while and i miss her sm #also obligatory note that i think Kraken!Ed is 100% Izzy's doing but i do think the sims wedding era is something closer to his true self #and i love him for it <3 #ofmd #ofmd season 2 #ofmd spoilers #ofmd meta #our flag means death #blackbonnet #edward teach

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chrollohearttags · 11 months

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𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 • 𝐇𝐁𝐈𝐂

synopsis: the head of a notorious fraternity decides to go toe to toe with the student council president after a very heated hearing.

content warning: black fem reader, soft dom Phinks, choking, deep missionary, unintentional creampie, praise kink, make up sex, fingering, use of bitch and bastard.

this is the second installment in the HunterxHunter collegeverse commission from @annie-franny. I thank you so much for your support and patience on these. I am so incredibly sorry it has taken this long but I really hope that it has been worth it. I’ve loved working on this series and I can’t wait to finish the final one as well.

wc: 4.7K

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“Miss president, the council is waiting for you. Right this way.”

“Thank you.”

The short exchange took place between (y/n) (l/n) and one the twelve members of the Yorknew State University Student Council. The dozen, hand selected co-eds, who’ve exhibited exemplary behavior among their peers, as well as maintained exceptional grades..all to be considered among the upper echelon. You were held to a much higher standard than the rest of the student body. Because of this, it was your job to maintain order and hold others to the same standards. Who better than to cast judgment, critique and friendly advice than the very same people they’d attend class with? Besides, with a fellow student, the chances of facing true consequences for their actions were slim to none, right? At least that’s the way it was until (y/n) (l/n) came along. Ruling the campus with an iron fist and keeping order when others refused to. You had been coined ‘The Ice Queen’ for how intolerant you were to your cohort’s behavior. It could’ve been chalked up to the fact that you were used to being the one who constantly watched others get away with so much whilst you had to walk on eggshells to even get a fraction of the accolades they were handed. Hence why you had no interest in showing mercy when it came to passing down punishment. Today’s hearing was no exception..

“Miss President, the defendants should be arriving shortly. Please, take your seat.”

“This is already a waste of my time as far as I’m concerned so they might want to make it quick. Has everyone been briefed on the situation?”

Receiving a nod from your subordinate as you both made your way over to the plush chairs; regal-like decorations scattered about the room. A Victorian-esque interior lining the walls and providing a dark academia aesthetic. Dressed in your normal council uniform attire; a blue blazer, plaid skirt, black leggings and flats, you’d toss the freshly styled box braids over your shoulder, checking your lip gloss over once more and crossing your legs, (y/n) proceeded to open the black binder sitting before you as you began sifting through the papers clamped in them. On the docket today? “Bring him in.” soon the old, rustic doors to the entrance would open and a fellow scholar appeared. Tall with distinct facial features, blonde wefts combed over to the right..dressed in a black button down, gray slacks with a gold plated belt buckle and a small matching chain dangling from his neck, along with a wristwatch. Another rich boy prick probably expecting to walk in here unbothered and walk right out unscathed. No consequences for their actions whatsoever. Unfortunately for him and the others currently filling the room..you had other plans! Hell, because several members of said fraternity had given you a hard time in the past, maybe you’d make a nice little example out of them.

“Mr. Magcub..you and your fellow fraternity brothers are here on accusations of defamation of school property, reckless endangerment and misappropriation of funds. How does the accused plead? Speak..one at a time.” Once issuing your orders, the four gentlemen stood in a straight line, heads to the ground and faces scrunched into a scowl. As if they were angry kids being chastised by their mother. Too bad, this was the result of their very childish actions. They’d lean up to the tall blonde and whisper something before he’d wave them off entirely. Rather, he’d take a step forward and bow his head. As if he were truly remorseful. And yet, what followed were a string of not guilty pleas. So typical. Crossing your arms, you’d scoff and proceed to flip to the next page of your notes. Then, he’d proceed to speak once more.

“Ms. (L/N), on behalf of the Alpha Phi Delta fraternity, I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies for the destruction, pain and problems that myself and my fellow brothers have caused. As their leader, responsibility rests solely on my shoulders and I am willing to atone purely on my lonesome. So as long as my brothers will be spared any repercussions.." Having heard of your reputation and how brutal you were when laying down the hammer, it wasn’t a fate that Phinks would wish on anyone but it was a burden he was willing to bear entirely on his shoulders. Because that’s the type of man he was..a true leader and a stand up guy. Because you’d have no way of knowing this, but the property damage? Faulty electrical in their house almost started a fire so rather than bothering the one sole maintenance worker, who was stacked to the brim with repair requests already, Phinks decided to take matters into his own hands and hopefully teach his privileged frat brothers a thing or two about hard work. Where he came from, if you wanted the job done, you rolled up your sleeves and got to it. It damn sure wasn’t handed to you on a silver platter. However, they had a few hiccups and put a couple of holes into the wall of the main corridor. Reckless endangerment? one of the four standing there decided to mess around while another was on a ladder, doing some patchwork; causing the boy to fall, resulting in a brief hospital stent and a broken arm. And for the misappropriation of funds? Well, all a dumb misunderstanding and honestly, a mistake. They probably should’ve consulted an actual electrician but instead, Phinks utilized the knowledge he gained from working at his father��s own electric company as a teen and decided to take the two grand to Home Depot and do it all on his own. If anything, his only crime was being too damn stubborn and cheap to hire professionals! However, that wasn’t going to cut it..

“Gentleman, I trust that you all understand the severity of these accusations. At YorkNew University, we hold ourselves to a higher standard..we do not tolerate nor accept such trivial and downright dumb behavior. Regardless of the circumstances, what you all did could have resulted in much more bodily harm than it already has. Or something far worse. These are matters that should have been brought up to your superiors rather than taken into your own hands. I’m not only angered but extremely disappointed. As a leader and president, Mr. Magcub, I would expect you to implore far better common sense and yet, you neglected to do so…” as he stood there, listening to you scold him in front of his peers, the entire room fell silent..without so much a single whisper. And no one with half a brain would dare interrupt you either. You were ruthless and practically inconsolable when you got on these rampages. There truly was no stopping you, honestly. Yet, Phinks couldn’t help but to respect and empathize with you. He knew how rough you had it with some of these students and how a few of them even resented you for your punishments but you had no choice. Especially when said accused have been getting away scot free their entire lives. Tossing daddy’s money at the problem and expecting it to go away. You were sick of it..little did you know, that wasn’t the case with Phinks. He was the furthest thing from. Even so, it wasn’t going to sway you in the slightest nor would it change how you were going to proceed with this..

“..as it stands, I hereby call for the indefinite suspension of Mr. Magcub and his immediate resignation as president of Alpha Phi Delta. Meeting adjourned, thank you all for your time.”

the words couldn’t even make it out of your mouth good before the entire place erupted. Audible gasps, slamming of books from your fellow council members and the four frat brothers, raising hell on the floor below you. If anyone had ever encountered the Ice Queen, then they knew your word was absolute and that there was no changing your mind. Standing from the chair; dutifully pulled out by one of the male cohorts, you’d proceed to get up but were quickly interrupted by shouting from the others. “You can’t do this, lady!” “Yeah, he was only trying to help! You can’t kick him out over a fucking mistake.” Still, you stood firm and your decision was absolute. Despite all of their ranting and complaining..the only one seeming to understand that was Phinks himself..or so you thought! With his head still hung low, he’d wave an arm up to his brothers as to silence the riled up trio. “It’s fine, boys. Really. That’s a part of life. Owning up to your mistakes and facing the consequences, I get it. Don’t worry about it..” but the second you’d turn on your heel, thinking the ‘former’ frat president had accepted his fate lying down, he’d hit you with another surprise:

“I have a question though, Miss President..or should I say (y/n ‘s nickname)..since when did you become such a bitch?” Soon, everyone was glaring at the two of you as if they had heard some shocking revelation. And truthfully, it was..for you at least! It was like a shot to the gut hearing that former childhood nickname being hurled at you because as far as you had known..there was only one person in your entire life to refer to you by it. Even so, you had to remain poised and professional. Stand firm within your ruling and not little petty, trivial cheap shots sway you either. Dismissing the remainder of the council members, (y/n) stood near the door; arms folded and guarded as the room dissipated to only yourself, Phinks and his frat brothers. That was until he ordered them to leave and said he’d catch up later. Once the two of you were officially alone, you’d lock the door and resume your discussion without pause. You had a few questions of your own but first…you’d gladly answer his.

“Who the hell do you think you are?…calling me a bitch? Talking to me and throwing out silly nicknames as if we’re old acquaintances. Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

spewing the words with pure vitriol and anger. Your plump lips curled into a scowl as he glared at you with that signature stupid smirk on his face. You hated him…hated him for making you look like a damn fool in front of your peers and embarrassing you. But Phinks was quite unbothered by the entire matter because he saw right through that facade. Through the big words, tough exterior and iron fists. When he looked at you..all he could see was that little girl with the curly afro puffs that used to be parted into buns atop your head as the two of you explored the neighborhood. The one who he used to play with until your parents had to all but drag you back in the house..and the girl he became a man with in his senior year of high school..losing his virginity together with the only woman he’d ever trusted. Holding hands as he claimed your sweet flower for his own. Kissing you softly on his bed as he begged you to stay quiet out of fear of someone hearing the two of you. Wiping your tears when that proverbial cherry popped..telling you to scratch his back if it ever hurts. The best night of his life, if he were being frank and yours as well. But somehow, that all changed when the two of you went to college. When he began so foolishly neglecting his best friend for others and soon, you were nothing more than an afterthought. Telling you he loved you only to allow another girl on top of him shortly thereafter. That heartbreak manifested to pure hatred for not just these other petulant students, but men entirely. For Phinks and anyone who reminded you of him. You wanted them to suffer and when you finally got your opportunity to enact revenge on the sole scorner of your fragile heart, you laid down the hammer without so much as a second thought. Even though you were never dating, it still stung and it was a wound that never healed. Still..he wasn’t about to let you and your lust for power get him booted out over a simple misunderstanding!

“You can drop the whole wicked mistress act, it’s just you and I here, alright? No need to be so uptight, sweetheart.” That deep tone of his vibrating throughout your body as he stepped forward..bridging the gap of space between you. As he approached, you caught a whiff of that cologne radiating from him. Tom Ford. A far cry from the Axe he used to practically bathe in when he was younger. Truthfully, it was all he could afford. His entire demeanor had shifted, quite honestly. He seemed so mature..so poised..so handsome. The Phinks you knew would’ve never stood for such an injustice and would’ve been throwing things around the room but for (y/n)? He was a different man. One who had spent the past two years contemplating the actions of his dumb mistakes. Not just with the frat but in general. The fact that he all but abandoned you the second he touched campus soil. Wanting to fit in and find a different crowd so badly, he forgot the one person who had always been there. You were bitter and rightfully so. But if he could do anything to rectify it..it’d be right here and now. Because it would be nearly impossible to ever have this access to you again so he’d make his shot count!

“I’m sorry, (y/n). Sorry for humiliating you like that and calling you out of your name but I knew it’d be the only way to get your attention. The only way you’d respond is if I pushed your buttons. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” “A little too late for that, don’t you suppose?” Still stoic and stonewalled as ever. Turning your face in the opposite direction so that you didn’t have to look at him. But like always, he got the better of you. Running a finger underneath your chin, he’d tip your head up and twist it back towards him so he could glare into your eyes. Far past your soul as he had such a horrible habit of doing. Smooth talking and charming his way out of it. By now, you were pressed against the end of a nearby table and he was closing in on you..softly caressing your cheek in the process. “I see you’re still wearing the necklace I got you. Can’t believe you kept it after all this time.” Referring to the thin gold chain and heart locket dangling from around your neck that he gifted you for your seventeenth birthday and still at twenty one years old, you were still sporting it. Along with the scars and pain he left on your fragile heart. Scars he wanted to heal right here and now..

“(Y/N)..listen to me. I can’t turn back time. I can’t erase what I did in the past but I’m trying my damnedest every single day to become a better man for it. I know you’ll probably never forgive me and I don’t expect you to, that would be selfish..but I hope that you can at least hate me a little less. I don’t want you bearing this feeling forever. Not because of my stupidity..”

with your faces only a few inches apart, you’d glare; transfixed on his eyes as yours welled with tears. Hard as you may have tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to not be infuriated. So much so, you’d smack him with an open palm across his right cheek. Unable to contain those overflowing emotions. The tears, the anger, the pure, raw passion that you had for him. That never faded after all that time! “You bastard..how dare you? How dare you leave me and then come back after all this time? I missed you so fucking much and you just left—“ by now, you had broken into full blown hysterics, inconsolable being back in the arms of the one and only man you had brought yourself to love. Rather than meeting your melodramatics with more hostility, he’d simply cusp your cheek into his hand and bring you towards him for a searing kiss that caused your words to trail off into nothing more than a muffled whimper. In that split second, your entire world seemed to have come to that of a complete stand still. Frozen right there in his grasp and when you finally came back to reality, you didn’t want to end..without so much as another word exchanged between the two of you, Phinks reeled you back in, this time deepening the smooch and bridging the gap between your bodies. By now, there wasn’t a single other soul in the vicinity to witness this spectacle. Or to interrupt it for that matter. Regardless of the fact that the two of you had just been in the midst of a heated dispute moments ago, and now, attempting to disrobe the other, it was apparent that whatever feelings you had for one another were still as strong and that once dormant flame of passion was burning brighter than before.

his hands roaming your body, yours trailing his…it was all a blur but finally, Phinks found himself shirtless and you working away at his belt buckle when he came to. But he was quick to halt you..as he had plans of his own. “Wait, sweetheart. Stop..” “What do you mean? Are you—“ however, before you could complete whatever rant you were about to partake in, he’d press a finger to your lip, instructing you to be quiet. “Don’t..don’t speak. Please..”’Even taking it a step further and allowing you to suckle on his fingertip. Normally, if a man had said such a thing to you, it’d be literal hell to pay. But something about Phinks and that gentle, domineering nature of his always threw you into submission..as much as you hated it! “Just let me make things right, okay?” Slowly, that same finger trailed south and to your own top, unfastening the buttons one by one as you watched along with bated breath. Your chest heaving with every passing moment as your skin became exposed to the cool air wafting throughout the room’s ventilation. Shortly thereafter, becoming marked by the curvature of his soft lips. All the while, tracing his fingertips up your bare legs. Which he’d prop on the table and spread apart. “Do you have any idea..how long, I’ve waited to have you in my arms again, (y/n)? To say I’m sorry for being so shitty? For making you feel less than your worth?” Amid his speech, his fingers would make haste in hooking around those thin lace panties you were wearing and pull them back. Exposing your warm and dripping sex to the cool air as well..you’d suck your teeth when he made slight contact with your clit. Biting your lip as you’d watch him carefully. “But I won’t be so stupid this time, I promise.” Before you knew it, you found yourself filled to the brim with one of his thick fingers, releasing a loud gasp in response. Sliding down, you’d begin gently rock on those digits.

“So just lay back and let me take care of you, alright? Don’t worry about anything..” closing your eyes whilst you let him overtake your body. Holding dominion over you in ways you could never imagine. Merely listening to the sound of his voice to get yourself off, not to mention being impaled on his middle and index. The tight bundle of nerves becoming undone by a few pushes to your g-spot. Meanwhile, your nipples lie dormant in his mouth, gently suckled...flipped around by his tongue and kissed by his lips. Eventually, allowing them to trail back up to your neck. Muttering into your ear with a smirk plastered his face. “You remember that night after graduation..when you let me finger you in the backseat of my old Camaro?..I recall that night so vividly. You looked just like this..so cute and innocent. Just begging me to keep going..” sweetly taunting you with his thumb parting your lips. “It was the first time we had complete privacy, without having to cover our mouths. And we were being so damn loud. I swear, you had the prettiest moans.” Making you both begin to laugh, reminiscing on those times. He continued to speak when all you could muster were muffled whimpers. “You got so wet for me..damn, you were so wet..” “..yeah, and I freaked out because you made me squirt for the first time and thought I had done something else.” Prompting you both to laugh about it. The memory unlocked something inside of him that drove the tall jock to sink his fingers further and even grunt. “Yes…fuck. I couldn’t forget. You had my seats covered in it but it was kinda my fault. I couldn’t stop fucking you. You just felt too good.” Nibbling at your ear with that slick grin before pressing deeper and mashing your very swollen clit with his thumb..making slow circles until your head fell backwards. Which he’d tug back up with a gentle hand, staring you right in the eyes.

“Which is why I’m going to do it again.” Declaring as those digits continued pumping in and out, drawing forth high pitched wails and plenty of juices..never had a man made you feel the way this one had. And as quiet as it was all kept, you had no use of interest in anyone else other than Phinks. There was something about him that drew out your softest energy; made you feel safe and protected, not to mention free to be yourself. “I’m going to make love to you right here and now..because I don’t want to spend another second being apart from you, (y/n). Two years..two long years. I missed you.” The tone in his voice causes your legs to tremble on instinct. The sheer pleading and desperation doing something to you. But before you had a chance to truly gather your bearings..he was already another step ahead. With his pants shuffled to his waist, unfastened and unbuckled, you could spot his exposed pelvis but once he withdrew those fingers, you found yourself filled with his cock instead. “Hnghh! Oh God..” eliciting a loud cry from your lips which were muffled by his own as that swollen tip made its way inside of your entrance. (Y/N) was heaving, trembling and clawing at his shirt whilst holding him close. Your legs spread wide and placed atop his shoulder as Phinks eventually tucked the end of his shirt between his teeth, holding it out of the way so that he could get a perfect glimpse of his cock sliding in and out of that wet warmth..coating him with the two gentle strokes that he had already given. Whining from the sensation of “Shh..it’s alright, baby...” cooing to you quietly. He could tell that you were still having some trouble taking him so he’d go as slow as possible. Letting you become acclimated to his size again. Meanwhile, a sheath of silky cream began dripping down his shaft as he was able to work a few more inches in. Wiping those stray tears away in the process. “..just like our first time, angel. You’re so tight..you’re with me now, where you belong.” It’s that sentence alone that allowed you to open up and unclench for him, allowing him a little more room to maneuver. Feeding you those deep strokes at a steady pace. Your eyes averted down to watch him go in and out.

“Phinks…I—I’m so sor—“ but before the words could leave your lips, he was halfway to the hilt, grunting and pulling you further into his grasp. And now, forming a slight bulge in the pit of your tummy. “No..don’t you dare apologize. This is my fault. All me, baby. But I’m gonna make it—up to you, I promise. Will you let me do that?” Practically pleading as the grip of that pussy began to take its toll on the frat leader. He was a strong, stoic and tough guy. Epitome of a stereotypical jock or athlete when it came to braun. But as with anyone, Phinks had his Achilles heel and you were most certainly it. He became weak and quite frankly, pathetic when you were in the mix. He couldn’t contain himself..losing all semblance of control with no regrets. So much so, his voice began to crack and that once established rhythm sped to sporadic stroking; some sharp and others all over the place. “You can take me, baby. C’mon. Let me have it..let me have that pussy, please.” By this time, the table underneath your bodies was rattling around, knocking against the wall. Your skirt was flipped to your stomach and your breasts were jiggling wildly, from your unfastened shirt. “Mmm! Please..don’t stop. Take it, this is yours..fuck!” That sentence alone forced him to lose it. Clutching a hand around your throat, he’d shove his tongue into your mouth and pound you until he began pulsating through those walls. Your flesh cusps him and refuses to let him go..which led to something neither of you expected:

“Oh God! (Y/N)..fuck!” Crying out with a guttural moan, Phinks’ hard pounding ceased all together and before you knew it..he had you filled to the brim with his cum. That warm, milky load stuffed and nestled inside of you as if he wouldn’t dare put it anywhere else. The two of you stared in shock before bursting into laughter, examining the aftermath. “Jesus, (y/n)..I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—oh fuck, you felt so much better than I remember. I just couldn’t help myself.`` But you didn’t hold it against him too much. In fact, you thought it was quite funny and you liked the sensation a little more than you’d expect. Leaning down, gently stroking your clit, you’d watch it seep out onto the wooden furniture. “It’s okay..I’ll be fine.” Planting a kiss to his lips as he worked to regain his composure. Tilting his chin up so that you could stare at him as you uttered your next words. “Hey…I love you, Phinks. I always have.” “I know, gorgeous. And I love you more. I promise I’ll never leave your side again.” Still resting inside of you whilst your bodies remained close. He never wanted this moment to end or to be apart from you that long ever again. However, there was still one order of business that you two had to sort out…

“So about this resignation..you seriously gonna kick me out?”

batting those eyes at you as if they would change your mind but the previous events may have definitely softened your heart just a tad bit.

“Meet me in my dorm later for round two and we might be able to work something out.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were propositioning me, ma’am.”

but all in all, it seemed that things were finally on better terms with the two of you and you were thankful because being apart from the only man meant for you was exhausting!

“Well sir, it’s a good thing that you do. Now help me up.”

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