#I meant it was mainly a very warm story

[byuntrash101]

first flight to hongkong (freaky vers.)

a/n: this the exact same story but with watersports. if you're not into this kink but still wanna read click here for the vanilla version (jk it's kinky but no watersports). if you are meant to be here. grab a seat and enjoy my little kinky freak <3

synopsis: yes, you're suprised when your company offers you a vacant spot in the vip crew. but "surprised" doesn't cut it when you discover what kind of service your company provides the vips

wc: 18.3k

tags bellow the cut

tags: this tag list is looong so grab a seat sweetie...idol!au, a tad of plot, ateez’ love language is gift giving (yes it’s relevant), kink negotiation, color system safe words, flight attendant & sex worker!reader, dom!ateez (some are gentle, some are meanies depends on the member. hwa is both lol) gangbang, sir kink, impact play (spanking, kitty & face slapping), pain play, nipple play, use of toys, unprotected but safe sex (birth control + tested) (we love to see it), fingering (f), squirting, dacryphilia, orgasm control (f), overstim, slight corruption kink (they enjoy ruining you idk if it counts), very light foot fetish (yunho (pun intended) who this is about), marking, oral (f & m), deepthroat, praising, degradation (slut, whore), pet names (princess, sweetheart, baby, good girl, doll, kitten, each of them kinda uses the pet name they like), anal, double penetration, mingi is big, yunho is bigger, so much praising, lowkey voyeurism/exhibitiosnim, brief mxm (woo jerks off san. ofc it had to be woosan), facial, manhandling, !!!!optional!!!! watersports (present in this version ♡).

a/n: this is an idol!au and it's taking place right after the break the wall show in paris. so hongjoong isn't blueberry yet (he's blonde) and mingi is pinkgi because i wanted him to be (even though the pink had faded completely by then). that being said im super duper excited to finally publish this. it's been such a journey for me please overlook any typos or mistakes and i really wanted every single member to get the spotlight and that's how you end up with 18k... but i garantee whoever your bias you'll see him in this. i hope you enjoy <3

DISCLAIMER: THERE IS WATERSPORT IN THIS VERSION FOR NO WATERSPORT VERSION CLICK HERE

You check yourself one last time in the bathroom mirror of your Parisian hotel room. Normally your employer always booked you the smallest, cheapest hotels. But this time you have a beautiful room with a magnificent view on the busy Parisian and picturesque streets. You can even see the Eiffel Tower pierce the sky in the horizon line. 

You sigh as you look at your untouched croissant and coffee, they turned cold a long time ago. You lay a hand on your knotted stomach, you are not hungry. You are stressed. Actually, no. Stressed is an understatement. You are a nervous wreck. 

You fight the urge to bring your fingers to your mouth to bite your perfectly manicured nails, that were painted with a light coat of pinkish nude nail polish and instead tuck in a loose strand of hair back in your impeccably sleek low bun. The last touch up to make the rest of the look absolutely perfect. 

To go along with nude nails, you have light makeup focusing mainly on skin. High end foundation giving you the airbrush look paired with a peachy blush that complimented your skin tone nicely. Some very subtle contouring on your cheeks and jawline and highlighting on the bridge of the nose and above the cheekbones. And to finish it off mascara that elegantly elongated your lashes and underlined your gaze.

Before you slipped on the navy blue uniform over the beautiful white lace Balmain lingerie set. You sprayed a light touch of Banglore by Carven on to your chest, wrists, behind both ears and a touch on the crown of your head. The scent was very unique unlike any women's perfume you tried before. It was a contrasted scent of sandalwood and amber with a touch of vanilla that lingered to soothe the warm spices. It was balanced and elegant.

Regarding the lingerie, the luxurious white set fit you so well that it looked sewed onto your skin. The bra lifted your breasts and the panties sat very high on your waistline making your bottom rounder. 

You slipped on the light blue blouse and the navy skirt under a fitted blazer that matched the skirt. You also wore white thigh high tights. Yves Saint Laurent sleek black stiletto pumps. The shoes gave an elegant arch to your feet which was worth the discomfort. And last but not least the signature flight attendant beret, that had your company’s logo embroidered onto the side that read “Air France”.

You added to the look a very fine and discreet 24k gold chain around your neck and tahitian pearl earrings. 

And that was the completed look. At least this part of the request you could fulfill.

Because, yes, every single detail about your look today was requested and revised by your client. The jewelry, the lingerie, the perfume, the make up, the nails, the shoes. Everything was hand picked by him for you. 

It was your very first time attending the VIPs. Never in a million years you thought you would get there in your career but the rumor was that when the client was handed out the photos of the VIP attendants he requested to have the info of all the attendants the company employed and out if the hundreds of women he saw he picked you. So how could you not be stressed? This man (that was probably very influential) had set the bar really high and you on the other hand didn't have any past experiences to even wrap your mind around what was "setting the bar high" in this context. You were a total noob and you felt (you were) under prepared to cater the very specific needs of the VIPs. 

But after all, the company only offered the position to you. They never forced your hand. You could have said no. But the compensation that came with it was alluring to say the least. That added to the luxurious setting of it all. Getting to mingle with the rich and famous… even in that way… it tipped the balance towards the yes, to the detriment of your morals. But maybe you should have said no…

In the taxi from the hotel to the airport you couldn't enjoy the beautiful scenery of the maze of narrow and paved streets. You were too busy fidgeting with your perfectly manicured hands and trying vainly to swallow the lump inside your throat. 

You thanked the taxi driver and walked mechanically to the terminal, slaloming between the businessmen in between two flights and the lost tourists absentmindedly walking with their noses up and squinted eyes looking for directions.

When your feet hit the tarmacked runway making your heels click against it, you finally saw the aircraft away. It was unlike anything you worked with before. You were used to the huge boeings with the multiple rows and the numerous portholes but this one was a jet. The nose of the plane was narrow and contoured, the body of it was smaller but you could already tell from a distance, far more lavish.

You took a couple of deep breaths on the windy departure runaway to try to calm down. As you were climbing the steps that led to the jet you felt like your knees were about to give out. Thankfully your legs successfully carried you all the way to the clean and luxurious habitacle. 

Talking of luxury, you had never seen such a display of wealth before. Each individual booth was lined with immaculate white leather and stuffed with soft and cushiony material. You could only imagine how comfortable the seat was. Every single detail was impeccable. 

In front of the seat there was a bench where the attendants were meant to sit to wait for the customer requests.

"Hi" The pilot standing in the cockpit greets you. The sudden sound makes you jump. You muster a timid “hey” as a response. 

"Are you ready for the big leap?" He asks, wearing a warm, reassuring smile. 

"No, but I don't think I have enough time in this life to ever prepare for this so..." your words trail off into an awkward laugh. The pilot gently pats your shoulder. 

"Don't worry kiddo if there's anything wrong we're right here." 

"Thanks" 

"The info sheet is over there" he pointed at the small  closed off space, reserved for the attendants right between the VIP seating area and the cockpit. 

"Ready for the checklist, captain?" You heard the voice of the co-pilot ask from the cockpit.

"You'll be alright" he gave you a last confident nod before closing the door. 

And you find yourself completely alone. The space suddenly feels huge. You feel like you will never be able to fill it on your own. Maybe you bit off more than you could chew by accepting this? 

You shake your head to chase the doubts away. You should at least check the info sheet before panicking, you figure. 

You extend your hand to take the note sitting on a small counter next to a locker and a bench. 

On the paper you find your name, your company registration number and your photo. So far so good but it's nothing new. 

You read various info about the flight. Departure: Paris Charles de Gaulle. Arrival: International Airport of Hong Kong. The model of the jet and other details about the time of take off and landing. Still. There's not a single new piece of information to be found.

Then finally you reach the critical part. 

Client name : Ateez. 

You cock one eyebrow in surprise. That's an unusual name for a person. But somehow it sounds familiar…

There’s more information under “safe practices”: the client marked his wish for the service to be performed without physical barriers. All parties involved have been tested. 

You knew that too after the long hours you spent at the hospital yesterday. But the client paid extra just to be able to not use a condom. Fortunately you were already on birth control.

When your eyes glaze over the next title your heart loops inside your chest.

Service request. 

Under this you find a very detailed box list of various practices and... preferences. Many of which you'd have to Google to understand. Ranging from foot fetish to dacryphilia (one of those you had to look up). You didn't even know so many kinks even existed. But as much as you squint none of the boxes were checked. The list is entirely blank except for a hand written comment under "other". 

“To be discussed with the hostess.”

The hostess... that's you. 

The cryptic comment makes you somehow even more nervous. There's not a single piece of useful information on this whole entire form! The experience is already nerve wracking and the fact that the company is letting you figure this one out on your own is making matters much worse. You can’t prepare yourself without any information! 

Well… there’s the name at least, you reasoned with your irrational self. You scramble for your phone from your small purse and type the name in the url bar. 

You should have known not having to type the complete name for it to appear in the research suggestions was a bad sign. 

Thousands of found pages popped up on the small screen. The first one you open is your most reliable source: Wikipedia. 

Ateez (Korean: 에이티즈) is a South Korean boy band formed by KQ Entertainment. The group consists of eight members: Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Yunho, Yeosang, San, Mingi, Wooyoung and Jongho. They debuted on October 24, 2018, with the extended play (EP) Treasure EP.1: All to Zero.

Wait… eight members...... your client is a GROUP of eight men?!?!?!? You click on the royalty free picture provided by the website. Somehow the 8 faces look familiar though you are sure you didn't know about them before today. 

Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach. Your vision starts to get blurry as panic wins over you. Infecting your body via the poisonous adrenaline the frantic organ pumps into each of your limbs. You stumble to sit on the small bench.

You knew the said client was filthy rich. Only the 1% can afford to request such a service from your company but you expected a politician or a silicon valley CEO... not actual celebrities. The kind that sells out arenas and stadiums, the kind that you see on billboards and that make the front pages of magazines.

Then the realization hits you like a train. You did see them before! You attended their flight from Copenhagen to Paris a couple of days ago. That also coincides with when the company proposed this promotion to you... You remember now but they wore masks you didn't get to see their faces properly and the company flies tons of influential people all year round. To you they were just the first class passengers and you took care of them like you would have with any other client. Yes they looked famous but you just didn't check... 

Now there was a difference between bringing them coffee and a hot towel and doing... whatever they were expecting you to do... which you still didn't have the slightest clue about. 

Now you are sure. You did bit off more than you could chew. 

You want to call off the deal. You should just call HR and just tell them to get somebody else on this one. Yes! Yes! You'll do that. There are plenty of other attendants that'd kill to be here so they'll find someone else no problem. 

Right as your thumb is hovering over the number of the HR department you hear rumbles and voices in the tunnel linking the terminal and the aircraft...

Looks like it's too late. 

You act in sole instinct and get up hurriedly, flatten your skirt and head with big strides to stand at the entrance of the plane like you would with any other flight. 

It's okay y/n. You'll be okay. You're always okay. This is just another flight. You've got this. 

You repeat those words in your head like a mantra. The silent prayer calms you down. You pull on your skirt and readjust your blazer, put on your best smile before you see the first shoe peeking up from the elbow of the tube. Followed by a colony of others. Sixteen to be exact, sixteen individual shoes. Yes... Eight. Eight men. 

It's game time. 

One by one the group boards the plane. You professionally greet all of them like you have with any client before. Politely smiling and bowing your head like you did thousands of times. All of them return the polite bow and despite their disguises you see some of them crease their eyes, letting you guess the smile curling up their lips under the masks, the beanies and the bucket hats concealing their faces. 

See? So far so good. You got this. One baby step at a time. 

Over the next few minutes you are able to calm down. You feel completely in control. You install the clients one by one in the separate and spacious seats. You make the final check of the luggage above the seats. Close up all the lockers and check that every passenger has fastened their seat belts correctly. You explain the safety procedures in case of an emergency. Then finally sit in your own seat, the little bench facing the VIPs while the pilot makes his announcement. When the plane accelerates to take off you are back into normality. Your heart has stopped racing and your hands are not clammy or shaking anymore. You no longer feel the need to nervously pull on your nails. 

You are in control. You got this. 

When the “seatbelts on” sign turns off you get up. 

"You may now unfasten your seatbelts if you please." You announced for all of them. And they all did. You saw them taking their jackets and beanies off, getting comfortable as you disappeared in the attending compartment to prepare the refreshments. When you pulled out the small tray they were all seated and had shed the clothes that were hiding their faces.

With each stop you make to pour the beverages you are astonished by their beauty, each member being more beautiful than the last one. You felt your heart flutter more than once when some of them thanked you for your service with a warm smile.

But as everyone is served with either a cool refreshing soda or a warm cup of coffee you can't stall any longer. You have to address the elephant in the room. You can do it as you would discuss any other subject, you tell yourself as a small pep talk. Just have to stay professional. 

You seat yourself in front of all of them and grab on a clipboard, a piece of paper and a bullpen. You cross your legs sideways, your skirt ever so slightly curling up your thighs, just enough to hint away at the white lace of your thigh high tights. Instantly their chatter dies down and you find yourself under the scrutinizing gaze of the eight men. 

"Now for the VIP service.” You speak as confidently as you can. “The form stipulated that the preferences were to be discussed with the hostess. Is there any particular request you'd like to make? Any preference you'd like to share?" 

"I think it would be more efficient to know what is off limits." The blonde one spoke. From what you saw online. That was the leader of the group, Hongjoong. 

You stayed completely silent, dumbfounded by the sudden change of dynamic. The client is supposed to state what they require from you and you are supposed to do everything in your power to fulfill their wish. 

"What are the no go's for you, sweetheart?" another one questioned when you failed to provide an answer in a normal, reasonable time frame. That one looked carved in marble, he had delicate features that looked hand crafted to perfection, beautiful long raven black hair resting on his shoulders which you could guess were muscular even under the thick black hoodie he was wearing. 

The pet name somehow made your toes tingle, sparking nervousness in your stomach again. 

"I don't know, the usual" you replied and immediately followed by an awkward laugh. Hongjoong smiled at you, Maybe picking up on the agitation showing through your micro habits. 

"What about submissive/dominant dynamics?" The blonde man kindly asked, giving you a clue on how to answer. "Would you be fine submitting to us?" 

At the question the tingles in your toes rose in your legs. To properly answer the question you had to imagine yourself kneeling before the eight men and the thought alone made you guts stir in something that wasn't just stress. You swiped your tongue on your lower lip in an attempt to pull you out of your thoughts. 

"Yes, that would be fine" you replied as plainly as possible. You spotted one of them smirk from the corner of your eyes. That one was also particularly handsome. He had sharp cat-like eyes that were piercing holes in you. The smirk grew bigger when you made eye contact with him as he was rubbing his chin with his index finger that was decorated by a simple elegant gold ring. 

"What about impact and pain play?" Another one asked. This one looked the tallest among all of them, even with all of them seated you could tell by how his legs bent, his knees sitting higher than the others. His face looked the softest among all of them so much so that it was hard to believe he could ask such a question with this benevolent expression on his face. 

"'Like spanking?" You manage to ask without squeaking or stuttering. Which was a miracle in itself.

"Yes, like spanking, slapping, pinching, hair pulling... All that good stuff." The tall one continues. 

"What do you say, doll? Would you like us to hurt you?" Hongjoong adds. 

You bite your bottom lip as you feel your insides quiver. Only managing to give a shy nod to the question. 

"Use your words, princess" another one intervened. This one seemed to be more mature than the others, he also had dark hair, long parted bangs tickling his lashes, very high cheekbones and a smile that could light up the darkest night, he gave off that aura of a shining star.

"Y-yes" 

So much for not stuttering... 

A murmur of approval collectively emerged from them. 

"And degradation and humiliation?" A deep voice asked, you looked over at the direction of the owner of said voice to find a pastel pink haired man looking right at you. He had sharp features, piercing eyes and a strong brow bone. When you looked at him puzzled he elaborated. "Let's say I want to call you my little slut, my personal little cock sleeve. Or make you bark before I let you cum. How would that sound to you?" 

You gulped as your mind instantly took you to the scenery. Your imagination sending you flashing images of sinful engagements between you and the group of men. Your guts stirred once again. You nodded and threw a glance at the previous man before quickly adding a shy yes (but still audible). Once again they emitted a quiet rumble of appreciation. 

You couldn't believe all the things that you were agreeing to. Sure you had some experience in sub and dom dynamics. Usually you liked to be guided and you let your partner take the lead. And of course you had a couple of light spanks before but that was about it. And the most surprising thing for you was that all of that sounded exciting. Everything sounded appealing to you. Everytime they asked you a question it stirred your stomach in a brand new way. 

"What about knife play?" Hongjoong asked. 

"No, I don't think I'd be comfortable with that one." You replied, almost apologetically. 

"Same for blood play?" He continued and you shook your head. 

"Yes, I don't think I'd enjoy that." 

"Spit play?" You shook your head again. 

"Well I-" Hongjoong started but was interrupted by the last member to speak to you today. 

"And watersports?" The man asked, his dark hair brushed over his forehead made him look maybe younger than the rest of the group but his unwavering gaze made him intimidating. 

Silence fell over the jet apart from the quiet thunder of the engine. You took some time to think. You were pretty vanilla in general and with all the things you agreed to you were already way (wayyyyy) out of your comfort zone. Maybe you should decline that one but at the same time it was intriguing, and the taboo practice felt alluring. 

"I think that would be okay..." your tone was everything but assured. 

"You think, doll? We need you to be sure" the blonde man pitched in. 

Again the pet name made you bite your lip. 

"No I'm sure... sir." A smirk pulled on his lips. While the rest of the group exchanged cryptic glances. 

"Well I think we covered everything. Guys?" They all agreed with their leader. "Also I see you got the little gifts we got for you" Hongjoong’s gaze slides down your frame to land on the white lace of the thigh high tights that was peeking under your skirt. The way his expression changed when he spotted the article made you swallow thickly. 

"I picked the lingerie set. White is your color, doll" 

You chuckled lightly at the compliment, feeling your cheeks heat up.

"Thank you" you smiled. 

"Yunho, what do you think of the heels?" He asked, turning over to the tall man. 

"Fit you like a glove. You look stunning in those” Yunho replied, giving you a warm smile. The comment made you nervously dangle your feet, which made his eyes instantly drop back to them.

"Wooyoung and Yeosang both decided on the nail color and the make up" both of them nodded in your direction at the mention of their names. 

"This red lip is beautiful on you" Wooyoung complimented while Yeosang stayed silent, only amicably smiling at you. 

"The jewelry is from Mingi" Hongjoong continued as the pink haired man raised his large palm up in the air. 

"The gray pearls really suit your skin tone and the gold chain compliments your neck line. I knew it was the right choice" Mingi's deep voice answered. 

"And Seonghwa is our perfume connoisseur" Hongjoong pointed at the man seated next to him. 

"The fragrance was an easy pick. Elegant and sophisticated, exactly like you" the astonishingly beautiful man shot a wink in your direction. Such a simple gesture, but the effect it had on you was completely uncalled for.

"San and Jongho came on the flight with their gifts." The man named San lifted a luxurious looking glossed paper bag. 

You got up straightened your skirt and retrieved it from him then Jongho seated next to him handed you a small case. 

"We’re going to give you time to open those too" Hongjoong said. "This flight is long. We'll have plenty of time to play together. In the meantime, we are going to get some sleep and rest from our tour. Our CEO thought we did so well at our show in Paris he personally booked this service with your company." 

"Thank you for trusting and choosing Air France" you bowed your head respectfully. 

"Oh no, doll. It's not about them it’s about you, y/n" your heart almost stopped at the mention of your name. "'When you attended our flight from Denmark to France you were absolutely perfect and we all collectively thought you would be the best candidate for the extra VIP service. So we were a little disappointed when the company said you weren't part of the VIP crew. But we insisted they at least ask you if that would be interesting for you and we were thrilled to know that you agreed." Hongjoong smiled at you so fondly. Almost like the previous conversation never happened altogether and the VIP service was nothing more than some extra room for your legs in the seat and maybe a wider range of refined liquor to choose from. 

"So we understand it's your first time doing this, right?" San asked. 

"Y-yes." You stuttered. "Yes it is" you said a lot more confidently this time. 

"Don't worry it's also our first time" the man grinned, cat-like eyes turning into little crescents as the smile spread on his face. 

"That's exactly why I'll be conducting the meeting" Hongjoong declared, making you peel your eyes off San to look at him. "From now on, you will refer to me only as sir. I know it won't be a problem to you as you used the title a couple of times in the conversation already. But still, do you understand me?" Last sentence was a lot more stern. 

"Yes, sir" you nodded firmly to emphasize your words, making him grin.

“The others are not as strict on the title. You may call them however you’d like. But I only tolerate that you refer to me correctly. Understood?”

“Yes, sir”

"Good girl" he smiled again but this time it was somehow not as wholesome and you took in a slow shaky breath to attempt to calm your heart that was hammering against your ribs. 

"During the rendezvous I'll be checking on you to see if everything is good with you. We'll use the color system." You nodded, listening attentively. "If everything is going well and you are enjoying your time with us when I ask you for your color you will say green." You nodded again. "If things are getting intense and you are approaching your limit you will say orange. At the word we won't stop but we will take it down a notch allowing you to breathe until your color is back on green and you feel comfortable again. If you are overwhelmed or if one of us does or says anything that makes you want to stop everything just say red and we will all stop. Right, doll?" 

"Yes sir" 

"I want you to know that you have full control over this. Under no circumstances you have to wait for me to ask for your color to share it with us. As soon as you feel that things are getting out of hand, say orange or red, okay ?" 

"Understood, sir" 

"Well then. Why don't you take this time to go open San and Jongho's presents while we take a little well deserved nap" 

"Yes, sir" you politely bowed and took your leave in the small reserved space for the attendants between the cabin and the cockpit. 

As soon as you close the door you let the stress of the conversation out with a deep sigh, pressing your back against the door and letting your head rest on it, the cold feeling on your heated skin keeping you in touch with reality as everything seemed so surreal. 

That was a lot to take in but somehow you didn't feel as nervous as you did before. Sure, there are eight of them. Sure, the conversation promised they intended to thoroughly... enjoy... the service but you feel like they value your safety and your comfort. You have a better understanding of the task at hand and no matter how complex and draining said task was going to be, knowing the boundaries of it was reassuring. You knew what they wanted from you. 

After a couple of minutes you used to ground yourself back down to earth (ironic isn't it?) You laid the paper bag and the case on the small bench. 

You undid the nice black velvet bow that was tying the bag together and took out what looked like a neatly folded uniform. But upon closer examination something looked off with the fabric. You unfolded the blouse. It was an exact replica of the light blue one you were wearing right now except it was made from fine mesh making it completely see through. You laid the article on the bench and unfolded the skirt. The length was ridiculously short and you know you'll have to walk up straight if you don't want your bum to be showing. But you guess it's the exact purpose of it. When you flip it too look at the back you know for a fact that the skirt was designed with the idea of exposing you in mind. You realized the navy blue cotton has two holes cut out to let both of your butt cheeks hang out of them. 

You lay the shirt next to the blouse. Deciding that this gift is a little intense and you'll get back to that one. 

You hand glazes over the case Jongho brought and you flip the attachments to open it. When you lift the lid you are greeted with a collection of different toys. All more colorful than the previous one. There's everything you could imagine. And more that you would actually need. You find a note that read “wear me” taped to a strangely shaped one. 

You grab the purple silicon toy and unfold the note. 

A remote control had been handed to each member. Please wear this one. For the other ones they're all yours pick the ones you like. 

You are hesitant for a second but this was exactly what you signed up for and it was our duty to fulfill the client’s wish. So you breathed in a deep slow and steady breath before carefully  slipping off your clothes. You were vigilant enough not to smudge your makeup and pull the wispy hair out of your sleek bun. You pull down the white thong just low enough on your thighs to be able to put the toy in. 

You almost gasp when you spot the wet patch on the lace, making the fabric slightly transparent. It's subtle but you can't believe you got this… excited from this simple conversation. Simply imagining the propositions they were presenting to you. 

You push the cylindrical part of the toy inside, biting your lip to repress a moan as the silicon easily glides inside you. The rest of the toy hangs out and lays over your clit. You swiftly pull the thong back up. At first you feel strange from this foreign object nested inside you but soon you grow accustomed to it. 

From the rest of the panoply of toys you picked out a simple decently sized metal plug that had a heart shaped pink gem stone at the end. You figured the rest of the ensemble will certainly look gaudy enough and you chose to disregard the various gag balls and nipple clamps. 

You put on the new uniform even going as far as to pin your name tag to the see through blouse. 

And the look is complete. The skirt is so small that it barely reaches the crease of your bum. Not that it makes a difference since the two holes leave little to the imagination. The lace of the thigh high tights are on full display and the same applies to the white lace bra underneath the see-through blouse. 

Saying you feel exposed is an understatement but still. You were almost at the two hour mark on this flight. You figure that the easiest way to deal with the embarrassment is to just plainly and simply ignore it. Go out there and work just as usual. And it's time to prepare the tray of refreshments. 

You step out of the attendant room to walk the central aisle to the back of the jet where the fridges and the carts are. You can't help but to feel a little relieved when you see the eight men wearing their eye masks. Maybe they aren't all sleeping but they are at least not seeing you like this, at least not right now. It buys you some time to get used to your new attire.

You prepare the various alcoholic beverages, the cold sodas and the hot tea and coffee before you take a deep breath. And push the cart in. There's only one member that the rattling of the cart seemed to have woken up, Seonghwa. 

With trembling hands you push the cart down the aisle to his level. 

"Can I get you anything to drink? Water, coffee, liquor?" You manage to ask in the most natural way possible. Careful to speak at an appropriate volume level to not disturb the others. 

"Coffee. Black, please" the handsome man replies. 

You take a cup and pour some scolding hot coffee for him. Your tensed hands around the cup betray your edge as you hand out the beverage, the dark liquid swaying in its recipient. But Seonghwa gently wraps both his warm hands around yours and around the cup. 

"Thank you. It's perfect" he gently whispers, looking at you with a reassuring, beaming smile that you return instantly. 

You push the tray back in, as it seems no one else is interested in a drink. When you go back to your seat that faces the members the help indicator lights up above one of the seats. 

"Sir, may I help you with anything." You asked San. 

"No" he whispered, careful not to wake up Jongho  sleeping between both of you since he was in the window seat. "I just wanted to say you look absolutely stunning. You wear the uniform beautifully" he held out something to you. When you opened your palm it was two shriveled bills of five hundred euros. You almost audibly gasped. Before you could say thank you he continued "I can't wait to peel it off of you later". You feel your knees getting weaker as San’s gaze gets sharper. You don't know how you manage to keep your composer as well as you do.

"Of course. Whenever you are ready, sir" you replied, as you felt your insides flutter under his scrutinizing gaze.

"Let's let them sleep a little first, kitten" you bit your lip at the pet name and you smiled back at him before going back to your seat to catch a breather. 

For the next two hours. The flight is absolutely uneventful and feels like any other day on the job. You even have enough time to forget about the skimpy (to say the least) skirt, the see through blouse and the lace. And even about the toy still inside you. 

You go back and forth between the aisles fetching drinks, small pillows and snacks fulfilling one typical and ordinary request after the other. This feels so routinely that you find yourself feeling a little... disappointed. 

What you didn't notice is how one by one the members emerged from their slumbers. You didn't notice that as the number of requests increased their usefulness decreased as their main purpose was to watch you walk up and down the aisle to see your breasts jiggle under the see-through blouse or your ass roll in the conveniently placed holes of your skirt.

And as you were closing the compartment above Jongho’s head, you lifted both of your arms up which caused your skirt to rile up your hips. Letting the lacey underwear peep from underneath it. That’s when Jongho spotted the purple color seeping through the white of the lace. That encouraged him to take out his remote.

The vibrations took you by surprise and you let one small quiet moan slip off your tongue. Immediately pressing your traitorous lips into a thin line. You crease your brows trying to reach the handle to finally close the compartment, trying not to focus on the low vibrations coming from the deepest part of you. 

Jongho can't help but to smirk when he hears the low rumble coming from the toy that is only inches from his face. 

You stagger back to your seat only for the help light to go off again. This time you walk over to Wooyoung. 

"Yes" you take a shaky breath. "May I….ngh…help you with anything?" 

"Yes, my armrest appears to be stuck. I can't seem to pull it down" he says, smirking. 

"There's a small lever on your right you have to pull it to be able to push the armrest down" 

"I tried but I can't make it work. Could you give it a try?" 

There was no way you could reach that far unless you laid over Yeosang's lap to reach Wooyoung’s window seat. One second look at the former and you realized that was exactly what they wanted. So you crouched down and laid on him, your stomach down. Your butt was on his lap while your face was on Wooyoung's thighs. You extended your hand and finally were able to push on the lever but suddenly the vibrations got more intense. You tensed up your back trying not to moan at the new pleasure you felt. 

But you still managed to push on the armrest down. 

"There you go, sir" you replied out of breath. 

"Thank you, baby" Wooyoung said as he pressed his hardening member to your cheek through his trousers, gently caressing the other with his thumb all the while you felt a pair of hands putting to good use the two holes in your skirt. Groping and cupping your ass cheeks. 

You let yourself whine ever so slightly when you spot the purple remote in the large hands of Mingi seated right up front, peeping back at you through the slit between the seats. 

You feel a new vibration coming. This time the setting is changed from the low tiniest vibrations to two short low ones and one long strong one. You can't help but to moan when you see Mingi picking this deadly pace while he smirks back at you through the slit. You feel the familiar build up in your core as Wooyoung rubs himself through his pants on your cheek and Yeosang grabs and massages your ass cheeks. 

You feel your walls dangerously constrict the toy inside you, your flirting with your edge but then the vibrations come to a stop. 

Wooyoung and Yeosang offer a helping hand to get you back on your feet and innocently smile at you. 

"That will be all, thank you, sweetheart" the latter says. Before you nod and go to another customer needing your help: Hongjoong. 

"Sir, may I help you?" 

"What's your color, doll?" The blonde man instantly asks. Still a little dazed you are taken aback by the question. 

"Green, sir" you say as you brought back some loose hair from the bum that was a little roughed up by Wooyoung moments ago. 

"Good" you spot the purple devices in his hand as he switches the toy on once more. At first it’s the same setting Jongho used. The lowest one. This one you could handle but soon Hongjoong’s slender fingers turned the roulette all the way up. 

The feeling is brand new because the source of the pleasure is doubled when you find out the toy can vibrate from two seperate places. You can't help but let out a strangled squeal. The intense setting of the toy instantly skyrockets you to unknown heights. 

"You look unwell, doll. Is everything okay?" Hongjoong asks with a sly smirk pulling at his lips. 

You nod. Heat rushing to your chest and neck. Insufferable pleasure making you weak at the knees. 

"Everything is perfect... mmmh... sir" you manage to say through gritted teeth. You realize the hungry gazes of the group of men are glued to you. Somehow the attention makes the pleasure even more unbearable and you feel like you're going to lose control at any second now. 

Your hands wrap around the headrest of Hongjoong’s seat in an attempt to ground yourself as you feel you are slowly slipping into the abyss. Your heat uncontrollably pulsing around the devilish toy. 

But as soon as you let out a moan that proves to be a little too high pitched. A pitch that betrays your imminent high. Hongjoong's eyes turn into a sadistic glacial gaze and he switches off the device completely. You can't help but to voice out your disappointment with an unpleased whine as you feel yourself pulse into the most infuriating and frustrating ruined orgasm. You look over the blonde man in confusion. 

"Why did you stop, sir?" You ask out of breath, strained voice seeped with desperation.

"Because you were being a bad girl, doll and bad girls don't get rewards." His voice was so stern you couldn't believe he was the same man making sure you were comfortable a second ago. 

"What did I do wrong?" The question sounded a little whiny as your eyes swept over the other men all looking at you with an evil twinkle in the eye. 

Your lost puppy eyes and the sad and desperate little pout made Hongjoong grow bigger in his pants as he was gaining this control over you. He had to fight the urge to immediately palm himself through his pants.

"Were you not about to cum without asking permission first?" you could hear the slightest hint of amusement behind the graveness of his tone.

"I didn't know I h-" 

"Talking back, are we?" You bit your lip, immediately interrupting yourself and looking down at your feet. “I thought you had better manners” Hongjoong said, fainting the disappointment of a strict father.

"I'm sorry, sir" 

"Sorry won't do it with me, doll. Doesn't she deserve punishment. Guys what do you say?" 

All of them nodded and agreed as you let the corner of your mouth fall, heart racing at the mention of the ominous word… Punishment.

"San" 

As soon as the leader called his name San got up and joined you in front of the group. He stepped behind you. 

"Now you'll stay completely still as San performs the punishment. Is this clear?" 

"Crystal clear, sir" you stiffened when you felt the strong hands of the man wrapping around your waist and reach over your stomach. You hold your breath as his fingers busy themselves with your blouse. Unfastening the buttons one by one. He peels the fabric off slowly as you take the sanction as obediently as possible. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I laid eyes on you back in Copenhagen'' he whispers quietly, only for you to hear. His warm breath on your skin makes you shiver.

Then he moves to the zipper at the back of the short skirt. The vibration of the zip on your skin makes you shudder as the group of men relishes in seeing you so helpless. 

Soon you are left in only the heels and lingerie set. 

"You did so good baby" the man murmurs before laying a gentle kiss on the shell of your ear. 

"On your knees" Hongjoong says and you hastily obliged before he thinks you are being dissident again.

"Now say I'm sorry for being a selfish little slut obsessed with my own pleasure.”

The humiliation and shame makes your cheeks burning hot but still you comply. 

"I-I'm sorry for being a selfish little slut obsessed with my own pleasure.. Sir” you add for good measure.

“Now you’ll crawl to each of us and ask for a spanking. I think 8 spanks is a good start. Right gentlemen?” Once again they collectively agreed.

For a second shame paralyzes you.

“Go ahead, doll. Ask Seonghwa first” you look up at the man.

“Please, sir” you try to swallow a lump.

“Louder, princess” Seonghwa says, taking your chin between his slender fingers, smiling fondly down at his cute little toy.

“P-please Sir” you say louder this time. “Please punish me”

“Of course my princess” he replies in this tender tone. A tone that contrasts with the sharp sound of his palm falling flat on your bottom. You let a small cry slip out your lips as heat rushes to the sensitive patch of skin.

“What do you say, doll?” the blonde man chips in.

“T-Thank you Sir”

You crawled past Hongjoong to Mingi and Yunho’s row.

“Sir please, may I ask you for a spank” you asked Mingi.

The sting that followed had you throwing your head back and suppressing a moan by biting the inside of your cheek. Mingi’s hand was larger and a lot less gentle.

“Thank you” you hiss.

You continue the round, going to one member after the other until both your cheeks feel raw and several hand prints are left visible. You finish with Hongjoong.

“Please Sir, please spank me” you say out of breath, your hazy mind having difficulty putting the words in coherent sentences.

“Color, doll” he says as his hands slips over the sensitive skin, soothing you with gentle caresses.

“Green, sir”

All of a sudden you feel the vibrations deep inside your core again. You can’t help but let out a pleased moan escape your lips. Arching your back letting your head hang down. 

“Oh my g-god” you sigh before biting down on your lip. Hongjoong’s gentle hand wraps around your chin to lift your gaze to his own. His eyes are as dark as can be, an evil grin pulling on his lips.

“You were saying, doll?” he asks with his other hands still drawing soothing circles on your raw ass. “You wanted something from me?” he says, giving you a light squeeze.

You look around and see the other 7 pairs of eyes glued to you. And the sustained gazes and the vibrations send you to flirt with your edge almost instantly. 

“Don’t forget why you’re here, princess” Seonghwa warns you. “You can’t cum before given permission or I fear we will have to do all of that all over again”

“Except I won’t be as nice this time” Hongjoong adds, the gentle hold on your chin becoming a little tighter, blunt nails digging in your cheek. “Ask for your punishment like a good girl and I'll turn it off”

“Please. Please sir! Please spank me”

“Good girl” he says before lifting his palm and letting it fall back against your already sensitive skin. The sharp clap that erupts from the motion sends a spark of electricity straight to your core, lifting goosebumps in its wake.

The pleasurable pain and the tireless vibrations almost had you cumming but with immense resilience and respect for the orders you were given you manage to hold yourself back. 

“Such a good little toy for us, kitten” you hear San praise as the vibrations die down.

When you look back up at Hongjoong you look absolutely fucked out. He smiles at you and rubs soothing circles on your cheek. He can’t help but to feel himself twitch as he sees you look back at him this confused and frustrated. 

“You did really good, doll” Hongjoongs praises “You may rise”

You get up again to walk to the bench. You plop yourself on top of it, barely able to hold yourself on the stiletto heels but at least it’s a relief for your knees.

Suddenly you feel warm and gentle hands wrap around your waist and hoist you up on their lap, when you open your eyes you see it’s Seonghwa.

“You did really good, princess” Seonghwa says as you feel his fingers slip up your back and unclasping your white lace bra. In a split second the lace is off your blazing skin, you feel the air brush against your chest as the other men drink in your form, all eyes roaming this new part of your body revealed to their eyes. You whine softly as you fight the urge to cover yourself, turning your head to the side and closing your eyes just to avoid eye contact with them.

One of Seonghwa’s hands slips over your breasts, massaging the lumps of flesh and teasing your painfully hard nipples while the other one slips around your waist, down your stomach and inside the lace panties. 

You audibly gasp when you feel the toy being pulled out of you, whining at the loss of the fullness of it. You hear the toy bounce off the carpeted floor. 

“You won’t need this anymore now, princess” Seonghwa whispers in your ear before pinching your nipple a little harder. “We’ll take care of you now” You arch your back onto his torso. Immediately he starts rubbing small circles on your swollen clit. You can’t help but moan at the smallest of contact.

“You got so wet for us baby” Yeosang comments, making your eyes snap to him.

“And so sensitive” Jongho adds.

You feel Seonghwa smirk against your ear. Continuing the small and light circles on your clit. Soon you lose patience and start to buck your hips, desperate for friction, desperate for him to apply some pressure. 

“Do you want my fingers, Princess?” Seonghwa asks before planting an open mouth kiss on your neck.

“Yesss, Sir. Yes please” you breathe out, bucking your hips against his hand again. Which makes the older man chuckle against your skin.

“Take these off then, princess” He says, catching the white lace of your thong and letting it slap against your skin. Hurriedly you briefly lift your butt to shimmy out of the lace and let the fabric rest on one of your ankles. When you sit back down you feel your raw ass rub against Seonghwa’s clothed hard on, earning a low grunt from him.

“Spread your legs, Princess” Seonghwa says as he lightly caresses your thigh. 

The whole room held their breath, all of them waiting to finally see you in the simplest of forms, eagerly waiting to open Pandora's box. 

Gathering your courage you did so, very slowly you parted your thighs, feeling the cold air hit your swollen and sopping heat as you completely unveiled yourself for your clients. You spotted from the corner of your eyes Jongho starting to palm himself through his trousers.

“Fuck she’s so wet too” you guessed the deep voice to be the one of Mingi.

“So naughty” Yunho added.

“Good girl '' Seonghwa praised again when you couldn't possibly open your legs wider. He immediately slipped his ring and middle finger inside your heat, the slow and gentle stretch of your sex made you mewl pathetically, jaw falling loose as he curled his fingers right into your sweet spot.

“Oh my g-” the words get caught in your throat when Seonghwa picks up the pace. 

“You’re sucking in his fingers so well, kitten” San commented while he pressed his open hand on his length.

Your moans gradually grow louder and the wet squelching sounds of your dripping center bounce on the walls, Seonghwa composing a sinful symphony on your body. Pumping his fingers inside and out your heat then gliding up your folds to find your clit and dipping back in again.

As time goes by and as you inch closer to your edge you feel no intention in Seonghwa to stop. You know this time you won’t be able to hold back and after being so close so many times to your high. You just want to finally grasp it. You’re so close you can taste it. You just don’t want it to have it snatched away from you again.

“Seonghwa… Please” you breath out, cheeks flushed, nails digging into your palm.

“Please what?” Seonghwa asks, sounding as innocent as can be but the smirk you feel on the shell of your ear tells you the innocence as everything but genuine.

“Please… Aaaha. Can I c-cum?” you finally manage to ask.

“You wanna show everyone how you cum around my fingers?” The sinful choice of words makes your heart hammer against your ribs. But you would do anything for him to finally let you finish. 

“Yes” you breathe out, overlooking the shame, somehow managing to open your legs even wider, letting the plug peek from beneath you, the pink gem twinkling under the dim lighting, determined to let the others have a good look at you.

Your efforts are noticed. You hear a couple of them curse under their breaths while other finally slip their hands inside their pants. But most importantly your resilience makes Seonghwa agree to let you cum.

“Go ahead, Princess. Make a big mess on my fingers.”

You don't need more, you just let yourself slip as soon as you hear the magic words. Your mind slips into a haze as you throw your head back, letting it roll on Seonghwa’s shoulders. You clench around the man’s long fingers, cunt uncontrollably pulsing around him, refusing to ever let go of them. Your legs shaking as you let a long string of moans escape your lips.

The group of men admiring how your pussy opens and closes around their friend’s fingers, some grunting as they press a little harder on their painfully hard cocks. 

When Seonghwa rips his fingers out of your orgasming heat your cum just sprays out of your in streams, soaking the carpet beneath your feet. 

The high is so intense that you can’t even hold yourself back and start to let out your piss in a powerful arched stream, joining your cum to soak the carpet.

“Fuck she’s pissing herself” San says as he whisps his dick out, wanting to feel his closed fist around himself as he watches you humiliate yourself with an evil glint dancing in his eyes.

“So fucking nasty” Hongjoong says, shaking his head, fainting disappointment, but the wet patch you spot on his grey boxers says other wise.

You feel so much shame as the men watch you piss yourself like a dog. But at the same time the feeling makes you crave their eyes on you, the high completely clouding your judgment. 

You can’t stop peeing as your cunt continues to throb frantically, the orgasm lasting for an unprecedented amount of time.

Finally as the stream dies down you’re able to come down from your high.

“Goog girl” Seonghwa praises as he brings his cum covered digits to your mouth. You immediately, out of instinct, your mind still in a complete haze, welcome the long fingers inside your mouth. Eagerly sucking and licking, your taste taking over your mouth and rolling on your tongue. 

Suddenly you feel another pair of hands on your thighs. When you look you see Yunho letting his big palms glide from your thighs to your calf and to your feet. He brings your foot to his face, one hand under your calf and the other wrapped around the heel while he kisses your ankles, going down on your feet, he slips his tongue out, licking the black leather of the pump. Before taking them off.

“How do you taste, princess?” Seonghwa asks when he sees you distracted by Yunho. 

“Delicious, sir” you replied, still not taking your eyes off the tall man kneeling between your legs.

“Let me have a taste.” Seonghwa says before crashing his lips on yours, you share your cum with him as he pushes his tongue past your lips, eager to discover your flavor. 

He breathes heavily as he keeps kissing you. You feel Yunho peel off one of the tights to give kitten licks to your toes. 

The novel feeling has you moaning into Seonghwa’s mouth. He sucks on your toes before trailing up your thigh. Leaving blue and purple marks as he progresses up until he reaches your pubic bone. He kisses you everywhere but where you want him the most. You whine into the older one's mouth. Until the taller man finally gives a kitten lick to your clit. You rip your mouth from Seonghwa to look at Yunho between your legs. He doesn't break eye contact as he starts to relish on your taste. Your eyebrows knit on your forehead as your jaw falls open.

“Fuckkk” you swear before sucking your lip between your teeth.

“You like that?” He asks, lips still pressed to your folds.

“Yess! Yesss” you say as you eagerly grind your hips on your tongue, earning a low groan from the man behind you as your ass rubbed on his harder than ever cock. The raging hard on threatening to rip through the pants at any moment.

“What a greedy little whore” Mingi says as he gets up to come closer to the scene. Soon all of them follow and you find yourself surrounded by all 8 men looking down at you, hands either under or over their pants, playing with their cocks as they didn’t peel their eyes off you for a second. 

Seeing all of them around you, their hungry gaze fixed on you makes you even more eager, and you find yourself grinding even faster on Yunho’s tongue, letting sighs and pleading cries roll off your tongue.

“You just came, doll” Hongjoong started. “And you’re already so eager to cum again?” his warm hand slipped between your breast to go up you throat, lightly squeezing, just enough to make it threatening, making your eyes snap to him. “You’re so naughty”.

While you were distracted by Hongjoong you didn't notice from the corner of your eye Wooyoung taking his pants off and pumping his length in his clenched fist. Swiping his tongue on his bottom lips watching you fuck yourself out on Yunho’s mouth while Seonghwa groaned behind you and bit your neck. 

It’s only when you felt the hot tip against your cheek that you turned your head to him. When you look up at him the devilish grin that he adorns makes your inside flutter, your eager cunt twitching on Yunho’s tongue.

“Open wide for me, baby, okay?” Wooyoung’s raspy voice asked as he laid his leaking tip right on your lips. As soon as the tip of your tongue makes contact with his slit you give it a kitten lick. The salty taste goes straight to your head and makes you dizzy. You open your mouth a little wider and Wooyoung slowly pushes his length inside you. You can’t help but to moan as you feel the smooth skin gliding so easily on your wet tongue. Letting your eyes roll back as you feel your lips stretch to accommodate this fullness in your mouth while Yunho slows down his rhythm, allowing you just enough lucidity to be able to concentrate on your new found mission. 

Wooyoung continues to progress until he bottoms out. And you hollow your cheeks to pull your head back on his length just to push back in. You start out slow, making sure to lube him up with your spit. And Wooyoung sighs at the pleasurable way your tongue swirls around his tip every time he hangs on your lips, letting his head roll back, thick veins ornamenting his neck.

As you pick up the pace you feel hands wrap around what was once your bun and push you back down further on Wooyoung’s cock.

“Come on, princess. You can do better than that” you hear Seonghwa purr in your ear. As Wooyoung groans, feeling you go deeper. “You can take him all in. Right Princess?” 

With each coming and going Seonghwa pushes on your head a little harder until, your nose hits Wooyoung’s pubic bone. Seonghwa keeps you right there for a moment as you look up at the younger man with teary eyes.

“Ever since I picked this red lipstick for you I've wanted to see it around my cock. You’re so pretty like this baby.” Wooyoung says as Seonghwa finally releases you, allowing you to pull back and breathe. You suck in a deep breath, fighting back a coughing fit.

“You’re doing so good, Princess. So good for us” Seonghwa praises, already pushing your head back on Wooyoung’s length. You open your mouth once again, pursing your lips, hollowing your cheeks. So good that soon enough Wooyoung lets his head roll back and let a long string of profanities fall from his lips.

“Fuck you’re so good at this, baby. Like you were made to suck cock” he praised, through gritted teeth. “Fuckkk” he cursed again and you felt his cock twitch on your tongue while he suddenly gripped your hair, stopping you from pushing him back inside your wet mouth. “Fuck” he breathes heavily. “I need a break.  Don’t want the fun to end now” he said, pulling his lips in a sinful smirk.

“I’ll take it from here” San said, pulling Wooyoung by the shoulder to take his place. When you are presented with San’s cock you can tell he has been playing with himself for a while, the tip is swollen, beet red and dripping. It is the most mouth watering sight you ever got the chance to witness. Instinctively you open wider and approach your lips but San pulls back before you can wrap your mouth around the alluring member.

“An eager little kitten, aren't we?” the man breathes out while he lazily pumps himself before your round out eyes. “You want my cock this bad ?” he smirks wickedly, looking down on you. You only nod, not peeling your eyes off San’s cock. “You have to properly ask for it before I give it to you” Your eyes snap back to his sharp ones. There’s not a trace of humor in his dark brown orbs, only dark lust burning holes into you.

“Please, sir. Fill my mouth with your cock” you whisper, your warm breath hitting San’s raw dick, making him suck in a breath. 

“Good little kitty” he praises while pressing his cock against your lips, which you part as soon as you feel the hot leaking tip against your mouth, immediately the taste going to your head. Slowly you glide on San’s length as his hands wrap around both your ears, pulling you even further on his cock, grunting all the way down until he reaches the bottom.

“Stay completely still, kitten” he whispers, the sultry tone making you shiver under his unwavering gaze. “Let me fuck that pretty little mouth”

Suddenly you gasp as you feel two long fingers being pushed inside your dripping heat, Yunho, tired of being ignored, wants to get your attention back. And the least you can say is that it’s effective. His digits curl inside you deliciously, able to reach deeper than Seonghwa.

San takes advantage of your sudden gasp to push his length deeper, picking up right where Wooyoung left off. You feel the delicious burn of your throat expanding to accommodate San’s girth. 

Yunho wraps his lips around your clit once more while San pleasures himself with your mouth, strong grip around your head, pulling your head in and pushing it back out again at a rapid pace. The pleasure makes you moan on San’s length, your eyes becoming watery. 

“You like that, babygirl?” you hear Yunho ask you from between your legs. You can’t possibly respond because San doesn't allow a single word to leave your mouth, only muffled sounds of approval.

“Good girl” Yunho praises before returning to tease you. His tongue twirls around your sensitive bundle of nerves occasionally sucking and flicking it with his tongue. 

“You like getting your little cunt stuffed while I fuck your face, kitten?” San asks, breath short, strong forearms contracting around your face. You only moan in approval, trying to nod your head which proves to be impossible due to San’s grip. Only the volume of the pitch of the moans you make, gives away at the state of urgency in which you find yourself.

“You wanna cum?” San asks, somehow grip growing stronger. You moan again, one single tear rolling down your cheek, dragging with it one streak of mascara. “Cum, kitten. Cum for Yunho with my dick down your throat” 

Once again the permission makes you let go of the knot in your guts, the pleasure spreads to you through your core pulsing under Yunho tongue and clenching on his long fingers, deliciously curled right into your sweet spot. Gradually San and Yunho slow down allowing you to ride off your high.

Before you even gather up your thought you feel Seonghwa turn your head to him one more time, slipping his long tongue inside your mouth, the only response your hazy mind can come up with is to moan into his mouth before you feel yourself being lifted up by a couple pair of strong arms, Seonghwa grunting under you.

“Princess, I need you right here” You hear the older man’s deep voice as his gaze points at his dick, now shed from its restraints, standing proud and tall. You step towards him and lift your leg to take him in but he stops you.

“No, princess. Other way around, I want the others to see the beautiful expressions you make with my cock deep inside you” he says as he lightly pushes on your hips, urging you to turn around. When you do and see the others you can’t help but to feel a new wave of arousal. 

You find yourself hovering over Seonghwa while you hold his length in your hand. The whole room seems to hold their breath as you align yourself with him, gathering your arousal, taking your time to spread it on the leaking tip.

“Look how wet you are” Jongho commented. “We haven't even started yet and you already made such a mess”

“S-sorry, sir” you muster and bite your lip immediately after, sinking your hips on Seonghwa as the others all look at the precise place your two bodies meet, fist pumping around the results of their own arousal.

“Fuckkkk” you hear Seonghwa curse in your ear. 

“Enjoying the eldest privilege, hyung?” you hear the low voice of Mingi ask as you can’t even bring yourself to open your eyes, your body automatically shutting down your other senses to focus solely on the delicious stretch of your walls around Seonghwa’s girth.

“I’m not the only one, am I Princess?” he asks short of breath, his hands tucking behind your ear one of many strands of hair that escaped your once sleek updo. When you fail to provide a satisfactory reply, Seonghwa’s hand drops down to your cunt. 

“Didn't I tell you to…” his hot breath fans your ear, you sigh and let your head fall back on his shoulder as you feel his hand touch you in the place you need him the most only to receive a sharp slap right on your very sensitive bud. The unexpected and acute pain stirs your gut in a brand new way, making you clench around Seonghwa, ripping a low moan from your lips.

“... use your words?” he asks, voice a lot sterner. 

“Yesss” you mewl. “Yesssss” you pant. “Yess, sir” not being able to tell if you crave another slap or if you had just gone completely mad.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks again.

“”Yes, sir. I am”

“So naughty, doll” Hongjoong comments, stepping closer.

“Now princess, work for me a little, okay? Make me feel good.” The eldest places both his hands on your hips making you sink down until he reaches the deepest part of you as you moan, feeling him deliciously splitting you open. “Show them how good you are.”

You start to rise up again, Seonghwa’s hands still on your hips but not helping you in any way, letting you take control over this. Once his tip is barely hanging inside you, you sink down again, this time faster. His lubricated length slides inside you with ease. You moan without restraint at the way his length rubs on the toy in your ass, stirring it around and making the metal push on all the right places. You repeat the motion until you settle in a comfortable rhythm. 

As you behave according to Seonghwa’s order you can't help but let your half lidded gaze sweep the room. All these eyes on you make you clench again, urging you to bounce harder on Seonghwa’s girth. 

“Look at you, slutty tits bouncing for us.” Jongho comments again, making you bite your lip, shame bubbling with arousal in the pit of your stomach. But at the same time you can’t seem to stop your hips, irrepressibly pulled down and pushed back up again and again until Seonghwa feels you flutter around him.

“You like giving a good show. Right Princess?”

“Yess sir” you whine, eyes prickling with tears. 

“Aren’t you a pretty one, doll?” Hongjoong whispers, his voice barely covering your moans and whines, slipping his hands right between your breasts caressing with the tip of his finger your soft and dampened sweaty skin, trailing to cup your breast. Suddenly he pinches your nipples harden into buds, the dull pain makes you roll your head back, letting a throaty moan escape your lips.

“Doll, can’t you do anything with those pretty hands of yours?” Hongjoong asks, pinching ever so slightly harder. 

Before you can even reply anything, Yeosang and Yunho step to each side of you, wrapping your fingers around their two cocks. 

“That’s way better” Hongjoong compliments.

They start out by guiding you on their length until you continue on your own. 

“Fuck sweetheart” Yeosang starts. “Those pretty hands were made to pleasure cocks” he praises as he brings your face close to his length, pushing your cheeks onto his tip, spreading the pre cum on your hot face. 

“Such a good little girl for us” Yunho outbids the praise, pulling you close to also spread his essence on you. “Faster my baby” he exhales.

You oblige as you feel Seonghwa's hands on your hips urging you to go faster, his blunt nails digging into your sides. As you do so Seonghwa lightly scoots down on the bench, angling his cock in a brand new way. You can't help but to moan loudly at the way he’s now rubbing your sweet spot, each back and forth scrubbing against the toy in your ass and deliciously poking at the entrance of Eden's garden. 

“Such beautiful sounds” Seonghwa praises, licking around your ear, the wet sounds of his mouth making your guts slush around as your grip tightens around the two cocks in your hand, making the two men groan. 

You can’t help but to let your mind slip in delirium again, pleasure delightfully clouding your judgment.

“Sir please, can I cum?”

“Again?” Jongho scoffs. “You really can’t fucking wait can you?” the sharp glacial tone, contrast with the sadistic and amused smirk spreading on his lips. You whine in response, brows linking on your forehead, bouncing even harder as Hongjoong continues to tease your nipples, taunting the hard buds until they become so sensitive you could cum from the way he plays with them alone.

“I’m sorry I can't let you Princess” Seonghwa says, strong grip on your hips making you stop abruptly. Immediately your hungry little cunt starts to pulse around his length, yearning for more of the delectable friction as your ass clenches around the plug.

“Please, Please please” you start to plead. Lust speaking in your place, completely forgetting about everything else.

“You really have no shame” the younger comments again.

“No Princess. Seonghwa says sternly. “Unfortunately I made you cum once already and I have to let the others also have fun with our brand new toy.” you whine, tears of frustration brimming in your eyes. “I recall Mingi didn’t even touch you yet”. 

Your eyes instantly snap to the tall pink haired man, standing in front of you while a wicked smirk spreads on his lips. 

“No, I haven't played with our little play thing… yet” his low voice rumbles makes your chest tighten as you let Seonghwa’s length slip out of you in defeat. The last word somehow sounds like a threat and makes you shiver. 

“What you say, y/n?” your heart makes a loop in your chest when the man uses your name. They only used pet names until then and you weren't expecting it, it somehow feels a lot more personal, almost making you forget you’re actually working right now. “Do you wanna play with me?” his large hand wraps around your neck, not squeezing in the slightest way. His fingers are only curled around you, lightly pulling you up to guide you out Seonghwa’s lap. 

“Yes. Yes I want to play with you, sir” you say, entranced by the man. 

“Good girl” he praises, still leading you by the neck and making you kneel on the carpeted floor. “Lay there Angel” his low but commanding voice said.

You lay on your back and bring your knees over your chest before spreading your legs open. Jongho and San sitting at each side hold your legs apart while all of them eye down your red, swollen and pulsing little cunt.

Mingi kneels down and places himself right between your thighs, the huge member sitting heavily in his open palm, you gasp when you feel the hot tip glide over your drenched folds. Mingi repeats the motion a couple of times, each time pressing down with his tip on your swollen and sensitive bundle of nerves. You jerk your hips everytime under the divine pressure he applies but soon you grow frustrated.

“Please…”you whine breathless, looking up at him with half lidded eyes, your messy hair stuck to your forehead.

“Please what, angel?” he asks as you feel a pair of foreign hands cup your breasts, you don't even take the time to look around to find the owner of those hands, only eyeing down Mingi’s massive cock laying over your quivering little pussy.

“Please I want to feel you” you finally say, just above a murmur, squirming not wanting anything more than to finally be filled to the brim with a cock. After all this teasing you just need to feel a cock inside you. Anyone. You just want to be filled. 

Mingi chuckles darkly at your quiet request as he continues to tease you.

“You want my cock, baby?” he asks, deep and sultry voice lifting goosebumps on your bare skin. You nod, not peeling your eyes off the member. “Bark for it.”

“Huh?” you look back at him confused, the wicked smirk playing on his lips makes you shiver.

“Bark for my cock like the bitch you are” he lifts up his dick to let it slap back down against your sensitive and erect clit, making your jerk at the sharp sting of pleasure.

“He said bark!” Jongho adds, only now you see he’s the one teasing your nipples.

“Woof woof” you finally let out.

“Again!” Jongho commands as he lands a slap on your cheek. Making you gasp and arch your back into the carpeted floor.

“Woof woof woof woof” you repeatedly scream.

Tears of frustration are blurring your vision. Making you unable to see as Mingi finally plunges his fat cock into your desperate heat. Your walls immediately welcome him with happy spasms. Mingi grunts and moans all the way down to the bottom of your hungry little cunt.

But then again he stops moving, he just stays there, more tears spill from your eyes, dragging down your mascara, progressively ruining the makeup that was so thoughtfully planned out for you. Much to Wooyoung's satisfaction. 

“Please. Please.” you say breathless, unable to stop yourself from trying to rock yourself on Mingi’s cock. “Please fuck me” you ask again.

“Color, doll?” you hear Hongjoong ask. You look back at him confused. You need a moment before the words even mean anything in your mind. But the question forces your mind back to reality.

“Green” you utter. To your response Hongjoong and the others snicker.

“You really like to beg don’t you?” Seonghwa's remark makes you whine.

“Such a good little cocksleeve, properly begging for us. You’re doing so good baby” Yunho praises, wiping the tears away.

“Go ahead Mingi… give her what she wants” Hongjoongs concludes.

The pink haired man then looks back at you and starts to push inside your greedy little cunt steadily.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir” you hastily say looking up at Hongjoong your orbs drowning in a sumptuous blend of desperation, gratitude and need. He looks down at you with a proud paternal smile. You’re so cute. Completely fucked out stupid. The perfect little fuck toy.

You feel your cunt deliciously stretch to accommodate Mingi’s fat cock as he bottoms out and lets out a low groan. You can’t help but to arch your back at the delicious filling sensation, the definitely girthy (to say the least) cock scraping against the toy crowding your other hole in exquisite pleasure. 

Gradually Mingi picks up the pace as Jongho continues to play with your tits. Flicking the hardened buds and pinching them occasionally crouching down to suck on them. 

Pleasure rises, your gut tightens in the familiar knot but as you become more vocal and as your walls start gripping Mingi a little tighter he slows down, denying you your high. You can’t help but to whine in disappointment.

But as a distraction from the frustration Wooyoung crouches down next to your face and once again teases your lips with his blazing tip. You gratefully open your mouth to take your mind off the agonizing pleasure Mingi inflicts to you. Hungrily sucking on Wooyoung’s length, bopping your head to the side as you felt another cock graze your cheek but you didn't open your eyes to see who it was you solely concentrated on Wooyoung.

“That's it baby. Suck my cock” you heard him praise as he wrapped his veiny hand around what was left of your bun. “Fffucck… y/n” he moaned. 

Mingi started to pick up the pace again making you moan on Wooyoung’s length, the vibrations making the younger man shiver. As you didn’t slow down, hollowing your cheeks on his length as you pulled and moaning as you pushed your head back.

“You’re so good for us, Princess” you heard Seonghwa from beside you, guessing it was his cock caressing your cheek. “That’s right, keep going like this” he encouraged and you picked the pace again.

“Fuck… You… mmmh… want my cum that… fucking… bad?” Wooyoung struggled to say as you felt his grip become tighter around your hair. You nodded again, you didn't know if your point came across but you didn't care you only wanted to taste his cum on your tongue.

“Fuckk” you heard Mingi still smashing himself between your legs.

“Fuck I’m cumming” Wooyoung pulled on your hair, popping his length out your mouth to release all over your face, warm white cum crashing on your nose, cheeks and lips. You hungrily licked your lips as Wooyoung grunted, emptying his balls on your face.

“Shit” the younger man breathes out as he unravels his fingers around your hair. Immediately Seonghwa pinches your chin and turns your head to the other side, to look at him. 

“Mingi please” you whine again as he decreases the pace again, you try to turn your head to the pink haired man kneeling between your legs but Seonghwa firmly maintains your face to him. 

“Shh, Princess.” he gently says as your body is shaken under each of Mingi's slow but powerful thrust. “Don't waste Wooyoung’s cum, okay?” with his index finger he scraped your cheek and dragged the thick liquid to your mouth, pushing his cum coated finger past your lips, as you wrapped your lips around it, moaning as Wooyoung’s taste filled your mind.

“That's it. Eat it all” Seonghwa praised as he jerked himself off with his other hand. “Good girl. You want mine too, Princess?” he asked, inching his length closer to you. 

“Yes! Please! Sir, please I want your cum” you eagerly reply. 

“Sweetheart is starved for cum, isn’t she?” Yeosang commented.

“Open. Stick your tongue out” Seonghwa’s tone was urgent, his voice was roughed up and strained, giving away at his own need. “Don't close your eyes, Princess” he says breathless, his fist frantically going up and down his aching cock. “Keep looking at me” he said, barely above a whisper. Catching his bottom lip between his teeth and knitting his brows as pleasure contorts his beautiful delicate features.

You happily obliged as Seonghwa lets himself go. Aiming primarily at your open wet hole but the uncontainable powerful streams also get on your nose and all the way to your forehead, perfectly splitting your ruined face in half. 

Seonghwa grunts in satisfaction as the others approve and jerk themself off at the beautiful and sinful sight.

“Keep your mouth open Baby. Don’t swallow yet” Mingi orders. “I want to see their cum in your mouth while I pound into you.” 

This time Mingi seems to be more serious, he doesn’t mean to tease you any longer.

“Fuckkkkk” Mingi grunts as he plows into you, making your tits jiggle under Jongho’s hands. “You're so fucking pretty with all that cum on your face, angel” He hisses through gritted teeth. “Wanna cum on my cock, baby?”

“Yesshhh” you managed to say, swirling the two loads on your tongue.

As the pleasurable feeling spreads from your core to your whole body you feel warm hands laid against your erect clit, drawing tight small circles on it. 

“You gonna be a good girl and cum for us, sweetheart?” Yeosang purrs as he teases your clit, instantly taking you to unknown heights. The pleasure fogs up your mind as you can only think about Yeosang’s hand on you and Mingi’s cock pounding you into oblivion. 

“Fuck… Cum now.” Mingi ordered as his thrust became shallower, less regular. 

“Thank you. thank you thank you” you blabbered, your mouth still full of cum as you let yourself come undone at Yeosang and Mingi’s touch. Your cunt uncontrollably pulsating around Mingi’s big cock, the indescribable pleasure making your legs shake and your eyes roll to the back of your head as you let your tongue hang out your mouth, the cum threatening to spill with each jerk of your body.

“Fuckkk I’m cumming” Mingi announced as he became uneven, finally letting himself release deep inside you, his hips snapping to yours a couple of more times as he painted you a brand new shade of white, your convulsing little cunt milking him to the last drop, eagerly wanting to drown itself in the precious and delicious essence. 

“Swallow now, darling”. Yeosang allowed you. And you gladly did so. Finally getting the thick cum down your throat, relishing on the intoxicating taste as you let Mingi slip out of you and his cum lazily dripping out your shapeless hole.

“Come here and clean your little mess” Mingi said out of breath as he stumbled back sitting on the floor with his legs in front of him. You got up on all four and crawled to him, finding your spot between his ample thighs while he held out his sticky cock to you, covered with your slick and his cum. You kept your ass up as you bent over to wrap your mouth around the tip and giving it a hard suck. You felt the warm load drip down your thighs as the mixed flavors of your arousal and his cum flooded your mouth.

As you licked clean every inch you felt a pair of hands gently pat your ass.

“You really have no shame, do you?” Jongho commented from behind you, landing a slap on your raw ass. You jerked and moaned as you popped Mingi’s freshly cleaned length out of your mouth. 

You felt Jongho pull on the plug that was still inside you. He pulled lightly on it a couple of times to let it be sucked back in by your ass. 

“Oh what a greedy little hole, clinging onto the toy like this” he said finally pulling the toy out, admiring your hole opening and closing in need to be filled again. “Don’t worry darling, you won’t stay empty for long”. Just as he said that he plunged two fingers inside your blinking hole. His index and middle finger forming a V to spread your hole open as much as possible. You moaned in bliss as the others watched you being split open in awe. 

“You like my fingers in your ass?” Jongho asked as his other hand was rubbing soothing circles on your bare bottom. 

“Yes!! Yess sir I love them” you almost yelled back eager to feel more of him.

“What a good little whore” he praised, landing another spank on your reddened cheek. He then curled his fingers to rub against your sweet spot. You let your head hang as you close your eyes only focusing on the pleasure happening behind you when you feel a gentle touch on your cheek. When you look up it’s San, kneeling in front of you, holding his swollen and painfully hard length in his hand. 

“My turn now, kitten.” he says in a raspy tone. “Open up” as soon as you part your lips he slips inside the wet hole, directly aiming for the back of your throat. As you are on your hands and knees your mouth and neck perfectly align in a flat line and San is able to reach the back of your throat easily. You feel the pleasure burn again in your already sore throat, awakening the dormant and dull pain, a little souvenir of his previous visit.

After a couple of back and forths he pops his length out your mouth, making you whine but it’s caught in your throat when you feel Jongho stuff one more finger inside your crowded little ass.

San wraps his fist around his length as lazily pumps himself a few times.

“Give me a hand Woo”

You see Wooyoung’s veiny hand wrap around San’s cock. San lets out a throaty moan as the younger man’s fingers curled around his length, pumping him lazily while you observed in awe as his catlike eyes creased and his eyebrows met on his forehead. 

San’s now free hand gently rubbed your face, his lips being pulled in a sinful smirk.

“Faster” he instructed Wooyoung. and he immediately started to pump his fist quicker. “Ffuucckk yesss” he hissed clenching his jaw as his half lidded eyes stared right into you.

“I think kitten wants her milk” he chuckled at the way your eyes started to grow in approbation, pupils dilated at the thought. “Let’s not make her wait any longer”

You licked your lips in anticipation while San caught his bottom lip between his teeth, completely dropping the cocky smile as you saw him twitch in Wooyoung’s hand.

“Open your mouth, darling” Wooyoung ordered, aiming San’s cock right at your wet hole.

“Fuck, kitten! Want my milk?” San asked as you saw his muscular thighs contract.

“Yes please sir I'm a thirsty kitty” you said before sticking your tongue out. Which made San push his jaw forward.

“Then take it” he said, his hand going from your cheek to your neck to pull your face further onto his crotch right before he cums as Wooyoung clenches his fist around the twitching cock. A colossal amount of cum spurts out of his open slit, crashing on your face and mixing with the others’ loads, your tears and smudged makeup.

“Good girl” Wooyoung praises.

The salty and bitter taste wraps around your tongue as you moan in satisfaction letting your mind focus on this intoxicating flavor. 

But Jongho pulls you out of your trance by circling your waist with his free hand, to be able to play with your clit. Which has you moaning instantly.

“I want you to cum around my fingers” Jongho whispered as he drew tight and rapid circles on your over-stimulated clit. More tears spill from your eyes as the pleasure elevates your body again.

“Pleaseeee” you whine. At this point you don't even know what you are begging for anymore. Are you begging him to stop, to let you rest? Are you begging him for more?

Then Wooyoung crouches down and sticks his tongue inside your mouth as your jaw is slacked. Your moans and whines are muffled as your eyes roll back into your skull while you share San’s taste mixed your spit with the raven black haired man.

“That's it baby” Jongho praises a carnivorous grin pulling at his lips. 

Another earth-breaking orgasm washes over your body as your tight little asshole tries to swallow Jongho’s fingers whole, your cum spraying out of you in a powerful stream again while you moan into Wooyoung’s open mouth.

When Jongho pulls out you are left breathless and fucked out of your mind.

“She’s ready back here” Jongho announced, wiping his fingers on your skirt abandoned on the floor. “Who wants to have a go?” he asks.

“Me” Yunho answered immediately. 

You can't help but to gulp. Out of the eight of them, Yunho is easily the biggest one. You can’t help but to nervously chew on your bottom lip as you eye down Yunho’s hard and leaking huge cock. 

“Stay right here” Yeosang says as he sees you squirming.

Yunho kneels behind you but as soon as you turn your head to look back, Yeosang gently pinches your chin and makes you look at him.

“Look what you did to me, sweetheart.” he gently purred, swiping the raging hot tip across your wet swollen lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard ever. That’s all for you, darling” Yeosang sings as he pushes back his long black hair. You let a moan escape your lips as you feel Yunho’s fingers swipe up your slit to your clit, flicking the poor exhausted nub a couple of times, when he notices how sensitive you are. You hear him chuckle behind you.

“Don’t you think you have to take responsibility for it?” Yeosang’s grip on your chin grows tighter but his voice remains as sweet as honey.

“Yes, sir” you agree as you open your mouth again. As soon as Yeosang’s hot cock head glazes over your tongue the sweet taste of precum completely wipes away the soreness of your already abused jaw. 

“Yesss” Yeosang hisses, gentle hands wrapped around your nape and guiding your lips to meet his pubic bone. “So fucking good baby” he gently pulls out and goes back in immediately. 

Then you feel Yunho’s cock rub against your soaked center, emitting a lowly grunt, making you moan on Yeosang’s cock. The latter chuckles and the way you shudder feeling your little cunt being teased again.

“You want Yunho’s cock, sweetheart?” he asks, pulling his dick out of your mouth to allow you to answer. 

“Yes! Yes please Sir!” you eagerly say, trying to look back again but Yeosang doesn't let you..

“Look at me, darling. Only me” he reminds you. “Where do you want his cock?” he traces the outline of your lips with his spit coated member, teasing himself in the process.

“In my ass please. I want Yunho’s cock in my ass” You said with pleading eyes looking up at Yeosang. 

“So greedy” Yunho snickered once more as he finally pushed himself inside your blinking hole. You can’t help but to gasp at the way your ass expands to accommodate Yunho’s enormous cock. Each of the rings inside your tiny hole stretches to a brand new limit to fit the monstrous member forcing its way inside of you. You groan and bite your lip all the way until Yunho has pushed the whole thing inside and you manage to take him completely. You suck in a couple of deep and shaky breaths.

“Such a good girl swallowing my big cock whole like this” Yunho praises as he stays still for a moment, allowing you to adapt to him. “Are you alright, babygirl?” he asks with his sweet voice, the caring tone makes your heart flutter.

“Yes sir, I’m good” You answer with a short breath. 

“You’re so pretty, darling” Yeosang says, wiping a tear off your mascara stained cheek. “So beautifully ruined for us” he says before pushing his dick past your lips again. At the exact same time Yunho slowly pulled himself out of you. Scraping you so deliciously as he did so, making you moan on Yeosang’s cock, the vibrations making a shiver run down his spine. 

“Fuck you’re gripping me so tight babygirl” Yunho growled as he pushed his length back inside. You could have cum with just this. Just by the way he was making you so full of him, scraping you in all the right places. To take your mind off the pleasure that was burning your guts you started to focus on Yeosang instead. 

You bopped your head along his cock and hollowed your cheeks when you reached the tip, sucking a little harder as your tongue lapped at his slit making sure your tongue never forgot his taste.

“You’re so good with your mouth, sweetheart” Yeosang said, warm hands gently wrapping around you as his hips helped you to get him off. Snapping his hips against your face but never to the point to trigger your gag reflex, there was a gentleness to him, a softness in the way he looked down at you almost amorously as you felt his cock throb on your tongue. The tenderness made you want to be the best girl you could be for him. You wanted to give him your all and you intend to do just that.

“Fuckkk” he hissed as you wrapped your tongue around the sensitive head, bopping your head a little harder.

“Babygirl wants our cum too?” Yunho asked as his hips became sloppier against yours, the two large palms tensing on your ass cheeks and squeezing them to keep himself balanced on his knees as he smashed himself inside. 

“Stay still, sweetheart” Yeosang suddenly says, steadying himself right in front of your mouth. One hand wrapped around the underside of your chin, the other still on your nape. “I’m gonna use your cute little mouth. That's what you want, right darling? Wanna be my toy?” You nodded your head quickly while you obediently waited for him to fuck your mouth, staying as still as Yunho allowed you to be as he pounded into you.

Yeosang’s thrusts were shallow at first. But quickly grew deeper, making your core tighten and your eyes prickle again

“Fuck baby. You’re gonna make me cum if you clench like this” Yunho grunted. “I want you to cum with me, understood, babygirl?” 

You only moaned back, unable to form words as your mouth was clearly occupied and busy. 

“Goog girl” he moaned, his trusts becoming more and more sloppy as Yunho became more vocal, grunting and moaning with each coming and going, his grip on your ass growing tighter until he was ready to bust. 

“Fuck, baby. Now” he breathlessly said as he gave you one particularly powerful thrust. “Now. Cum for me. Cum for us, baby”

You let yourself leap past that edge once more, the overwhelming pleasure makes you moan and whine against Yeosang’s length while your ass clings onto Yunho’s huge cock, demanding to be filled with his cum, walls pulsing and clenching in exquisite bliss as you felt him slip out of you. Yunho only had to give himself a couple of light pumps around his fist before he exploded all over your ass, long ropes of scolding hot cum splashing on your back even reaching all the way to your hair and the back of your head. 

“Fuckkkk” Yunho cried out, clenching his fist around his cock, pressing his thumb over the throbbing head to push every last drop of his cum out just for you. 

“Shit, darling, I'm gonna cum” Yeosang declared, following right after the taller man, his hips snapping one last time against your lips, as you felt his throbbing cock releasing the thick cum right into your throat, not even leaving you the pleasure to feel it slide against your tongue, directly delivering it down your throat. Stuttering hips and pubic bone flushed against your face. A long string of deep moans echoing the ones of Yunho.

When Yeosang slipped out of you and pinched your chin again to make you look up at him. He looked back at you like you were the most precious thing on earth, a treasure that needed to be protected at all costs. Looking so fondly at his fucked out toy, your half lidded eyes hung in nothingness as your body was still lightly shaken by the intense and multiple orgasms.

“So pretty, sweetheart” he lays a gentle kiss on your swollen and numb lips, which you barely had the conscience to even reciprocate. “Such a good girl for us”

When Yeosang gently lets go of you, you have to gather all the strength left in your body not to let yourself collapse to the ground and hold yourself still on your hands and knees. You barely even notice when Hongjoong crouches in front of you.

“Color, Doll?” he asks as he lazily pumps his swollen cock inside his hand.

“G-green” you barely manage to say. Your mind still completely hazy from the previous events but you are brought back instantly as Hongjoongs lands a quick slap on your mascara stained cheek, making you whip your head to the side.

“Didn’t hear you, doll” he said, giving you a chance to correct yourself. 

“Green, S-sir” you sniffled, remembering to use the correct title, your eyes snapping to him.

“Good girl” Hongjoong added, soothing your burning cheek with his thumb. “I guess it’s my turn now, right, doll?” he looked down at you with a carnivorous, predatory smile that made you shudder.

“Yes, Sir. Whenever you are ready”

Hongjoong sat right in front of you, in the cum soaked carpeted floor of the jet.

“Sit on my cock, doll.” Hongjoong said, holding the base of his length up in the air, urging you to be filled up once again.

You struggled to get up on your two legs and staggered over to Hongjoong, placing your feet at each side of him. When you lowered your hips, aligning your entrance with Hongjoong’s member your thighs barely held you anymore. Your body was exhausted but somehow you were yearning for more. Your insatiable and sore little cunt was throbbing at the idea of being filled up again. 

When Hongjoong’s tip glided along your slit you moaned and draped your arms around his shoulders, using him as a way to get balance. You let out a long moan when Hongjoong finally splits you open, his length pushing the remnants of Mingi’s load deeper inside you. 

“Fuck. You’re already throbbing, you dumb little whore” Hongjoong said, hand untangling with your hair and breaking your neck backward, to give himself access to your already bruised neck. Adding his touch to the stained canvas with bites and kisses. “Yearning to be filled again. Isn't that right, doll?” he asked, yanking your hair a little harder when you didn’t reply fast enough.

“Yes, Sir. I wanted your cock so bad. It feels so good!!!” you moaned as you started to bounce yourself on him, earning a satisfied groaned from the blonde man. “Right thereee” you let out as you sink your hips all the way down, slowly again, feeling the head of his cock rub against your sweet spot. 

“Good girl. Keep going” Hongjoong urged, letting go of your hair and laying himself back on his elbows, backing away slightly to take your whole form in. He wanted to admire you fuck yourself up on his cock. He wanted to see your tits bounce and your pussy throb as you drove yourself to madness. He wanted to see you cry. He knew exactly how.

He landed a purposeful and sharp slap right on your soaked little clit. The reaction is immediate and exactly what Hongjoong was looking for. You emit the most divine of screams, the perfect blend of pleasure and pain. Hongjoong can't help but to smirk when he sees how your bottom lip trembles and your eyes fill up with tears again all the while never stopping your hips snapping against his. 

“Say thank you” he orders, putting both of his hands on your thigh keeping them nice and parted, eyes only ogling the way your hungry little cunt swallowed him only to spit him out covered in your slick seconds later and do it all over again and again and again. 

“Thank you, sir” you whine. “Please another one, sir” you ask, mind slipping back into an indiscernible fog. Hongjoong cocks an eyebrow in surprise at your sudden request. But he’s pleasantly surprised by your obedience and devotion.

“What a pathetic little pain slut you are, y/n” He lands another slap just as perfectly aimed as the previous one making you moan and finally making the precious tears spill from your eyes at the mention of your name.

“Such a good little fuck toy, asking so nicely. Good girls get rewards, right doll?” Hongjoong says as he starts to draw small circles on your throbbing clit with his index and middle finger. 

“Oh my god. Th-thank you, Sir” you whine, more large tears rolling on your heated cheeks. The pleasure makes you eager to chase your high and you find yourself bouncing harder on Hongjoongs’ cock. Not even realizing Jongho creeping up behind you again.

“Sir, can I please cum?” you ask, feeling your high dangerously nearing as you feel your walls tighten around Hongjoong’s length and your clit throbbing under his touch.

“You’re an eager little whore aren’t you?” the voice of the youngest resounds behind you. When you turn your head he pushes on your shoulder making you fall forward onto Hongjoong’s chest. Hongjoong chuckles as Jongho gets on his knees and shimmies himself between the older man’s legs. You still yourself completely when you feel him rub his tip around your rim.

Without even another word he shoved his whole cock inside your available hole in one thrust, making you moan into Hongjoong’s ear.

“Now be a good little cocksleeve and stay still while we fuck you stupid.” Jongho ordered as he was slowly pulling on his length while you felt Hongjoong squirm beneath you and plant both his feet on the ground only to thrust up inside of you at the exact same time as Jongho.

You can't help but scream-moan as the two rods inside you grind against each other. You plant your manicured nails on Hongjoong’s shoulders, almost to the point of drawing blood making him arch his back and chuckle at the dull pain.

“Fuck yes!!” you cry out, hanging your head on Hongjoong’s shoulder as they move in unison to rearrange your guts. 

“That feels good, doll?” Hongjoong asks, continuously fucking his hips up into you.

“Yes. Yes. Yes, sir. I fucking love it” you say through gritted teeth trying your hardest not to let yourself cum from the sheer pressure the both apply in turns to your sweet spot.

“Yeah” Jongho added from behind you. “You love two cocks fucking you up like this?” He said squeezing your ass, nails digging in the supple flesh of your raw cheeks. 

“Yes Sir. I love both your cocks” you reply.

“Two cocks at the same time is the bare minimum for a whore like you right, baby?” he asks, landing a harsh slap on your bum. 

“Oh my god. Please can I cum now?” you ask in a strangled moan, knowing well enough by the way your pussy and ass are throbbing you won’t be able to hold back much longer. You are desperate for your release.

“Beg us for it.” Hongjoong said, his hands holding your waist down.

At this point you've lost consciousness of everything that isn't the two cocks slamming inside you right now. You can’t remember anything except for the unbearable pleasure you feel, making your walls clench and your center gush with wet and slimy arousal, coating the two man fucking you into your next life right now. If anybody asked you, you couldn’t even remember your own name. At this point you would do anything, anything at all, to finally grasp your climax. You only want one thing and it is to finally cum around these two cocks. And if you have to beg for it, so be it.

“Please. Please. Sir. Please let me cum for you. There's nothing I want more than to show you how I shake and scream for your cocks. Wanna cum for you, wanna give you the best show. Wanna make you cum inside my throbbing little hungry cunt” You struggle to say between moans, your voice interrupted by the incessant carousel of their thrusts inside your tired and shapeless little holes.

“Go ahead, doll. Cum.”

Finally you let go of that pressure building in your core, the burning pleasure spreading into your limbs and making you shake. Your cunt and ass violently throbbing and clenching on Jongho and Hongjoong. You cry and moan as tears of relief roll down on your cheeks.

“So fucking pretty cumming on our cocks, doll” Hongjoong praises as his hips become sloppy. “Want me to fill your pretty little cunt with my cum?” he asks, teeth grazing your ears. 

“Yes please, sir” you reply in a sob, your orgasm continuing to rip through you.

“Fucking take my cum deep in your ass, fucking whore” Jongho demands a he releases inside your throbbing little hole. 

“Yes Thank you sir”  you cry out, your ass clenching around the younger one’s thick cock. 

“Fuckkk” Hongjoong grunts as he finally cums inside you filling your wet hole with hot cum, the thick slimy and white liquid spilling and dripping down, joining the existing mess on the carpeted floor. 

The three of you ascending to your peaks at the same time in a beautiful unisson of moans and grunts. Until they gradually stop their hips smashing into yours. For a couple of minutes you all just lay there to catch your breath, all piled on top of each other. 

You feel strong arms helping you up and sitting you down on your heels.

When you come back from your high you see all eight men circling you, holding their cock in their hand. 

“There’s one last thing you want from us right Princess” Seonghwa, stroking his cock back to full hardness.

“Yes, sir.” You timidly say knowing there is only one box you haven't checked yet on the list.

“Ask nicely for it, baby” Mingi says, smirking, holding his huge dick.

You’re hesitant, biting your lip but you still say the words nonetheless.

“Please sirs, give me your piss” you utter.

“Good girl” Yeosang praises aiming his cock at you.

Then finally he lets out his hot piss onto your chest. The stream his warm and feels so fucking good on your skin, making you palm your breasts. Then a second stream joins and a third one and another one. Until they all are emptying their bladders on you, some even aiming their delicious piss to your face.

“Open your mouth, doll” Hongjoong asks smirking, relishing at the sight of you kneeling and begging to drink their nectar.

You part your lips and immediately the powerful streams hit you right on the tongue. The salty taste and the delicious warmth make your head spin, making you close your eyes and moan softly.

“How is it, kitten?” San asks, also pissing right into your open mouth.

“So delicious sir” you say gargling on the golden liquid and swallowing a big gulp only for your mouth to be filled again.

“Don’t waste it okay babygirl?” Yunho advises.

You nod your head,  placing both of your palms under your chin trying to catch as much as possible in your mouth and swallowing with big gulps. Until the flow lessens and the streams die down. Leaving the eight men satisfied and empty. Completely transed out by the beautiful sight of their perfect little toy ruined to perfection.

After that you barely have enough time to summarily wash up (meaning roughly wipe away the smudged makeup, cum and sweat with a hot towel and hop back into your former uniform) before you have to fasten your seat belt again. 

The descent is smooth, in this general euphoria there’s nothing awkward left between you and the members. After being so intimate with each other there’s no place left for embarrassment or discomfort. You are even able to crack a few jokes and communicate light heartedly. Except for the stain on the carpeted floor and the remnants of your endeavors in your hair there was no way of knowing what had happened between all of you only minutes ago.

As they disembarked the jet Hongjoong gave you one last small paper bag. He insisted that it was more than well deserved after the service of the highest quality you provided.

“Really I insist” he says, pushing the small bag into your hands. “Please take this and open it as soon as you get the time” he says before glancing back at his members waiting for him a little further already geared up with the beanies, bucket hats, sun glasses and masks. 

“Thank you very much” you said bowing your head respectfully. “Thank you for choosing Air France, we hope to see you soon” you said waving goodbye at them while they disappeared in the elbowed tube.

You sat on the bench and opened the small bag to find huge stacks of cash in 500 euros bills. Your heart almost looped in your chest and you thanked yourself to have chosen to sit before opening the final gift. You found a small card inside it.

We wanted to get you enough that you could retire if you wanted to. But we really hope you don’t ;)...

See you soon y/n.

-8 makes 1 girl cream, Ateez

ps: it was mingi’s idea.

you read the whole thing and you survived please answer this poll? it would help me so much! <3

a/n: so?? how was it?? honestly im so so happy to present that to you finally! i've had this idea first since 2020 and it took 3 whole years for the idea to be shaped into something that i could actually write then actually taking the time to write and edit and publish... so pleaseeee tell me you enjoyed if you did. in the comments or in my asks if you wanna stay anon 🥸 (especially if you read the watersports and you liked it. im scared about publishing something like this so reassure me pls <3). you really have no idea how happy it would make me if you left a nice comment. honeslty just come fuel my praise kink please 🥺. that being said im thankful you read it wether you choose to react or not and ily <3

[genshin-obsessed]

hi good day, i love ur writing sjfjjeb

may i request for headcanons of dan heng, caelus, and gepard (separate) when they had their first kiss with their s/o? ty in advaaance

hiiii!! thank you so much! i'm glad you're enjoying your time here! means a lot <333 thank you for requesting the best boys, i love them *sigh*

♡ Caelus

His confession came after he impulsively kissed you. It's a long story, but the entire Astral Express crew knew he was down bad for you. It wasn't hard to tell.

Caelus wanted to find a good time to confess but kept missing his opportunity. Everyone wanted to help, but he insisted it was something for him, and him alone. You can only imagine how that went. So, his last ditch effort was to just kiss you.

In hindsight, it was an awful idea. He didn't ask, didn't think about you, and just did it out of pure panic and desperation. Thankfully, you're ok with it but he did feel bad. What if you didn't feel the same way? What if it was your first kiss? All those thoughts were just plaguing him.

So, your very first kiss with him was... not the best memory for him. But, you kissed him again after you two made it official and claimed that was your first kiss.

That kiss went WAYY better. After some time, he forgot about his weird confession (even though you still find it adorable).

♡ Dan Heng

Your first kiss with Dan Heng was very memorable for him. It wasn't long after he joined the Astral Express crew.

You two clicked and got along so well that it was natural for his feelings to grow and evolve into something else.

At the time, Dan Heng wasn't entirely sure how to handle those feelings- given his situation and all. So, he opted to just keep you close by but not confess.

After his... reveal of sorts, he was finally able to confide in you. He sat you down, told you the truth about him, and listened as you explained that none of his past changed your feelings for him now. It took some time that night before he realized you meant romantic feelings.

You two confessed and he had no plans to kiss you. You offered and he accepted. He never forgot that day and he never forgot that feeling in his chest when your lips touched his for the very first time.

♡ Lil Geppie

You two started dating but took it very slow. Mainly for Gepard's sake. He didn't want to rush things and asked if it was ok if you two took your time.

Meaning, no hand holding, no I love yous, no kissing, none of that. You were happy to respect his decision and he warmed up to you quickly.

Gepard isn't a fan of PDA, but he likes holding your hand in public. He'll even give you hugs on occasion.

Your first kiss... was an accident. You were dropping by Gepard's place before you went to work to drop off something. You stayed a little too long, lost track of time, and were in a rush before you knew it. You threw on your shoes and Gepard went to give you a hug but you completely forgot and leaned in to kiss him.

He froze, his eyes wide and his cheeks bright red. You panicked, realizing moments after that he was trying to hug you not kiss you. But Gepard didn't hate it. That night when he walked you home, he was the one to kiss you goodnight.

#hsr caelus x reader #hsr dan heng x reader #hsr gepard x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #gender neutral reader #🖊─ pocky’s writings

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

Platonic Yandere Trevor finding out that he isn't the last Belmont, and that his younger sister escaped or was spared because she was a iligitamate child of the family and not publicly known to be a Belmont and the church assumed she was just a servant of the house

A/N: It would be great if Trevor was not to be the sole Belmont left! Not that he can’t handle the responsibility, because he does step up in the end, but because it would be much easier to carry on a legacy when there’s more than one person left to tell your story. 

Edit: Here's what I think about his sister's age

Edit 2: Here's why her age makes it all the more horrifying.

Platonic! Yandere! Trevor Belmont Finding Out He Has a Long-Lost Little Sister: 

The moment Trevor finds out about her, be it from unearthed family records in the Belmont hold, or from growing gossip in town, he sets out to find her and bring her home. Even if it turns out not to be true, he can’t let her continue to live life on her own, she’s too much of a target with the Belmont Family crest on her back. 

He is both angered yet relieved when he finally meets her and discovers she’s truly his half-sister. Trevor feels betrayed that one of his parents strayed beyond their marriage, but he also feels thankful for their infidelity, as it provided his half-sister the cover she needed to escape slaughter alongside the rest of his family.  

It doesn’t matter if she’s in a relationship or if she’s found a new family for herself, he whisks her away back to his life, cutting off any other bonds she may have forged for herself. After all, those people didn’t matter. They were simply placeholders, keeping her safe until he could dutifully come along to take her back to the life she was always destined to live. 

If he’s traveling with Sypha at the moment she better welcome his half-sister with open arms and support Trevor’s decision to take her back with them. Trevor makes it clear to Sypha, that should push come to shove, he’ll choose his half-sister over her. Sypha was the one who encouraged him to fulfill his family’s destiny in the first place. She should know very well Trevor would put his last remaining blood relative first. 

Regardless of where he and Sypha are, Trevor elects to drop everything and head back to the ancestral Belmont hold. Trevor needs to show his half-sister all that’s stored there. He needs her to remember who she is. 

On the journey back, he teaches her some basic combat, mainly self-defense. One part of him doesn't want his sister to join in the physical fights ever, but another part of him knows deep down it’s inevitable. All the Belmonts were fighters in one way or another, even if that wasn’t their main skill set. Being a part of his family meant no one could afford to be a pacifist. He knows too well: if you’re a Belmont, trouble’s bound to find you eventually, especially when you aren’t looking for it. 

If his half-sister appears to have an affinity for it, he might even consider letting Sypha teach her some Speaker magic. Trevor knows how capable Sypha is of taking care of herself during a battle, and he’d very much like that same reassurance for his little sister as well. 

If Trevor and Sypha have already defeated Death and are residing within Dracula’s castle, Trevor journeys to retrieve his sibling alone, before bringing them back to the former ruins of the Belmont hold, what is now the beginnings of Village Belmont. He does his best not to sound too proud when he tells his little sister the village name. 

Despite the warm welcome his little sister receives, Trevor refuses to let her speak to anyone else or hang out with villagers her age without his supervision. Even though these are the people he fought alongside to stop Death and his vampire generals, Trevor tells his little sister not to trust them. 

Trevor’s paranoia worries Sypha, Alucard, and Greta, who truly just want to be friends with his younger sister. At the same time, they do have some degree of understanding of why Trevor would want to be as watchful as he is. 

Sypha tries to bring it up but gets shut down. Having their future children to think about, she decides to let the matter go, knowing her focus is needed on her baby right now. 

Greta tries to offer to teach Trevor’s sister some basic fighting techniques but that suggestion is quickly squashed by Trevor who makes a show of dominance. He challenges Greta to a quick fight and wins of course. But not before making it clear that he had more than one opportunity to finish her off for good if he wished. Greta keeps her distance after that, and she advises her people to do the same. 

Alucard accompanies Trevor and his younger half-sister on every tour of the Belmont hold, making the occasional snide comment about Trevor’s family dedicating themselves to the eradication of his kind. Seeing how uncomfortable the tension makes his little sister, Trevor lashes out at Alucard, the two of them causing a fair amount of property damage. The two of them only stop when Trevor’s sister rushes between them, crying, begging them to please stop hurting each other. 

It becomes clear to everyone that unless Trevor learns to let go, his half-sister is going to live a very sorrowful, very isolated life as a Belmont. 

As always, if you enjoyed, please LIKE & REBLOG!

Consider Tipping Me Via Kofi Here

#trevor belmont x reader #trevor belmont imagine #trevor belmont #yandere castlevania #yandere trevor belmont #yandere x reader #yandere #tw: yandere #yandere imagine #tw yandere #castlevania #hc #platonic yandere trevor belmont long lost sister

[ihavenothingtodo10220]

ꨄHwang Hyunjin ideal typeꨄ

Quick disclaimer: His exact birth time is entirely unknown, so I calculating his natal chart with that in consideration. As such, this is not going to be as accurate as it could be, but as accurate as it can be with what I have to work with. There's a more in-depth reading of all things relationship based on his zodiac here if anyone is interested, but this will be mainly focused on his ideal type, and more in-depth on it than I was there. This is all for fun, and not confirmed. I can be entirely off, as astrology isn't...An exact art when it comes to these things, but this is just based on astrology. This is not meant to be malicious, and take this with a grain of salt. With all that out of the way, please enjoy!

Pisces Sun

-Based on his sun sign, a Libra, Sagittarius, Cancer, Scorpio, Capricorn, Taurus, Virgo, or another Pisces would be most compatible with him.

Values

Trusting and loyal He'd naturally be attracted to extremely honest people, as well as attracted to trust in others, plus people who are very upfront and open from the jump. Not the type who will tell their entire life story to him immediately, but the type who will be upfront with their feelings and desires, and will essentially let him know what exactly he's getting himself into. Essentially, he needs someone he knows for certain he can trust, and who trusts him in return. Pisces is a very trusting and loyal sign by nature, and he'd expect that in return from whoever he finds himself in a relationship with. He'd want someone who is as loyal to him as he would be to them, someone who can give as much as they get from him, which would be a lot in terms of these two traits.

Caring, nurturing, and honest Pisces look for people who can be there for them, and help care for them. Someone who is in-tuned with emotions, and can help ease them through tough, self-deprecating, or self-pitying periods and listen to their troubles, as well as talk about the deeper things in life. They need someone warm compassionate and caring, as well as ideally someone with confidence and steadfastness that helps balance out their sensitivity and generally self-pitying nature. Pisces also love praise, albeit they're very perceptive, so they'll know if it's honest, real praise or not. They like honest praise that's not just surface-level like "I like your shirt!" but something deeper and genuinely from the heart. They also need someone with enough emotional maturity to help combat their general emotionalness.

Decisive, steadfast, and intelligent Hyunjin would probably find himself more drawn to someone decisive, who knows what they want, and who voices their opinions. He'd also be drawn to someone who could help guide him, and offer advice and counsel when it comes to decision-making, without being entirely overbearing or controlling of his decisions. Someone who could help him out, and who he could talk to when trying to make important decisions he can't seem to decide on. He'd also need someone who wouldn't be distinctly bothered by the difference between his private and public personas and would know that he still loves them and he's always going to be Hyunjin. Pisces naturally has a divide between outward and inward desires, which would naturally make it so that he wants someone who can put up with that. I also think he'd either want someone who is entirely steadfast and the same outwardly and inwardly, to balance out his fluctuations. Someone constant, who can be an anchor.

Outward traits

Pisces men are attracted to confidence, in all aspects. Especially confidence in who someone is as a person. Someone who's always calm and collected, and moves with confidence elegance, and poise. Someone with a very open and pleasant expression. The person doesn't have to always be calm and collected but pisces men like someone who appears that way. It gives them the sense that they can be open and honest, and that they're not walking on eggshells. He'd also feel like he can trust them more, because they'd return that open honesty, and be relaxed around him. He also wouldn't want someone who's very needlessly abrasive. They are attracted to stronger, more athletic and assertive individuals because of their generally passive nature.

Pisces men are attracted to people who have very bright smiles where their eyes light up. Smiles that are sexy and wholesome at the exact same time. Someone who takes care of themselves, but doesn't do too much. Someone who puts thought into their outward appearance, and is well-groomed but not necessarily extravagant. Someone who does their hair, and if they wear makeup it accentuates their features but isn't too much. Smelling nice is also a must with Pisces men. They like when someone dresses in clothing they clearly put thought into, and are practical for the environment but still convey style. While Pisces men wouldn't necessarily mind people who show off a lot of skin in how they dress and find it attractive, nothing is sexier to them than someone who can show off their body fully clothed or tastefully covered. They prefer people who dress more elegantly, clothing that's flowy and gives an airy feel. They also use their imaginations a lot, so if clothing makes someone seem magical in a way, it will draw a Pisces more to them. Though they also prefer people who wear more comfortable clothing, that's either tight or loose.

Pisces are attracted to femininity. I'm not going to sit here and say Hyunjin is straight because I don't entirely know, but. I do know that Pisces appreciates more feminine energy. Whether that be a feminine guy or a gal. The feminine feel really differs from pisces to pisces, but generally, that's a preference. Pisces men prefer soft, delicate features and are attracted to people with smooth jaws, large lips, or features of that general nature. They're also attracted to large thighs and wide hips. Though they're not primarily attracted to more feminine builds. Pisces also rules hands and feet, so obviously, Pisces men are attracted to that. They like well-kept hands. and feet, as well as either powerful hands, or clean and delicate ones. They're also attracted to good posture. They also like people who can do work with their hands. They're also really attracted to people with beautiful eyes, as eyes are a window to the soul.

Virgo Moon

-Based on his moon sign, he'd be more compatible with: Cancer Moon, Gemini Moon, Taurus Moon, and Scorpio Moon. Moon sign compatability is definitely one of the most important, as it dictates one's emotions. It's who you are in private, and your comfort zone.

Values

Incapability Virgo moons definitely like to have someone they could care for, and look out for. They like being able to take care of their partners and feel needed by doing little things for them. Virgo moons are generally very domestic people, and they like taking care of chores and such. They definitely feel more in their element of caring for others and would prefer it to be that way. They're drawn to people who seem weak or even almost incapable, and who can't care for themselves on their own, so they can feel needed, and help out caring for that person. They'd prefer someone who needs help with things like bills, or balancing books, or other more domestic tasks, because they feel needed if they can do those things better. Definitely Captain save a ho vibes from Virgo Moons.

Calmness, outgoingness, routine, constant Hyunjin would probably be drawn to someone with a calm, more laid-back, or relaxed demeanor to offset his being prone to getting very stressed and overwhelmed. He'd probably look for someone with a calm, balancing aura who can help calm him down when he freaks out about something. He'd look for someone who can help draw him out of his shell just enough, but still be able to follow a routine, and be a reliable constant. He'd want someone with whom he'd know what he's getting himself into and know he can rely on. He'd want someone reliable and would definitely find himself more drawn to the type who are also very routine people like himself.

Practical, social, good listener, reliable, thick-skinned Hyunjin would inherently be attracted to people who are definitely affectionate but can be more subdued in public settings. He'd be drawn to someone who could bring him out of his shell and someone who he could feel entirely comfortable with. He'd want someone who can talk, and who can listen, and just genuinely someone he can talk to and even have deeper conversations with. He's a very trustworthy and reliable person, and as such, he'd naturally expect his partner to be the same. He'd want someone who talks to him about their problems but can also listen to his own. He'd definitely want someone who can bring out the more hidden sides of him, whether it be his talkative nature or his sexuality. He'd also want someone who makes him feel good about himself and his appearance. Someone who makes him feel like he's actually worth something. He has a lot to give, and anyone he's with should have a lot to give as well. He'd need someone who's more thick-skinned and could handle his criticism. He'd also need someone who trusts him but doesn't trust him immediately or blindly. Ironically, an excess of trust would make him trust his partner less. He could do good with someone who's more whimsical or dreamy, as they'd broaden the horizons of his inherent practicality, but at the same time, he'd be more drawn to like-mindedly practical people, and might even find someone too dreamy to be annoying. Virgos strives for perfection in all things, including partners. As such, Hyunjin will expect absolute perfection in relationships and partners, and can even be very critical because of it, since he'd feel like he's guiding you towards perfection by critiquing things.

Emotionally intelligent, straightforward, music lover, and patient Hyunjin would definitely want someone who is emotionally intelligent and competent but isn't overly emotional, again circling back to his attraction to those on the calmer side. He would want someone who's very straightforward in all manners, including emotions, and who wouldn't overwhelm him and can genuinely relax around. But he'd also want someone who can give him space when he needs it and is fine with that. He'd want someone who's as into music as he is, and who he can talk about music with all the time, and can even sing songs with. They don't have to be good at singing, but they just have to be able to sing along with him and have fun and no judgment. He'd also want someone who understands emotions and music as much as he does, as that amount of perceptiveness is harder to come by. He'd definitely want someone who's more in-tuned with and in control of their emotions. He'll want to test the waters first and make sure he can trust someone with his heart. As such, he needs someone patient enough to not be bothered by that.

Outward traits

Virgo moons are attracted to people with nice hands, wrists, and forearms. They're also attracted to distinctive eyebrows, and very good, rich voices. Eyes are also a big thing with virgo moons, as once again, eyes are the window to the soul. To be more specific, they like people with large 'gemstone eyes' they can get lost in. They like people with nice hair that's thick, curly, or wavy and nice facial features. They like dimples, and nice thighs, as virgo moons are firm believers that thick thighs save lives, regardless of gender, shoulders, and butts. They like longer necks, and strong jawlines. They also like people with nice smiles, and nice noses. They like well-distribution of features and weight, whether you're plus-sized or not they prefer nice distribution. They're very symmetrical people, and like their partners to have symmetry in their features. They're also very cerebral. Say one wrong thing? Immediate ick. Being wrong and sticking to it? Immediate ick.

Pisces Mercury

-Based on his Pisces Mercury, he's more compatible with people who have Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces mercuries. Mercury determines how people communicate, and communication is very important.

Values

Objective, stable, intellectual, seductive He definitely would not be drawn to a more moody individual, instead being drawn to people who can be more objective when it comes down to it, and are more calm and stable. He would be drawn to someone who can put up with the changes from talkative to withdrawn and would be fine with them. He'd also be drawn more to someone he could be more open to, and someone who isn't overtly aggressive, as he'd desire more calm in a relationship and avoids arguing. He'd need someone who can definitely knock some sense into him and combat his overall gullibleness, and his desire to believe those around him. He'd also be drawn to someone who he could be comfortable enough with to be straightforward, and voice his thoughts, needs, and opinions. He'd want someone with similar interests, and who's a fellow intellectual who. he can speak to about deeper topics, or literature. He'd also be attracted more to people who are alluring and sensual, kind of like the seductive type. He'd be attracted to someone with innate charm and beauty, not necessarily someone who fits beauty standards, but who he finds to be drop-dead gorgeous.

Pisces Venus

-Due to his pisces venus, he's much more compatible with people with venuses in Cancer and Scorpio. When it comes to romance, Venus is definitely where it's at when it comes to things like this.

Values

Savior/Needs saving, submissive or dominant He's attracted to an underdog or a wayward person in need of his help. He can easily get into saving someone or being saved, because he's attracted to martyrdom, or states of suffering. He is also attracted to being saved. (Captain Save a hoe) He's actually into inequality, surprisingly. He'd definitely go better with someone who is entirely submissive, or entirely dominant, no in-betweens. Not only that, but he'd go better with someone who can go with the flow and feel the relationship out with him, instead of just planning everything out. He'd do best with someone who could put up with his occasional lies to spare their feelings. Someone who could bring the truth out of him, or someone who could read him well enough to figure out the truth on their own. He'd also do best with someone who can put up with his indecision, and even possibly help guide him in that aspect.

Good-hearted, pessimist/realist, ambivert He definitely would want someone who's good-hearted like him, and definitely someone who's more calm and easygoing, and could fit into a life of ease and leisure. However, he could also go for someone who, for all their easygoing calmness, is a massive pessimist or realist, to balance him out and essentially take off his rose-tinted glasses. However, that may also create conflict. Definitely hit or miss. He'd do well with someone who's possibly an ambivert, someone who can be introverted or extroverted depending on the situation and give the best of both worlds. Someone who can keep up with him in social situations and also bring him out of his shell with new people.

Observant, mentally strong, loving So...Let's address the elephant in the room, which is obsession, possessiveness, and manipulation which are RAMPANT in his natal chart. He'd undoubtedly need someone who can both give up control, but also put their foot down. Someone who can easily notice the beginnings of manipulation and snuff them out in a tactful way. Someone strong mentally, to not let them get to them. Essentially someone who can stop the cycle. He needs someone with strong feelings, but definitely not with the same intensity as his own, not in a way that they don't love as strongly, but rather that they're not intense and controlling and manipulating. He needs someone who can balance him out and is much more mellow in their love. Someone who can put up with possessiveness to an extent, but won't let it grow worse or become a habit, or even grow too extreme. Essentially he'd need someone who could put their foot down while still being mellow and being able to put up with it in small dosages and not often.

Aries Mars

Values

Non-tempermental, holds grudges, rational, patient With his Aries mars, he'd have a nasty temper and have a quick fuse, though he'd get over these things quickly. No lingering hatred, or anger, or grudges. He'd definitely need someone with a temper not as quick as his. Someone who can put up with these flare-ups and think rationally, and help him cool down. But because he's prone to letting things go, he'd definitely end up finding himself with a partner who keeps his grudges FOR him. Kind of like that meme that's like "Okay, I hate him too now, because you're too nice and you don't know how to hate anyone right.". He'd also need someone who's more rational and takes time to think logically. Someone who can balance out his impulsiveness, and maybe even teach him to be more patient and to think things through more. Though additionally, he could also go well with someone who's just as impulsive, though I see that quickly spiraling out of control.

Fun, keeps him on his toes He'd need someone exciting and can keep him interested. Someone who is straightforward and has many layers, so they're always bringing something new to the table. He'd also love a chase, so he'd want someone who plays hard to get, but not too hard to get to where he grows bored of them. He needs someone fun, who can always keep him interested in them. Because...Well, let's be real here. With all his placements, commitment will be a major issue with him, and cheating may or may not happen.

Passionate, intense, driven, money conscious, humor He'd need someone who can match his passion and intensity when it comes to love and can indulge his darker desires. He'd need someone who's not necessarily as sporty and outdoorsy as he is, but at least keep him company or try for the sake of him to indulge him sometimes. He'd definitely need someone who is as driven as he is and could help him with his success. He'd need someone as honest and trusting as he is and someone who can actually earn his honesty and trust even if he has a tendency to give it to the unworthy. He'd also need someone to help him with his money management, who's more frugal or at least conscious of their spending, and has a plan and nice savings for the both of them. Again, he needs a realist and/or pessimist by his side. He'd also need someone with humor as well, and I can see him with someone competitive in a more playful way, who wouldn't just let him win but would definitely not play as hard if he was having a bad day.

Outward traits

An Aries mars man will be more attracted to pretty faces. A person with a strong jawline, sharp eyes, high cheekbones, and shapely legs can strongly attract him. He will always notice strong features in a partner. Aries mars men expect their partners to stand out from the crowd with unique features, and a partner with over-makeup that conceals their natural beauty will never attract him. Hence, less makeup without hiding natural looks will be the way to go with him. Aries mars men are incredibly masculine. Though they love strong and athletic-body type partners, they are still particular about the feminine aspect like Pisces are. No matter how independent or assertive his partner is, he wants to see their more... "feminine" side. Features like long hair or broad lips impress Aries men. He will also lose his heart to a person's tender hands and beautiful contours. Clothing highlighting "feminine" features will be more attractive in the eyes of Aries men. They like and appreciate it! An Aries man’s first choice is a person who cares about their appearance. Clean and hygienic people can easily attract Aries men. Let a person may or may not apply makeup. But they should be clean and hygienic for an Aries guy. Glowing skin, decent hairstyle, and well-dressed people are their primary choices. Thus, hygienic beauty always attracts sturdy Aries men. It doesn’t matter how attractive a people is if he thinks they are unclean.

Overview

So, as we can see, Hyunjin will definitely have an...Extensive criteria. He will expect perfection, trust, loyalty, a caring, nurturing, and honest nature, someone who's decisive, steadfast, and intelligent, someone who's calm, outgoing, routine, and constant, someone who's practical, social, a good listener, reliable, and thick-skinned, someone who is emotionally intelligent, straightforward, a music lover, and patient, someone who is objective, stable, intellectual, and seductive, someone who is non-temperamental, holds grudges, rational, and patient, someone who is fun, keeps him on his toes, someone who is passionate, intense, driven, money conscious, and funny.

Basically...He expects absolute perfection from a partner, and his standards are highly unrealistic. He will craft an image of his partners in his head, due to the heavy Pisces influence mixed with his virgo moon, which is highly unattainable, and the second someone does one thing to contradict that idea he made up in his head, he'll get the ick and lose interest completely.

Due to his Aries mars, he loves the chase and is extremely intense and passionate, but he easily loses interest. He likes to chase but will lose interest if he has to chase too much. And then there's his possessive, obsessive, yandere-like, manipulative, if I can't have you no one can type vibes. He definitely has the POTENTIAL to be a toxic partner, but in my opinion, those things are definitely balanced out by a lot of his other influences. Are they present? Yes. But he can fix that himself or a partner can help guide him with that, and they won't be too prevalent. In the bedroom?... Well, that's a blog for another day.

Also, Hyunjin may or may not cheat. He's very loyal, that's for certain, but that's when he's committed and in love. He loves a lot, and he loves fiercely, but who's to say the love is truly there? I feel like if someone doesn't meet the standards he set in his mind, or his idea of perfection, or he just grows tired of them, he'll find those things in someone else's arms. Not because he's inherently a cheater, but all his non-committal, wishy-washy placements when mixed with his Aries Mars, and his tendency to lie to spare feelings, would drive him to cheat on his partner if he falls out of love in any way instead of breaking up, because he wouldn't want to hurt them. However, once he finds the one, I think he will have absolute loyalty. The only issue is...Finding that one. In conclusion...He needs someone who can put up with all that. And meet all those impossible standards.

#hyunjin #hyunjin astrology #hyunjin relationship #hyunjin ideal type #hyunjin boyfriend #stray kids astrology #stray kids #skz astrology #astrology observations #astrology #natal chart #kpop #skz #relationship #ideal type #zodiac signs #astro observations

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Saw - A hot Christmas - Door.24

warning : fluff, kissing, cuddling

The Calendar

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mark : Christmas is not without reason the policeman's favorite time of year. Mainly because the criminals and victims who should end up in the traps are afraid to go out on the street. But the only thing that kept him from his feelings, the anger and the complex to judge was his sweetheart, who he knew would be waiting for him as soon as he got to his apartment. Only this year was a little different. When he opened the door and his voice reached for her, he told her he was back. ,,I'm in the bedroom," she said and heard the older man open the door and turn on the light. But as soon as his eyes settled on her, he paused. An amused grin appeared on his lips when he saw the police costume with the Christmas cap. ,,Well, I have to give my officer a treat," she countered with a grin and got up from the bed, taking the plate of cookies from the bedside table and feeling him pull her towards him. He took one of the cookies and pulled her into an even sweeter kiss. ,,My sweet reward," he mumbled to himself before slowly pulling her towards the bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Strahm : Overtime. Overtime was nothing new, especially on the important days of the year and, of course, at Christmas. It was something he knew was necessary. ,,Necessary as long as I'm always necessary," he muttered angrily and rattled the snack machine until he got the muesli bar. But the smirk on his lips as he thought of her let him know that it was worth staying longer for one thing. He had his pretty wife with him and they were spending Christmas together on the station - there were probably worse things. ,,Sweetheart, tell me, have you-" he wanted to ask her when he came back into the office and his gaze went to her. Instead of the uniform, his wife was suddenly wearing a reddish short dress with a Santa hat and two cups of warm chocolate in her hand, and the grin suggested an activity that would keep them both very warm. ,,Merry Christmas," she murmured and pressed the cocoa into his hand before pulling him towards the small couch that was just big enough for them both. ,,Merry Christmas, darling," he replied and gave her a loving kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gordon: Being in hospital at Christmas without his wife and daughter was something that annoyed and saddened him. Having to look after patients until late at night was his job, but his family was waiting for him at home. The beeping of his messenger snapped him out of his thoughts and a smile came to his lips. He loved his family, but he also loved them. His beautiful affair. He went into the small medical room and dot saw his lover in a skimpy nurse's uniform with reindeer ears on her head. ,,Miss, you do realize that anyone could have come in this Christmas Eve?" he asked playfully, his fingers flicking against the horns. The little bells on the fabric jingled slightly. ,,Oh no, and it's Christmas... well, you're standing under mistletoe," the younger girl replied and the blond looked up. He saw the branch hanging there before he put his fingers on her hip and pulled her towards him. ,,Then I'll have to kiss you," he replied and pulled her into a gentle but heartfelt kiss in the small Christmas room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adam: Christmas together with his girlfriend, first at his best friend's Christmas concert. ,,It's Christmas!" he wrote to her over the music and saw her smiling at him, but he knew that she was actually imagining something else. For them, Christmas meant being together, presents, wine, good food and watching the Christmas story on TV. Which is why he took her by the hand during the break, ,,Don't worry babe, I know something better, trust me," he said and gave her a kiss on the cheek, seeing how surprised she was that he had fled the concert. But only moments later as they walked through the streets the lights came on above them and they stopped at the little kiosk and bought a candied apple that it had for the season. Before they went back to his apartment, not knowing that he had asked his other friend to decorate it. ,,Adam, that's really pretty," he heard her murmur as she looked at the Christmas tree before jumping into his arms and smiling as he gave her a kiss. ,,I knew I was the best... Merry Christmas," he replied and looked at the shining big object himself before he felt her lips on his again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eric: Daniel wasn't there this Christmas. He had just fled to his mother's house and wanted to get away from his father. An act that hurt Eric would not lie. He remembered exactly how Daniel had given him an almost obvious hug, the smile almost fading before he got into the cab and it drove off. Eric left alone for Christmas, or so it seemed. If he didn't have his girlfriend Daniel's stepmother, even if the teenager would rather kill himself than admit it. The younger woman was already waiting for her policeman. When he came back from taking it away, he noticed the vanilla-like smell that was in the house. Honey, I'm here! ,,Come here," she chirped and Eric smiled, she always seemed happy and he loved her so much for it. He joined her in the kitchen and the smell of the vanilla cookies was all the stronger but that wasn't the reason why he swallowed. ,,My pretty cookie fairy," he murmured with a grin as he saw her wink at him and he tasted one of the cookies, sighing at the delicious sweetness before pulling her into a gentle hug and giving her a kiss of praise. I guess we have each other," he winked and the two of them each took the cookie bowls before disappearing towards the couch arm and arm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Amanda : Amanda couldn't stand Christmas. She had spent the last few years before she was cured on the cold street. She hated the cold and as soon as the first snowflakes fell from the sky, she wrapped herself in a blanket. A blanket that was empty next to her this year. Her beloved had ventured out into the snow to get a few ingredients for a chicken soup. ,,The family recipe Amanda...don't worry I'll beat them all aside if they want to take my soup vegetables away from me," the black-haired girl remembered the words of the others and smiled slightly, still able to feel the kiss. Before the door opened only seconds later and she heard the victorious voice of her partner. Practically throwing the soup vegetables into the pot, she slipped under the covers to Amadan. ,,Well, there's my snowflake," said the black-haired girl and gave her a kiss on the cold tip of her nose, placing her hands around the younger girl's cold ones. ,,But now I'm getting warmer again," she replied and Amda smiled before she felt the kiss on her lips. Together under the blanket, warming themselves, they would spend Christmas with soup and movies - it could hardly be better for lovers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#advent calendar #saw movies #mark hoffman x reader #peter strahm x reader #lawrence gordon x reader #adam stanheight x reader #amanda young x reader #mark hoffman #peter strahm #lawrence gordon #adam stanheight #amanda young #eric matthews #eric matthews x reader

[undeadcortez]

OH, CHRISTMAS TREE

kit walker x fem! reader | 3.6K words

!! SMUT BELOW THE CUT !! please do not read unless you are eighteen or older | mentions of oral sex (both m and f receiving), unprotected p in v sex, and not much else, just mainly fluffy-ish smut

happy holidays, y’all!! i finally got this one finished for you guys and wanted to say i’m so excited to be stepping back into the american horror story fandom and writing once again. i hope to see you very soon in the new year with some new headcanons and a fully updated archive list of all my old works. i love you all!!

“And…,” you paused, tongue peaking between red-stained lips as you delicately hung the final ornament on the tree, “done!”

Hands fell to your hips in fists as you stepped back in utter awe of the tree before you. It was beautiful, decked out with silver tinsel and red globes that sparkled under the white lights wrapped around the branches. You were proud, but not all the credit was yours for the taking.

“It’s gorgeous, sweetheart,” that familiar, thick Boston accent sounded as he snuck back into the living room, “we make a good pair when it comes to decoratin’.”

“Is that the only thing we’re ‘good’ at as a pair?” you immediately quipped, finally diverting your gaze from the tree to your boyfriend.

He held a crumbly chocolate chip cookie, half finished already, and a few crumbs decorating his lips as he smiled. “I could think of a few more things,” he said, leaning in to land a peck on your lips. He smelt like cinnamon and tasted of those cookies, chocolatey and sickeningly sweet.

It was your first Christmas together, you and Kit. And though it had been everything the two of you talked about for months, you were just getting around to putting up decorations… on December Twenty-Fourth. Listen, money was tight. With Kit earning about a dollar an hour, and the diner scheduling you fewer shifts, the both of you decided gifts came first and decorations would come later. However, as Christmas came closer and closer, the bills got higher and higher, and you’re not sure whose idea it was at first, but gifts were decidedly put on the back burner.

It made sense to get a Christmas tree. Sure, one might think ‘what’s a tree without any gifts?’, but this tree was your gift. You’d rather spend the day in, curled up against Kit’s chest beneath a layer of blankets, and be able to admire a tree. And in all honesty, it wasn’t actually beautiful. To you, of course it was, but to anyone else? They would see the several bare spots and limited decoration to cover them. They would see the flicker of years old lights and the cracks on the globes that are struggling not to just shatter. However, you were proud of it. Not to mention, this was yours and Kit’s savings combined over the last month.

Kit’s free arm soon wrapped around your waist, and you watched as he took another bite of the cookie before your attention was back on the tree. The warmth of your lover had you practically melting against his chest whilst the tree did the same, warming up the room and it was simply perfect. You could stay here forever. No job to exhaust you, no bills to pay, no worries ever again. Just you and Kit and this tree.

“Suga’, I—,” he started, drawing you out of your thoughts and focusing back on his crumb-covered, stubble-riddled lips, “I uh, I got ya somethin’, and please don’t be upset, sweetheart.” You opened your mouth to object, but he continued, “I know we agreed on no gifts, but I’ve had this one saved since August.”

A frown took over your lips as the warmth disappeared into the bedroom down the hall, leaving you all alone with the tree. You knew something like this would happen. There was no world where your boyfriend, Kit fucking Walker, would allow you to go giftless on Christmas. You stepped back, finally allowing yourself to sit down on Kit’s tattered couch, and waited while thoughts of guilt consumed you.

You tried to scrounge up enough for a gift for Kit. You meant to set aside money a few months back for it, but something always came up. Bills, or food, or gas, it was always just something. And your Christmas fund took the brunt of it. You were hoping the holidays would bring in a few more tips, but with your limited shifts, all the tips you got went to necessities. You couldn’t even afford a candy bar let alone a nice gift for the one person you ached to give one to.

His grin sparkled in the lights of the tree as he returned to the living room, pulling you out of your thoughts. It was impossible to be upset about the gift, or the lack of yours to give. Not because of the tree, or the holiday spirit that hung in the air, but that smile — Kit’s contagious, beautiful smile.

He was pretty like this. Truly, any version of him is utterly breathtaking, but the way his eyes twinkled beneath the white lights, the love that he held within them. And his freckles, each one prominently kissing along the ridge of his nose. His hair rested perfectly atop his head despite the full day of work he just had, and your eyes just can’t stray away from that infamous smile.

With one hand behind his back, the couch sunk in a tad as he sat beside you, gathering your hand in his free one, still a bit sticky from the treat he had moments ago — it’s safe to assume he scarfed it down the second he disappeared to the bedroom. You couldn’t help, but chuckle to yourself at the thought. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, the rough pad of his thumb brushing along your knuckles in familiarity. You did as you were told.

There was a moment of silence, of stillness, before some shuffling in front of you, and suddenly, a velvety box was placed in your lap. It wasn’t a ring or earrings, you immediately ruled that out by its size alone. And before your mind could go racing on what it might be in a box this size, Kit’s soft lips were on the corner of your mouth. Only there for a moment as he lingered and mumbled, “open, sweetheart.”

It took a moment for your eyes to focus with the dim lighting of the room, but soon, you were staring down at a green, you guessed right, velvet box. It adorned a small, darker green bow wrapped around its entirety, and just by the look of the box alone you could tell it was expensive.

“Kit, baby, I—,” you started.

“Just open it, babe,” he cut you off, insisting. It wasn’t often he would speak over you, but you knew the both of you would be going back and forth for hours if he hadn’t. You sighed and pulled the edge of the bow. Once the bow was nothing, but a mere piece of ribbon, undone and limp on your lap, you lifted the lid.

“Oh… my,” whatever words were on your tongue were swallowed up by the sparkly silver before you. It was a necklace with an opal-esque pendant, embellished in silver and what appeared to be diamonds. The necklace was nothing short of stunning, and you reflected Kit’s grin as you took it out of its cushioned box.

The chain was dainty despite the chunky centerpiece, but that thought didn’t cross your mind as it held it up in front of you. Watching as the diamonds shimmered in the lights, much like Kit’s caramel eyes — a connection you would make forever more.

“Do ya like it?” he questioned, and you couldn’t even take your eyes off of the necklace as you answered:

“Kit, like it? I love it!”

And before your thoughts could become all-consuming, before guilt could rush through your veins at just how expensive this must have been with nothing to give in return, before any tears could well up in your eyes, Kit’s lips were on your own, and you were immediately putty between the plumpness.

Stubble tickled the tips of your fingers as you brought your free hand to his cheek, setting the one adorning the necklace in your lap. Inhaling cinnamon between short breaths as Kit eased it further and further into something more than just a loving peck. You swear he made your head spin with just his kiss, and the spices dancing on your lips and twirling in your nostrils only made it all worse.

A whimper escaped your throat as he pulled away, and you ached to chase after the lips. It was almost embarrassing how a simple kiss could make you so desperate, but who really could blame you? Kit spoiled you, and not just in the sense of gifts and goodies. Kit Walker fucked you unlike anyone else could.

And maybe it was greedy. Greedy to be given such a gorgeous gift and now aching for something more. Kit was a God at all things pleasure, you really couldn’t help it when the filthiest thoughts would come rushing in each time he kissed you like that. Thoughts of him spreading you open on this couch, necklace simply dangling from your fingertips while the other dug into the scarred skin of his back. Or maybe coming undone on his tongue as he kitten licked between your thighs, sopping the whole couch cushion below you. Or maybe—

“Sweetheart,” he groaned, and you certainly weren’t expecting that, though you probably should’ve. Spoiled, remember? You’re spoiled, nothing short of it, and all because Kit ached for you just as much as you did for him. He enjoyed when his fingers would disappear into your pink, weeping pussy, he loved it even more when his tongue was making quick laps at it, and don’t even get him started on how good you felt enveloping his leaking cock. The ache was most definitely always mutual. And what made Kit unlike any other man you’d been with before, he didn’t care that he’d just given you a gift so generous, so thoughtful, he would find just as much pleasure in eating you out right that second as he did watching you open it.

It was a whirlwind of senses, that moment. As your minty breath tangled with his own spiced smell, and the sight of his eyes, riddled with lust, caramel and twinkling. It was a simple kiss, that’s really all it was, but fuck, did it have you both craving more.

“I really do love the necklace,” you tried, almost desperately, to forget about that ever-growing hunger between your legs, about the overwhelming emptiness, about the subtle drip tickling your folds, “It’s beautiful, baby.”

His eyes flickered between the both of yours, and he really hadn’t drifted much further back. Your hand still rested on his cheek, and his breath remained hitting your swollen lips. “I’m glad you like it,” he whispered, and it’s almost like he knew how sudden the lust overcame the room as well, but his next words would prove to you that he didn’t care, “please kiss me again, suga’.”

The second kiss was far more intense. Your lips met his own and you were confident now that you knew he needed this all the same. Eyes fluttered closed as you rushed to cup his cheeks with both hands, dropping the necklace back into its box and pushing it aside to be talked about later. Right now, all that was on your mind was Kit, and how his tongue prodded at your lips. Once you parted them, it dipped in, roaming the space as if Kit owned it. He did.

The soft thunk of the velvet box hitting the floor couldn’t pull you away. Not as Kit expertly slotted his lips along yours, tongue coming and going with a new route each time. Brushing along the back of your teeth, tangling for fleeting moments with your own tongue, or coaxing your plump lip between his. This kept going for a while, purely making out on the couch with his hands wandering all along your hips and bum, until he suddenly craved elsewhere.

His spit-coated lips dragged along your jawline, and you tilted your head back with a moan. And as you trailed your fingers along his cheeks, into his hair, he swore you felt him smirk against your skin.

Kit’s own hands finally found refuge on the globes of your ass, pulling you into his lap as his back rested against the armrest of the couch. Another moan bounced off the living room walls as he squooze, and his smirk grew as he kissed along your neck and down to your collarbones.

There were many nights when the sex was slow. Kit would take his time undressing you, and the foreplay could last for hours. He would kiss you until your whole body was numb and buzzing, and he’d make you climax several times over before even thinking about his own needs. Tonight, however, was a one that came by rarely, and Kit was hastily fiddling with your shirt. And though those nights where the sex took place into my the sun came up were nothing short of amazing, nights like this were your favorite.

There was just something so angelic about a pussy-hungry Kit Walker. Doe eyes glazed over with lust, cheeks flushed as fingers tremble along your skin, and the pure heat that radiates off of his body. It was all present tonight, and his infamous, starving moans came into play as he finally pulled your blouse over your head, letting it meet its fate on the floor alongside green velvet.

“God, sweetheart,” he whispered, taking in the lacy, white bra you adorned, his hands burning your skin as it trailed up your side and cupped your left tit, kneading it between his calloused fingers, “you’re the only thing I want for Christmas — truly the best gift any man could ask for.”

His words alone made your heart flutter, a shiver sent up your spine as your cunt clenched around nothing while it weeped against your cotton panties. Melting between his fingertips, you moaned and finally looked back down to meet up with Kit’s gaze. One hand tightened on his brunette locks as you spoke, the other traveled down to ground yourself on his sweater clad chest, “then play with your gift, baby. Please, don’t keep me waiting any longer.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. In what felt like a matter of seconds, you were naked besides your underwear with your back now against the worn cushions of the couch. Kit hovered above you, still clothed. You felt as if he was devouring you with his eyes, and he was, taking in every inch of your glowing skin beneath the Christmas tree lights.

A hand met your cheek, hot to the touch just as anticipated. The other was on your hip, fingertips dipping beneath your panties, and you whimpered. Kit’s own noises filled the air, bouncing off of every branch of the tree, and dancing in your ears. Your own hands were playing with the bottom hem of his shirt, having fallen from their positions when you were guided down on your back.

“It’s not fair,” you whispered, a slight pout on your lips as Kit’s thumb caught the plumpness of it, running the rough pad around your mouth, “I’m naked, why aren’t you?”

He chuckled, watching the way you parted your lips with ease as he applied pressure to your bottom one and pulled. You moaned, squirming a bit beneath him to find any friction on your achy cunt to no avail. “Just admirin’ my gift, baby doll,” he murmured before letting go of your lip and gently pushing your hands away to lift up his shirt.

You couldn’t help the sound that crept its way up your throat at the sight of Kit’s bare torso. You’ve seen time and time again, but it never failed to completely knock the breath out of you. Chest sprinkled with just the tiniest amounts of hair and freckles, and tense abs that only tightened as you reached out to touch them. Your fingers slotted between the ridges, the touch lingered before drifting and working on the button of his pants. You couldn’t take the emptiness much longer.

He assisted you, and soon enough, you were both just in your underwear, nearly breathless and giggly. You shared a smile, one that Kit reflected before his lips crashed down onto yours in only the third kiss of the night, and his fingers pushed off your panties.

It took all your might not to follow after his lips as he pulled away, but you’re almost glad you didn’t, or else you wouldn’t be able to admire his next moves. Brows knit together, and his lips parted to release a moan, while his eyes were locked in on your cunt. “You’re so wet, sweetheart,” he murmured, and yeah, it was glistening with your slick in the twinkling light, and though he knew the answer, he asked, “is this all for me?”

Any words you want to say got stuck in your throat, only nodding as his fingers reached down and parted your folds. The filthy, wet noises of your cunt mixed with Kit’s heavenly moans while he admired what was waiting for him was almost too much in itself, your free hand gripping the plush throw pillow beside your head.

“Use your words, baby,” he insisted, and his touch left nearly as soon as it came, “is this all for me?”

“Yes!” you nearly croaked, voice raw as if you’ve been teased for hours, as you’ve already been fucked out, and it’s exactly what Kit had been waiting for, “it’s all for you, Kit Walker.”

He groaned at the use of his full name, and he pulled down his white briefs. Much like his chest, you’ve seen his cock time and time again, but it never failed to utterly amaze you. It’s a pretty cock with a flushed pink mushroom tip, a normal girth, but a length just tad longer than average. It takes all your strength to allow Kit to do whatever he wished in this moment rather than just wrap your lips around the swollen head. And you're glad you didn’t despite your near drooling, because Kit immediately gripped the base and brushed the tip along your folds.

Arching your back just a bit, you closed your eyes and moaned out his name, “Kit.” His precum mixed with your slick, and he admired just the moment of it all before dipping his tip inside, and you both let out a deep, nearly animalistic moan.

As he pushed in further, your hand slipped from the cushions to hold onto his shoulder, leaving little marks in the shapes of crescents against his skin. He stretched you perfectly, much like any other time, and you whimpered as he bottomed out, clenching around the thickness.

“I love you,” you whispered before he began to move, fluttering your eyes open, and taking in all of his beauty, “Merry Christmas, Kit.”

“Merry Christmas, my love,” he whispered back, and pulled back before pushing his way back in and moaning.

The gentle moment only lasted that, a moment, before Kit’s actions found themselves hasty once again, and he was finding a rhythm on your cunt. It was loving, but it was quick, and you knew your crescents would be little bruises in the morning with how tight you were gripping him.

There was a hand beside your face, holding onto the cushion while his other left your cheek. It dragged down your body, between the valley of your breast, over your stomach, and halted just above your cunt. His thumb dipped down, messily rubbing small circles on your clit in time with his thrusts, and you gasped, breaking the only sounds of moans and skin slapping together.

Kit groaned at the way your cunt fluttered around his cock — and if it was anyone, but him, they would’ve made fun of you for already being so close. You couldn’t help it, though. Kit simply just knew how to please you. He did stop the circling on that sensitive bundle of nerves, however, and it had you whining. He wanted this to last, at least for a few more moments.

His hips sped up a bit, and the noises he was making were the furthest things from God, filthy, but somehow still pure heaven to your ears. His breath was staggered, and maybe it was the pent up excitement, the heat of the moment, but Kit’s balls were tightening as they slapped against your bum, and he could tell his orgasm was just around the corner, too, despite how little time he was buried in your warmth.

You couldn’t complain, though, as Kit’s thumb messily toyed with your clit once again, so deep that you swear you felt him in your tummy. He was hitting the gushy, sensitive part inside of you with each thrust and you tightened around him, all, but screaming as your orgasm reigned closer and closer.

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he insisted, and your eyes fluttered open as the pleasure took over, eyebrows knit as you stared up at your lover and came around his cock.

It truly hit you like a truck, the heat in the ears and twitch in your thighs increasing tenfold as your climax dragged out. Kit nursed you through it, slowing for just a moment when you noticeably grew closer to overstimulation. “Thank you,” you whispered after a moment of catching your breath, and only then did he speed back up to chase his own.

“Oh,” he moaned, and truly it was a sight to see, with his eyebrows knitted, eyes shut tight, lips parted. “Oh, shit, ‘m close, ‘m—!” his words were cut off by his orgasm, taking his words straight from his tongue as he came inside, coating your walls in thick, warm white.

Cheats heaved as you both attempted to catch your breath, and with a smile plastered in his lips, Kit lowered himself fully onto your chest. He was still deep inside, though now flaccid, and the closeness was a loving intoxication. Sweaty bodies, skin-to-skin, but it felt nice with him, and your fingers found their way back into his hair, tangled up in the sweaty brunette waves. “I really do love you, Kit Walker,” you broke the string of panting breaths and breathy giggles, and Kit looked up at you with a smirk.

“I love y’more, suga’,” he leaned up and pushed a sweet kiss to your lips and you squirmed as his cum began to drip from your cunt onto the cushions. He pulled away with a small chuckle, and you whined as he attempted to slip out from you. “What? You’re hopin’ for round two, hm, sweetheart?”

You nodded. And he smiled, pushing yet another kiss against your lips, hardening slowly within you, you tilted your head back to look at the lights and moaned. Merry Christmas to you.

liked the fic? let me know! comments, reblogs, and asks are encouraged and appreciated

#evan peters #evan peters smut #ahs smut #smut #ahs fluff #fluff #american horror story smut #american horror story #kit walker #kit walker smut #kit walker fluff #fanfic #ahs fanfic #evan peters fanfic #christmas fic #ahs #ahs asylum #asylum #kit walker x reader #kit walker x you

[acrystalwitch]

(From research but also from my own workings with him. This isn’t meant to be strictly historical this is more for pagans wanting to work with him. There will be a lot of UPG or SPG)

A small summary of Freyr…or, Frey, Yngvi-Freyr and many other names.

He is a Norse god who was heavily worshipped as a fertility god, as well as a god of good weather good harvest and kingship.

Freyr and his twin sister Freya along with their Father Njörðr were originally from the group of gods that rivaled the Æsir called the Vanir.

Not much is told about their time with the Vanir though, their story mainly starts with them moving to Asgard as a deal made between the two rivaling groups of gods.

Freyr has a wife, a giantess named Gerd who he cares for deeply.

He is a fierce protector of women and it is even said that when he is around weapons literally won’t work on women. Swords would break against their skin.

He is also the ruler of Alfheim land of the elves.

Freyr is mentioned in the Prose Edda and Poetic Edda multiple times.

My personal experience with him:

I was searching for a deity to reach out to after Skadi left and she’d given me a message to work with a deity who had a warmer energy. I think she already had Freyr in mind.

He really has been a warm energy. He feels like laying down in tall grass and making flower crowns with friends while you braid each others hair. He also feels like the hot sweat of a hard day of work, and feeling happy after you’ve done something you’re proud of.

He’s helped me with a lot of my struggles as a transgender man. I worry often about the features of me that are still “too feminine” and he has been there for me and helped teach me the ways to embrace the feminine sides of me. He’s such a positive influence and he shows up some of the most often in my meditations.

Offerings for Freyr

Wildflowers/local flowers

Flower crowns

Bread

Alcohol (mead, beer)

Images of boar (he has a golden boar Gullinbursti)

Ship in a bottle/ship imagery (he has a ship Skíðblaðnir that can shrink and fit in his pocket)

Crystals that represent fertility

Citrine

Phallic imagery has also always been a very popular offering/way of worshipping him

Candle colors: white, gold, yellow, green, red

Non physical offerings:

Go on a nature walk/(disability friendly version watch a YouTube video of a nature walk or a virtual tour of a national park)

Make flower crowns

Make a filling meal with lots of fruit and veggies and grains

Write him poetry

Meditate together

Protect and stand up for women

Gardening/learning about plants

Working out (I don’t personally do this for him since I have 3 other deities I already dedicate workouts to but he is good for this as well!)

All in all I think Freyr is a fantastic deity to have around. His energy is warm and so is he. I’m sure he can be very serious at times as well when he needs to be. But in my experience I’ve just felt only comfort when I go to him. Him and Thor are like the sunshine boys of my personal pantheon.

If you feel like he’s reaching out to you it could come just from having an interest in him that you can’t shake, or seeing things associated to him often. If you feel like he’s for you, reach out to him through your preferred divination method or clairsense to confirm and see if he truly is wanting to work together. Or just set up a little altar for him and have a place in your practice for worshiping him if that feels more correct for you 💛

#Freyr #norse heathen #norse pantheon #norse pagan #deity guide #deity witchcraft #deity worship #Norse gods

[folkwitchofthewest]

Hostage

Author’s note: Hello peeps! This is my first post here on Tumblr. I am very excited, and I hope you enjoy the story. This story was based on a writing prompt I found and immediately fell in love with it. Angst and fluff are 2 of my specialties. Also the reader in this story is a yokai, you decide what kind. Anywho, happy reading!

Description: ROTTMNT Donnie x F! Reader!

During the battle for NYC, reader is captured by the Kraang, and is held hostage. Used as a bargaining chip to force the turtles, mainly the reader’s genius boyfriend, into surrender. After the battle they wake up in a strange place with a familiar voice.

Reader’s guide: Y/N (your name), e/c (eye color), (y/s) your species.

Warnings: Blood, injuries, fluff at the end.

Word count: 2,838

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was bad. This was very, very bad, you thought as the leader of the Kraang slammed you into the floor for the second time during your fight.

A cry escaped past your lips, no matter how hard you tried not to make any noise, you didn’t want to give that thing the satisfaction of knowing how much pain it was causing you. A choked gasp was drug into your lungs as it pressed its seemingly unbreakable and ridiculously powerful robotic hand into your chest, restricting your breathing, like a snake constricting around its prey.

You were the Kraang’s prey, you realized with a shudder. And true to form, as prey would, you squirmed, and struggled as if your life depended on it. Because it did.

“Stop struggling, weakling,” Kraang shouted, as lifted you off the ground just enough to slam you back down again.

Another pained gasp slipped past your defenses, as you scrunched your face in pain, and bit your already abused bottom lip hard to keep from groaning. A ragged cough tore out of your burning lungs, feeling as if someone was raking rusted barbed wire through your chest. Thank goodness you were a yokai, or you doubted you would have survived this whole ordeal thus far.

“Your resistance is futile,” he growled, menacingly lowing his pink face closer to yours,” And yet, I might still find some use for you.”

You shudder as his hot breath brushed against your face. You wanted to gag, scream, cry, push the monster away, but alas you couldn’t make your body obey the simple command to move. Sharp claws wrapped around your limp body and picked you up as if you weighed no more than a feather.

“Come, let’s see just how much these menacing little pests care about you,” your pink captor sneered.

No, he had seen the bond you shared with the turtles, with Donnie. When had he seen it? The invasion had only begun a few hours prior. He planned to use you as a hostage. Oh Pizza Supreme in the Sky, no. You were going to be a bargaining chip in this deadly game of poker. Please no. Donnie would surrender without hesitation if it meant saving you. Your beloved purple turtle has always been your knight in shining technology, your rock, your shield, your everything. The Kraang could not do this. You wouldn’t let it!

An adrenaline rush shot through you, a grim determination settled over you, and you began to thrash, and kick, but to no avail.

“Stop squirming!” Kraang snarled, holding you up by the throat. Out of nowhere the metal fist of the suit punched repeatedly in the stomach. Blood spurted out of your mouth suddenly, coughing and spluttering. The fit left you gasping for breath as warm slick blood ran down your chin and neck. The coppery taste left in your mouth made you want to puke.

‘Coughing up blood after severe trauma is most likely a sign of internal bleeding,’ you remembered Leo telling you once.

Oh great, you would probably bleed to death before this was all said and done, and no one would be any wiser. You suddenly felt extremely light headed, and weak.

“Y/N!” the voice of your beloved boyfriend screamed somewhere to your right.

In a dizzying blur of far to quick motion you were suddenly face to face with Donnie, who looked as if he had just laid eyes upon the most horrifying sight ever. Claws dug into your left wrist and jaw, as your head was lifted slightly, your body going rigid, tears finally cascading down your cut and bruised cheeks. Tears of fear, for your life and your boyfriend’s, and pain as your arm was twisted cruelly behind your back.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, locking eyes with Donnie.

“Don’t apologize, dearest,” Donnie shook his head, ever so slightly.

His white knuckled grip on his tech staff looked as if he could shatter the device with his bare hands at any moment. His body was ramrod straight, and if you looked closely you were sure you could see a small tremble claim him.

“Let her go, and I might let you live,” Donnie snarled words dripping with venom, as he elegantly twirled his staff to point threateningly at the Kraang.

A nauseatingly amused laugh came from the slimy monster behind you.

“You are in no position to make threats, you wretched little thing. You see, if you do not surrender, I will kill this one,” the Kraang smirked, scraping his claws from your jaw to around your throat.

Donnie twitched. He was enraged, and terrified, feeling so many emotions he did not understand nor wish to feel. How DARE this monster threaten you?! The poor turtle stood frozen for what seemed like an eternity in his head.

“Oh, did I touch a nerve, threatening your mate? Lower your weapon and surrender. Or she dies,” Kraang smirked, a strangled sob escaped your lips as it’s cold, hard, claws pressed around your delicate throat a bit harder,” On your knees. Now.”

An ultimatum was laid in front of the genius, and for once in his life, Donnie did not know what to do. If he surrendered, he lost the world; if he did not, he lost his world. His thoughts were racing a mile a minute. You were not his mate, not yet anyways, you were both still teenagers after all. But in the few short years he had known you he had fallen hard, and knew you were the only one for him the moment he laid eyes on you. He could not lose you.

“NOW!” Kraang roared, wrenching your arm behind your back so violently a sickening pop filled the air, and you felt a blinding searing pain rip through your shoulder.

You screamed, loud, long, blood curdling. The hand around your throat the only thing keeping you upright as you suddenly feel your strength leave you. The marrow in Donnie’s bones seemed to freeze. The sound shattered his heart, and he knew what he had to do.

His staff clattered to the ground as he raised his hands slightly in surrender, dropping to his knees.

"Wait, don't hurt her. Please," His voice held tense resignation that you had never heard.

“D-Donnie, n-no. D-Don’t give h-him w-what he w-wants,” you begged, through the tears and blood streaming from between your tightly clamped teeth.

“Beloved, save your strength. Everything will be alright. I promise,” Donnie tried to reassure you, his voice shaking, barely above a whisper.

The sight of Donnie on his knees, head bowed, looking at you as if his soul had been crushed with those heart wrenchingly beautiful eyes, hands in the air to signal he would not put up a fight. The sight forced open a pit in your stomach that threatened to swallow you whole. The pain you felt now, looking at him, was so much worse than the physical pain plaguing your body.

Kraang's laugh echoed in your ears, taunting you and your dear boyfriend. Your eyes squeezed shut, you could no longer keep them open. Your alertness was fading, and icicles began floating in your veins. You were cold, and disoriented. Where was Donnie? You knew he was close, you could hear his voice, muffled as it may be. He always kept you warm and safe.

Suddenly you were flying, weightless and free. And then the world came crashing down, ever so painfully around you. It felt like there was fire everywhere, licking your skin, deep in your bones. Fire so hot, it felt like freezing cold water had been dumped all over your body. And then something soft, and strong lifted you from the fire. You cracked your eyes open, and purple filled your vision. Donnie? Was he…was he cradling you in his arms? You could barely hear his voice over the blood pounding in your ears, crushing your skull. He was saying something, but you could not make out what. All you knew was exhaustion, and pain. Darkness, blessed, sweet darkness beckoned to you. Donnie was here, Donnie was holding you; if he was then you were safe, and everything would be ok just like he promised. You let the darkness have you, while Donnie’s pleas for you to stay with him went unheard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Something soft and warm was wrapped around you, and something squishy under you. These were the first things you were aware of as your muddled brain emerged from the void. Annoying beeping pierced through your consciousness next. What was that, and wasn’t someone going to turn it off? It sounded like the microwave announcing whatever delicious food it had been warming was ready to be eaten. The thought of food made you nauseous, or was that the oddly salty smell that filled your nose and mouth? You felt floaty, like you were drifting lazily on a cloud through thick and heavy fog.

“Y/N…….ome…ack. Lease…..cme…ba,” a smooth rich voice drifted into your awareness.

It was soft, and comforting. Whoever it belonged to seemed slightly distressed. Who did that voice belong to? You knew them, and you trusted them with your life. That much you remembered. Something soft brushed across your cheek, the touch light as a feather.

“Open your eyes darling,” the voice called again, still muffled, feeling like cool aloe on a searing burn.

Maybe you should do as the voice asked. It sounded important. And you trusted this person, what was their name again? It was right on the tip of your tongue.

“Y/N, please come back to me,” the voice was clear this time, desperate, longing.

A sharp inhale and your eyes snapped open, bright light came flooding in, blinding you. A small quake ran through your body, which felt oddly weak and heavy. A sensation ran through your body, one you had never felt before. It wasn’t pain, simply an uncomfortable burn in your muscles, especially your chest and left shoulder.

“Y/N? Y/N, can you hear me, dearest?” A purple mask and wide, concerned, bloodshot eyes filled your field of vision, shielding you from the harsh lights above.

“Donnie?” your voice barely above a whisper, but full of deep affection.

“Oh beloved! Are you alright? Are you in any pain? Can you breathe properly?” he peppered your tired mind with concerned questions, his hands hovering over you as if he wanted nothing more than to touch you, but afraid you would break like glass under his calloused fingers.

“I’m ok, sore but perfectly fine. I promise,” you reassured him, your hand reaching out to grasp his.

Your throat felt like sand, dry and scratchy. Your e/c eyes drifted over to a cup sitting on a small table behind your dear boyfriend. Donnie followed your line of sight, and quickly scooped up the object of your desires. He gently held the straw to your lips and instructed you to sip, not gulp.

You did as you were told and a sweet reward met your parched throat. Your eyes drifted around the room’s bland walls and obnoxiously beeping machines, while Donnie’s never left your battered face. He looked pale, the bags under his eyes prominent despite the mask, eyes puffy, and red. Had he been crying? Once you had your fill and your voice felt suitable for civil conversation, you looked to Donnie once again.

“What happened? Where are we?” You inquired, softly.

Donnie explained that after the battle the family escaped to a yokai hospital in the Hidden City. After all, they couldn’t very well waltz into a human hospital with 2 frantic humans, an exhausted rat, 4 mutant turtles in varying states of injury, and a critically injured y/s yokai asking for help. Besides every medical center topside was surely flooded with casualties nor would they know how to treat the injured beings. Yes, the Hidden City was certainly their best bet to get the treatment they all so desperately needed.

He also gave you a run down on his brothers and his own injuries before moving to yours. An abundant collection of ghastly looking bruises and nasty gashes littered your body. Plus an unholy number of sprains, tears, and pulled muscles. As you suspected, you did in fact have extensive internal bleeding, a punctured lung from multiple broken ribs, a badly dislocated left shoulder, a severe concussion, and several broken bones.

“I thought I was going to lose you. For 12 deplorable hours I thought I would have to navigate my way through this dreadfully dark life without you, my light. You are the air I breathe, and while we were waiting for news it felt like I was suffocating, terrified of losing my air. My precious diamond, do not ever scare me like that again,” Donnie blurted out, rare emotion filling his voice as even rarer tears flowed from his expressive eyes.

He quickly buried his head in your shoulder. Whether it was to hide his tears, the blush that was rapidly growing on his cheeks, or to find comfort you did not know; however you were left speechless at the uncommon display.

“Donnie,” you stammered, failing to find your words just yet.

You settled for running your hand over his bandana covered head, and caressing his cheek. Donnie was never one for physical touch unless it was someone he was very close with, or he was in need of a way to express emotions he was uncomfortable with. He was never good with feelings either, so such an outright statement driven by emotion was quite unheard of.

“I’m sorry, I just - I was only - I was simply…..frightened. Beyond belief,” Donnie muttered into your shoulder, obviously having a hard time finding the words to express how he was feeling.

Now this was more on brand for your certified mad scientist. He must have put a lot of thought into what he was going to say to you when you woke up, and you suspected had a little chat with Dr. Feelings.

“Tello, look at me darling, please,” you requested, your fingers moving his chin up so his red rimmed eyes met your tired ones,” Dearest, I will never leave you. I swear as sure as Metro Tower is still standing I will always fight to stay by your side. What we have, well, you would think someone tore it right out of one of those nauseating love novels Leo reads. You are my guiding light, what makes life worth living, you are my everything. I love you, Donatello. I always have. Today, tomorrow, and forever.”

His eyes seemed to bore holes into your very soul as he soaked up the meaning and significance of your words. And suddenly more tears sprang forward in both your eyes as a smile graced his lips for the first time that night.

“I love you too. More than you will ever know,” he sniffed, as you brushed his tears away.

“You look exhausted. Have you slept at all?” you questioned, resting your hand on his cheek.

Donnie simply hummed and leaned into your wonderful touch.You let out a sigh, and painfully shuffled over in your surprisingly soft hospital bed. His drawn on eyebrows shot up in a silent question, rather alarmed. You couldn’t help but giggle at the expression on his face, you found it quite adorable.

“Come,” you said, patting the empty space in the bed,” keep me company.”

“Leo would freak if he saw us, spouting some nonsense about tearing your stitches or infection,” a sly grin creeping onto his features as he slipped off his battle shell, and climbed into bed with you.

“Well, it’s a good thing it's only us then, isn’t it?” You giggled.

After several minutes of readjusting making sure not to jostle each other's injuries, you were both comfortable, cuddled up close to each other. Your head rested on his plastron, and his arms were wrapped snugly around you. You began to gently draw patterns on his plastron, this always relaxed him, and you knew exactly how to get him to sleep.

A contented churr rumbled through his chest, deep, comforting. A contented sigh escaped your lips as your eyes became heavier.

"I love you, darling," you whispered.

"I love you as well, beloved," he whispered back, before drifting off to sleep.

In that moment, everything was perfect. Yes, you had all been through hell. Yes, it was going to be a struggle to return everything back to normal. But you would all be there for each other, because that's what family did. You were safe in Donnie’s arms, and he in yours. You had 0 intentions of letting him go anytime soon, vowing to keep away the nightmares you knew would surely come.

But for now everything was alright. You had all survived, and would continue to do so.

You finally lost the battle with sleep, and your last conscious thought was of your purple turtle, and the undying love you held for him.

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise donnie #donnie x reader #save rise of the tmnt

[summertimemusician]

Linktober (Shadow) 2023

Spirit

Welp turns out my exam season throughly steam rolled through my general Linktober plans, so you get this VERY late thing for now folks who find this, at least until I decide whether to continue this until I finish it even though it's no longer Linktober or if I'll make whatever other stories come later their own thing after exam season is over (mostly because the original for this one is my preferred draft, and that I feel the one for the Link/Dark Link prompt would be kind of wasted if it just sat there collecting dust cause I worked hard on the tension and horror there lord darn it, along with a few others mainly involving Fae Hyrule, Twilight, Time, First, among other Links like Legend, Sky, Warriors, just all of the boys, I wanted to give them all proper spotlight and still want to do that in any way I can). Welp. *Downs coffee like a shot* Also really need to find out how to make a Masterlist on mobile, figure out how AO3 works and answer asks.

Anyway, not really any warnings this time besides Reader Not Being Okay (par the course really) and angst.

As always can be read as either romantic or platonic, Reader is gender neutral on purpose, technically is meant to be read as either Hero's Shade Time x Reader or First x Reader mainly, but you can interpret it as any Link really lol

Good reading!

This corner of Faron Woods was quiet this time of year.

The woods were solemn in this Hyrule, the sliver of moonlight barely enough of a guide through the mist, it was silent but for the soft padding of animals through the underbrush and the howl of a wolf in the distance (not Wolfie's, not musical enough). The stars were your only company as you were separated from the group, the air was cold agaisnt your skin as you attempted to find your way.

Being alone in the forests of Hyrule never spelled anything good for anyone, but as you felt the brush of a hand tenderly twined in yours, the ghost of leather and the faint clinking of steel, and a faint glow of pale gold and ivory cutting through the veil of the night, mindful of roots you may trip onto and never flickering too far out of sight you couldn't feel safer, even  if instead something like melancholy threatened to lock your throat with the chains of silence, you felt as warm as the soft twilight glow and as frigid as ice, frostburned with the bitter cold of your own warring emotions.

You can't help but chuckle a bit whille holding a old scabbard close to your heart, it's a wry sound, "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

There is no answer, of course there isn't, but you don't mind, you know he'll listen, thorns wrap around your heart and crawl up your throat, the smell of lilies and steel coats and sticks in your throat like honey, or maybe blood, "... I didn't think you'd show up, you know? I always considered the possibility but..." You trail off, you feel something brush your side, you can only see him in the corner of your eyes or with a passing glance, there but not, existing but gone, so you keep your eyes on the road and in the flicker of light, so you carefully don't look to your side, you don't think you could contain the shaking in your heart otherwise, to stare at inevitability and prophecy, "... I know, I know you're fine. At least for now, I apologize for all the trouble I gave you."

'It's alright. It could never be a hardship aiding you.', the voice echoes in your ears, and you swallow thickly, breath hitching, the warmth of the sun in the fields of Hyrule, the wind caressing your hair, the song of the animals in Faron Woods, someone holding you carefully, fondly. The warmth of your hand in his. Not really here, but not gone either, more feeling than true echo.

You chuckle, and try to pretend it's not a bit breathless, something like a wounded keen, "... You're too kind. Too, too kind, thank you."

Spirits in Hyrule never spell anything good, in this wild land of light and shadow in a gestalt of divinity. There are some exceptions though, even if it hurts to witness then. So you follow him through the dark, certain that as you've guided his way once, he'll lead you now to where you need to go.

----------------------------------------------------------

... The clearing he leads you to is open, but by no means truly quiet among the trees, there is no peace to be found for the armored skeleton here. You choke on sorrow, on unfinished business, on the cruelty of being brought to ruin and being denied peace, and you stumble towards the familiar figure, almost in a trance as your vision blurs, roots and thorny vines wrap over rusted armor and a thorn cape, the skeleton's void sockets piercing through your soul, illuminated by the solemn gaze of the wretched moon and it's uncaring maids of honor in the stars.

You fall to your knees near the decaying skeleton, biting back against the wounded sound that attempts to leave your throat with enough strenght to bleed, you lay the scabbard by his side with a bouquet of lilies and shiver at the gentle, phantom touch, so soft, so loving it almost leads you to ruin all over again.

'... It's foolish to grieve for someone who isn't gone yet.' the thought comes to you, yet you can't help it. You still hurt for him, you still hold onto the fury at the heavens themselves for denying them quietus. For denying them rest over and over and over again. To watch this cycle and be helpless to stop it all due to the will of uncaring gods.

Alive. Dead. Alive. Dead. Denied full rest over and over again, to watch the chance at rest to the kindest of souls found in this world you found yourself in.

You barely register the touch to your cheek, ephemeral as it is, as you can't help but shed tears, can't help but grieve. Because if you don't, who will?

You know by now that some wounds can never heal, some rifts can never be mended. Even with the guarantee of cyclic, eternal rebirth, some things never return to how they were. And reminding yourself of this inevitability to them will never not hurt, even if you know it's futile to blame anyone but the one god who started this, and maybe the goddess who stood complacent to it. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that it'll one day come to this, that the frost of death and the sharpness of pain will leave a mark the sands of time can't scar over.

You reach a trembling hand towards the one in your cheek, try to find catharsis in the remains of decayed, dead yet ever eternal, ever growing love. And you breathe.

'We'll meet again. So do not mourn for me, please.'

You don't think you could deny him if you tried. Not when you know he's trying to soothe you, to thaw your sorrow. To allow your heart's healing to fallow.

"We will, I know. I'm sorry for making you worry." You chuckle, leaning into the cold, trying to brand the memory of the shadowed, but not gone love given to you so you can return it in kind. Just until you meet again, just until you can give all you can to his not yet decomposing self, grasping onto what remains of him, "I love you."

'I love you too. Until we meet again.'

The cold is gone, the echo of love leaves. And you breathe, and pretend you don't feel empty.

(When you see Link again, reuniting with the Chain on the next day's twilight. You hug him as tight as you can, and hope you he doesn't notice the tears in your eyes. And that you don't feel the lingering traces of a frigid embrace.

When no one is looking, you wave goodbye to the shade. And pray he dreams of warmer days until he finds quietus.)

#linked universe x reader #hero's shade x reader #linked universe time x reader #first x reader #hylia's chosen hero x reader #first link x reader #also know as What Happens When Summer Watches Corpse Bride after Playing MJM #I'll never not be emotional about the Hero's Shade and how it's an inevitability that Time will always die relatively young #how First died alone in the surface and likely never got a proper burial #And the fact we never learn what happens to the heroes after the task is done and THE ONE INSTANCE #we do is to learn they died young in some manner (ex Time. The Link before Hyrule. First. #Probably Twilight if we go by the theory Wolfie in BOTW is a spirit sent to help Wild #Technically pre calamity Wild because losing your memories is technically death of identity although that's for another story #and related to Lost #Most of the more effective LoZ games present themselves as either dark fairy tales and I'm running with that concept #Plus it's literally LEGEND of Zelda. Hardly do things end well for protagonists in actual legends and mythology involving gods #I think I have a right to worry #Anyway I'll probably elaborate more later because I'm tired lol #gotta perish to tackle studying and THEN be free to start on the pages long LU/LoZ essays /jk #unless? #we'll see #summer writes linktober 2023 #summer writes linktober shadow 2023 #summer writes #this short fic was also brought to you by the death holiday we have here in my country because it always makes me sad #and thinking of the Hero's Shade and what happens to First basically made it Depression times 100 lol

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, epilogue

Summary: It's the dawn of a new life for you and Frankie, amidst the ruins of your former respective lives. He made a promise to you, and to himself: that he would fix everything. But can everything be fixed? Are you ready to let go, and let him? And how will you deal with your homesickness?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Gabrielle Tourneur (OFC)/French fem!Reader

Rating: disgusting fluff & explicit fifth 🔞

TW: non-descriptive allusions to past abuse and self-harm

A/N: Dear orange besties 🧡 Happy Frankie Friday ❤️‍🔥 This is the end. I am sorry it took me so long, and if anyone is still hanging in the orange bedroom, I am sorry this is so long. It's most likely bad planning on my behalf; it's also because Gabrielle was never meant to stay. I'm so scared I'll never be able to write anything else because this story fucking drained me. It's one thing to smash the keyboard and reblog unhinged gifs, but I'm very uncomfortable expressing my feelings publicly, mainly but not only on account of my ass getting very gothic, very fast. So if I've hidden some dedications at the end 🧡 But I want to say here, to anyone who's ever read and/or interacted with me and/or this story (likes, comments, reblogs, asks): THANK YOU 🧡 From the bottom of my gothic orange heart. Thank you 🧡 I really hope you like this. *presses post now and runs to hide*

Word count: 20k (I– listen, I'm sorry)

[prev] * [series masterlist]

Epilogue: Songbird

Summer

The summer is laced with sawdust. It’s everywhere.

In your nostrils, the blond, warm, toffee-like scent blending with the smell of the overworked electric sander’s gear. It’s in the sound of his boots scraping the kitchen tiles when he comes in through the backyard screen door to get a beer in the late afternoon sun. It’s in the texture of his tanned, freckled skin, soaked in with his sweat, catching at your fingertips when you run your hands over his forearms, before you lead him to the bathroom to get him cleaned up. 

It’s in the longer curls of his hair, on his cap and all of his clothes, and more often than not, it’s on your clothes too, when you join him outside the toolshed, to make sure he’s wearing the protection goggles you bought, and the dust mask he takes off the minute you look the other way. 

And you don’t know it yet, but you will forever associate it with his kisses. Languid, unhurried, they don’t lead to anything more than simply kissing. His hold on your body loose, his large hands spanning the expanse of your skin, his plush lips teasing yours, tongue swirling inside your mouth. You float together for what feels like hours, until you’re left deliciously disoriented.

And no matter what you do, it always ends up in the bed, dusted between the celadon sheets he chose for you. It scrapes at your shoulders and the round of your ass when you arch up from the bed, bucking your hips into his face. 

But that’s August. 

July is spent mostly at your place. 

Your first days together are lost to the haze of your brain. Wrapped in the hushed, draped atmosphere of your small apartment, you let him take all that he needs. His lips only ever leaving your lips for your skin, sucking in harshly, leaving new marks, his kisses more teeth than tongue. 

His body moulded around yours, inside yours. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. His palms relentless, roaming your body. Restless fingers digging into your curves. 

On Monday morning, the drive to the bookstore is tense and silent, his brow deeply creased, that tick of the jaw you haven’t forgotten. But there’s a life for you, here. One that you are looking forward to living. One you have to be able to afford. 

In short, you need to go back to work.

Out in the street, by the double-parked truck in front of the store, his emotions bleed into his kiss, fingers threaded in your hair holding you still in their grip, his bite on your lower lip nearly drawing blood, and you have to whine yourself out of it. 

You offer Suzanne a short apology, disarming in its sincerity. 

“I’ve been very ill, but I’m better now,” you say, and she silently nods because it is quite plain to see. You are better. There is life in your face and light in your eyes. She can’t possibly miss the marks on your skin, but as usual, she chooses to keep to herself and you carry on with your tasks and your day, quietly humming. 

Going through the backlog that built up during your absence, your mind wanders back to his kiss, its urgency contrasting with your relief. Beyond the tiredness weighing down your bones, deep down, you had been waiting for him. Like you always did. Sitting at the pitch-dark bottom of your exhausted heart, the knowledge that he’d be coming.

When you leave the store in the late afternoon, you find him there, standing across the street, arms folded over his chest, his tall figure, dark and intense, leaned against the truck’s hood. 

Goosebumps break out along your arms when you step together into your apartment, chilled air hitting your skin. On one of the bedroom window sills, the ancient AC unit is softly droning. Behind you, Frankie leans down to kiss the raised skin on your nape, whispering, “I fixed it, hope you don’t mind.” Not giving you time to answer, he nips at your neck and tugs at your shirt, but you turn around and stop him with your searching gaze. 

“Please, Frankie, talk to me.”

The night slips away in whispers, two quiet voices rising from under the baby-blue sheets in the cool darkness. What went down at the bar, who said what, how he got hit. When he’s done, you press him further than you think yourself able to handle, for his sake, but all he gives you is, “I don’t regret anything” and “I will fix it.” You believe him.

In the silence between his words, you lie still. You listen, you understand. His needs, the proximity of your body and the soothing contact of your skin, to be cooped up with you in the smallest possible space for as long as it takes for him to absorb the fact that he hasn’t lost you. That he never did. That he never could. 

So, the days pass. Sweat, spit, spend and slick. Stifling heat and sleepless nights. 

You bite your tongue every time you look at his weary face, every time you want to argue that the daily three hour commute to his workplace is far too long. He’s not flying yet. So you let him. 

Until July 23rd. 

Off on weekends, he picks you up on Saturdays, but today is Thursday and a quick shudder of panic runs down your spine when you step outside into the scorching heat and find him parked there. You scrape your knuckles in your haste to roll down the iron shutters, but it’s only when you join him that you realise what’s different: he’s waiting inside the truck. 

Elbow propped on the door through the rolled down window, he starts the engine as soon as you get in and the entire hold lights up with his smile. 

“Hey baby, how was your day?” he beams from underneath the brim of his cap, “Wanna go for a ride?”

When he pulls out an hour later onto a Brooklyn street you don’t recognise, your heart is pounding too fast, already. You have a notion of what this might be about, but you can’t bring yourself to hope you are right, even when he turns to look at you with that smug grin you haven’t seen in a long while. 

“Where are we?” you rasp, your voice cracking around the words.

“Climb here, baby, you’ll get a better view,” he smiles, tilting his head down and slapping a hand on his thigh. His smile deepens, to his dimple and to his eyes hidden behind his aviators, at the familiar, tell-tale sight of your pulse thrumming wild under the soft skin of your neck. 

But your chest feels too heavy, it’s pinning you down, tears prickling your eyes at what you’ll see, so he unfastens your seatbelt, then his, and reaches to haul you onto his lap with that easy strength, that surprising softness. 

The steering wheel bites into your lower back and you can’t peer out the window, instead you crumble onto his chest, your fingers twisting his shirt and your face buried in his neck, your own personal safe place. And anyway, you don’t need to look, you know what’s out there. 

A tall brick building, its brown facade streaked with iron fire escapes. 

A dry sob quakes your frame, and you feel the pressure of his large hands on your back, their warmth flowing through you. You remain limp in his embrace until he can talk around the memory choking him. That of a young man, driving up to basic training in his sister’s VW, wondering where he would have taken you if you only had more time to spend together. Daydreaming on the promise of later. 

More time then. Now years to erase. Rewrite and live again.

“Alright baby, alright,” he breathes into your hair, “how ‘bout we go to Coney Island?”

It’s bright and busy and loud. It’s rowdy teenagers laughing over the crashing ocean’s waves. It’s neon rainbows and blaring pop music and kids’ high-pitched screams on convoluted rides. It’s his hand splayed wide and protective in the small of your back, steering you through the crowd. It’s cotton candy on his lips, and sticky sugar on your fingertips; it’s a black and white photo booth stripe underneath the Wonder Wheel, split up in two, the upper half tucked inside your wallet, where a torn paper with faded ink used to be. 

It’s your life, now, and for the second time, you’re not standing warily on the outside. 

That night, he drives back to his place. That night, he’s out of the truck in a beat and you barely have time to climb down before he grabs the back of your head and the swell of your ass. He tastes of candy apple, sweet and sour, licking into your mouth, and his scent fills your lungs. He carries you inside with your arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into the strong plane of his back. 

That night, in many regards the first, you don’t make it to the bedroom. He puts you down in the living-room and he throws a couch cushion on the floor, shoving you down onto it, kneeling between your thighs, tugging roughly at your clothes and you scramble on the smooth leather to undress him. 

Leant over you, his grip on your wrists a bruising one as he pins your arms along your sides, fucking into you at a blinding pace, sweat dripping down his sideburns, your legs entwined around his, your breasts bouncing with each thorough trust. 

“Fucking look at you,” he grunts, again and again and again, and you come so fast, so hard, your back arching off the leather at a painful angle, but he doesn’t slow down. He fucks you through your high, and when you come down he’s already asking for “another one, give me another one.”

—

The phone keeps sliding down between your sweaty fingers. You swap hands, waiting for Dolores to pick up through what feels like a thousand ringing tones. 

The relief in her voice is audible, which confirms what you expected: she’s heard about the fall-out between you and Rosie. And soon enough she’s scolding you as if you were still the schoolgirl she first met 20 years earlier, and you realise you missed the mother nearly as much as you did the daughter. 

“Dolores, I just need to find out if she’s working next Tuesday. We need to talk, but I’m scared she won’t answer if I just call her. I need to see her, Dolores.” 

Her voice drops to a conspiratorial tone. 

“Just come home for dinner on Monday night, ok?” 

You get there half an hour early and wait, sitting on the edge of the couch, the back of your thighs sweating on the crocheted quilt draped over the cushions. 

A whole month without talking to each other, the longest ever you’ve spent without communicating in a way or another. Even back when you had no money to spare for transatlantic phone calls, you had never let such a long stretch of time come between you. 

You shoot up at the sound of her keys in the lock, looking at Dolores with sheer panic, and it doesn’t help that she reciprocates your look. 

Rosie darts inside the cramped apartment, grumbling in Spanish about parking in the Lower East Side, and stops short on the living-room threshold at the sight of you. 

Your rehearsed speech remains stuck in your dry throat. She crosses the room in two strides, dropping her bag to the floor, rushing to hug you with all of her strength. 

You breathe in her scent, shea butter, white musk, eyes shut to hold back your tears.

“Oh, Gabbi! I thought you went back home, I got so fucking scared,” she whispers, and under your clenched fists, her back is heaving.

Home. Did you always have so many of those? 

There’s a lot to unpack, but neither of you will let the other one talk, let alone apologise. Strongheaded as ever, Rosie, however, makes sure you listen. The panic that triggered what she calls her “disproportionate reaction.” The guilt and regrets behind her silence. Her misplaced pride. 

Atoning has always been easy for you, too easy, in fact, but you offer her words that have never passed your lips before. Words you now feel confident enough to fathom, and pronounce out loud: “I do need you.”

The two of you speak in turns until Dolores sits you down at the dining table, and then you keep talking with your mouths full. She’s cooked enough food to feed you both for a month, but you still eat most of it. 

It’s past 11pm when the chatter subsides. Stifling a yawn, she offers to drive you home. 

“I’m not sure, Rosie,” you start, uncertain, apologetic, “it’s quite the detour. He lives way up north,” you add as a way of explanation. 

“And is he going to succeed where we all failed and get you to drive your own car, Gabrielle?” 

You giggle with sheer delight because everything is different but nothing has changed, her beautiful black eyes alight with a mischievous flicker when she pulls out her phone to type in your new address. 

—

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to just buy a table from Ikea or something?” you risk, putting on the construction gloves he’s handing you. You look down at the solid oak planks sticking out of the truck’s tailgate the two of you are about to carry to the backyard through the kitchen. 

He huffs and pauses dramatically, with an ostentatious roll of his eyes.  

“It would be cheaper, Gabrielle, but it wouldn’t be good. My girl is not eating off some cheap wooden melamine in her own home.”

Considering his frugal lifestyle, you were surprised to find out money is not really an issue. His pilot income, while not extravagant, is still sufficient by most standards, and it adds up to his veteran pension, making for a comfortable living. However, you know there are monthly installments for the mortgage. There’s food, electricity, gasoline and all this goodman premium quality wood.

You’ve offered to pay him a rent and share the common expenses, which has earned you another huff, followed by a sarcastic, “sure, I’m gonna have you pay fucking rent. How about you keep your money and get a car, big girl from a big city?” 

The suggestion punctuated by a nonchalant wink, before his plush lips found the slope of your shoulder, with a sharp scrape of teeth. 

You’re Alice, falling down the white rabbit hole, discovering him all over again, only everything feels safe because you know you’re landing in your own private wonderland. 

His quiet confidence, his occasional cockiness. His deadpan jokes quietly delivered under his breath. And the deeper you dive, the more you learn, the more you melt. 

His humble selflessness, his kind attention to others. His practical, methodical, efficient thinking. His sharp mind and keen eye. His determination. What little remains of the hermetically sealed lid, and the hard shell underneath the soft one. The limits to his patience, too. A threshold not to be crossed, but only where others are concerned. 

His playfulness when he whispers filth into your ear at the most unexpected moment, in the most inappropriate places.

It’s all intoxicating, unknown yet familiar. 

You’re like a flower seed that has lain dormant for years, finally blooming under his benevolent care. 

Nights are short and the right kind of exhausting, and you’ve never felt better. You dress in colourful shades: daffodil yellow, marigold orange, poppy red. 

As soon as you moved in, at the end of July, it started with shelves for your numerous books to join his collection. Most of the novels in two editions: one in French and one in Spanish. The Master and Margarita now standing in view, next to Le Maître et Marguerite. 

More shelves in the bedroom closet for your clothes and shoes, and a large standing mirror to check your outfit in the morning. 

Electric shutters installed on the bedroom window, so you can sleep in the dark – your shocked gasp met by another soft huff, when you found out about the price. 

And one Sunday morning, a dusty cardboard box he brought in from the garage. The orange curtains flowed out of it in a musty puff of air, dust particles floating in a sunbeam and you smiled at each other in silence, crossed-legged on the hardwood bedroom floor. 

You closed the distance between you to straddle his lap, the position quickly becoming a habit to deal with just about anything, from joy to frustration to fear to contentment. 

At the bottom of the box sat a green plaid shirt. He pulled it out as you wrapped yourself around him. 

“Doesn’t fit me anymore,” he murmured against your temple. “You can have it back, baby.”

You handwashed the shirt and the curtains with unnecessary care, and helped him hang the latter on the bedroom window. 

They clashed violently with the rest of the room, and you stood in silence, wrapped in their orange glow, Frankie’s chest pressed to your back.

Just like your grandmother, his mother was a seamstress. She’d sewn them. 

“It was her favourite colour,“ he’d said. And he’d never mentioned her again. 

You looked at them, unsure. Hadn’t you already lived too much of your life in the past? 

“The colour’s really– loud, Frankie. Are you sure about this?” you murmured. 

He lowered his face into the crook of your neck, as he so often did, and his lips brushed at the shell of your ear, the thin hair on your nape standing with the rush of air when he spoke. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you in this light, baby.” 

He pressed his body harder at your back so you would feel just how much he meant it, expertly unfastening your button fly, his hand inside your jeans shorts, travelling down your belly where heat spread in its wake like a wildfire.

You leaned back into him, closing your eyes and smiling at his appreciative grunt when the tips of his fingers met the dampness pooling in your sensible underwear.   

“You’re gonna sit on my cock now, Gabrielle. I want to watch you come in the orange.”

Afterwards, as you basked, naked, sated, exhausted, in the familiar glow, you tried and failed to affect a casual tone to ask him about the one thing that had been taunting you since you’d first been in this room, back in June.

“Why is this bed so big, Morales? How many women have you fucked in here?”

He’d scrunched up his face, feigning hurt before flashing his dimple.  

“Believe it or not, just the one with the French accent.”

—

Some time around mid-August, you come home from work to a faint smell of fresh paint hanging in the house. The loud, now familiar buzzing rumble of the Makita guides you to the small office next to the master bedroom, where you find him looking dishevelled and bright, his grey t-shirt stained with white paint, the power-drill cooling in his hand. 

The walls are clean, freshly painted in a luminous white. Underneath the single window overlooking the backyard, where he’s hung the blue drapes, a small wicker sofa is covered with a plastic screen he hastily lifts off and starts folding. Your two Modotti prints hanging on each side of the room, one over a tiny desk where he’s placed your laptop and a round cactus in a blue china plant pot, and the other over a breathtakingly beautiful mahogany display cabinet, that already contains all your photographic treasures. 

“I didn’t make this,” he explains sheepishly, tilting his chin toward the piece of furniture as you run your fingers over the sophisticated marquetry work. “Izzy helped me find it. D’you like it, baby?” his left hand twitching nervously, the plastic screen creasing noisily. 

You shake your head awkwardly in the middle of the cosy room. It looks like you. A refuge of your own. Love and gratitude swelling in your chest, laying heavy on your lungs. At a loss for the proper words to express a feeling so simple and earnest. 

“Frankie, I never… I never had anything so beautiful. Why– what is this all for?” you murmur, your voice unsteady.

“For when you need space,” he simply answers with a sweet, puppy-eyed face.

—

With early September comes the relief of cooler nights, and Frankie launches himself into yet another building project: lounging chairs for the backyard. 

“Who taught you how to do all that?” you keep asking, and he grins bashfully, the shadow of another dimple on his left cheek, his answer always the same. 

“I don’t know, baby, I just taught myself.”

Of the two wide, sturdy chairs he’s crafted, you only use one. Evenings are spent stargazing, sipping beers and talking, your bodies intertwined, sunk into each other’s scent. Oblivious to the street noises, hiding away in a world of your own. 

When you join him in the backyard with two beers on a chilly Friday evening, nothing indicates it will be any different. Until you lay your head on his chest and feel the constricting tension inside it. 

Is it because of your insatiable fascination with everything that touches him? Curiosity killed the cat, your mother would always tell you, enough that you ended up living your life forever treading on the edge of most relationships. 

Is it because he found his own equilibrium readjusting your imbalance? 

Whatever the reason, from the moment you curl up into Frankie’s side, you can tell something’s off.

Pressing yourself closer to him, you slide your hand under the hem of his t-shirt and bring it to rest over his scar, grounding him with your touch.

Only then, Frankie starts talking. 

His childhood in San Diego, growing up with a hot-tempered sibling and the shadow of a mother, her melancholy, her obsession, her passing… all the way back to his parents getting married. The happy memories only borrowed, reimagined through faded photographs. Absence, forever unanswered, hanging over him like a chiming mobile. The father he never met.   

Holding your breath, intently listening to a story he had so far only ever told in scraps, you’re struck by the realisation that both of you grew up without a father. Gone, already, before you were born. 

Under the canopy of the purple urban night sky, Frankie, at last, confides in you about his ghosts, his fears, his rage. About the strangeness of moving through life with questions in lieu of bearings, of being older than his father will ever be.

And when he’s done talking, when his words have run dry, you take the hand he runs over his face and bring his palm to your lips. You hold on to it tight for balance as you climb on top of him. Vulnerability altering his face and it carries you back to a windy Brooklyn street on a forever ago Monday morning, it slices through your heart, bittersweet, sharp-edged. You once felt so helpless to erase the crease of his brow. But that was forever ago. 

You lower your lips to it, and with a kiss you absorb all the pain it withholds. In the still of the night, in the near darkness, a fleeting light glimmers in his dark eyes, the sliver of a swelling tear. 

You cup his face, and you whisper, “I’m so proud of you, Francisco Morales. My man.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath. It trickles down your spine. 

You tug lightly at his shirt and he offers no resistance, sitting up and letting you slide it off above his head. 

Another kiss to the side of his nose, to the edge of his jaw, to the heart-shaped bare patch of his beard. Down along his neck, and he’s the pliant one, for once. Over the slope of his shoulder and to the dip between his collarbone, his suprasternal notch, where you lick and linger. Your palm pressed to his scar. 

A scrape of your teeth over his nipple and you feel him thicken between your hips, until his hands grab hold of your legs and he rasps, “Not here.”

He carries you back inside your home, through your kitchen and down the hallway to your bedroom, your legs hitched around his waist. Lays you down onto the bed where he spent too many nights avoiding sleep so he wouldn’t dream of you. 

In the heat of your mouth, under the caress of your hands, with the sway of your hips, Frankie is whole again. 

—

Autumn 

Your happiness makes him giddy. A grown man, a veteran, and every time he looks at you, shuffling over to the bedroom, a dance in your steps, or when he hears you sing along some classic rock tune as you prepare coffee on Sunday mornings, he’s fucking giggling.

He’s done some things he would have deemed ridiculous, no, downright crazy, only a few months ago. He’s picked his T-shirt from the laundry basket after you’d slept in it a couple of nights, and wore it to work. He washed his hair with your shampoo to carry the scent of you; he kept it long because you asked him to. He’s taken this colourful thing you tie your hair with, and wore it on his wrist all day, breathing it in every time he’s alone.  

He, who’s never been late anywhere, can’t make it on time to work anymore, despite waking up earlier than ever before, because he can’t tear himself away from the sight of your tranquil, sleeping face. 

And in the evenings, he brushes your hair. He’s discovered a birthmark on your nape, a little red fleck hidden in your hairline. On some days, he can’t think of anything else, counting down the hours until he can see it again. Press his lips to it, eyes closed in rapture. 

He doesn’t give a fuck how it looks, or what his friends or anyone would think if they knew. He’s longed all his life to experience that blissful balance with you. The one you two settled in so rapidly, with such ease. 

By 4pm, he’s done with his working day and he drives home. This once was a dreaded hour, but not anymore. Evidences of your presence are scattered all over the house. 

In the bathroom of course, your French cosmetics and lotions neatly aligned in the small cabinet, two towels, two robes. The small room constantly smells of you. 

In the bedroom, in the way you leave the bed open when you leave after him in the morning, the comforter folded over, in stark contrast with his military bed-making habits. 

In the living-room, whatever book you’re currently reading lying on the coffee table. Framed pictures of you and Rosie smiling at him from the bookshelves.

Foul smelling cheeses in the fridge. Your tin mug drying on the rack next to the sink. Two knives, two plates, two forks. 

A house that feels like home, at last. 

Instinctively, he understood your need for independence and learnt to navigate it. A big girl from a big city indeed, he’s known it all along. You’ve only had yourself to rely on for most of your life. And he gets it. 

So in spite of his primitive impulse to provide for you in every way, he refrained from protesting when you expressed the will to pay for food, and gas whenever you get the chance. You can be stubborn, if you need to be. He’s learnt that too. 

You sometimes go to the movies alone, or visit art exhibitions, and there are the occasional girls' nights out in the city. 

When you come back home afterwards, it’s a real treat, one he can’t get enough of. He feasts on your buoyant tales of what you’ve seen, experienced, discovered or learned, on your eagerness to share it with him. He could listen to you for hours. He does.

Some other times, however, you feel small, your anxiety crawling back out from within, settling to the forefront. You’re still the same girl he met, vulnerable, incredibly courageous. Seeking his reassurance. 

And he’s equally happy to make sure you get both space and safety. The single most important purpose he could ever be entrusted with. 

Out in public, in the street or amongst friends, you two never hold hands. There’s a modesty about you and him. 

Still, it’s always his hand in the small of your back before crossing the street or going through thick crowds. It’s brief, stolen knowing glances, fingers intertwined under a diner’s table. 

When you think no one is watching, you tuck yourself into his side, his large hand gripping your hip. As if you can’t live in the open, yet. As if you’d rather hide your happiness from the rest of the universe, lest it be taken away again. 

And there are his eyes; they always find yours. Watchful and intent, years of training and acquired instinct put to use to protect you, keep you close. 

But your behaviour doesn’t matter, anyway. The organic pull between your two bodies is far too obvious to conceal. 

He hasn’t stopped, he never will, leaving marks on your skin. Blooming flecks of his love peeking out just barely from under the collar of your shirts, for you to carry and never forget you are his. You squirm in his hold when he pulls in your skin, hard suck, sharp teeth, squirm and whine in pleasure-plain. 

He brands you. He admits it now. His love flushes your blood to the surface of your skin. He does that to you. You let him. 

Something alien, unbridled, something he can only identify as pride has him puff out his chest whenever he sees you in his clothes. 

As if he hadn’t built rows of shelves to accommodate yours, it seems you’re always wearing his. None of his plaid shirts are safe, you even wear them to work, only to change into one of his t-shirts the minute you come home. 

He pretends to mind, knowing you love that game. Only one day, in early October, you dig up a military tin trunk containing his army stuff in the garage, and you start wearing the things you find in there too.

The first glimpse of you in a green jersey has his stomach turn. Too upset to speak, he watches you leave with it for the day, willing his disapproving glances to be eloquent enough. 

But a portrait of him in his dress uniform pops up on your desk, next, in a brand new fancy frame. And a little over a week later, on a Sunday morning, he walks in from the backyard to find you in a US Air Force shirt, one of his early ones, and the fact that it actually suits you, fits you like one of your own thrift store swag, oversized in just the right way, has his temper simmer. 

He walks straight to the stove where you’re cooking scrambled eggs, his boots thumping heavily on the tiles. A sweet smile curls your lips when you turn around to face him. However sweet, it doesn’t stop the words from shooting out of him, nor contains the anger in his warning. 

“Ok look, I don’t want you to wear those– things, Gabrielle. I don’t want any of it to touch you, entiendes?”

The Spanish slips right out of him, but you hold up your smile, and hand him a mug of freshly brewed coffee. 

“I really love the Morales name tag,” you simply state. 

He grabs the mug by reflex, thrown off by your unfazed reaction. Raising on your tiptoes, you place a kiss on the bare patch of his jaw. 

“I’m proud of everything you ever did, Francisco,” you add in earnest. “But I’ll take it off, if you don’t like it.”

The blunt honesty of your answer immediately deflates him, and he swallows thickly at the first sliver of your skin when you unbutton the shirt to reveal your naked breasts. 

—

Familiarity hasn't killed this miracle. Even when, in the intimacy of your house, you’re never more than two feet apart. Skin on skin from the moment you rush home at night until the moment he ruefully passes the door in the morning. 

On his lap is where you sit most of the time, and he fucking loves it, sliding his hand underneath the hem of your clothes, pecking kisses in the curve of your neck, under your ear, where the scent of you is heady, feeling the weight of you shift against his body when you talk. 

Your hand on his thigh when he drives, his arm on the back of the seat when you take the wheel. Brushing your teeth side by side before bed. Curled into his chest, slouched on a pile of pillows to watch movies on his computer (he’s offered to buy a television, but you declined). Your legs propped over his when you read together on the couch. 

At night, in the ridiculously oversized bed, your bodies lie entwined. You need him around you to fall asleep, need him to crush you with his weight, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You run so hot,” you mumble with delight, seconds before tipping over into unconsciousness, your voice heavy with your day. 

You taste so good, he murmurs against that spot he likes too much under your ear, his kisses rippling in shivers along your skin; you taste so good, he moans into your mouth, never sated, never pulling back first; you taste so fucking good, he grunts into your cunt, pinning you down on the rumpled linen. 

You’re here, at last, for him to love and to revere, for him to taste, taste, taste.

He had you in his truck, pulled over to the side of the road in a rainstorm, on the way to an upstate farmers market. He had you in the garage, against the hood cooling down. He had you in a bathroom stall in the Guggenheim, his mouth fastened over yours to keep you quiet, his fingers buried inside your cunt. 

He has you in the storage room in the back of the bookstore, more often than he should, when Suzanne’s not there on Saturday afternoons and he can’t wait for you to come home. When you come around him, he calls you his good girl. 

He had you in your room; you sat him down on the wicker sofa, rucked up your pretty dress and rode his thigh clad in raw denim, “Remember the first time you made me come, Francisco?” 

He gripped your ass so forcefully your skin bore bruises for days, and you gave him that sound, that two-tone moan, straight into his ear and then you dragged your teeth along the column of his throat. He flung you down on the carpeted floor and fucked you limp. 

He had you in the bathroom, more times than he can count, and in there, whether rough or languid, he always fucks you with a delightful, ironic revenge. 

He ate your cunt on the dining table like you were the main course in a fancy dinner, and then he flipped you over and fucked you so hard you cried out his name. 

He brought your shoulders up against his chest, clasped his hand over your mouth and fucked you harder. 

You bit his fingers and clung onto his arms, your nails carving lovely pink crescents into his flesh, your entire body jerking when you came again, your cunt gripping him and you sobbed as he filled you up. 

He dropped to the floor, exhausted, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, and you crawled over him, curling into his side. 

When he fucks you with such feral rage, you’re soft for days afterwards, as if relieved by the reminder of his intensity. And just like with everything you need, he’s only too happy to provide. 

“Frankie—” you breathed out, but you trailed off and you hugged him tighter, and he thought you were about to say it, those three little words you spoke daily in a million different ways but never with actual words. 

But you stopped short, once again. 

He often wonders if you’ve ever told them to anyone. To Rosie, you might have, even Will, perhaps. To Ben, he’s now certain you didn’t. 

He can’t tell why it’s so important to him to hear them. After all, he’s never pronounced them either. Not in English. Not when you’re awake. 

But this isn’t only about a shared feeling. He knows your family never taught you how, and the thought makes his body ache. 

—

In the weeks leading up to Halloween, you grow more and more excited, decorating the house, scheming about matching costumes. It doesn’t even occur to him to deny you any of it, he’d dress as a pink bunny if you asked him to. Even though, given what you have labelled “your fascination for all things morbid,” he can tell a bunny isn’t in store. 

Here he is, falling in love with you all over again. Your childlike enthusiasm, your unabashed enjoyment, your bubbling excitement. These are the things he lives for. 

At long last, he gets to introduce you to his sister on Halloween’s eve. Out of town for most of the summer, Izzy’s invited over you for dinner, but the evening doesn’t play out in the least the way he thought it would. 

You pretend otherwise, but your silence betrays your nervousness on the drive to Manhattan. His doesn’t talk either, tense and anxious until you get out of the truck and he can splay his hand on your back, feel you loosen under his touch. 

For weeks, months, he imagined the two of you vibrantly sharing your similar views on politics, when in fact the interaction remains polite and policed, at first, nearly distant. 

Until you zero in on a couple of old pictures displayed in his sister's apartment, in the hallway to the bathroom. 

Izzy’s entire demeanour shifts. She’s delighted to provide you with embarrassing anecdotes on “babyface Frankie.”

“Look at this lanky teenage boy,” she grins, and Frankie, a grown man, a veteran, Frankie feels his heart skip a beat and trip over the sight of your wide eyes filling with tears. 

Back at home, in the dark bedroom, you open up. Tucked under the comforter, wrapped in his arms, with your head resting on his chest. Those are the moments in which the words you had to swallow down all your life come easy. 

“It’s because of the dead,” you begin. “It’s almost like a promise. That they can come back and walk amongst us for one night. I know it’s childish of me, but I would— I would like to see my grandparents again. Especially now. I can’t even lay flowers on their grave.”

He pulls you in closer. Waits for you to keep going, hoping you will. Guessing you are being mindful about his own ghosts. Adamant not to press, he simply gives your hip a light squeeze. 

When you resume, your voice drops lower. And you tell him everything. 

Your mother got pregnant during her senior year in high school, and sought an abortion her mother didn’t let her get. Taking you in when you were born, she watched as your mother left home in rebellion. 

“It was wrong of her. My mother had the right to decide,” you say in a little voice, and the implication makes him physically sick, a foul taste sitting in the back of his throat at your resignation. 

You go on to describe your happy, albeit short years with your grandparents. The orange curtains, summer vacations by the ocean, your grandfather teaching you how to read a map and ride a bike. 

And how it all ended abruptly with your grandmother's death. 

You had to go live with your mother, then, and as you briefly recount some of your most difficult moments, you make excuses for her. It wasn’t that bad. I was too sensitive as a kid. I wasn’t her choice. She was only 23 then. 

Your father had long bailed, and again you provide reasons and excuses. You chuckle sadly when you mention two half-sisters. “Strangers,” you say. 

You’ve long severed ties, with all of them, and it’s probably better, you say. For your mother, anyway. For you too, you have to believe. Some days, some days still, you can’t help it. You look her up on social media. Just to see. Make sure she’s ok. 

Frankie listens. His heart bleeds inside his hallowed chest. Pieces of you falling into place to the muted sound of your voice, your words crawling under his skin. 

I’m sorry. 

Please. 

I never had anything so beautiful. 

And when your voice dwindles at the evocation of a step-father coming into your life when you were seven, when you finally fall quiet, what Frankie hears in your silence makes his inside curl and burn up with a vengeful rage. 

But you’re done talking for the night. You circle his waist and soon, your breathing evens out, your body easing into sleep with little, jerky movements. 

Frankie lies in the opaque darkness of the room, clenching his jaw until the physical pain takes off a bit of the edge. Eyes wide open to the memory of the first time he touched your breasts, on loop in his brain. 

Is the man still alive? You certainly are wise to keep that part to yourself. You really do know him well. Because that would be the one kill he would never regret. 

The following morning, he stays in bed until you wake up, and you don’t question his presence, even if he should already have left.   

He follows you into the bathroom, steps with you into the tub and washes your body, towels you off, brushes your hair. 

You let him. 

—

“How old is Santi, again?” you ask from the bedroom. 

Frankie spits the mouthwash into the sink and straightens up with a heavy sigh. 

You know how old Santi is. But there’s something else on your mind, something that’s been eating at you, causing you to be distracted since the invitation to the party arrived in the mail. Something that’s compelled you to avoid eye contact since you came back from work, today. Something you’re keeping to yourself, probably trying to protect him, if he had to guess.

“He’s turning 37, baby,” he answers, imperturbable, buttoning up his worn denim shirt, leaving the last two buttons open.

“Oh yeah, right. Yovanna told me she invited Rosie,” you continue, “but she didn’t mention who else’ll be there—” you trail off.

There it is. Who else will be there. Or rather, who won’t be. 

“Too many people for comfort, that’s for sure,” he chuckles, stepping out of the bathroom to join you.

Standing in front of the large rectangular mirror he’s built for you, you’re fiddling with the little strings tying your dress at the waist, and the sight of your silhouette in profile has his breath hitching. You don’t often dress up, but tonight you’re wearing a black wrap dress that looks like an oversized smoking jacket, with a plunging neckline and a whole lot of leg. 

You wore dresses all summer, short or long, but as the days got shorter and the air got cooler, you went back to jeans and pants only. 

“I don’t like tights,” you explained once. 

And whatever you wear is fine; he can snap your fly open with two fingers, but seeing your legs clad in the sheer black material does something to him. Something that shoots straight to his cock.

“Damn, baby,” he whispers, and it’s all he manages.

“I don’t know,” you wince, “I have those smart black trousers, perhaps I should chan–” but you fall quiet because he’s come to stand behind you, his broad frame towering over your tall one, his head dipping into your neck. 

His mouth stops half an inch short of your throat, and the magnetic pull it exerts on your skin lifts his lips in a satisfied grin. He draws back, the movement imperceptible, and it’s as though your skin reaches out. Like witchcraft. 

“Frankie, would you like me to wear fancier clothes?” you ask in a small voice, finally looking him in the eyes through the looking glass. 

You lean your head back to rest against his shoulder, and he reaches for your legs, his palms lightly trailing down over the smooth fabric.

“No, baby” he starts, and he watches the goosebumps breaking along your neck at the sound of his voice. “What I want is irrelevant, you wear whatever makes you feel good. Only tonight, I won’t mind if you decide to wear that,” he finishes. 

His calloused fingers span up your thighs, catching at the thin material, all the way to your mound. The tights press into it, and it’s fucking delicious. When you close your eyes, two of his fingers travel downward along your constrained folds, and the low grunt that rumbles from his chest is met by a whimpering sound you can’t hold back. 

His left hand slithers under the side of your dress to find the swell of your breast, teasing your nipple with his thumb.

“We’re gonna go to this party, and everyone there will be looking at you in this dress. Your breasts… your legs… your eyes… your smile…” a stroke over your seam with each word whispered into your ear, and your eyes flicker, you buck into him, “and I’m gonna look at them looking at you while I decide how I’m gonna ruin you and these fucking tights the minute we come home.”

He dives into your neck, pressing his plush lips to your soft skin, giving it a hard suck for good measure. 

Santi and Yovanna’s place stands out from the row of neatly aligned houses. Light pouring out from every window, music, warmth and laughter spilling into the bleak November night. 

His hand finds your back when you climb out of the truck and join him on the sidewalk. You’re wearing shiny black heels he didn’t even know you had. They make you taller, slightly shifting the familiar landmarks of your body at his side, and he thinks the entire party will be able to see it on his face. 

Pride, like the sun reverberating over the surface of a placid ocean.

It’s that ability of yours to overcome your fear, to go headstrong against it. He won’t ever get over it. You’re more courageous than some men he’s fought alongside, and he often wonders if this could be the main reason why Will held you in such high regards. 

And yet, you’ve chosen him to be the one who gets to hold you when you can’t be brave. Most of his life now revolves around being worthy of that.

But tonight, you carry your head high.

All of Pope’s friends and colleagues will be here, save for three of them, and their absence will, most certainly, noticeably stand out. 

Yovanna personally called Frankie to inform him she had taken it upon herself not to invite Tom. Ever the suave diplomat, Santi kept loosely in touch with him after the incident at the bar. But he knows from Santi that Yovanna strongly disapproves of the lasting bond between them.

On the subject of the Millers, however, Santi remains tight-lipped. Frankie assumes they still hang out on a regular basis, probably on Friday evenings, at the bar, where himself has become persona non grata. And he bears no resentment for that, not towards anyone.

However, and even if he would never admit it to you, he misses the two men. He misses the bar, and perhaps most of all, he misses the fight nights. Benny’s jokes and Will’s expressive silence.

He’s texted Benny. Back in September, for his birthday, and his message remained not only unanswered, but unread. He tried again, a week later, and then a third time, to no avail. 

He tried Will, next, and the phone rang out for what felt like a whole minute before he got sent to voicemail. The next morning, Will called him back during his morning commute. A smooth move for a clever man, Frankie thought. He hung his head as he listened to the short, non-committal voicemail that didn’t require any follow-up. Not exactly a rejection. Definitely nothing of an invitation. 

He can tell you miss him too. Miss them. Small telling details permeating your daily life. You change the station every time CCR comes up on the radio. A wistful sigh that punctuates your impressions of an art exhibition. 

So when the invitation came, he picked up his phone again. 

But he knows your presence tonight implies a choice on Pope’s behalf. You’re smart enough to have it figured out, and he doesn’t need to ask you how you feel about it. He hears it in your short replies, sees it in the taut line between your shoulder blades, feels it in the tight squeeze of your small hand around his —a first, in public. 

And yet you step into that party with your chin up and he wills his confidence to seep into you through his touch, to convey it with the pride lighting up his eyes whenever they set on your beautiful face.

Trust me. I will fix it.

The front door is open and you step together into the crowded living-room, where the furniture has been taken out or pushed against the walls to make space. 

Santi rapidly walks up to you to greet you warmly. Beaming, clean-shaven, sharply dressed in a black suit, black shirt, no tie, he looks perfectly at ease in this social setting. But then again, he’s at ease everywhere, whether it is a luxuriant jungle or a parched desert.

Behind him, Yovanna flutters from guest to guest, shining bright as a Tuscan summer sun with all the standing lamps bouncing over the golden sequins of her short, long-sleeved dress. In his peripheral vision, Frankie catches your relieved smile. When she rushes to hug you, you hand her the bottle of champagne you bought two days ago. 

“I don’t know the first thing about champagne,” you’d said, “I just took the most expensive one,” an apologetic shrug he eased up with a lingering kiss. 

Yovanna takes your jackets, complimenting your outfit, and you slowly small talk your way through the crowd over to the other side of the room, where a bar has been set up and a young woman with short dark hair and tattooed hands mixes drinks. Frankie recognises her from the bar, where she sometimes works as an extra. 

He watches over you, intently, through the endless parade of familiar faces coming up to him for a chat. Veterans, friends, vague acquaintances, and nearly all of them enquire about Benny’s whereabouts. 

Your tense body feels small, pressed up against his side, and your grip on your glass is white knuckled. Every so often, he gives your waist a discreet but hard squeeze, and flashes you a reassuring wink.  

Rosie walks in about an hour later, cheerful and bright in her deep-green jumpsuit, moving with confidence through the room to join you and turning heads along the way, as if it were her own birthday. 

A quick peck on your lips, on Frankie’s, and she turns her attention to the barmaid to order a mojito. You untangle yourself from him, and begin to sound more like yourself as you chat with your friend. Soon, you’re too absorbed in your conversation to notice his glance darting toward the front door across the room every time someone steps in. 

A couple of hours into the evening, the alcohol helping, people get loser and louder, and Pope cranks up the stereo. Frankie hangs down his head to hide his grin at the familiar, aggressive playlist, that Yovanna promptly changes. 

Rosie has left your small group and is chatting animatedly with a young officer he’s seen working with Will at the VA, confirming Pope’s invited everyone he’s ever met. 

You’ve already had two whiskeys while he’s still sipping on his first beer, when he feels your hand travelling down from his side and sliding into the back pocket of his jeans. 

Your gentle grasp on his ass broadens his dimpled smile, and he basks in your gaze for a brief moment, before he turns to you. 

“You’re so pretty, Francisco Morales,” you whisper, and he gets the feeling that you waited for him to look at you to tell him just that. 

“Ok,” he chuckles, “are you drunk?”

“Just a little bit,” you concede. “But I don’t need to be drunk to appreciate what I see.” Your voice drops along with your smile when you continue, “I— I look at you, and I can’t believe you’re mine. Are you really mine?”

Frankie takes your glass and puts it down on the bar next to his bottle, so he can grip your hips and steer you toward the wall. You may be a couple of inches taller than usual, but he still towers over you, and his broad shoulders hide you from the rest of the room. 

“I’m yours, baby,” he murmurs. “All yours.”

His lips brush your cheekbone, and he cherishes the slight tremor of your skin under the tickle of his whiskers. It is new. It belongs to your new life together. 

“Would you still ask me to leave with you?” you ask again, bunching his shirts with shaky hands. 

“I would ask you over and over again a million times, Gabrielle,” and he presses his forehead against yours, “I wouldn’t change anything. Except for the rain.”

He places his palm over your collarbone and his thumb comes to rest on your pulse. 

His fingers slide and curl around your nape. Time stills, fading out the sounds and lights of the room around you. He presses his lips to yours, pulling you flush to his chest, and you immediately open up for your man. 

The smooth, malty taste of the whiskey blends in with yours, it goes up to his head and shoots right down to his cock as he licks into you with the same need and hunger he once did on the fire escape, swallowing your doubts along with your moans. 

He does want to leave with you, he wants to leave with you right now, spare you the pressure and the plastered smiles, take you home, brush your hair, feed you. Massage your body from your feet up to the crown of your head, rub your legs through those goddamn tights, feel your slick dampening them, have you come in them once, twice, if he can pace himself, watch your legs twitch in pleasure in the sheer black fabric.  

But he has to wait. Wait just a little longer. There might still be a chance. 

His self-control wears thinner yet when you push away from the wall to mould your body into his, when you whine as you meet the growing bulge in his pants, your leg hitching up along his. Is it a trick of the mind, that he can feel the smoothness of your tights through the thickness of his denim? 

Fuck he can’t give in, he has to wait, stall for more time, the injunction coming from the back of his brain, barely reaching his consciousness. 

He’s already fucking your mouth with his tongue when Pope’s voice rings out on his right, music and lights leaping back into focus, like sandpaper grating his senses. 

“¿Qué haces, pendejo? Jesus! Get a room! It’s not that kind of party.” 

Frankie quickly pulls away from you with a gritted “fuck,” but not so far that you can’t bury your face into his neck. 

Pope’s smug laughter drums on his nerves, adding to his frustration, and he’s about to lash out when he feels you giggling.

As if summoned by Pope’s sarcasm, Rosie appears beside him. 

“They’re unmanageable,” she quips, “you just can’t leave them unattended.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re one to talk!” you retort with a smirk. 

Drawing away from you, he’s reaching for your glass when he sees your features drop. Your eyes widen, strained on the front door, and in an instant, it’s all over your face. Your mouth falls open, you suck in a sharp breath. He doesn’t need to turn around to check what —who— you’re looking at. He knows. He understands. He no longer has to wait. 

Rosie and Pope see it too, whipping their heads to the left to follow your gaze, but you're already walking forward, quick, steady steps. Frankie pivots slowly, in time to see you fling yourself into Will’s open arms.

Oblivious to the couple of men coming to greet him, he picks you up with ease, splayed fingers across your back, and one of your heels drops to the floor. He closes his eyes, for the briefest moment, squeezing you tight in his brawny embrace. 

Frankie doesn’t hear you, but he catches his friend’s answer, spoken through a wistful, brotherly smile that transforms his entire face. 

“I missed you too, Elle.”

—

The dam breaks. The minute he parks in the driveway, the fucking dam gives. 

“Keep your seatbelt fastened,” he orders and he kills the engine. 

With a quick, deft gesture, he unbuckles and slides next to you over the truck’s bench, caging you with his upper body, sinking his face into the curve of your neck to inhale, deeply. His breath pushes back out of him with a grunt like a threat. It rumbles in his chest first, before it rattles inside his throat and fans over your skin. Your skin that raises and reaches out for him. It’s your scent, your smell, and he wants it to be his. 

In your sitting position, your folds feel denser, trapped inside the black nylon material of your tights, and you grab the door handle when he starts rubbing fast circles over your clit, threatening grunts into your neck, scraping teeth, lapping tongue.  

You come in a matter of minutes, head shoved into the headrest, lips pinched to bite down your throaty moans, breathing heavily through your nose, the windows blurred with a transluscent fog. 

He carries you inside, swung over his shoulder, it’s playful but it’s not, it’s a want, it’s a need, a fire that flares in his loins, a dam that finally gives.  

He tosses you onto the bed and you bounce with a little shriek. He takes off his boots and climbs onto the mattress, kneeled before you, strips you down to your tights, knocking your hands away every time you try to undress him, until you understand what he needs and you lay back on the bed, become soft and pliant and let him take it. 

There’s an indentation at the base of your throat where he sank his teeth while you came under his hand in the truck, and the heat in his loins settles down a bit. 

The nylon of your tights brushes smooth and sleek when you rub your legs together, pressed knees, shifting hips. 

Framed by the dark halo of your hair, your face looks pale and eerie, like the slippery ghost he used to dream of, sunk into a restless sleep after rage-fucking women he did not see. 

He parts your legs with his frame, spreads your hips with his breadth. The nylon is dense and brushes louder under his calloused palms and digits, heavy and hot and underneath, your skin too is burning. 

The need to feel you is too heavy, the scent of you heady, he wants it to be his, his scent oozing off your skin, organic evidence that you’re his. He slides off his t-shirt, unbuckles his belt to ease off the pressure of the scorching hunger, it burns in bright anger between his hips, he doesn’t know how to tame it.  

He crawls above you, dives onto you, teeth and tongue and spit and need, scraping your earlobe, your jaw, your lips, biting into the column of your throat, biting new marks and new indentations, would you still ask me to leave with you?

His in every scenario, every dream, every reality. 

Between his lips, the hardened peak of your nipple is hot, still cooler than his mouth when he wraps it around the hard bud and sucks it in, squeezing your other breast, calloused palm, calloused fingers, his.

His teeth find your hip, the soft swell of your flesh, the hard bone underneath and you writhe and arch up into it, his name rumples your lips, the K rips from your throat, ripe, hot, thorny. 

His forehead presses through your tights and into your belly, the little swell of it below your navel, sweat dampened curls of his hair leaving a sweat dampened spot, his scent permeating the fabric, infusing your skin. 

He pulls back, calloused fingers hooked under the back of your knees catching at the nylon, sliding your calves over his shoulders, smooth fabric, hot skin, bright need. He spits on your clothed cunt and rubs it in, blends his saliva with your slick, hot, liquid, sticky.

His strokes are not gentle, they’re rough and needy, your fingers gripping his wrist to ease the roughness and he frees it with a twist, strong hand raising your arms above your head to pin them into the soft mattress. His face right above yours, sweat beading at your temples, on your pinched brow, his sweat dripping into your mouth, opened slack, your tongue pulled out and greedy. 

You come as rough and hard as his strokes, your head trashed back, corded neck, folded in two, twitching legs like squirming snakes of nylon wrapped over his shoulders. 

His forehead pushes down on your collarbone, infusing you with his sweat and his scent, where he can feel your orgasm blazing through your bones and your flesh and your skin.

The heat grows brighter between his legs, angrier, consuming, swelling along his cock, thickening. The urge to taste, and he pushes up from your heaving chest, releases your arms, your fingers a frantic scrabble over the white sheets. He’s pulled back in, instantly, drawn to the wet spot between your legs, dark and leaking nylon covering your cunt. 

He dives in to cup it in his mouth, too hot and burning, to taste it, claim you, and it’s a bite, instead, rough and needy, and you jolt, his name scratching your throat like sand, “Frankie!” and he sucks in, rough and needy, saliva and slick, too hot and burning, would you still ask me to leave with you? 

He sits back to undress your legs, the nylon a smooth drag along your skin when he peels it. He’s holding his breath, holding his spit, the taste of you and him swirling around his tongue, coating his palate.

His mouth travels up your leg from ankle to hip, in bites and licks, your skin hot, hot and smooth and tense between his lips, hot skin and hot lips, and he bites into it, sharp, unrestrained. 

He sees it flicker across your face and in your eyes, wide and glazed, the moment you register what he’s doing, when he twists the sheer black fabric around your wrists, tugs on it, elastic, raising your arms above your head, shuffling along your body, your head caged between his thighs, and ties it to the headboard.

He hears it from the outside, the voice that comes from the back of his skull to ask you if “You ok with this?” and when you nod, the voice insists. 

“Words, Gabrielle,” a warning and a need. 

“I’m ok, I want it, please–” you breathe, sand in your throat. 

“You don’t ever have to say ‘please’ to me.” 

He steps off the bed to get rid of the rest of his clothes, eyes strained on you, hot and flushed and tied up and burning under the dark halo of your hair, bruises and marks of bright red scattered over your skin, you can leave all the marks, high-pitched two-tone moans of your want and your need carving his chest, his. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” more growls than words, kneeling between your spread legs, spread folds shining and slick, pressing on your knees, down on the mattress with both hands, calloused palms, calloused fingers, smooth, burning skin. 

The back of his two middle fingers slides along your seam, liquid and sticky and it’s an easy glide into your pretty cunt, hot and burning, deep and slow and then rough and curling, dark eyes sunk into your dilated pupils.  

“Wanna taste how good you did for me, baby?”

You nod and he growls, curling deeper inside, so you nod again and you “Please, please Frankie please—“

“Don’t fucking say please to me, Gabrielle, I’ll give you everything you need,” and he pushes his fingers into the heat of your mouth to smother the word, calloused fingers, hot tongue gliding and swirling, a sharp bite of your teeth and he hisses, would you still ask me to leave with you? 

“I got you, I got you,” more grunts than words, and he lines himself up, doesn’t wait and sinks in, sinks his thick cock into your tight cunt, down to his base, rough and needy, sweat dripping down his back, high-pitched moans. 

Large hands framing your hips, keeping you still under his thrusts, bruising, sliding over your belly where he’s shoving his cock into you, Frankie, can you feel yourself inside me? Slowing down just enough to feel you trembling around him, soft walls, warm cunt, grinding deeper inside under his palms.

“You feel so fucking good, Gabrielle, I can feel your sweet pussy fucking squeezing me,” his eyes drawn to the odd angle of your shoulder blades poking under your skin.

His hands find the headboard, bracing forward, lying heavy into you and he thrusts in and out, rough and needy, your legs bracketed around his waist, your knees hitched along his torso, hot, smooth burning skin, sweat dripping, “oh god, Frankie.” 

“That what you needed, baby? For me to fuck you like this?” ramming into your cervix, tight cunt clenching, hot, wet, his. 

Your head pressing into the pillow, you push away from the comforter, clutching his cock, hard and thick and ramming, and you nod, and you remember, you say “yes, Francisco,” and he’s fucking losing it, pounding harder, sinking deeper. 

Calloused fingers curled around the headboard, white knuckled, taut muscles shifting under his skin. 

Your high rips through you, through a cry, two-tone moan, eyes rolling, empty bound fists clenching, arms jerking against their binding, hot tight cunt gripping him in its endless flutter.

“Frankie, Frankie—“

“That’s it baby, just like that,” growls and grunts and words, “just like that.”

Years spent and wasted wishing he could carry you inside him, before he started wishing he could rip you out like a poisonous seed.

Your heartbeat pulsating under his chest and your cunt thrumming around his cock, the air you draw in gulps filling his own lungs, limbs entangled, sweat on sweat. This is as close as it gets to slicing his chest open to fit you inside it. 

Static fills his brain, the room spins around him in orange waves and he comes like a whip, hot, liquid and sticky, pumping his seed into you, further, deeper, teeth clenched, eyes shut, a hissed curse in Spanish, through waves of orange. 

His. 

—

Winter

Everything you once dreaded, everything he once hated, you are now looking forward to experiencing, side by side. 

It’s not your first Christmas with Dolores and Rosie, but it’s the first time you don’t feel like a rescue puppy, stepping inside the camped apartment with your arms full of presents and your man at your side. 

Everywhere you go, you feel legitimate. 

Everywhere he goes, he feels at ease. 

For once, Izzy’s in town for New Year’s Eve, and he doesn’t think twice before accepting her invitation to what she promises will be a quiet and cosy family dinner at her place.  

She ends up so drunk, Frankie has to put her to bed before you can go home. 

Fairly tipsy yourself, you sober up fast when he carries you over to the bedroom and bluntly declares he’s going to fuck you into the next year.

“Which one?” you joke, “cos technically it’s already next year, big man Morales.”

“2050, baby,” he answers with a cocky grin, unbuckling his belt. “Now get naked and spread those legs. I wanna see everything.”

January brings snow and icy northern winds along with the prospect of flying again, his six-month probation drawing to an end. 

And one evening, it brings you home late, freezing cold, and particularly irritated. 

“I had to wait 15 minutes for that damn bus because of the snow,” you fume, hanging your damp coat on the wall rack by the door. “How does this fucking country get so fucking hot in the summer, and so unbearably cold in the winter?” 

He briefly considers arguing it’s not as much the whole country as just some states, but he wisely opts for compassionate silence. 

You turn to face him, pointing a menacing index in his direction.

“You know what, America? You win. I’m getting a fucking car.”

“Don’t call me America in front of Izzy, if you wanna live long enough to drive that car,” he advises you with a raised eyebrow, his smile widening to his dimple.

He takes the following Tuesday off, and the two of you head back to Autoland, where a blond woman about your age welcomes you and introduces herself as Julie. 

A brief conversation is all it takes to ascertain that Julie is far more competent than Gary could ever dream to be, but the sheer idea of having to explain what you’re looking for once again prompts you to enquire about him. 

“Oh, Gary’s in jail,” she tells you with a hint of a smile. “Embezzlement. Didn’t end well,” she adds, and her lips stretch into a satisfied grin. 

Twenty minutes later, you leave the dealership with a decent bargain and a pre-owned Ford Fiesta in forest green. 

It’s only when you come home the next evening, your hands warm and your clothes dry, that Frankie measures just how relieved he actually is. 

And you won’t admit it, in fact, he’s fairly certain you make a point of complaining about finding a place to park near the bookstore, but he can tell you’re happy too. Happy and proud, because the following weekend, he catches you calling Will to tell him you’ll be picking him up at his place to drive together to the Met.  

A four-month hiatus hasn’t altered the tightly woven fabric of your relationship with Will. You fall right back into your cosy routine of monthly trips to the city to visit exhibitions, followed by drinks and endless talks at McSorley. 

Emboldened by his blunt questioning habits, you don’t walk on eggshells the first time you find yourself alone with him.

“How is Benny doing? Does he know we’re seeing each other, today? How does he feel about it?” you ask after quickly gulping down your first half-pint. 

His steel blue eyes dive into yours and you do your very best not to shrink on your wooden chair.

“Benny’s fine, ok? He’s good. He–” he seems to consider his next words before he continues, “We had a few conversations about it. It’s not easy, he doesn’t really wanna talk. I told him about your history with Fish. He’s still a bit angry, but he’s coming around. I think deep down he understands.” 

He pauses, and when you don’t say anything, he keeps going. 

“But I don’t think he’ll be able to hang out with him for another couple of months, at least.”

Hang out with him. No mention of you, there. As often with Will, what lies within the silence matters as much as his spoken words. 

You get it. You can’t have it all. But you are genuinely relieved to know he’s doing well. And that there’s hope for the two of them. 

It doesn’t occur to you that you only hear what you want to hear.

—

The first banging noise jolts you out of sleep. You sit upright in the bed, dishevelled, confused, not quite awake. Your heart is pounding painfully inside your rib cage, pulsating in your eardrums.

Instinctively, you reach for Frankie. Your hand fumbles under the comforter, only to find an empty spot where he should be lying next to you, and you whip your head around to his side of the bed.

It’s the middle of the night, yet it’s not as dark as it should be. The living-room lamp is on, casting a feeble light inside the bedroom, enough for you to distinguish Frankie’s dark silhouette standing awkwardly by the bed, slowly opening the drawer of his night stand.

Another rattling sound comes in from the kitchen. Metal on tiles. Your sleep-dazed brain identifies the noise as that of one of the bar stools being dragged across the floor. Frankie tilts his head in your direction and silently brings his index finger to his lips. 

Now you’re wide awake. 

Panic trickles down your lungs in icy streaks at the realisation that someone has broken into the house, but it doesn’t compare to the horror that seizes you when Frankie stealthily pulls out a gun from the open drawer. 

He’s still looking at you, the yellow glint from the hallway reflected in his ink-black eyes, his finger pressed to his lips. 

Before you can process what’s happening, Frankie’s moving toward the corridor, his gait precise and absolutely silent, broad shoulders hunched and tense in his downward hold of the gun with two hands. You want to protest, tell him to stay here with you, but your entire body has gone rigid, disconnected from your brain. You’re glued into place. 

Eyes opened so wide they might pop out of your skull, you watch him disappear into the hallway, and in the dead of the night, you can hear the door of the fridge being opened. 

Years from now, you will still remember thinking that this is a fucking nightmare.

You brace yourself for gunshots, a fight, more clatter, but it’s Frankie’s voice that comes in next, resounding into the January night, angry, loud and… surprised?  

“What the fuck, man?”

It snaps you out of your trance. Untangling your legs from the heavy comforter, you climb down the bed and slip on your sleeping shorts before you dash towards the kitchen, and you’re still walking down the short hallway when you hear him.

“Oh fuck, ‘m sorry, Fish, ‘d’ I wake you up?”

Benny’s booming baritone. Audibly shitfaced. 

You see Frankie first, standing in his black boxer briefs, his gun hanging from his hand. Following his angered stare, your eyes fall on Benny, who’s tall silhouette is partly hidden behind the opened fridge door. His face peeks out from above it, a nasty-looking bruise blooming red and purple around his right eye, accentuated by the angled shadows. 

His gaze is unfocused, dazed, and when he sees you, an unfamiliar melancholy blurs it a deeper shade of blue. He closes the fridge, a tall boy of IPA in his hand, and he straightens up like a little boy at Sunday school, his lips curling around a drunken smile.

“Hey, baby. How are you?” he slowly slurs. 

“Jesus fuck,” Frankie grits, hanging his head, and your mind reels, you’re not sure how to handle the situation. In fact, you have no idea how to deal with it.

Walking up to your man, you curl your fingers around his forearm, and the tension you find under your touch does very little to temper down the alarm flaring in your chest. Your hand slides to his wrist, his own hand a tight grasp around his weapon. You don’t dare lower your eyes to it. And it’s probably just a trick of the mind, the way you can see it shine from the corner of your eyes under the crude ceiling light. 

You don’t dare look at Frankie either, so you keep your eyes strained on Benny, who’s swaying on his legs, and ask in a shaky voice you don’t recognise, “Hey Ben. What are you doing here?” 

“He still got a spare key,” Frankie growls in his direction, and you hold on to his wrist a little tighter. 

“Won my fight, tonight,” Benny drawls with pride, as if this were a perfectly rational explanation for his presence in your kitchen at 3 am, and, visibly satisfied, he proceeds to crack his beer open.

“And how the fuck did you get here, Benjamin?” Frankie asks, his tone so aggressive it makes you jump.

Benny takes a long sip before he simply shrugs, “Drove my car, the fuck is this question…”

“Oh god,” you breathe out, and between your clutching fingers, Frankie’s muscles loosen. 

Finally looking up at him, you’re shaken by the emotions playing across his face, far more complex than the upfront annoyance in his voice. 

Frankie himself is not sure how he feels. 

Relieved, at first, to find Benny instead of someone else, something worse. Fuck knows he could have shot down a stranger on sight, had they tried to come anywhere near you, and he’d rather you never see what he’s capable of with a gun.  

Why, then, is he shaking with anger? Is it, deep down, the relief to see him at all? Could it be because Benny came to see you, and not him? 

Most of his jealousy and resentment towards his friend had been drained out of him when you curled up on his naked chest, back in your apartment, over half a year ago. 

He’s well aware of the lasting affection you continue to harbour for his friend, that the concern plainly etched on your face at the moment only serves to demonstrate further. And if it’s not exactly pleasant to think about, his confidence and the daily evidence of your shared love sweetens that bitter knowledge. 

What’s a lot more difficult to stomach, however, are Ben’s lingering feelings for you. He can’t blame the man, he himself never got over you, and he had fifteen years to try to. 

“He’ll come around,” Will had promised. Only Ben’s little stunt tonight makes it impossible to ignore any longer the one thought he has so far deliberately avoided. He broke his best friend’s heart, with a self-righteous determination, without an ounce of regret. 

Benny takes a step in your direction, beer dripping on the tiles from the can, askew in his bruised hand, and Frankie sighs heavily. 

As you release his arm to go to Benny, he tries to slide the gun in the back of his jeans before realising he’s in his underwear. He sets it down on the kitchen table, where it hits the wooden surface with a muted thud. 

“Aww baby, I really missed your face,” Benny mumbles as you grab the can from him, handing it to Frankie. 

“Ok, let’s get some water into you,” you answer, holding his shoulders straight to deflect the incoming hug. 

You lead him to the couch on the other side of the room where you sit him down, while Frankie fills up a tall glass with tap water, and you wait for him to join you to whisper, “We can’t let him go home like that, baby.”

Benny’s muttering incoherently, and Frankie bends over him, taking his legs to pivot him into a sleeping position, his feet sticking out of the couch. 

“No, of course, not. He’s gonna sleep here. I’ll drive him home in the morning.”

He lets you take off Benny’s sneakers while he returns his gun to the night stand drawer, but when you don’t come back to the bedroom, he can’t resist the urge to go see what’s going on.

He’s still in the hallway when he stops short at the scene before him. You’ve draped a plaid over Benny, already fast asleep, and you’re threading your fingers through his hair. A token of your affection, a tender gesture he saw you demonstrate before. In public. You lean down to place a soft kiss on his forehead, and when you stand up and turn around, your eyes find his, instantly. 

He doesn’t wait for you, he can’t, not when he knows you’re seeing right through his gritted teeth, right through the nauseating guilt sitting at the back of his throat, and he goes back to bed, where you soon join him. 

He opens the comforter to let you in next to him, and as you slide underneath it, you tell him, “Scoot over, Frankie baby, tonight I’m the big spoon.”

—

If there’s one thing Frankie has always envied Ben for, it’s the speed at which he pulls through any type of hangover. Mild, brutal, soul-destroying, it makes no difference. The man’s up at the crack of dawn, and by 8am sharp, he’s out the door for his daily run.

Maybe it’s the age difference. But Frankie was never this prompt to recover, even when he was younger. Maybe it’s good genes. He’s seen Ironhead getting shot and still complete the mission with dashing excellence. 

Today, however, as Frankie leaves the safe-heaven of your body, warmly tucked under the duvet, and walks into the living-room with a pack of Tylenol, a little after 6 am, he finds Benny quietly snoring. 

His bruised eye has turned a violent shade of purple, bloody crusts flacking around his injured knuckles. 

Frankie knows exactly who Ben was up against last night. A bulky giant of a man, a force of nature, a major household name in the MMA circuit. 

He’s been keeping track of Ben’s defeats and successes. This victory is one that counts. Important enough for him to get hammered in celebration. So important, he had to get behind the wheel and come to tell you about it in person. 

It’s another two hours of aimless silent roaming around the house, brooding, mulling over what he’ll tell him when he wakes up, if anything, before he decides to start cooking breakfast. 

When Benny begins to stir on the couch to the clanking noise of the frying pan, Frankie focuses on the stove, keeping his nervousness in check. In his peripheral vision, Ben sits up with a hissed curse, and gulps down two tablets with water.

He’s just done lacing his boots when Frankie places a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him on the coffee table. 

Keeping his eyes to the floor, Benny mumbles in a thick voice, “Thanks, but I’m leaving.”

Frankie’s answer shoots out of him before he can think it through. “She’s gonna want to know you ate something.”

Benny tilts up his head toward him in slow motion. He meets his eyes with a cold, hard stare, and Frankie wouldn’t be surprised if he leapt from the couch to take another swing at his face. 

He holds up his gaze, until Benny lowers his head and starts eating up. Cleans up his plate in complete silence and drinks up to the last drop the mild coffee Frankie’s prepared for him.

And when he’s finished, he gets up without a word and walks towards the front door to pick his jacket from the floor. Fiddling with the breast pocket, he pulls out a keychain and places it on the kitchen table as Frankie observes him, jaw cocked to the side, arms folded over his chest. 

His hand is on the doorknob when Frankie speaks again.

“You had 5 hours of sleep, man. I don’t think you’re sober enough to drive,” he says, pushing up from the counter. 

“Yeah, right,” Ben huffs, “I’m not leaving my car here. Not coming back to pick it up.”

“Alright, let’s take your car, I can ride the bus home,” Frankie says, grabbing his cap from the coat rack.

—

Somehow, he can always tell whether you’re awake or asleep if he’s with you inside the house. Today, he knows you hear them leave together. 

The drive is tense, to say the least, Ben’s leg bouncing up and down nervously as he shifts, restless, in the passenger’s seat, darting sideways glances at him, most likely waiting for an opportunity to lash out. 

But the early Sunday traffic is fluid, and Frankie a smooth driver, leaving him nothing to grasp. 

When Frankie pulls out in front of his house, Ben’s out of the car before he kills the engine.  

In turn, Frankie unfolds slowly from the low seat. The crisp January cold bites his cheeks when he gets out and locks the door. He risks a glance in Ben’s direction. 

“Hey, Ben, wait up,” he calls, white puffs of his breath swirling from his lips.  

Benny stops and reluctantly turns around to face him.

“Congrats on your win, last night,” he offers. 

Ben answers with a dismissive, “Sure,” and Frankie throws him the keys across the roof of the Mustang. 

He snatches them mid-hair in a smooth catch. A bittersweet reminder of their past synchronicity. Their ability to communicate wordlessly. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Frankie asks quietly. 

“What, the fight? Which one?” Benny sniggers. 

“Ok,” he nods, ducking his head under the brim of his cap.  

Ben takes a step towards his front door, but immediately turns around.  

“You wanna know what really hurts?” he barks, his loud baritone thundering in the empty street. “Why didn’t you say anything? After that first night at the bar? You let me fucking parade her to you, guys, and you didn’t say shit.”

“Yea, I don't know, Ben,” he whispers, hanging his head. “I’m sorry. I really am.” 

“That’s all you gotta say? I’m sorry?” Ben retorts, crossing his arms. 

“Look, it’s complicated—“ he starts, but Ben interrupts him.

“I was supposed to be your best friend, that’s pretty fucking simple to me.”

“Ok, listen,” Frankie counters, raising his head and looking straight at him, “I don't know what you know, or what Will told you, but I thought she’d forsaken me. I guess I didn’t see the point of telling you. And by the time she–” he reconsiders, tongue darting to lick his bottom lip, careful not to imply your responsibility, “by the time I found out what really happened, it was already too late.”

“Yeah, well, it still doesn’t add up, Fish,” he argues, prepping his forearms on top of the car roof. “If a girl ghosts you, why wouldn’t you warn your best friend?”

Because she’s not that kind of person. Because she seemed happy with you and you with her. Because I never quit loving her. 

Because I could never give her up. 

“Like I said, man, it’s more complicated than–” he tries again, but Ben cuts him off, again, adamant to get it all off his chest, and if his tone is not exactly aggressive, it’s not particularly friendly either.

“Ten years. Ten years we’ve known each other. We went through fucking hell together, and you still fucking chose her over me. Twice.”

“Yea well, I went through another kind of hell for losing her, Ben, you just gotta take my word for it,” Frankie states with a pointed finger at him and a warning in his rising voice that Ben seems to hear, because he leans back just a bit. 

He softens up to add, “But it’s done. So now what?”

“Fuck, Fish,” Benny answers, softer, “if it was that bad, why’d you never say anything? You never mentioned her, not once! I’ve seen you wasted, high as a kite, buried in pussy and you don’t share that?”

“No, Benjamin, I do not share that. Not with you. Not with anyone.” 

He marks a pause, inhaling the cold morning air to maintain control before he can continue. 

“Look, I'm sorry I did you in like that. I let you down and I feel shitty for handling the whole situation like I did. You were my best friend. You still are. But I’d do it all over again to get her.”

He winces at his poor attempt at an apology. 

Benny remains still for a beat before he leans again over the car roof, joining his hands. 

“So it’s like, true love, and shit?”

“Yea. True love and shit,” Frankie nods.

“Well, this I understand,” Ben concedes, unusually quiet. “She’s something. You lucky son of a gun.”

—

Everything you once dreaded… 

Well, you’ve always dreaded January. It once freed you from Éric, but you still associate the dark, short days with loneliness, and a fast, spinning downward fall into depression. This year, however, you haven’t thought about it once. Not until this morning, that is, when the looming dread rose anew, expanding inside your constricted chest, hindering your breathing. 

The fluffy duvet drawn up to your chin, you’ve lied still as the dead, your ears strained to the sounds coming from the other side of the house. 

You fully woke up when Frankie left the bed, depriving you of his reassuring heat, after three hours oscillating between sleep and consciousness, always acutely aware of his unnaturally stiff body lying wide awake between your arms. 

You mentally followed his barefoot stride, amplified by the early morning peace, the events from the previous night flooding back to your tired brain like rising waters. 

Listened to nothing but silence for an excruciating long time, the growing tension emanating from him thrumming along the walls all the way to your hiding place. 

Hiding, is what you were, and once more your mother’s reproachful tone rang out in your head, “tu ne fais que t’enfuir.” 

“I’m a big girl from a big city,” you murmured to yourself. You were not hiding, they needed to talk, you were merely giving them the necessary space, but nothing you told yourself could ward off your anxiety. 

When you walked into the living-room, after they’d left, you scrunched up your nose at the acrid smell of alcohol. And something else. Something you didn’t want to remember, so you pulled the curtains and opened the two large windows to let in the brisk winter air.   

That’s when you noticed his phone, face down on the console by the front door, where he leaves it when he comes home. 

You disposed of the leftover coffee in the sink and prepared a fresh pot, strong, to your taste. 

While it brewed, you folded the plaid and straightened the couch cushions. You cleaned the stove and washed the dishes, wiped them dry and returned them to their cabinets. 

When there were no more traces of Ben’s presence in your home, you stood by the counter, staring blankly at the microwave, double dots blinking between the red digits. 

Now, it’s nearing 11am. You’ve been alone for three hours. 

Uncertain about the distance between Frankie’s house and Benny’s place, you’ve no idea whether Frankie’s absence is too long or perfectly normal. You could put your mind at rest, even just a bit, if you only checked it out on your phone, but the idea itself irritates you. You’ve lived here just a few months shy of three years. When will you be as capable of navigating the city as you are in Paris, going about the metro and streets on sheer instinct, visualising entire neighbourhoods and calculating routes without the support of technology? 

Driving your own car is bound to achieve that, you tell yourself, stepping gingerly into the tub. 

Why does the entire house feel colder when he’s not there? This is nothing unusual, he’s rarely home when you get ready for work on weekdays, and it’s a beat before you realise you’ve left the living-room windows opened. 

The water runs over your face, set to scalding hot and high-pressure, and you wish it could drain out your thoughts. Perhaps, if you’d see them floating at your feet, you might be able to sort out your feelings. 

When he pulls out in the driveway 20 minutes later, he steps in through the front door to find you sitting by the kitchen table, arms crossed and shivering in one of his sweaters. There’s little to no difference in temperature between outside and the room, he notes with a frown, and his eyes land on the table in front of you, where his black gun stands out against the clear wooden top. 

He stills, fingers on the brim of his cap, elbow raised mid-air. 

He’s in so much fucking trouble.  

“Hey, baby, how–” he starts, before you cut him off sharply. 

“Are you ok?” you ask, more briskly than you intended. 

You clear your throat, willing your hoarse morning voice to sound softer when you ask again, “You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

“No, baby, I’m good,” he answers, taking a few long strides towards you. “I’m sorry, I meant to call you before I got on the bus, but I think I left my phone here. And the ride home took forever, I don’t know how you had the patience to…”

He trails off, standing in front of you in his jacket, awkward and rigid. For the first time ever, he’s not certain of what you need. And something tells him he’d better step back until you’ve expressed it yourself.

The tension hangs heavy between you, but once your eyes have scanned his face and confirmed he’s alright, your lungs open up just a notch. 

Unfolding your arms, you lower your hands onto your lap, rubbing your clammy palms dry over your denim. 

His eyes quickly flicker to his gun and back to your face, and he takes another step closer.

“Ok,” you shoot, straightening up in your chair, your gaze plunging into his, “can you please tell me why we have a gun in the house?”

It’s not the question that’s driven you mad since they left the house earlier, but this one is considerably easier to formulate. 

His demeanour shifts immediately. He straightens up, planting his hands on his hips. 

“Listen, baby, it’s perfectly legal, alright? I got a permit, and you know I know how to use it.” 

He has the good sense not to point out the gap between your respective cultures, fully aware of your position on the matter of gun control anywhere in the world, but you’re standing up already, stubbornly facing him. 

“Whether or not you got a permit doesn’t make any goddamn difference to me, Frankie. I want it gone.”

He lifts off his cap, slowly runs his fingers through his hair, and you falter. 

This is not going the way you imagined, you didn’t intend to come at him with such aggressiveness, and your tone doesn’t reflect your confusion, certainly none of your fears, it only gives away your conflicted feelings. 

Sucking his teeth in, he tilts down his head, and his eyes disappear. 

“The gun’s not going anywhere, Gabrielle,” he hears himself state, and his point-blank refusal to comply derails you completely. 

“What kind of threat is there that requires that you keep this thing in here?”

“Intruders, burglars, some junky high on bath salts…” he enumerates, shaking his head.

You mirror the movement before you counter with what you expect to be a foolproof argument.

“And what if Benny did something stupid? He was drunk, what if he’d jumped you, for a joke? What if you’d hurt him?” 

Frankie's head shoots up, dark eyes devoid of all light staring you down with a hard gaze that has you swaying on your feet. He’s never looked at you like that, except… Except that first night at the bar. 

And like that first night at the bar, he can’t stop his mind from reeling into the wrong direction, despite your face telling him something entirely different. 

“Is this what this is about? You’re concerned I might have hurt him?” 

“Of course I am!” you answer, puzzled by his reaction. “Look, I’m sure you don’t need a gun. If ever someone breaks in, you can probably subdue them–“

“That’s Ironhead’s thing,” he cuts in.

“Well, you can knock them out, then–”

“That’d be Ben,” he all but spits out.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Frankie!”

You throw your palms up in irritation, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes that only fuel your exasperation.

Back in June, in his truck, he’d told you that he’d been too quick on the trigger, more often than not. Is that what you’re hinting at? Are you doubting his ability to keep you safe?

“Gabrielle, just drop it, ok? I’m asking you to drop it,” he warns, his voice a low threat that brooks no argument, and in turn you dig your heels in. 

“I can’t just drop it, Frankie, I’m sorry but–”

“Please,” he grits through his clenched jaw. 

Something gets stuck in your throat. You’re trying to breathe underwater. It’s escalating too quickly. 

You try to blink the tears off your prickling eyelids before they start running down your cheeks, you want to stab your nails into the back of your arms and draw blood, but the urge to touch him overthrows everything and you place your hands on his chest, palms down, splayed fingers, anchoring your body to his, grounding him to yours. 

“Frankie what’s happening, are we fighting?” you articulate around a repressed sob. 

His hands go to yours instinctively, covering them entirely, and he can’t tell which one of you is shaking, can’t explain how what he means to say is so far removed from the way he expresses it.

“No– no baby, no we’re not fighting, I just need you to understand–” he tries, but it’s too late, your words spill out in moving waves.

“Please, I don’t wanna fight, please, Frankie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Benny barged in like that, I’m sorry, I don’t want him to hurt you anymore, I don’t want you to hurt yourself—“

“Baby, I’m fine, I’m ok,” he says, comprehension downing on him as your first tears roll down in rivulets to hang from the line of your jaw.

He closes the distance between you, cupping your face to rub them off with a stroke of his thumbs, standing so close your eyes flicker between his. 

“I’m sorry I overreacted—”

“Fuck no! You didn’t over— hey, listen to me Gabrielle, you didn’t overreact, I did,” he says, holding your head up when you try to hide. 

Your hands slide underneath his jacket and find the plane of his back, you bunch up his t-shit in your fists. 

“You just gotta let me watch over you the way I know how, baby, that’s all I ask, that’s all I need, for you to let me take care of you. I know you’re a big girl from a big city—“

“Oh but I’m not,” you cry, pressing your face into his neck, your next words muffled against his collarbone, “I’m scared, you left the room and I got so scared, and I don’t know if I’ll ever fit in here, there’s always something to remind me I don’t belong—“

The spectre of your departure resurfaces and Frankie hisses a sharp breath, a Pavlovian reaction to a pain stimulus. He focuses on the shape of you between his arms, the scent of you enveloping him, the taste of you only a kiss away. 

Broad hand cradling the crown of your head, he leans into your ear, his voice dropping to a low, soft murmur. 

“Last night was scary. You’re exhausted, we both are. We can talk about it later, ok?”

“Don’t leave me, Frankie, don’t leave me alone, I need—” you sob. “Merde, I feel so fucking stupid.”

His lips brush a smile against your temple, eyes closing at the contact of your skin. 

“Hey, I got an idea,” he says. “How about we take a trip to Paris, this spring? You can show me around the city? What do you say?”

He’s been thinking about it for a while, but has so far found himself physically unable to discuss it with you. The whole idea could backfire. What if going back there reminds you of everything you still miss? 

You’d said a purpose. And a goal. 

Between his large cupping hands, your face feels like an evocation, and he’s drawn in, endlessly, on a loop, back to you, to your skin. 

To the way it trembles between his pursed lips. A peek of his tongue to harvest the salty beads of your tears, to swallow the fear and sadness he vowed to see disappear, and you cling onto him with a murmured plea. 

“Take me to bed Frankie, plea–“

“Don’t you fucking say it,” he growls, and he crashes his mouth onto yours. You open up for him, sliding the thick jacket off his frame, knocking the worn-out cap off his head. 

—

The weak January sun, white and crisp through the treasured curtains, fills the bedroom with a hushed shade of orange, weaving together past and present. 

His first thrust inches into your tight warmth slow and measured, and he pauses between your hips to let you adjust. 

His hand a gentle grip around your jaw, he turns your face to the side and traces open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, a tender suck at the base of your neck, a hard bite on the slope of your shoulder, it makes you writhe underneath his body, crushed into the mattress by his weight, and you keen, legs bracketed around his waist, knees folded high around his torso, heels digging into the meat of his ass, urging him deeper. 

You need him rough and you need him now, you want to feel sore tomorrow and the day after, you want his girth remodelling you into the shape of him, only him, forever him.

But he controls the pace. Attuned to your reactions and the sensation of your clenching walls around him, clutching him, blending pain and pleasure, your entrance catching along his length. 

He shifts above you, tilting your head further to the side, the hardened tips of your nipples a soft drag against his skin, and you can’t breathe with his chest crushing your chest and he knows it, knows you want it this way. He moves inside you. Just a bit, not enough. You moan and you hear it through your need, through your want, like you’re running a fever, like a tiny, needy animal.

“Shhh baby,” he purrs in your ear, forehead to your temple, “I can’t move, I have to open you up for me.” 

The words scorch your skin. You burrow your nails into the taut muscles of his back, eyes shut so tight under your pinched brow you see stars, his lips raising goosebumps all over your body on their trail along your jawline.

“Frankie Frankie Frankie–” you say Frankie like you say please, and your cheek sinks deeper into the pillow.

“Shhh, you're gonna get it, baby, you're gonna get it.”

Your hips buck against the restraint of his mass, and it slips out of you, inaudible, weak and quick, too quick for you to stop it.  

“You looked so hot with that fucking gun, I–”

He stills with your earlobe trapped between his teeth, licks it better before he lets go.  

“What did you say?” 

The unwilling confession, making sense of your earlier fury. You shy away from the truth, a whining “non” stuck inside your throat, you try to hide from it, from him, the heels of your hands covering your eyes when you breathe out, “Nothing.”

His smile curls into your skin through a scrape of his whiskers, and he sinks into you, sudden, rough, deep, all the way down to the centre of you. 

You bite down your moan, pleasure-pain, head trashed back into the pillow, clenched teeth corded neck, pinned down underneath the overwhelming weight of him and everything he means to you.

“I heard you,” he groans, grinding into your heat, “I heard everything.” 

Everything you once dreaded. The contour of your fears, retraced, redefined. Innocuous, beyond the confines of his arms. 

—

Spring

“Can you fly this plane?” you whisper excitedly, adjusting your seatbelt. 

His eyebrows disappear in the overgrown curls hanging low on his forehead. He stills in his seat to stare at you.

“Baby, it’s a Boeing 767.”

“So yes?” 

The stewardess announces the imminent take-off for Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle, her words nearly unintelligible through the buzzing noise of the overhead speakers.

“No, I can fly military aircraft, like C-12 Huron or MH-60 Black Hawk or–”

“So you could probably fly this one too?” you cut in. 

“No, Gabrielle, I can’t,” he huffs in disbelief.

“Have you ever tried?” 

The crease between his brow deepens, his eyes searching yours, scanning your face for any trace of teasing. 

“I– what? ‘Course not!”

“Aha!” you exclaim, triumphant. “So you probably can. You just don’t know it.”

He watches you bend forward to place a thick book in the seat-back pocket in front of you, and shifts his hips once again, trying to accommodate his breadth into the seat, before his eyes fly back to your face. 

His heart leaps into a painful somersault, like a punch in the sternum that radiates up to his neck and down to his gut. Backlit by the plane’s oval window, your dark profile looks like the Victorian cutout portraits in your treasure cabinet, and it’s like he’s known you his whole life and the ones before, like he’d find you in every reality he’s ever known, and all the ones he hasn’t. 

He lowers down his head, remembering to breathe. Something settles down inside him. A gnawing anxiety that had been steadily flaring since he’d book the tickets. He’d find you. In every reality. 

“Do you really need to be this fucking cute?” he mutters.

“I’m not cute, Frankie, I’m serious! Now tell me, how do you feel about spending the next 7 hours crammed into this seat?”

A flash of pink as the tip of his tongue peeks between his parted lips. A wink.

“It’s ok. I’m used to fitting into tight spaces.”

—

Small. 

Everything looks small. 

The entire city has changed. New, modern infrastructures, subway lines extensions, bicycle lanes everywhere, roadworks on every corner and a new mayor.

All of it, small. 

The streets are too narrow, the ceilings hang too low, the cars look like toys and the buildings like doll houses frozen in time because nothing measures up to Frankie’s height, breadth, or dimple. 

The man shrunk your old world when he expanded your horizon.  

You walk down the streets that saw you becoming who you are through happiness, loss and pain, strutting about like you know something no one else does. 

The Airbnb you picked is on the south side of the place Gambetta. The Marais was appealing. More expensive but more central, fancy but not too much, but you finally decided against it. The 20e arrondissement is your neighbourhood, your home. It’s where your grandparents are buried. 

There’s something incongruous, bordering on comical, about playing house with him in the tiny, typically Parisian apartment overlooking the Père Lachaise. The kitchen’s a corridor, and there’s no way for him to fit comfortably inside the shower cubicle. The bed is a full size, and if you knew not to expect anything bigger, Frankie’s eyes widened in bewilderment at the doll-sized bedding. 

“Gonna break that thing,” he grunted, testing the mattress. 

The first time you step into the métro, you take in the particular stench, and the realisation that you missed even that pulls at your chest with a sharp pang. But the nostalgia is smothered by the sight of Frankie squeezing into one of the narrow seats of the line 3.

The first couple of days are spent sightseeing the touristic landmarks of the capital, following the military schedule you’ve drafted. You don’t even try to hold back as you recount the many anecdotes behind every famous church, park or building, giving him what you self-derisively label, “the leftist historical tour of Paris.” 

If there’s one place where you’ve always had enough space to be you, unapologetically so, it’s with him. 

Here, you don’t need any maps, apps or directions, and Frankie diligently follows, listens, asks follow-up questions that prompt more thorough explanations, drinking up your self-confidence. 

Sure, Paris is nice. But it’s not the buildings he's looking at. 

His big girl. Growing up on her own in this big city.  

Hiding, yet standing tall on that fire escape, your heart rabbiting under the pulse point of your neck, bravely withholding his gaze. Leaving the party with him, your smaller hand squeezing his bigger one as he parted the crowd for you, for the two of you. 

He’s only ever had eyes for you. From the very beginning.

With his preference for modern art in mind, you’ve arranged the third day around the visit of Beaubourg, then the MaM halfway across town, which will bring you near the Eiffel Tower, you announce over breakfast, and that’s when he gently puts his foot down. 

“Baby, take me to Orsay, will you?” he asks softly. “I wanna see that blurry painting you told me about. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don't really give a— I don’t really care about the Eiffel Tower and all that stuff. I’d rather go to the cemetery. Or see your high school.”

You look up from your tartine, a toasted piece of bread stuck in your throat that you try to gulp down, and you stare at him blankly. A fixed, intense gaze that has him flinching, creasing his brow, has he fucked up the whole thing now?

“You wanna see my high school?” you repeat, and when he nods, you add quietly, “Do you really need to be this fucking cute, Morales?”

Your high school, your university, the bars in Pigalle and Ménilmontant where you hung out as a student, your favourite bookstores, antique stores, bridges, museums, artist’s studios, paintings… 

It’s been decades since you’ve walked the narrow, quiet lane where your grandparents rented a three-room apartment. Years of repressed emotions have confused your recollection, and you breathe uneasy and short because you don’t recognise the grey stone building where you supposedly spent your first years. 

Frankie holds your hand. You lean into it. 

Later, walking in silence towards the family grave along the pebbles alleys on the east side of the Père Lachaise, you keep your head down and the tendon in Frankie’s jaw is pulled taut, ready to snap. 

But his gaze, strained on you, is warmer than the late March sun that draws pale, ephemeral patterns under your feet through the lush green foliage of the century-old chestnut and lime trees. 

His arm wraps around the haunched slope of your shoulders. It’s heavy. Grounding. He draws you in to his side, and pecks a kiss on the crown of your head, your hand sliding inside the back pocket of his jeans. 

You look up at his sharp profile, and he’s more beautiful than any of the works of art you’ve shown him this past week, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen. 

The bare-patch on his jaw calls to your lips, but instead you reassure him, “I’m good, Frankie,” because his bashful, dimpled smile makes you, because in his arms, you are. 

The sprawling, romantic necropolis has remained the same to you, a place of solace, a refuge, a hideout. 

The wardens are blowing their whistles to signal closing time when you reluctantly leave the cemetery. It’s cold now, the sun has given up and recessed behind pearly grey clouds. 

Back in the small rental, Frankie follows you to the cramped bathroom when you go wash your hands. He watches you, leaning against the sink counter, crossed ankles, crossed arms. Tense muscles and knots.

“Where’s your mother now? Does she still live in Paris?”

Your eyes dart to the door frame on your left, on instinct, but Frankie’s massive frame is preventing any form of deflection or escape. Your body stiffens, you focus on your hands.

“Last I heard, they moved to a new fancy apartment they bought in les Batignolles. That’s in the 17e arrondissement,” you add, like that means anything to him. “But I’m not taking you there, Frankie, I can’t.”

“Not asking you to, baby. I want to know if he is still around.”

Your chest hollows under his words, hands clutching the beige towel. The faded scar tissues on the back of your arms itching like a million microscopic blades picking them open.

Everything you never said, never told anyone. Everything you convinced yourself never really happened, or wasn’t really that bad. Everything you kept inside, thickening the walls of your heart, weighing you down, because the only person you needed, and who you asked for help, had called you a liar. 

Under his creased brow, his eyes are black as midnight sky. They’re looking straight into you. Contemplating that thing you lost, like a constituent piece that fell off and you replaced with something else. Aloofness, distance. Orange curtains. 

He pushes himself up to his intimidating full height and you recoil involuntarily, but he doesn’t let you. He grips your face with both hands, his palms scorching your cold skin, and between them, you’re fully exposed, bared, left with nowhere to hide, nowhere to bury your secrets.  

“I will hurt anyone who tries to hurt you, Gabrielle. Do you understand? Say that you understand.”

His words are quiet. Firm, steady, collected. 

“I understand,” you whisper, and you clasp his wrists so you won't feel the ghost weight of his gun between your hands. “I want you to.”

He nods. 

“You are mine.”

You nod. 

You know you are. 

—

Everything looks smaller. 

Shrunk down by his height, breadth and smiling eyes. 

The city hasn’t changed. But you have. You know something no one else does. 

—

The day before you fly back, you meet for lunch with Laura outside the Hôtel de Ville. 

She hadn’t minced her words –she never does– expressing her disappointment when you’d announced you wouldn’t come back at the end of your hiatus. But everything has long since been forgiven. 

Sitting across the dark-haired woman in her early fifties, you chat excitedly over sushi you forget to eat. Crammed into a ridiculously tiny metal chair on your left, he feels the bespectacled gaze of your former boss scrutinising him.  

Within hours after you landed in Roissy, your accent had thickened. Today, it has reached an all-time high. It’s the longest Frankie has ever heard you speak in your native language. 

Your voice sounds higher, in French. You speak so much faster, with a lot of hand gestures punctuating the throaty sounds cascading from your pretty lips. He focuses on his chopstick skills, trying his very best to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. 

It’s clear the two of you are more friends than colleagues. You had described her as your mentor. And from the dynamics he observes, there is obvious mutual respect. Which partly explains your instant hatred for Tom. 

Laura thinks you look different. You might have put on some weight, you say. She shakes her head, grinning knowingly. That’s not what she meant. 

Under your shirt, nested in the curve of your neck, sits a bruise in the shape of his teeth, blood underneath the surface of your skin blooming like a red peony. 

The waiter clears the dishes and Frankie walks up to the counter to pick up the tab. 

Laura leans closer to you over the narrow table. 

“Je comprends que tu n’aies pas voulu rentrer [I understand why you didn’t want to come home],” she starts, and with a tilt of her chin towards Frankie’s solid figure, she adds, “Bien joué, Miss Tourneur [Well done, Miss Tourneur].”

She gladly agrees to give Frankie a tour of the Bibliothèque, a historical institution situated on the fourth floor of the central city hall. In the elevator, your heartbeat gallops up your throat. The life you chose, the life you once led. 

The spacious reading room’s concave wooden ceiling is like the upside-down hull of a ship. When you step in, you’re overwhelmed by the faint musty smell of old books, mingled with that of the dusty carpets. You missed that too, but the feeling no longer tears at your chest. 

A few former colleagues come to greet you, and you watch Frankie and Laura from the corner of your eye as she explains, in her approximate English, what your work as a librarian entailed, praising your skills and knowledge. 

Frankie watches you too. He knows he’s doing a poor job of concealing his pride. He couldn’t care less. 

Before you leave, you lead him up to the rooftop of the building through narrow metal stairs. Culminating at a 48 metres height, in the very heart of Paris, the vantage point offers a breathtaking 360° view over the urban canopy of tin roofs. 

“Whenever I’d get a chance,” you tell him, “I’d come here for my lunch break.”

“Hiding again?” he grins. 

“Hiding again,” you admit, “but not only. I’d look up at the clouds, and if I was lucky enough to see a plane fly by, I would pretend you were flying it.”

Years of chasing the shadow of him, years of searching for traces of you. 

—

“Thank you for bringing her back!”

Rosie’s attempt at casualness is not fooling either of you. Frankie flashes a mock military salute and hauls the luggage into Rosie’s car trunk, hiding his grin behind the decklid. In all fairness to Rosie, he wasn’t so smug himself, on the day Pope drove you to the airport. 

It’s not a long drive from Newark, but the car progresses slowly through the late afternoon traffic. The New York City skyline stands out in orange hues. Everything is too big again. Too large. Too tall. But it’s fine. Everything’s on scale. 

The keys to the house jingle in your hand before Rosie exists the New Jersey turnpike, and you’re first to pass the front door, Frankie heaving the luggage behind you. 

You’re so exhausted you could sleep for days, but you’ll have to open the store tomorrow at 10am. 

Frankie goes straight to the bedroom and you hear the heavy thud of your suitcase hitting the floor, followed by the softer one of his rucksack. 

When you join him, bringing two glasses of water, you find him lying on the gigantic bed, arms sprawled, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

On scale. 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” you ask him, crawling onto the bed next to him, curling into his side. His arm wraps around you. 

“I sure did. That tour guide really knew her shit. Easy on the eyes, too.”

You chuckle tiredly, his chest rising and falling slowly under the palm of your hand. 

“Could we go to Rome, next year?” you ask. 

“We can go wherever you want, baby.”

“Even— even San Diego?”

He pauses for a beat before he answers. 

“Sure. Anywhere you want.”

You scoot closer to tuck your face into his neck, and you lie together in silence for a little while. A pleasant heaviness is slowly claiming your weary limbs. 

“Why does the trip back always feel longer?” you mumble. 

“What are you talking about?” he shakes his head, a smile in his voice, “You slept the whole flight.”

Your cheek resting against the slope of his shoulder, your hand on his thigh, one day he would tell you, that being airborne with you had been the best part. 

“It’s true,” you shrug, “I guess I just couldn’t wait to come back home.”

***

Bonus: Frankie & Gabrielle 🧡

Source

****

Dedications 🧡

Kelli. You started all this, but where do I start? I don't know if you remember the first letter you ever sent me, and what it said, and I don't know if you remember when I first told you about this orange bedroom idea, last summer. But I do. You’ve held my hand, like you always do. Your guidance and validation and support saw me through. Because you’re impossibly generous, with your time and patience and advice, you’re unbelievably kind, intelligent, talented and insightful. I’ve learnt so much from you already, about writing, about myself. You inspire me to reach higher. It's exhausting, but I love you for it. Oh yeah, and you beta-read this fucking monster too! Everything that is good in me this story, is good thanks to you. You turned my black heart orange. Kelli, I love you 🧡 @frannyzooey

Dreamy bby, my purple beauty, my beloved, my angst master genius, how many times have I come to you crying and whining and complaining, telling you I was giving up? Please don’t answer, it’s too fucking embarrassing. You kept my head above water, with love, kindness and humour. What did I do to deserve you? Beats me. Also I'm sorry but I love you more. Ha! Thank you 🧡 @dreamymyrrh

Ren, you’ve pulled me out of the ditch in a heartbeat more times than I care to count, because you are a genius and a wonderful friend. You are the reason I found a home in this fandom. You are my Reine, and I adore you. Thank you 🧡 @the-ginger-hedge-witch 

Nicole my love, I know I’m repeating myself, but you are the first person ever to read the first chapter of PTMY. I sent it to you for your opinion, but really for your encouragement because I was absolutely terrified, and you delivered, you always do, you beautiful, beautiful friend. Thank you for your investment in this story and its characters. Watching you go from team Benny to team Frankie to team Benny and team Frankie again is seriously one of the greatest achievements of my life! Thank you 🧡 @nicolethered

Cee my darling. You gave me the final push to press post and you haven’t stopped encouraging me and supporting me since. You've lent a patient and kind ear to my doubts and fears, you’ve given me the most thoughtful feedbacks a friend could ask for, you let me stand on your shoulders, you give me strength to stand up for myself. In many ways, I carried on because you gave me the validation and self-confidence I so desperately need(ed). Thank you 🧡 @fuckyeahdindjarin 

Deadmantis. Girl, Frankie really owes you one, because Gabriele stayed mainly thanks to you! I owe you an even bigger one for the love you’ve given them, and the orange bedroom. You know them like no one else. Your asks have fuelled me, they still do. I could never repay you, but please know that I am infinitely grateful to you. Thank you 🧡 @deadmantis

Lua. You rascal. You gave me the levity I so badly needed in a thick river of ANGST. I’m very selfishly hoping you never stop making me guilty by dropping Benny into my ask box. A million thank you 🧡 @pedrit0-pascalit0

And to my two favourite Anons, 🍻 and 🥖, I fucking love you to pieces. Thank you thank you thank you 🧡🧡🧡

****

Taglist (thank you 🧡):  @elegantduckturtle  @mashomasho  @lola766  @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine  @nicolethered  @littleone65  @bands-tv-movies-is-me  @the-rambling-nerd  @saintbedelia  @pedrostories  @trickstersp8  @all-the-way-down-here  @deadmantis  @hbc8  @princessdjarin  @harriedandharassed  @girlofchaos  @gracie7209  @mrsparknuts  @mylostloversbookmarks

#pleased to meet you #Francisco Catfish Morales #frankie morales #the pilot™️ #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x ofc #frankie morales / fem!reader #frankie morales / you #frankie morales / ofc #triple frontier fic #my beloved Yovanna #ben miller #benny miller #santiago pope garcia #will miller #william ironhead miller #triple frontier #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #garrett hedlund #adria arjona #charlie hunnam #oscar isaac #frankie friday #the husband one #the one and only #Frankie #happy frankie friday

[3-2-whump]

(Re)Living a Nightmare, part 2

<prev next>

You're still here? Okay, it's not gonna get any better for our poor boy. Do read and heed the tags/CW.

Basic Summary if You Decide to Skip

Also please skim this chapter and this chapter if you haven't already, because they will be referenced heavily in the story coming up

TW/CW: rape/noncon, bound and gagged and blindfolded whumpee, creepy/intimate whumper, knife play, neither safe nor sane nor consensual, blood (lots of blood), victim blaming, internalized victim blaming, whumpee and whumper unknowingly triggering each other, blunt force trauma to the head (face), panic

NOTE: The inner thoughts and opinions expressed within do not align with those of the author, who themself has never and would never condone such thoughts and opinions in real life. Reader Discretion is advised.

All Thomas asked of him was to change into clothes he wouldn’t mind replacing, which usually meant that whatever Khaled wore would be torn/burned/ stained so irreparably that it’d just be thrown away after. Already based on that request, Khaled could guess he was in for a rough night. He had no idea how much worse it could get until he was blindfolded, bound, gagged, and carried out the apartment and down to the cold garage, where the hard foot-well of the back seat waited for him. The car revved to life, and his restrained body lurched forward as Thomas pulled out of the garage and drove them to fuck knows where.

Eventually they came to a stop, Thomas exchanged some words with the night-shift guard at the old house, and then they kept going until they parked. Khaled slowly started to put the pieces together. They were back at the old house, which probably meant Thomas wanted to take him downstairs, which meant whatever he wanted to do to him would be too messy or too specialized to do back at the apartment. What is he planning? Khaled wondered. He’s asked me to wear my most expendable clothes, he’s tied me up like I used to be when I was recaptured, he’s thrown me into the back like when I was recaptured-

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the car door opening. He blindly tilted his head toward the chill of the night and the distant sound of frogs singing. A pair of calloused hands hauled him up from the foot-well of the back seat and slung him over a broad shoulder. “Thought you could escape me this time, did you?” his master’s voice purred in his ear.

A pit of dread competed with the chill of the early spring night in his bones as Khaled realized what all this preparation had meant. Master wants to roleplay my escape attempts. He began shivering, though not just because of the cold. A warm hand rested on his buttocks to steady him as he felt himself being carried inside, through the hallway, and to the front of a very familiar door. Reliving his failed escape attempts but with an added sexual element was one of Khaled’s recurring nightmares. What cruel irony was this, that he had begged so enthusiastically no more than half an hour ago for this man to make his nightmare come true?

The familiar creak of a door opening preceded the dusty, dried-blood smell coming from the stairs leading down into the cellar. Khaled pleaded through the rag stuffed in his mouth and the tape sealed over his lips as they descended the stairs step by concrete step. He tugged at the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles, but all that did was dig the hard plastic further into his flesh.

The cellar in the basement was the only room in Luciano Antonio Costa’s old house that didn’t get renovated when they converted the rest of it into an office space. Mainly because its purpose as a room for torture and interrogation never went obsolete. Khaled didn’t have to see it; he’d been down in the T&I cellar enough times to have the layout committed to memory. Dusty, red bricked walls arched into a curved ceiling where two overhead lamps hung by thick chains, illuminating the large expanse below. A fireplace and all its accompanying iron tools sat to the left, and a rack lined with various instruments of torture was positioned to the right. In the middle was one large table with scratch marks furrowed into its edges, and many other types of equipment were either shoved in a corner or hanging from the ceiling, suspended by heavy chains and hooks like morbid chandeliers. Partitioning a back portion of the room was a large iron gate leading to a small offshoot of the basement, much like a door to a prison cell. Not much lay beyond the iron gate besides a hard-worn bench and several opaque plastic storage tubs full of mysterious items.

Khaled squirmed as he was lowered onto his stomach on top of the familiar table. “What were you thinking,” scolded the nightmare looming above him. A faint swish of a pocket knife and cold steel next to his skin made Khaled pause his struggles as his master cut away the zip ties. “Escaping in this cold weather without so much as a scrap of clothing on you –did you even have a plan?” he taunted. “I don’t know what your plan was, or even if you had a plan, but was it really worth freezing yourself to death?”

Khaled enjoyed the freedom of his unbound limbs for only a moment until his wrists were snatched into a tight grip and gathered in front of him. A coarse and scratchy material –rope, most likely –began entangling around and in between his wrists as his master continued talking. “We have a tracking chip installed inside of you, remember? You can never escape me; I will always find you.” With a forceful tug, Khaled’s hands were pulled in front of him, then he couldn’t move his hands at all. The other end of the rope must have been tied off to the ring attachment at the edge of the table.

His ankles remained free, if only to make it easier to take his pants off.

There were some light shuffling noises before the wooden table groaned under a newfound weight. Khaled felt the body heat of another person leaning over him. The cologne Thomas wore quickly overpowered his senses as the man hovered close. Khaled could feel his master’s breath on his ear and something hard and stiff against his backside. “The last time you tried to run away, a friend of mine advised me to cut your tendons,” Thomas sultrily whispered.

Oh god no. By now, Khaled knew which escape attempt they were reenacting, and, coincidentally, it was the one he had nightmares about the most.

“I don’t want to permanently cripple you though,” Thomas sighed, “mostly because it would be even more of a hassle to care for you, but I will cripple you temporarily, at the very least...”

He could already hear the hiss of the iron.

His panicked cries took on a new pitch of desperation. Without warning, his master’s fingers pinched at the edge of the duct tape on Khaled’s mouth and pulled, making him scream in pain. The rag was quickly removed, only for his tormentor to shove his index and middle fingers past the boy’s teeth to depress his tongue. “Suck,” he growled, “because this is the only lube you’re going to get.”

“Please, no, not this one, please, please no, not this, not this,” Khaled begged around the fingers in his mouth.

The fingers quickly withdrew before Khaled’s head was yanked back by the hair and then smashed onto the table. Stars danced across his blindfold, and a faint trickle of something warm and wet escaped from his nose.

“Let’s try this again.” Thomas shoved his fingers back into the boy’s mouth, burying them to the knuckle and making the boy gag. “Suck.”

Khaled shakily worked his head up and down the length of the fingers as his tongue lapped at each digit. He started to cry. As soon as the fingers withdrew, his pleas picked up again in earnest. “Please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me, please don’t burn me-”

“Would you relax?! I’m not going to burn you!” Thomas shouted above him. “What about any of this looks like I’m gonna burn you?!” Khaled heard a frustrated huff above him as his master yanked down his pants and underwear, exposing his bare ass and legs to the cold. The shed clothing was discarded, landing with a soft whump somewhere behind them. The two digits that were in his mouth forcefully entered him below, all pretense of play forgotten as they began roughly working him open. “Besides which, weren’t you the one who wanted to do this? You asked for this, you wanted this! You said you would be good for me!”

And he was right, he did say he wanted this. He asked for this to happen. So, with a defeated sniffle, Khaled went quiet and limp.

“So, are you going to be good for me now?”

Khaled’s bruised forehead scraped against the table as he nodded.

“Thank fuck,” Thomas grumbled.

I asked for this, Khaled told himself. The darkness around his eyes became damp as the blindfold caught his tears. I asked for this, I wanted this. He repeated it like a mantra as the man on top of him replaced his fingers with his cock and steadily screwed him against the table. I asked for this, I wanted this. Something tore down there as an unmistakable thin, warm, and sticky fluid trickled past the cock pummeling his hole. I wanted this. I wanted this…

I didn’t want this.

I never wanted this. Any of this.

I don’t want this. Slowly, the new mantra gained strength, and he let the words slip between his lips with every shuddering breath. “I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this-”

“Tough shit,” his master grunted.

Khaled pulled against the rope restraining his hands as he struggled against the body pressing into his. “I don’t want this! I don’t want this! I don’t want this! I-” Again, Khaled’s face was smashed against the table. He heard a faint crunch as a new river of blood flowed out of his nose.

“You can scream all you want, nobody’s going to hear you,” Thomas growled, “but for fucks sakes, can you please scream something less annoying?!”

Khaled kept repeating it between every sniffle, like a sad broken record. “I don’t want this,” he sobbed. “I don’t want this… I don’t want this…”

His begging finally outwore Thomas’ need to finish. “Fuck,” his master huffed, unsticking his sweaty torso from Khaled’s clothed back as he pulled out of him. Khaled collected his heaving breaths. It would be too naïve of him to believe his bitchy whining finally got through, but he would appreciate this moment while he could.

He suppressed his sobs and tilted his head to follow the footsteps and shuffling sounds Thomas was making as he tried to guess what would happen to him next. Khaled heard the faint schwing of a different knife being unsheathed. It cut through the flimsy fabric of his t-shirt as his master finally completely undressed him, tearing away the scraps of cotton the knife didn’t excise from his body. “You said you would be good for me, but you have been anything but!” A twisted strip of cloth was wedged between his teeth and hastily tied off at the back of his head. His master’s hand pinned him down by the back of the neck, crushing him against the table with the weight behind it. “You said you missed me, but you’ve only fought against me this whole time!” Khaled screamed into the gag as the tip of the knife sank in between his shoulder blades. Its blade dragged tortuously and deliberately through his skin as his tormentor continued griping above him. “You’re a fucking liar, you know that?” The knife mercifully lifted from the trough it had carved, only to be plunged into a new area of Khaled’s back. “Do you know what I do to liars, boy? I make them pay!” The raw wounds on his back wept with blood as the knife kept slicing, spilling over his sides and pooling underneath his stomach and the table below. It was hard to cry with a gag in his mouth and a broken nose full of blood. He gasped for breaths between sobs, never quite getting a satisfying breath before the pain of the knife would make him scream again. His tears slipped past the saturated blindfold and tracked down his cheeks to join the pinkish smear of saliva, snot, and blood he could feel covering the lower half of his face. “This is for Callahan!” The knife drove down and sliced another line through his skin for each name the monster dropped. “This is for Trémeaux! And Robinson, and Martinez, and Kruger, and Kościelsky, and this-” The knife dug deeper this time. Khaled bit into the gag as his nerves screamed in agony, the steel scraping something hard as it dragged against his back. “-this is for my brother; he is never coming back! Tony is never coming back, and it’s all because of you!” the monster above him roared.

It was in that moment, between the terror and the pain, that Khaled realized with a fascinated horror that his master was reliving a nightmare, too. I need to snap him out of it if I’m getting out of this cellar alive, he realized. So, he set his own trauma and pain aside and began doing what got him into this mess in the first place. The twisted cloth had loosened just enough. He pushed it out of his mouth with his tongue and started begging as if his life depended on it, because this time, it really did.

“I didn’t kill him!” he cried.  “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him!” Khaled screamed well past the point his throat hurt. “Master, please, I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill any of them! I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill him, Master, I didn’t kill him…” If the knife had stopped cutting into him and the rope around his wrists had been untied, Khaled was too far gone in his panic induced catatonia to notice. “I didn’t kill him… I didn’t kill him…” he rasped through a throat torn raw from screaming.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood

#whump writing #heavy chapter ahead #tw rap3 #tw noncon #tw blood #tw victim blaming #internalized victim blaming #creepy/intimate whumper #bound whumpee #gagged whumpee #blindfolded whumpee #knife whump #neither safe nor sane nor consensual #blunt force trauma to face #whumpee just has the worst time #whumpee and whumper accidentally trigger each other #is this too dark? #is it too late to ask now that i've already posted it?

[late-to-the-party-81]

A mountain to climb

AN: It might have taken me 8 months to get to it, but here is something that @lauratang asked for last year as part of my Inspire Me event. I’m afraid this turned more angsty than the pure smut I had planned, and isn’t exactly what was requested, but I hope you all still like it. Blame the characters, I just work here. Anyway, without further ado, it’s time to return to Wakanda and see how M’Baku and Sabi are adapting to some significant changes. This is part four of the story so far.

Feel free to send asks about these two.

lauratang asked: So, okay, first idea for your Inspire Me Event ❤️ First, I would to see some M’Baku x reader! That man is just 😫🫠🥺 So how about some brat taming, maybe? Maybe reader has been pushing his buttons all damn day, riling him up by bending over any chance she gets, swaying her hips every time she walks by, and constantly caressing his arms, chest and thighs, but as soon as he tries to reciprocate she leaves? And he just snaps? 😌❤️

Unbeta’d, so sorry for any typos or rogue commas.

Likes are loved, reblogs are golden

Mood board by me and dividers by @firefly-graphics

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Master list | Series Master list

Relationship: M’Baku x Female Journalist Reader (Sabi)

Word Count: 4.3k

CW: Lots of Angst, Insecurity, Childish Behaviour, Teasing, mild D/S, under negotiated kink, spanking, pussy spanking, vaginal sex, crying, fucked unconscious. 

You were bored. So very bored. 

And restless.

You were sitting in the library in the palace at Birnin Zana, practising your Xhosa by reading through some of the official histories, but you couldn’t seem to concentrate, staring off into the distance every few minutes and sighing loudly.

What you needed was M’Baku. Your king. But at this moment in time, that wasn’t possible.

“I’m sorry, Sabi,” he’d said, as he’d slipped from the bed this morning. “But today is going to be very busy. I’d like nothing more than to stay here all day with you. Kissing you,” he leant over and brushed his lips over yours. You wound your arms, needily around his neck, arching your body up to his. “Touching you. Listening to your sweet cries. But I am King now, and I have many more responsibilities than I had before.”

You understood. You really did. But you missed the routine that you and he had had back on Gorilla Mountain. The warm, dry heat of the Golden City felt strange to you after all your months spent in the snow and ice of Jabari Land. You missed cuddling up to M’Baku under piles of furs as a fire crackled in the background. You missed the tranquillity that life without advanced technology had given you. Coming to the capital for a few days every couple of months was one thing, but living here full time was something else entirely. You felt like all eyes were watching you - the foreigner who warmed the King’s bed. The Jabari had accepted you as one of their own, but you didn’t know if the rest of Wakanda would follow?

You’d pouted anyway, scratching the back of his neck with your nails, and watching him shiver at the sensation as his eyes closed. You’d hooked your leg around his hip and pulled him back onto the bed, back on top of you, and let needy whimpers spill from your lips.

“Sabi…” he’d growled out, warningly, and then it was you who’d shivered. M’Baku didn’t often overtly dominate you, mainly because you’d both break out into a fit of the giggles, but at that moment in time, something about his tone of voice, the way he’d held the tension in his body, caused your heart rate to pick up. “Now is not the time to play the brat.” 

You’d known that he’d meant it. With a huff, you’d released your hold on him and he’d pushed himself up, giving you an indulgent smile as he did so. “Once I have finished I promise I will return as quickly as I can and you will have me all to yourself. We can go out for a walk, or just stay here. Whatever you want, my desert rose.” He’d given you a chaste kiss goodbye and then M’Baku, your lover, had been replaced by M’Baku, King of Wakanda, and you‘d watched him make his way from your suite.

You’d dozed for a bit after he left, dreaming of the way he touched you and worshipped you, and how you did the same to him in return. When you’d woken it had been with his name on your lips and an ache between your thighs that you couldn’t quench on your own. In the end you’d had to settle for sating your physical hunger, indulging in a variety of fruits and yoghurts that had been laid out on a platter for you, before washing and getting dressed.

Surely there must be something you could do to occupy you for the day, you’d wondered, which is how you’d ended up in the grand library. However it was nothing like the smaller, cosier one you were now used to and you found the differences too jarring. You let out another sigh and shut the book in front of you with a snap. 

By all rights you should be thrilled to be here, especially in the privileged position you had. While you had taken a step back from your job, you hadn’t quit altogether, and were perfectly placed to provide the world with insights into this unexpected turn of events. Yes, the death of King T’Challa had been shocking and upsetting, but no-one could have foreseen the subsequent death of Queen Ramona and that Princess Shuri would abdicate her right to the throne.

However, despite the fact that you’d been born and raised a world away, these were now your people and Wakanda was your adopted home. If M’Baku asked you to present something to the rest of the world using your connections, you would, but there was no way you would do anything to impinge on the nation’s privacy by acting on your own. You respected him and the country he led too much to do that.

You were sad though. Sad for the loss of everything that you’d acquired, even if it was quite by accident, after catching the eye of the leader of the Jabari and becoming his lover. A working trip had turned into an extended holiday and had now morphed into something that felt much more permanent. However, the recent changes had made you doubt the foundations of it all. So much about your lives was different now. Yes, M’Baku loved you, and you loved him, but could your meeting of worlds survive this latest upheaval?

Shaking away your maudlin thoughts, you decided you needed to occupy yourself some other way, and what would be better than feasting your eyes upon any glimpse of your lover you could get? Although you knew he was busy, you also knew that most of the meetings and forums he was taking part in were not private ones with the leaders of the other tribes, held behind closed doors. No, today was all about visibility, with the opportunity for the common folk of Wakanda to meet and question their new King. With that in mind, you made your way along the corridors of the palace, familiar enough with it now to only take a few wrong turns, until you got to the viewing gallery that overlooked the great hall. 

You picked your way along the rows of ornate wooden benches far up near the ceiling, until you found a spot away from the few others who’d decided to come all the way up here - most of the viewers were using the lower gallery, where they could get a better look at King M’Baku in all his finery.

However, you didn’t need to be close to know how he looked. You knew the texture of every piece of fur, of every feather, that adorned him. No-one else present but you knew how it felt to caress the soft skin that overlaid his strong muscles. No-one else had ridden one of those thick, wonderful thighs until completion. No-one else had had their inner thighs rubbed almost raw by the burn of his facial hair while pleading for more. You bit your lip as you drifted off into your own daydreams, inhaling sharply through your nose to fill your lungs with more oxygen.

In theory, you were too far away, too insignificant to the proceedings, for M’Baku to spot you, but as you looked down at him, your eyes roaming unabashedly over his form as he held court, his large body owning the throne he sat in, his own eyes darted upwards, capturing your gaze for a few heartbeats before he turned his focus back to the person asking him a question.

He was radiant and with the light shining in through the windows behind him he even seemed other-worldly. You ached to reach out and touch him, to feel the warmth of him under your fingers, but you’d have to wait.

Instead, you leant forward in your seat, resting your arms along the railing, and continued to let your gaze feast upon him. It was only when his eyes flicked back up at you again, but stopped shy of your face, you realised that the way you were perched pushed your breasts right up to the neckline of your top, almost threatening to spill over. You should behave with more decorum but an imp on your shoulder egged you on. You shifted again, slowly easing your top until it barely covered your nipples. At the same time you put the tip of your thumb in your mouth and took it between your teeth, ready to flash him a coy look the next time he glanced up.

When M’Baku’s eyes went wide, his nostrils flaring at the same time, you felt a flash of satisfaction. You continued to make eyes at him over the next hour, subtly shifting whenever there was a lull in proceedings, so that you almost exposed yourself on a number of occasions. When you saw your King squirm slightly, moving his legs so that the cloth that covered his crotch wasn’t so flush against him, your sense of triumph increased.

When the session came to a close you couldn’t help but tease him with one more thing. As the denizens of the city exited and M’Baku’s advisors rose from their seats to speak to him, you stood from yours. Carefully you climbed the steps that lead to the exit from the upper stalls, but just as you reached the top you ‘tripped’. Your hands went out in front of you, stopping you from actually injuring yourself, but you knew the action had caused the fabric of your skirt to pull tightly across your ass. Standing back up, you dusted off your hands and chanced a brief look over your shoulder. M’Baku was still in conversation, but his eyes were firmly fixed on you. You threw him a smile and made your way out, down the corridors and back to your suite. 

Launching yourself down on the bed, you indulged in further daydreams of how your royal lover would behave once he returned to your shared chambers. Heat spread through your body as your thoughts raced. You didn’t know whether you wanted him to worship you or the other way around. Or what if he just lifted you in his strong arms and fucked you against the wall, his thick thighs doing all the work to make his hips snap up into you? Each thought was as equally delicious as the next, and you ran through them all in your mind as you waited.

And waited.

And waited.

With an exasperated sigh, you turned your head to look at the clock. An hour had passed since the forum session had ended and M’Baku hadn’t returned. Where was he? You pushed yourself back up and looked at the doors to the suite, hoping that just by doing so he would appear.

Nothing.

A scowl appeared on your face and you pursed your lips. What was taking him so long? 

Frustration, both emotional and physical, welled within you and you rose back to your feet. A shower would be a good way to while away some time and, if you were lucky, he might return while you were part way through. Luck, however, wasn’t on your side, and by the time you got out from under the steaming spray - which to your mind couldn’t hold a candle to the hot springs of Gorilla Mountain - you weren’t just frustrated, you were downright cross. You needed M’Baku here with you and he wasn’t. He’d promised, and he’d never broken a promise to you before. You recognised you were being childish, but it still didn’t alleviate the hurt at apparently being forgotten. Once you’d uttered those three words to each other, back in his private room on the mountain, you’d thought this thing between you could work, but there was a vast difference between being the consort of a tribal leader and the consort of a King.

You were so lost in thought, pacing up and down and chewing on the nail of your thumb, that you didn’t notice the door to the suite opening. It was only when it swung closed with a loud thud that you became aware of M’Baku’s return.

You’d been waiting all day for this, but now he was here your thoughts were swirling too much. You were frustrated, your confidence was at rock bottom, and all you could do was blink at him blankly as he stalked towards you, a sly smile on his face

“I see you found a way to keep yourself occupied, my Sabi Star. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

He reached out toward you, aiming to stroke your cheek with the back of his knuckles. His actions snapped you out of your stupor and all your emotions came rushing back in. For the first time ever, you stepped backwards, away from his touch. You were feeling hurt and your pettiness was winning out. You wanted him to be hurt too

“No.”

You ducked around him and moved towards the dresser and your jars of cocoa butter. You let the towel drop from your body, stretched, and then lifted one of your feet onto the stool and proceeded to start moisturising your body. From the corner of your eye you saw M’Baku raise an eyebrow, before he followed in your wake to stand right next to you, his eyes roving over the expanse of your bare skin.

“No?” he questioned, incredulously. “This morning you implored me to stay in bed, despite my duties, then you put on that ridiculous display in the public gallery, which, by the way, had the effect you intended, and you have nothing to say?” He stepped behind you, wrapping his large arms around your waist and nuzzled behind your ear. “Do you know how hard it was to leave you lying in our bed? Do you know how much I wanted to dismiss the forum and take you right there on the throne room floor? I burn for you, Sabi.”

You felt the truth of his statement, nudging up against the back of your thigh, but you were still in a petulant mood, so you slipped from his embrace and began to tidy up the room, making sure to bend over right in front of him as you retrieved your towel.

“Well, that’s too bad. Because I’m not in the mood.”

M’Baku let out a bark of laughter. “My love, you have never been a good liar, but at least try. In all the months we have been together, I have never known you not to be in the mood. Even when your monthly courses come you still wish to touch me, ride my thighs and worship my body.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” you shot back, but you didn’t look at him.

“Sabi, if for one moment I actually believed you I would accept what you’ve said and leave you be, but there is something else going on here. Why are you acting like this?”

All of your feelings started to bubble up. He was being too nice. Too sweet. You wanted his responses to match yours. You wanted some fire. You lifted your head and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not talking about it, and you can’t make me.”

For a moment M’Baku just looked back at you, his gaze searching yours, but you knew the moment he realised what you were unable to verbalise. His eyes narrowed and darkened and he took a menacing step forward. You sucked in a sharp breath and took an instinctive step back. Fuck! He was so big and looked so dangerous. You felt a tingle start between your thighs.

“Do you really want to test that assumption, Sabi?” His voice, so deep it sent a pleasurable rumble through you in normal circumstances, lowered even further, with a sharp, menacing edge to it.

Your mouth went dry and your eyes darted around the room, searching for escape. However, before you could make a move, M’Baku proved why he was a formidable warrior. He moved faster than you’d think possible given his size, snatched you up and tossed you over his shoulder. You squealed and rained feeble hits down onto his shoulders with your balled fists.

“Let me go!”

A loud crack rang through the air and a sharp pain bloomed across your right buttock. It took you a second to work out what had happened, but then it was like something snapped inside you. You started to kick, shout and wriggle, but it was all in vain. In a moment, he’d sat down on the edge of the bed and manhandled you face down across his lap, his left arm holding you tight to his thighs. 

“If you want to act like a child, be prepared to be treated like one,” he ground out, and with another crack he spanked you again, pulling another shriek from your throat. “Talk to me, love.”

“No!” you shouted back, still trying to twist in his iron grip.

Crack. Crack.

He peppered two smacks in quick succession, landing on the delicate skin at the tops of your thighs.

“Sabi….” he growled out warningly, but you just shook your head.

Pain spread across your ass and thighs as he spanked you, stopping every few smacks to implore you to talk to him, but you couldn’t. You didn’t have the words and your body’s reactions were confusing you, because as he continued, despite the fact that the pain should have increased, it didn’t. Instead you found yourself arching up into the contact. Your legs slowly moved apart, and when the cool air of the room flowed over you, you realised you were wet. This fact didn’t escape M’Baku’s notice either.

“Who’d have thought that this would have been the thing to get you going. But don’t think I’m going to get distracted yet.” With that he brought his heavy hand down again, and spanked you right on your weeping pussy. You yowled, but despite the sharp burn you wanted it again. You wanted his strength, his passion. Craved it. “Tell me what is wrong.” 

Tears were running down your face, your chest heaving, and with a few more smacks the damn broke. You started to sob - loud, ugly noises of raw emotional pain - and in an instant you were turned upright and pulled into your lover’s embrace. Your fingers curled into the furs and leathers of his clothing, their familiar texture and smell surrounding you as he petted your hair and made soothing noises.

“Speak to me please, my love.”

God, you loved him so much, but you couldn’t find the words, so instead you turned your face up and pressed your lips to his. 

“I need you. Don’t let me go,” you whispered against him before putting all of your emotions into your kiss. He returned it with rough ardour, his lips devouring yours, and you turned in his embrace so you could straddle him and press your body closer. The heat between you flared, the pent up energy and emotion from both of you fanning the flames higher.

M’Baku’s hands roamed over your soft, bare skin, stroking and groping, and when he touched your sore ass, the jolts of discomfort went straight to your core, morphing into more heat. Your own hands slid under his clothes, desperately trying to close any remaining distance between you. You rocked against his covered length, whining as it knocked against your clit and your impatience won out.

You slipped a hand between you, pushing up the leather of his skirt and freed him from the soft fabric of his undergarments. M’Baku grunted against your lips as your fingers closed around him, moving with purpose. Your thumb swiped through the precum that was dripping from his tip, smearing it all over, and then you were lifting yourself and angling him towards you. His hands moved to your hips, at first steadying you, but as your body began to engulf him, he used his hold on you to pull you all the way down until you’d taken all of his cock inside you.

He turned his face into your neck, gently worrying the skin of your throat with his teeth as you rocked your hips. Your fingers curled into any part of his own flesh you could find, the need to mark him as yours blazing in your mind like a klaxon. You felt feral. He was yours and you were his and you wanted the whole of Wakanda, the whole of the world to know it. Your movements increased in ferocity as you rose up and plunged back down on him, scratching him with your nails, and it was as though M’Baku knew exactly what you were thinking, as he urged you along.

“Yes, ododo mi. Take what you need. I’m here. I am yours. Mo ni ife re.”

The coarse hairs at the base of his cock brushed back and forth over your clit as you moved and you couldn’t hold back your moans and cries, so close to your peak you could almost touch it. Then, when you didn’t think you could take it any more, M’Baku moved his hand to grasp at your breast and rolled your plump nipple between his finger and thumb.

“Jẹ ki lọ, Sabi. Let go for me.”

You felt yourself shatter into a million pieces, only able to babble his name in between incoherent noises. The world shifted on its axis as M’Baku rolled you both over on the bed, easily manoeuvring you to where he needed you to be, so he could cage you in with his broad arms and continue thrusting firmly into you.

“I love you, my precious desert rose, who blooms in adversity and survives hardship. It is you that I want.”

Tears streamed down your face, your emotions ripped from the depths of you as M’Baku told you with his words and his body how much you meant to him.

“But you don’t need me,” you sobbed, your fears finally able to be spoken aloud.

“Isọkusọ! I will always need you. Always.” His hips snapped and you clung to his biceps. “I may have duties to carry out, and there may be times when I can’t be with you, but that does not change how I feel about you. How important you are to me. Say you believe me, ododo mi. Say it.”

You nodded vigorously, your lower lip clamped tight between your teeth until he thrust into you sharply, causing your mouth to open wide as you sucked in a breath.

“Words, ifemi. I need to hear you say it out loud.” The speed of his movements increased, and started to lose their rhythm and you suddenly found yourself on the cusp of orgasm once more.

“I b-beleive you. Oh gods! “

“What do you believe? Tell me.” It was clear he wouldn’t be satisfied until you did what he asked.

“You n-need me. Y-you love me! Oh! Ọba mi!” You crashed over the edge once more, tumbling in the waves of pleasure and sensation as you held on to your one and only constant, M’Baku. Your lover. Your king.

You were aware that he also reached his peak, his thick cock swelling inside of you, flooding you with the satisfying warmth of his spend, but then everything went black.

You came to surrounded by warmth and the sound of humming. As you blinked your eyes open you found yourself pulled to M’Baku’s chest, his arms around you as he nuzzled your hair and hummed in your ear. At some point he’d rid himself of his clothes, and your legs were tangled with his amongst the rumpled sheets. When the hair at the tops of his thighs brushed over your ass you winced and turned over in his arms.

He ducked his head down and brushed his nose alongside yours. “Welcome back, Sabi. I don’t believe I’ve ever fucked you unconscious before.” 

You grabbed a pillow from behind you and smacked him over the head as the pair of you chuckled.

“Feeling better now, my love?”

A feeling of embarrassment crashed over you, and you tried to bury your face into his chest, but M’Baku was having none of it, tucking his finger under your chin and preventing you from hiding. 

“I’m sorry,” you uttered, feeling your cheeks heat.

“Nothing to apologise for, Sabi. I might be the King, but that isn’t all I am, and I was so focussed on my new role that I didn’t stop to assure you that nothing would change between us.” He hand moved from your chin to brush over your hair. “That being said, I think that while I have all of these things to organise, that maybe you should go home for a short time. You’d have more company - things to occupy you.”

You cocked your head, considering what he was suggesting. “I suppose that wouldn’t be too bad. It’s not like it would take long to travel between here and Jabari Mountain when we wanted to. I’d miss you terribly, though.”

“And I too, my love, but you misunderstand me. I don’t mean our home together. I mean your home. You have been here for more than a year - surely you must miss your family, and would welcome the opportunity to spend time with them?.”

You looked at him in shock, your jaw dropping and your eyes going wide, not believing what you were hearing.

“You’re sending me away? After what we just did? You said you needed me!”

Had he just been humouring you? Inflating his own ego? 

“I do need you, my love. But it isn’t just about me. I am not the one separated from my country, my culture. I have been selfish about keeping you here, and not giving you the opportunity to make a balanced decision.”

Had you been in a better state of mind, you might have been able to see the sense in what he was proposing, but in your currently fragile emotional state, all you heard was that he thought it would be better if you weren’t here with him. You pushed away from his embrace,  jumped from the bed and ran into the bathroom, locking it behind you, ignoring his pleas as you sank to the floor and your tears began anew.

How were you supposed to go on?

Ododo mi - my flower

Mo ni ife re - I love you

Ọba mi - my king

Jẹ ki lọ - let go

Isọkusọ - nonsense

Ifemi - My love

Tag list: @galactusdevourerofworlds; @km-ffluv; @wheezy-stucky; @mrs-illyrian-baby

#m'baku #m'baku x reader #[river deep] mountain high series #m'baku x female reader #m'baku x you #late writes

[drippingmoon]

Aquiver, Aglow: Beta Call Post

After being one of the biggest parts of my life for some years now, I'm very very happy to announce 'quiv is ready for its beta stage. I'm gonna echo my previous post: writing this story has been a soothing experience for me, and I'd love for this to apply to everyone. Never heard of 'quiv? No problem, new eyes are often wise. Old acquaintance? No pressure on you. Take a cup of steaming tea, or maybe not since it's summer, lean back and just tell me whatever crosses your mind. Believe me, it will help me enormously. And the stress is all with me, not you. So while I'm asking for help, I truly wish whoever gives me a hand to have a pleasant experience🥰

Sign-up period: till July? I might be more flexible, depending on the applicants, and there won't be any selection (a maximum of 7 people), which means you can start on the day you sign up

Deadline: October (SOFT deadline, since ideally I want to do another round of line edits then proofreading in November), with the possibility of extending until December (and don't sweat it if you need more)

Long story short: a human child restores faith to an angel, who in turn restores faith to Heaven.

Long story long: There's a place beneath Heaven where, in a shoddy little cottage, a mother and her child live. They are to wait for her promised day, when angels shall descend and devour their souls. For faith has been broken. Memories of kindness and warmth remain mere whispers, cracked under two centuries of prayers answered with bloodied chapels and trails of corpses, and callous wings plucking souls out of their once faithfuls' chests.

Tyrone knows his Mother is just waiting for the day the angels will come. She wishes to sacrifice herself to see her child out of the Promised Lands, so she fills his childhood with horrible stories meant to make him afraid and get him used to the inevitable. She succeeds. Tyrone is afraid, but of everything. Most of all, of the loneliness that keeps him company, and disperses only at night. Because, under the stars, he sees an angel on the rims of Heaven, taking care of her field of clouds, a mirror to how he toils over his wheatfield. That’s when he first feels they are the same. So when she falls one day, he asks not that she spare him, but that she stay.    And, slowly, the nights turn so very warm.

It’s been two centuries since the angels knew where they wished to go. They live suspended in time, caught between memory and hatred. Anne, their Angel of Lies, has only ever cared for Heaven. For them, she’d draw their anger onto herself, if only they acknowledged they were still hung up on humanity. She’s tired. She’s old. Even the stars have closed their path off to the angels, and she doesn’t know what to do. So when she is met with sincerity for the first time in centuries, she wonders if she’s found a way. If nothing else, anger would reanimate Heaven, and for a little while stop the angels’ slow fall towards death. She listens to a child’s quiet wish, and agrees.    Curiosity, she calls it.

They begin by using each other. With time, this no longer holds true, and they learn something. It was a thin line between that and caring about one another. And warmth, as it were, comes with sorrows shared.

GENRE: character-driven dark fantasy with humans, angels and stars interspersed with peaceful moments

WORD COUNT: 195k (standalone)

STATUS: sixth draft

WARNINGS: violence, gore, suicidal thoughts, abusive relationships, terminal illness

What I'm looking for

Content criticism, as in character arcs, plot development, your fav and least fav parts, and mainly if you think there are too many feathers in the story

The sky's your limit actually. Every thought counts 🙌

Typically you can ignore typos, but if any of them really pisses you off, feel free to shout at me

Same with line edits. The style is meant to be experimental at times, but not at the cost of intelligibility. So if I went overboard somewhere, please do shout but otherwise it's due a line edit

You get

Return betas! No time limit; and of course no word count limit

To save Private Jan (my penname lol) because there's no way I can afford editing prices, so we're pulling off an Atlas here no matter how many drafts I'll have to go through

Hopefully a great time?

You can just contact me in the DMs, but I'll put up a Google Forms as well for whoever would prefer that. Also, you can request a sample (the first/first few chapters) to see if it's your thing.

And that's it! Hope to see volunteers, and thanks so much for your interest! Have a lovely day🥰

#aquiver-aglow #beta call #beta readers #writers on tumblr #my writing #original writing #writeblr #writblr #beta request #writing community

[softguarnere]

can I maybe request intelligence officer x ron speirs?? this is like my favorite idea rn....love your work! <33

People-Watching vs People Watching

Ron Speirs x reader

A/N: Anon, thank you so much for the compliment, and thank you so much for trusting me to write this idea -- I had a lot of fun with it (mainly because I'm like halfway through with Fierce Valor and got to sprinkle in more Speirs facts hehehe). This doesn't really take place between or during any episode, and the mission referred to later in the story is made up. So if anyone is looking for historical accuracy, this isn't it lol. (The usual disclaimer: this is written for the fictional depiction from the show -- no disrespect to the real life veterans!) And I hope you enjoy, Anon, because intelligence officer x Speirs is SUCH a good concept 🕊️💖

Warnings: war, blood, guns, drinking, the usual HBOWar things

From across the pub, Ron can hear you laugh politely at something one of the other officers has just said. Reason dictates that he could take his drink and cross the room to join the crowd, but he keeps holding himself back. Instead, he takes another sip of his drink.

"Funny, I should have known that you would be a pensive drunk. But part of me hoped that you would be a loud, fun one instead." Across the table from him, Nixon smirks before taking a sip of his own drink.

Ron sits up a little straighter. "I'm not drunk."

"No, I know. I don't expect anyone will ever see the day that Ron Speirs lets down his guard in that way. I just meant that everyone else with a drink in their hand seems happy, but you don't."

There are arguments that Ron could make in response to that. But how to explain to someone as laid-back and extroverted as Lewis Nixon that he, Ron, is more of a reserved introvert who prefers people-watching to people watching? It's just his nature.

Across the pub, the group laughs again. Nixon's eyes flicker between it and Ron. "Oooh. Okay."

"What?"

Nixon leans back in his chair with a smile.

"What?"

"The new intelligence officer," Nixon says. "(Y/N). It's her, isn't it?"

Ron is thankful that, even with the alcohol that's starting to warm him from inside, he's always been good at keeping his emotions off his face, and that he's not prone to blushing. He's able to keep it cool when he asks, "What are you talking about?"

The captain in front of him just laughs. "Oh come on, Speirs. I'm an intelligence officer. It's my job to notice things. Don't deny it," he adds quickly. "Liking someone is nothing to be embarrassed about. Have you spoken to her?"

"No," Ron admits. He's not shy around girls. He's flirted before. But there's a war going on. And you're a fellow officer. There are probably rules against fraternization, and he would rather not find out what the consequence of breaking those rules is. So when Ron says he hasn't spoken to you, it's not because he's afraid to do it, but because he doesn't trust his heart not to betray him and convince him to put something above his duties in the war. Duties which, he reminds himself, he worked very hard for.

Not to mention the gnawing thought at the back of his mind that keeps telling him that he won't even survive the war.

A crease forms between Nixon's eyebrows as he mulls over Ron's short answer. "Well, are you planning to?"

"I would imagine that I'll have to speak to her at some point, as a fellow officer."

"Well, as a fellow intelligence officer, I talk to her all the time." His smile is cheeky. Even though he's inebriated -- but then again, when is he not? -- anyone could see the wheels turning in his mind as he forms a plan. "You want me to find out more about her, see if she likes anyone? You know, like a wingman?"

Ron almost scoffs. Studying at an all boys military school growing up deprived him of certain childhood experiences, but from what he heard his older sisters say about crushes and public school drama, this seems a bit like some silly high school romance idea.

"Gathering intelligence on a fellow intelligence officer," he muses instead. "That doesn't seem too smart, somehow."

Nixon twists his glass in his hand, eyebrows drawn as he looks towards you across the pub. "Don't worry, Ron. I'll figure something out."

Sometimes it's easier not to argue with someone who's drunk. Sometimes it's easier to let them think that they've won, and then be grateful in the morning when it becomes clear that they've forgotten everything from the night before.

"Sure thing." Ron downs the rest of his glass and stands, offering Nixon a nod before he heads off across the pub, straight for the door.

But behind him, a slow smile has started to creep across Nixon's face as he watches his fellow officer go. If Ron thought that he would get out of this with ease, he was sorely mistaken; it doesn't pay to underestimate Lewis Nixon when he sets his mind to something.

--

The muggy English morning clings to you as you make your way to headquarters. If you had to spend the day inside dealing with meetings and briefings, at least it was such an overcast one -- it would be a shame to waste a good day.

Inside, work is already in full swing as people dart about with coffee and paperwork, trying to set things straight before any of the morning's meetings. Sliding between people, you manage to grab a mug and fill it up with coffee.

"Ah, there you are (Y/N)!" As you take your first sip of your drink, the crowd parts and Nixon makes his way over to you, smiling broadly despite the early hour.

You offer him a salute, but he waves it off -- he might be an officer, but most of the time, the formalities don't bother him. It's nice to have someone like him in this new place to show you the ropes.

Nixon tilts his head, motioning for you to follow him. "I was hoping you would be in soon. We just received some very exciting orders, and I thought that you would be perfect for the job, if you're interested."

"Well I guess that depends. During Basic, I had higher ups convince us that scrubbing the latrine was very exciting, but personally, I don't think I would be too interested in doing it ever again."

The dark-haired man laughs as he leads you into a small office. He pushes some files aside to make room for his own coffee cup as he sits down behind the desk. "How would you feel about getting out of this stuffy building and out into the field?"

"Like you?" You ask. Some people preferred working the indoor intelligence jobs, but it had always been obvious from the way you looked longingly towards the door whenever other officers left their meetings that you would much rather be heading out to work intelligence head-on.

Nixon nods, his own smile growing as he watches your face light up. "It just so happens that we need a new intelligence officer for one of the companies. You'd get to be out in the field, and we could coordinate orders and intelligence between our companies. Now I know that it's not scrubbing the latrine, but it sounds pretty exciting to me." He raises his eyebrows. "Are you interested?"

"Of course."

"Wonderful. You'll be assigned to Dog Company, and working with their lieutenant."

Behind you, the door opens and shuts quickly as someone else enters the room, offering Nixon a salute.

"Ah, and here he is now," Nixon announces before you can even turn to see who has just come in. "(Y/N), I would like for you to meet Lieutenant Ronald Speirs -- the man you'll be working with in Dog Company."

--

Service before self, Ron keeps reminding himself whenever he's around you. Although it's getting harder to ignore the feeling that invades his chest whenever he looks at you.

But even with the constant mantra running through the back of his mind, it's become so easy to be around you. At first he hadn't been sure how he would feel about working so closely with an intelligence officer, but now it's hard for him to remember a time when you weren't around. You were never daunted by his demeanor, and something about the way you approached him -- or approached anything, for that matter -- impressed him. It didn't take long for him to learn to let walls down around you. It's refreshing; he feels like he's able to take off a mask that he didn't even know he had been wearing since the war had started.

Service before self, he thinks the first time you make him laugh. Service before self -- when he realizes how adorable you look when you're puzzling over reports, eyebrows furrowed and tapping a pen to a rhythm that only you can hear. Service before self -- when he glances at you during an officer's meeting and sees that you've been looking at him, only to quickly glance away when your eyes meet. Service before self -- the night that neither of you can sleep and he finds himself telling you his fondest memories of traveling to Scotland with his parents. Service before self -- a few days later after a skirmish, when the two of you have finished checking on the men and are checking in with each other, standing close, hearts beating fast; another step closer, your head tilting, and then him asking, "Can I - ?" Service before --

Self. Selfish? Ron wonders as your lips crash together in the long anticipated kiss. No. Not selfish; just a rearranging of priorities: you before him. You before anything and everything.

--

Even men made of legends and rumors can have trouble jumpstarting their day. Especially at three in the morning when he has been woken up by someone knocking on his door, announcing that he is needed for an urgent meeting.

Ron is good about waking up, being alert, being able to function. That doesn't mean that he likes it. He pours himself a cup of coffee as soon as he gets to headquarters, the smell of the morning elixir helping to coax his senses into action as he makes his way back to the office where he hears voices.

"And we're sure it has to be Easy?" He would know your voice anywhere.

"I wouldn't trust anyone else with this," Colonel Sink replies, voice just as action-ready as ever. "But the question is, who?"

"A good shot like Shifty Powers would be ideal," Winters says. Part of Ron is glad to hear that he also sounds a bit tired -- it means that Ron is not the only officer whose normal, mortal instincts are giving him a hard time this morning. When Ron steps into the room, only the other sleepy officer seems to acknowledge his presence.

"But he doesn't speak German," you say. "Who in Easy does? Just Liebgott and Webster?"

Colonel Sink nods. "What do you think of them?"

"If I may," Nixon cuts in. "Liebgott might get too trigger happy."

"So then just Webster?"

"No, Webster and Liebgott would balance each other out, I think."

Everyone's eyes turn to you, waiting for an answer.

"I know them both. I trust them both."

"But?" The colonel asks, sensing something in your voice.

You bite your lip, your eyes darting between the other officers as you think. "I think we would all know who I would prefer to come with me."

"But Speirs doesn't speak German."

At the mention of his name, Speirs' attention snaps from you to the rest of the room. If he had felt a step behind when he entered the room, now he feels like everyone else has taken off running, and he's stuck behind them in the dust.

Your face falls. "I know."

"Well, I think it's settled then." Colonel Sink offers you a fatherly pat on the shoulder before turning to the door, nodding to Speirs as he passes, and then taking his leave.

The lower ranking officers visibly relax the moment he leaves, a collective sigh of relief and disappointment surging through the room.

"I'll go get Liebgott and Webster so they can be fitted and briefed," Nixon offers. His eyes catch Ron's in the doorway and he nods.

You turn, finally seeing him for the first time. In a second, you're out of your seat and bee-lining towards him. A frown tugs at your lips and darkens your eyes. "I wish it were you."

"For what?" Ron asks. "What's going on?"

"You didn't hear?"

He shakes his head, watching your frown grow deeper with every second.

"I've been chosen to infiltrate the German line to gather intelligence."

--

Ron has never seen anyone look at themselves with as much hatred as Liebgott does when he puts on the German uniform and sees himself in the mirror. If Webster didn't already look like he was so uncomfortable that he wants to crawl out of his skin, then Joe's scowl and his muttering would dampen the already somber mood.

Webster swallows. "We look --"

"Like them," Liebgott spits.

"That's the point," Nixon reminds them. "It's got to be convincing. There can be absolutely no suspicion once the three of you cross their line."

The bathroom door swings open and you step out, looking just as uncomfortable as the Easy men. After seeing you in your paratrooper uniform the entire war, seeing you dressed like a German nurse is almost enough to take Ron off-guard -- which means that it will convince the Germans.

You balk at yourself in the mirror. "This feels . . ."

"Disgusting?" Liebgott offers. "Unnatural? Disagreeable? Excruciating?"

Webster lets out a low whistle. "Those are some big words, Lieb."

It's obvious that he's trying to lighten the mood a little, but Liebgott's scowl only deepens. "Not everyone needs a college degree to have a wide vocabulary, Web."

"Let's review one more time," Nixon suggests before the two have the chance to turn their spat ugly.

"We cross the German line," you say. "If anyone asks, we were POWs who escaped and are trying to find our company. We find their headquarters, take the maps of their routes to see where they're going next, and make it back here as quickly and safely as we can."

Nixon nods. "Good." He hands his men some convincing looking documents that will back up their story. He fixes Liebgott with a firm look. "Before you go, Winters wants to talk to you."

Everyone knows that he's going to be getting a warning about what will happen if he gets trigger happy while on the other side of the line, but for is sake, Webster heads out with him to receive a similar warning, even though no one is worried about bookish, thoughtful Webster acting impulsively.

Which leaves you and Ron alone.

"Hey." You nudge his shoulder, something that's not quite a smile pulling at your mouth. "Don't worry about me. I've got this. We've got this."

Ron nods. "I know. I just wish I were the one going with you. I would feel a whole lot better about the whole thing."

"Me too. But the war won't always let us get what we want."

"Don't say that." You're referring to the mission, but it makes him think of his own belief that he won't make it through the war. It's fine for him to think so pessimistically, he reasons, but you shouldn't have to. The war hasn't always allowed him what he wants -- hell, life in general hasn't -- but he's stubborn enough that he's going to at least try to make things go his way. He suddenly knows how Orpheus felt when he determined to bring Eurydice back from the underworld.

You glance at the door that the other men left through, making sure that there isn't anyone watching, and then you take his hand. "I'll see you when I get back."

"I'll be waiting as close to the line for you as I can."

"I know you will."

And then you kiss him, putting self over service one last time.

--

The first thing that Ron hears is the heavy footsteps and the panting of multiple people trying to catch their breath. He automatically raises his rifle, just in case.

The first thing he sees is the blood covering the front of your nurse uniform and staining your hands. Your hands, which are white-knuckling a small stack of folders, but all he can focus on is the blood. Beside you, he only just registers that Webster and Liebgott are okay -- sweaty and blood splattered, but alive and back on the American side of the line.

No one is behind you. At least you weren't pursued.

Ron swings his rifle across his back and is by your side in a second, his hands automatically turning into those of a medic, searching you for a wound. He takes in a breath, ready to call out for Doc Roe, praying he'll be in earshot when you catch his hands, leaving streaks of red behind.

"Ron."

"Where did they get you?" He can't see any sort of entry wound, but he continues to search anyway. "(Y/N), where were you hit?" He doesn't ask his most important question: who do I have to kill?

"Ron." You still his hands. "It's not mine."

He freezes. "What?"

"It's not mine."

Webster is quick to explain, "Someone in their headquarters got suspicious about her uniform. They asked why she was wearing American shoes. We tried to explain that they were given to her when we were POWs, but one of the commanders got angry, saying that she should never have accepted anything from the enemy."

"He started asking too many questions, wouldn't let us leave," you pick up, squeezing Ron's hands so he won't feel how they shake. "We did what we had to do, and we got out with what we could."

"Oh thank God." In his relief, even with Webster and Liebgott right there, he cups your face and kisses you like you've been separated for eternity. You over him. You before the world.

"Oh." He's vaguely aware of Liebgott and Webster sharing a look. "Well this explains quite a lot."

"I'm okay." You rest your forehead against Ron's, both of you breathing heavily. It's quiet, but you huff a small, teasing laugh. "I'd have hoped that you would have more faith in me than that, Ron."

"You know I do," he assures you. "I'm just relieved, is all." And then, for good measure, he kisses you again. This, he thinks, is only appropriate -- it's what Orpheus would have done had Eurydice returned to him.

Who cares if there are people watching?

#I am incapable of writing a Speirs fic without some sort of greek mythology reference apparently #ron speirs #ron speirs x reader #band of brothers #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers imagine #joe liebgott #lewis nixon #david webster #dick winters #my writing #ronald speirs #ronald speirs x reader

[try02line]

The Owl House: Charis!AU

Context: the Wittebane brothers get tragically separated in their youth. One is thrown abruptly in the future, while the other remains stuck in the past, how will this change their story?

I am very happy to officially welcome you in my own personal AU of the show TOH, which I am creating in collaboration with @magpieddd (literally, none of this would have been possible without this amazing person-).

I will not spoil too much in this post, as I plan to gradually release the information thru blogs and building a small wiki as well so everything is much more organized! Just know that if you enjoy TOH and heavy Wittebro angst this is the place for you! Do not let the bright colors trick you, things will get dark pretty fast.

I want to dedicate this post to talk about my personal design of Young Philip Wittebane, because there are some details I am very proud of!

- The 9-years old design is very straightforward. Like hunter’s, it is simply a personal interpretation of his canon outfit. In this case, I wanted to remark the dire situation the two brothers were living in, with the clothes being clearly old and ill fitted for the small boy, and of course, i couldn’t not include his precious stag wooden mask.

- Now, for the second design, we get into interesting territory. For the hair, he decided to let it grow so that he would be able to tie it up, as a silent small tribute to his older brother.

- As it can clearly be seen by the first image, Philip is much smaller both in height and body type when compared to Hunter. This is due 3 factors: age, diet and lifestyle. In my au, Philip is around 12 years old, while Hunter is around 17. Hunter trains intensely to be the best of the best, a soldier and a perfect golden guard, even more than in canon as he is held to much higher and stricter standards, so he is of course more buff. And finally, the boiling isles offer a rather poor diet for a small human child.

- Philip has a belt with a bag attached to it, in which he carries his precious notebook

- the embroidery at the center of his outfit is meant to resemble a stag, but from the distance it may appear a demon as well

- AND FOR MY FAVORITE DETAIL: THE CLEARER SPOTS ON HIS CLOTHES. Okay, this has actually a double meaning! First and foremost, his outfit is meant to represent fire. This element can have many interpretations, something warm, but dangerous, that can give life and death in equal measure- but I personally mainly wanted to make a subtle nod to the witch hunting tradition of his home town, having him represent a pire on fire on which the people accused of being witches would be burnt alive. On the other side tho- the spots represent something much more innocent! When stags are still baby deers, bambis, they tend to have their back covered in white spots, which disappear as they grow up. This is to symbolize that even if he wears the mask of a stag, Philip in this AU is still very much a small child who has a lot to grow up to do, and no mask can change that as he wears barely disguised the signs of his naivety.

These are all my favorite details! I am so proud of this and I really hope you will enjoy it as well. More content will be soon posted in which I will go into more details about this AU.

PS: Charis is the fake name Philip uses in the Boiling Isles :3

#philip wittebane #fanart #caleb wittebane #hunter wittebane #wittebane brothers #wittebros #kid belos #kid philip #the owl house #the owl house au #try02art #Charis!AU #toh hunter #toh belos #my very first au #i am so proud #fan design

[ace-and-the-rpg-horrors]

OC LOREDROP PRETTY PLEASE??

okayyy!!! i haveeeee soooooo many OCs, i'm going to talk about the ones from the fairy realm part in my story!!

right, so one of my deuteragonists from the previous part of the story, Hana Kaetsu, in the fantasy arc, accidentally gets sent to the fairy realm by reading a letter from a mysterious group mistakenly delivered to her, that was actually meant for her classmate Sybil Villin who's secretly a witch (she's pretty open about her interest in making potions and researching the supernatural and all that but ofc everyone just thinks she's interested in it cause. people don't generally believe in that anymore). anywayyyyy cause of Hana's little misadventure there, she because one of four people in her class who are now able to see ghosts and other supernatural creatures due to now having a connection with the supernatural. the other three are Sybil, ofc, cause she's a witch, her friend Naoki Himura because he managed to free and summon the ghost of their murdered classmate Ashley Atwell, and Ash herself cause. ghost

butttt before being able to return to the human world after Sybil, Naoki and Ash figured out what was going on when she suddenly disappeared (only they noticed that Hana had gone missing due to her disappearance being of supernatural causes, and them being the only ones around who have that experience- for everyone else, it's as if Hana never existed but they remember her again as if nothing happened after she returns), Hana met Sybil's "coven" (which is a gathering of witches, but they're not all witches, half of them are fae), the coven being the one who tried to address that letter to Sybil, wanting her back as she'd suddenly lost contact with them for a few years. where Hana ends up after being transported there is a village in the fairy realm called "Glacialisville" and the forests surrounding it, a slightly cold area that gets very snowy winters and not very warm summers, only about 25 degrees Celsius max. also quite windy and prone to storms

the coven consists of:

Lady Esmerelda- a forty-six year old witch who is basically the leader, currently the lady of the mansion they are based in, "Glacies Manor" though she doesn't own it, just looking after it until Rowan feels prepared enough to take on the responsibility. adoptive mother of Rowan and Dahlia

Rowan Leblanc- a nineteen year old witch. his bio mother was executed for being caught practicing witchcraft- her and her ancestors were the true owners of Glacies Manor and are a long line of very powerful witches (though are known for having slightly unstable magic compared to others), including a particularly infamous one...

Dahlia Leblanc- a seventeen year old vampire who was banished from the vampire realm, in which she was princess of one of the royal families. disowned due to not being considered a "real" vampire as she was born with an incredibly rare and tricky condition that made her highly allergic to blood

Marceline- a seventeen year old witch, old friends with Sybil and the one who set out to find her again. Marcy is incredibly skilled with a sword and plans to enrol into the uni below

Belle, Olivier and Ciel Krieger- twenty year old fairy triplets who attend an university that specifies in training future members of the fairy army with sword fighting, archery etc

Nixie- a seventeen year old unique type of fairy that can shape shift- however he can only turn into creatures that humans consider fictional, such as a unicorn, pegasus, phoenix, dragon, mermaid

Ghost- twelve years old, a type of fairy known as changeling who was switched into an awful family in the human world. Lady Esme found her and immediately saved and took her in after seeing how she was treated due to being fae. cannot speak due to having a damaged throat from that "family" trying to kill her by stabbing, prefers to mainly communicate through drawings and miming. is able to communicate with these jelly-like floating creatures around the forest who she often holds tea parties with

Lillie- a twelve year old witch who looks up to the older witches in the coven (Lady Esme, Marcy and especially Rowan due to him being very older brotherly) who is incredibly excited about becoming able to use controlled magic at thirteen (spoiler- doesn't happen, she's murdered four days before her thirteenth birthday)

need two more characters to make a whole "thirteen" for the coven feel, haven't thought of them yet

other major characters!! Dahlia and Marcy's college classmates, all also seventeen (well. probably not cause birthdays and all that but i haven't figured it out yet. they attend Glacialisville College of Arts, where they have compulsory English (mixed Lang and Lit), Maths and History + three or occassionally four creative subjects:

Vie von Vogelblut- a vampire who suffered similar trauma to Dahlia, being thrown out of the vampire realm due to disownment. he lives with his equally disowned aunt and her daughter, Rouge, who while technically his cousin, is more like his older sister. Rouge is four years older than him, twenty-one, and also goes to that army uni thing that the Krieger triplets go to. Vie is somewhat childhood friends with Dahlia, he's basically her second brother, she's his second sister. he takes Hair and Makeup, German, Creative Writing and Theatre

Raphael- a fairy who was immediately adopted into the group by the extroverted Dahlia and ends up being very good friends with Vie. Raffi takes Drawing and Painting, Photography and Arabic

Clarissa- a fiery fairy who's besties with Dahlia, frenemies with Vie. idk what she takes yet

Alexandrite- a witch who's particularly gifted with elemental magic. takes Drawing and Painting, Sculpture and Photography

Nora- a fairy who's rather wary of flying due to being visually impaired and there being less to feel in the air. she has a Golden Retriever called Leo as a service animal and she takes Violin, Creative Writing and Song Writing

Natalie and Amaryllis- a pair of fairy sisters who've been through some crap (father lured to death by a demon). they both get along well with Vie. apart from her sister and Vie, Amy's only friends with Dahlia and Alexandrite due to severe social anxiety and Nat's much more outgoing and on very good terms with most in college. Amy and Nora also wanted to be friends due to having similar fashion sense, however, there was a communication barrier due to Nora's visual impairment and Amy being selectively mute (so Nora wouldn't be able to read what Amy writes but at the same time, Amy's unable to speak to her) but!! they both decide to learn Morse code (Amy taps her messages onto Nora's hand) so they eventually get to get along. idk all the subjects the sisters take yet, but Nat does Photography as one of them and Amy takes Hair and Beauty (same class as Vie)

oh yeah i forgot about Dion- Clarissa's cousin, just kind of a bitch really

there's more but aaaaaaa i think. i've gone insane enough

#OH MY GOSHHHHH #ace's ocs :) #glacialisville book #original character #oc #asks answered by ace :)