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wwilloww · 4 years

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sugar | ksj

A/N: This story was commissioned by @jamaisjoons through @ficswithluv‘s Changes With Luv project. Thank you so much for your donation. I had so much fun writing this Jin and exploring these characters so—I hope you enjoy it! A million thousand hundred THANK YOUS to @unlikelylittlemiss and @ot7always for beta’ing this!

After many hours of technical difficulties, I’ve formatted what I hope will be the final version of this story. So far I think it’s the favorite one that I’ve written, so if you like this piece, please let me know! It means the world to me when I hear from you all.

|| masterlist || moodboard || ao3 ||

©wwilloww Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.

Seokjin traces the rim of the crystal glass, absentmindedly watching the crowd around him swell and sway like a tide. His eyes sweep over the sea of faces, but he doesn't find what he's looking for.

He swirls the golden liquid around the glass and takes a slow sip, wetting his lips with his tongue as he relishes in the comfortable burn of peaty scotch sliding down his throat.

Finally, his gaze captures what he's been searching for.

You. Dressed in a slim asymmetrical white number, sheer fabric draping delicately over one arm. You're unmistakable.

Above you, thousands of shards of crystal hang as if suspended in midair, the art piece paling in comparison to the presence you command. The venue is dimly lit, but the blend of candlelight and starshine is enough to illuminate your face and paint your features in a dance of shimmering light.

He watches the million-dollar sculpture light your slight smile and curious eyes with a silver radiance. The pinkish light of a neon sign had bounced off of your features in an almost identical fashion the night you met.

ONE YEAR AGO

It was chance. Two strangers, anonymous in your settings, both searching for an escape. After finishing your first ever commission, you were desperate to get out of your cramped, barely-affordable studio, while Jin wanted to slip away from the pressures and strict culture of his high-end gallery. Neither knew who the other was, but you gravitated to each other nonetheless.

He sees you first as you shoulder through the front door of the dive bar, your rain-drenched jacket slung over your back, your eyes bright and intelligent. But you were the one to approach the tall, broad shouldered man first, riding off the high of a completed project. You buy him a drink—and then a second. You don’t talk about work tonight. Don’t talk about your lives. You’re both so absorbed in the other that you’re oblivious to the scent of tobacco smoke drifting over you, or the sounds of a rowdy pool game behind you. After four hours cozied up at that bar as the rain pours down outside, you invite him back to your tiny, paint and plant addled apartment.

Once you arrive back home, your roommate nowhere to be seen, you quickly offer him a drink. You hurried to the kitchen to dig through the fridge to find something— really, anything—to serve the handsome man standing in your living room and curse yourself for not getting groceries this week.

“Who is this?” Jin asks.

“Huh?”

“The painting. Who is it?”

You turn to find him staring starry-eyed at your most recent project, hanging above your couch.

“Oh, that. Moi.”

“Who?”

“Me, dummy.”

“You? You paint?” He’s looking at you, eyes wide and curious.

“Yeah, if you can call it that.”

“You can definitely call it that,” he says sternly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He reaches out as if to touch it, but freezes, fingers held an inch away from the canvas.

“You can touch it, if you want,” you offer.

He shoots you a flabbergasted look, as if to say really?, and you nod at him as you pull out plastic cups from your sparse cupboard. You pour two glasses of wine and hold one out to him as he comes back to you.

“I was always told not to touch the works of art,” he says, taking the glasses out of your hand and setting them down on the counter. “But this just makes the experience all the more memorable.”

You hiccup at his attempt at dirty talk, not used to men who know what they want, who are willing to spread their desire so plainly before you.

He kicks apart your legs, pressing a thigh against your heated core. He lowers his lips just enough that they almost brush up against yours.

“May I?” he breathes against you. You nod and suddenly he’s captured you in a kiss, the plush of his lips moving heatedly against you. You wrap your arms around his neck and he sighs at your touch. When you break apart, his eyes dark with lust and your breath quickening in your chest, you don’t hesitate to take his hand and lead him to the bedroom.

Before you can step inside, he swings you around and picks you up. Your legs wrap around his waist and you can feel his length pressed hard against you. He backs you against the doorframe, your spine hitting the wood—but you don’t even notice it. All you can feel is the way his cock is jutting against your clit.

“Look at you, grinding yourself against me.”

You groan as he thrusts his clothed cock against you.

“Bed. Now,” you demand.

He walks towards the bed, still holding you, still kissing you, until his knees hit the mattress. And then his grip is loosening and you’re thrown onto the soft surface of the bed, a gasp rushing through your lungs. You watch as he pulls his shirt off, revealing a toned chest. You didn’t think the man in front of you could get any hotter, but as he crawls up the bed to hover over you, you’re proven wrong.

“Please, god, fuck me,” you groan as he kisses you.

It’s all he needs to hear.

The next morning you wake to an unfamiliar arm wrapped around your waist and morning breath tickling your ear. You smile as the details of last night come flooding back.

“Morning,” you grumble, feeling the man shift behind you.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he replies, a heavenly rasp edging his voice.

His hand comes to trace your waist and you let out a quiet moan, your senses softened by sleep. A smile flickers across your lips as his hand dips lower, casting warmth over your hips, your pelvic bone, and finally, your lower lips as his hands explore your body.

“You’re so wet I could just slip right into you, no problem,” he says as he runs his finger along your slick folds. You twist yourself around so you’re on your back now with Jin pressed against your side. Without breaking eye contact, you reach down with one hand to wrap around his length. With your other hand, you grab his hips, pulling him towards you—he takes the cue and straddles you, his hands coming down on either side of your head. You pull him closer so that the head of his cock is pressed against your entrance. “Now?” he asks.

“Now,” you reply.

Despite your wetness and the stretch from last night, he’s still a tight fit as he slides into you. A delightful ache threads through your belly and you arch your back to better accommodate him.

“God, how are you this perfect?” he groans once he’s buried entirely within your walls. He settles his weight against you, giving you a moment to adjust to his girth. “What would it take to get you like this again?”

“Get me into the Whitney,” you joke.

“Done.”

You laugh and roll your eyes. “You’re hysterical.”

“I’m not joking.”

You search his expression for any sign of a joke, but you find none. “Wh-what?” you fumble.

“I’m serious.”

His gaze is calm and collected as if he had just agreed to buy you breakfast—not kickstart your art career.

“Do you not know who I am?”

“Why the fuck would I know who you are?”

His eyes widen for a moment before he breaks out in laughter.

“Oh, well then, don’t worry about it.”

As his chest shakes as he chuckles against you, you’re reminded of your current position. You look down to where your bodies are joined, his cock hard and not even fully sheathed within you.

“You’re not, like, some kind of serial killer right?”

“Uh, no.”

“Okay, well then I literally couldn’t care less who you are.” He smirks at you and you pout. “Can you please just fuck me now?”

He chuckles. “It seems you have to keep asking me for that.” He thrusts into you with enough force that your body slides several inches up the mattress and the two of you groan as you adjust to his girth. He relishes in the tight throbbing of your cunt. and he relishes in the tight throbbing of your cunt.

He fucks you slow and hard, each thrust slamming into your body, making your toes curl and your back arch. You both come quickly, relishing in the feeling of one another and the pleasure rippling across each other’s face.

“I’ll be honest,” you say, as you pull your shirt over your head. “I kinda liked it when you pushed me around last night. We should do that again.”

“After breakfast though?”

“After breakfast.”

A month later, you had been scrolling through your email when you saw a message from an unknown sender.

Subject : Acceptance to Whitney Museum of American Art.

————————————————————-

Thank you so much for your submission to our open call for pieces exploring “identity and landscape.” We are thrilled to inform you that your art has been accepted by our committee and will be displayed in our upcoming exhibit. Your piece explores these themes in a manner that took the committee’s breath away…

Your phone slips out of your grasp and drops to the floor, cracking the screen in the process.

You’d been submitting your art to them for years, and yet why was it that only after that strange comment Jin had made that you got in? Could it be more than just a coincidence?

The rest of the day is filled with half blossoming excitement and half mortification. Had Jin done this for you? You had been frequenting the museum since before you could hold a paintbrush, and trying to get into their gallery since you began painting professionally—but then all of a sudden as soon as you meet this mysterious stranger, your dream was placed right into your hands.

Three days later, you’re standing in front of the biggest art event you’ve ever been invited to, staring at a very large, very expensive banner that features none other than Jin.

CURATOR OF THE YEAR, the text reads.

Oh. Oh.

It all makes sense. Do you not know who I am? he had asked. You should have known. His name was plastered on every major art exhibit in this city. You had heard about him a thousand times before, but never even thought to connect the dots between the Kim Seokjin who visited your apartment several times a week and reorganized your fridge and the Kim Seokjin. He was a curator, but more than that he was a mentor of sorts. His approach to work was one of a kind: he led the artists he took under his wing with a gentle, guiding touch. Instead of shackling them into contracts or monetary and social debt like others in his position did, he gave them the tools they needed and allowed them the space and support they required to flourish on their own. This kind of business structure not only led to artists all over the world adoring him, but came back to repay him a thousand times over.

You never got into the Whitney on your own merit, you think. It was all Jin’s doing.

After you collect your jaw off the floor and enter the building, you almost immediately spot Jin.

Taking a deep breath to calm the swirling emotions in your belly and mustering all the courage you had, you tuck your painting underneath your arm and stomped up to him.

He’s standing, admiring a large mural. His face is painted in contemplation. For whatever reason, it reminds you of the feeling of standing in a spring clearing, in the middle of nowhere, letting a gentle breeze wash over you. You shove that feeling away as you stride up to him, stopping a foot or two behind him.

“Jin?”

“Hm—?” Jin spins on his heel. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise.” His eyes light up. “I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days, I was worried something was wrong.”

“I got into the Whitney.”

“Wait, what? That’s amazing!”

“And I figured out who you are.”

His eyes widen.

“Before anything else, I wanted to thank you for your help. I…” You shake your head, trying to wrap your mind around what’s just happened. “I’m not really sure how to thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I didn’t do anything.”

“I’ve been submitting to the Whitney for years and I’ve never even gotten a rejection email from them. And then I met you, and—and then it’s done. I’m in.” You look to him for an explanation.

“Okay, I admit,” Jin says, running a hand through his hair. “I put in a good word for you. But I did nothing more than mention to the board that I had seen your art and that I was very impressed by it.”

“That’s too much,” you frown.

“It’s not. It literally took thirty seconds of my time. And I did it because I genuinely believe in the vision of your projects.”

“If they believed in the vision of my projects, they would have accepted them without your name attached to it,” you snap.

“I—I’m sorry,” he says, looking down. “I didn’t realize it would upset you. I thought it would make you happy.”

You sigh, putting your hand on his arm. You only speak when he looks at you. “I’m upset, but I’m also really excited. I just—I want to do this on my own. I don’t want it to because of someone’s name. I want it to be because of my work. And I know that’s romantic and maybe not super realistic, but I need you to understand that that’s what I want.” You take a deep breath before continuing and he slips his hand into yours. “And more than that, I want to make it clear that I’m not just seeing you because of your status.”

“I understand,” he says softly, squeezing your hand. “So you’re seeing me now?”

You flush at your slip of tongue.

“I-I mean—”

“I’d like to see you,” he says. “If you’ll have me.”

Seokjin quickly became a constant fixture in your life. While he stopped involving himself in your work (and immediately after your conversation in the gallery, had quickly excused himself to make several calls to call off different projects and potential buyers) he did insist on buying your art supplies, moving you into a larger studio, and helping you work through the complicated process of finding grants to apply for. And of course, Jin was always ready to take care of your other, ahem, needs as well.

Your relationship quickly developed. You talked about the ins and outs of sex and your roles in the bedroom, but somehow never seemed to move the conversation about what you were to each other outside of your sheets—or the closet in the gallery, or the bathroom of your now-favorite bar.

PRESENT DAY

Jin sets his half-full glass down to make his way over to you. As he stands from the bar, an arm slides into his elbow, forcing him to turn away from you.

Your heart thrums in your chest as you stood at the top of the marble stairs, looking down into the outdoor amphitheater where tonight’s gala was being hosted.

You had arrived solo on your own instances. Even after a year together, you were still hesitant to show up as Seokjin’s date, knowing you were more likely to garner the title “girlfriend” than “artist.” Still, the thought of seeing Seokjin sent goosebumps chasing down your skin and you smiled softly to yourself as you searched the crowd for the tall man. You had come straight from your studio and there was still paint and paper mache stuck beneath your fingernails, a fact that didn’t quite fit into the posh environment you were in, but one that made you feel grounded nonetheless.

"Hello, darling," a deep voice sings into your ear. "You're looking particularly ravishing tonight."

You turn, expecting to see Seokjin. Instead, a strapping young man, unfamiliar but recognizable to you, stands in his place.

"Jeon Jungkook," you address the famous photographer as he takes your hand and presses a kiss to it. You suppress the urge to grimace as his lips meet your skin. The young man is undoubtedly handsome—there's no denying it—and you shyly look down as his eyes rove over you like you are a piece of art to be appraised.

"I've seen you at these events for quite a while now."

"Have you now?"

"Always on Mr. Kim's arm, too. Don't you think he's a little... maturefor you?"

It’s not like we’re together, you want to respond, but you hold your tongue. There was only a seven year age gap between you and Soekjin. And yet, because he carried himself with such discipline and stature, this was a constant question you had to navigate whether it came up in terms of your relationship with, working or otherwise.

“Speaking of Mr. Kim, have you seen him anywhere?” you ask, smiling tightly.

Jungkook takes your arm and turns you, pointing through the crowd.

There he is. Jin is dressed impeccably in a light-colored suit, the cut accenting his tall frame, broad shoulders, and narrow waist. You smile upon seeing him and wave, but he doesn’t see you.

There’s a flash of blonde hair and suddenly you realize what’s occupying Jin’s attentions.

You frown as you watch the woman's arm snake around Jin's. Tonight was supposed to have been a chance for the two of you to spend some quality time together, surrounded by beautiful art and artists, to see each other without interruption — but then again maybe a gala wasn't the best choice for quality time.

"There's something about you," Jungkook muses, oblivious to your distraction. "A light in your eye. Passion. You know, I would love to photograph you some time."

You glance over Jungkook's shoulder to see the woman with her hand gripping Jin's bicep, obviously trying to capture and hold his attention. And yet Jin's gaze is fixed on you. You meet his eyes, only to let a ghost of a smirk dash across your lips, before returning your focus to Jungkook. Even though you know Jin’s attention is only focused on you, you figure you might have some fun with the current situation.

"Oh really?" you say, blinking up at him flirtatiously. "And how would you have me?"

Jeon Jungkook was known for his abstract and mythological concepts. His photos were stunning, portraying story and eroticism at their most intellectual and beautiful.

"Aphrodite. No doubt."

Original, you think, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

"Hm," you hum, as if mulling it over. "Tell me more." Your switch from professional to outrightly coquettish startles him and he stumbles over his words for a moment before regaining his composure and leaning in.

"Pink lighting. Texture? Hm, dove wings. I've been playing with fabric lately—" Jungkook falls into the description of his concept, flowing so quickly through the smallest of details, almost as if he's thought this through before, specifically for you. Instead of listening, you watch Jin out of your peripheral vision. "I can almost imagine the magazine spread now."

Your attention snaps back to the young man in front of you and as an idea flashes across your mind, you do your best not to giggle and to remain serious. "You know, I would love to be spread out for you." You smile innocently and Jungkook gulps.

"I, ah—” Jungkook is stopped mid sentence as a hand is clapped on his shoulder.

"Jeon," Seokjin nods at the younger man, a stiff smile painting his face. "I see you've met my—" Your eyebrows shoot up at the slip, but Jin quickly catches himself. "YN. One of the best painters I know."

Jungkook scoffs. “Uh, yeah, obviously.” When he looks up to find you and Jin staring confusedly at him, he clears his throat. “I mean—what I meant to say is her talent is underrated. Which you probably already know.” He smiles sheepishly.

“Alright, then,” Jin says.

“Aw, thanks, Jungkookie,” you say, swatting his shoulder and you watch as the young man flushes while Jin’s brow raises in question at the use of the pet name.

“Drinks?” Jin says, breaking the quickly rising tension between the three of you. Taking your elbow he leads you towards the bar and Jungkook quickly trots behind. He orders another scotch and you shake your head, “Nothing for me.” As Jungkook leans over the bar, Jin steps behind you, his hand coming to rest gently on your waist.

“Behave,” he whispers.

“Hm?” you hum innocently, brushing your hair over your shoulders.

“At this rate, you’re asking to be punished,” Jin growls.

You smile sweetly up at him, pinching his cheek playfully before realizing where you are and who might see. You quickly snatch your hand back, hoping no one saw.

Jungkook turns back with a martini in hand. Interesting choice, you think.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” Jungkook asks you.

“She already said she didn’t want anything.” Jin answers for you.

“I can speak for myself, thank you very much,” you cut in, crossing your arms. “But no, maybe later.”

A long moment of silence hangs between the three of you.

“Well, don’t mind me then. I have a couple of people I need to speak with.” Jin nods at the two of you and turns on his heel. You watch his tall frame, tracking where he’s going. The game is on.

It seems as the night drags on, Jin is purposefully ignoring you, knowing it’ll rile you up just enough. He continues to engage with artists and experts from all over the globe and Jungkook hangs at your side. Beyond the awkward flirtation he keeps throwing your way—which you don’t blame him for, considering you keep egging him on—he’s quite an intelligent young man with a vision.

After half an hour of Jin’s lack of presence, you’re bored and tired. The two of you wander around the gala, looking at the art pieces. When you see Jin hovering near one in the corner, you gently guide Jungkook over. As you approach, you realize why Jin has been spending so much time over here.

The eight by ten piece that you had sold to an anonymous buyer last week is hanging on the wall. The bright oranges and deep blues seem to shimmer and swim within the space compared to the crystal, silver, and gold pieces that pepper the event tonight.

“This is yours, right?” Jungkook asks. “I’d recognize the style anywhere.”

“Uh, yeah, I just didn’t expect it to be here. I sold it to an anonymous buyer last week. I have no idea how it got here.”

Jungkook looks confusedly at you. “Hm. Weird.”

You stare blankly at your own art for a while, puzzling over how it could have gotten to this level of a gala. The buyer from last week had said nothing about the gala. But here it is in front of you, big and commanding—and marked with a $500,000 price tag? The proceeds of tonight’s event were going directly to charity and still your mouth hangs open as you ogle the string of zeros in front of you.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?” Jungkook asks, breaking through your reverie. “I don’t mind getting it for you.”

“That’s so kind of you,” you smile, knowing that tonight’s event hosts an open bar. At that moment you notice Jin’s gaze finally, finallyresting on you. “Actually, your drink is looking pretty good to me right now.” You take a step closer to Jungkook, meeting his gaze and resting one of your hands gently on his elbow. He shudders under your touch. As much as he puts on a confident front, you know your forwardness unravels him just enough. Without breaking eye contact, you reach into his martini glass and pull out a green olive. Opening your mouth slowly, you purse your lips around the round fruit before sucking it into your mouth. You open your mouth just enough for Jungkook to see how it rests on your tongue.

Jungkook’s jaw is hanging open.

“Oh my god.”

Suddenly, a hand is clasped onto Jungkook’s shoulder. He spins around to see a towering Jin. Jin’s features are relaxed and calm, but you catch the hard edge in his tone, even as it slips past Jungkook’s awareness.

“Jeon, I was just talking to an up-and-coming dancer earlier tonight. He’s looking to partner with a photographer for a project. I mentioned your work to him and he would love to talk to you.” Jin turns Jungkook to point to a handsome man standing across the room, a sun-filled smile dancing across his lips.

“Wait—really?” Jungkook looks flabbergasted.

“Of course, I admire your work,” Jin says.

“Wow, thank you. I really appreciate it.” He reaches out to shake Jin’s hand. “Thank you so much, sir.” A smirk threatens to break Jin’s calm demeanor.

“Anytime.”

Jungkook turns to walk towards the dancer but spins back towards you. “Don’t, uh, don’t go anywhere, yeah?”

“Sure.”

Once Jungkook is out of range of hearing, Jin steps closer to you. "Upstairs. Now."

Because tonight's gala was in part hosted by Seokjin and his company, it took place in the courtyard of one of Seokjin's highrises.

With the ghost of a smirk playing on your features, you turn on your heel, head held high, and make your way to the elevators.

It’s just like him to make you wait.

Twenty minutes after you arrived in the penthouse apartment, Jin was nowhere to be seen. So you kick your heels off and make your way to the fridge, finding an open bottle of your favorite wine that he kept in stock just for you. You pour yourself a glass and make your way to the gigantic kitchen island, leaning over it and scrolling through your phone. You know Jin would expect you to be waiting ready and in position for him, but tonight you feel like pushing the limits.

A gentle ding echoes through the living room. You click your phone off and look up just in time to see the silver door of the elevator slide shut behind him.

Seokjin runs a hand through his hair, loosening the strands from his perfect slicked-back look. You nearly salivate at the sight of him unbuttoning the top button of his dress shirt, even as your heart beats like it is ready to jump straight out of your chest.

You gulp as his eyes land on you. Finally.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” you say.

“Have I?”

“Are you punishing me?”

“You won’t need to ask me if I’m punishing you when I’m punishing you. You’ll know.” Despite the coldness of his words, there’s a playful glint in his eyes. You know his anger is for show and not genuine. The direction you're headed is a space the two of you have carefully mapped out, experimented with, and discussed over the course of your relationship. When he slips into this role, it's for both of your pleasure, and never as an outlet for his anger. "So no, I'm not. At least, not yet."

"Jin—" you say.

"Sir," Jin corrects.

"—Sir," you repeat, standing up from the island and walking slowly towards him. You bat your eyes and saunter over to him, pressing yourself against his chest as you take one of his hands and guide it under your dress. His eyes widen when he realizes you're not wearing any underwear.

"God, you're wet."

"I wanna cum," you state matter of factly. You thought your directness might startle him, but instead, his composure remains unaffected.

"You misbehaved all night long," Jin murmurs in your ear. "But maybe if you're a good girl for me and take your punishment, we can talk about you cumming."

And just like that, his hand is gone.

"Are you gonna be good?"

You don’t respond. Instead, you smile sweetly at him. You meet his gaze but don’t move. He cocks an eyebrow and pulls you tight against him with one hand as he pinches your chin with the other.

"You thought you could use this pretty little costume of innocence,” he says as he plays with the sleeve of your dress, a sneer painting his face. “Dressed all in white, and so elegant too. You thought you could hide the whore you are beneath a dress like this?"

His grip on your hips tightens as he pushes you forward, turning you forcibly. It shocks the breath out of your lungs. He pulls you back, your ass flush against his hard but clothed cock. His hands grab your shoulders, steadying you.

"I'd like to fuck you in one of these cute little outfits sometime. But not tonight. Tonight I want you entirely bare." The next thing you know, the sound of ripping fabric fills the space and your dress falls down in shreds at your feet.

"My-my dress," you gasp.

"A shame.” He feigns a pout. “You looked so good in it. But you look even better like this."

It briefly flashes through your mind that you're not sure how you're going to be able to leave, as you hadn't brought a change of clothes—and then that concern is quickly replaced by the confusion as he bends down to examine you.

"When was the last time you touched yourself?" Jin asks as he runs a finger over your slit. You shudder at the sensation.

"You were the last one to touch me."

“So you’re telling me you’re ready to flirt with any man who approaches you, make him think you’re gonna let him fuck you, but then it’s all for show?” He slips a single finger into your cunt. “What a tease.”

“For you,” you gasp as he hooks his finger and hits a particularly sensitive spot. “I would never.”

“Never what?”

“Never fuck another man.”

“Your actions tonight tell me something else.”

Your brow furrows as Jin adds a second finger.

“I-I just wanted you to pay attention.”

"That’s all you wanted, hm, little one? My attention?"

"Yes, sir," you mumble back.

"Good. You have it." He pulls his fingers from your dripping entrance and stands.

Your brows furrowed in frustration. "I want more," you say.

"And I want you to behave yourself when we're out in public together. It seems like neither of us is getting what we want, hm?" When you pout, he chuckles. "But I bet you can make it up to me. Take your punishment like a good girl. And we'll see if we can't both have what we want." You nod, eagerly. "Go bend over the couch and wait for me."

You quickly lay yourself over the arm of the black leather couch that stretches across the sprawling living room. Jin disappears into one of the back rooms for a moment, but you soon hear his footsteps echoing on the marble, approaching you from behind. He rests a hand on your bare ass, roving over it in slow circles before coming to kneel down beside you.

"Safeword?"

"Peaches."

His eyes search yours—checking, making sure you're really okay with this before he continues, that same awareness never leaving his eyes. "Good. You'll use it if you need to."

You nod.

“You know why I have to do this right?” Jin asks, his voice calm and clear as he stands and steps out of your line of vision. You can hear the clink of a belt buckle as he doubles it up in his hand.

“I disobeyed you.”

“And?”

“I didn’t listen when you asked me to stop.”

“And what exactly did I want you to stop doing?”

“Flirting with him.”

“Who? Say his name.”

“Jeon Jungkook.”

He chuckles. “I want that to be the last time his name leaves your lips tonight. Understood?” You nod, wholeheartedly. “The poor boy. You left him so hard and eager for your pretty little cunt. I bet he thought he was going to get to fuck you after all that teasing. Tell me, is that what you wanted him to think?”

“Yes,” you admit.

“And yet, after all that work and you were so quick to drop him just for me. I’m going to spank you and you’re going to take it like a good girl. Seven hits. Count for me.”

That’s when the first hit lands. The air in your lungs whooshes out of you in shock. After the initial pain, a soft warmth spreads through your cheeks.

“I said, count.”

“One,” you say, your voice strong.

The belt comes down on you a second time, cracking against your other cheek. “Two.” Your nails dig into the leather of the couch and his hand spreads across your ass, soothing over the spots where he’s hit you. The feeling of his fingertips against your skin brings coolness to the surface of your burning skin and the contrast sends arousal spiraling through your core.

“Good girl.”

Smack.

“Three.”

On four, you realize you’ve been holding your breath. The number comes out as a gasp, a puff of air and you realize you’ve been holding something else in. Shame. Guilt. Upset.

On five, you let out a particularly loud yelp, your cry of pain mixing with emotion and cutting through your pronunciation. Jin's hand immediately brushes across your sore ass to smooth over the most recent hit.

"Color?" he says softly.

"Green—green, please, keep going," you pant, tears threatening your eyes.

“Only two left.”

On six, you feel something split within you. You know it isn’t just about tonight, about your disobedience or your flirtations with a strange man. It’s about holding back. It’s about letting your brattiness build a wall between the warm thing that’s been building in your chest and Jin, the man who keeps showing up for you.

“Seven! M’ sorry!” you call out as seven comes down on your ass. The wall splits open within you, sending a flood of emotion and endorphins through your body. All you want is to fall into this sensation. The one where he’s here for you, and you can let him be here for you.

Jin smoothes his hands over your ass one final time. You wince slightly, knowing it’s going to be painful to sit for the next couple of days. And yet all you can feel is a golden glow, pulsing through your veins, tinting your perception. Your body feels lighter, the space around you more spacious, and the look in Jin’s eyes is glowing.

Jin pulls you up to your feet, searching your eyes to make sure you’re alright. He finds a strange, new warmth in them, one that spills out completely for him. And something close to daze.

“No hands.” Still, you can’t help but reach out to him, lacing your fingers into the front of his shirt. “I said, no hands.” You refuse to remove them. He’s suddenly stepping back from you. "You can't seem to listen, can you, little one? Hands behind your back." You stare blankly at him. "I won't ask you twice."

You bring your hands behind you, clasping one hand around a wrist. He circles around you until he's out of your range of sight. You hear the tearing of fabric and then the cool brush of what you assume must be your dress wrapping around your wrists as Jin expertly ties them together. When the knot is tight and secure, he walks slowly back around you so you're face to face.

"Kneel."

Your knees hit the cold marble floor.

"Suck my cock."

"But—" You attempt to protest, your hands still tied behind your back. Your voice trails off as his eyes harden.

His belt is already open and you take the cold metal in your mouth, leaning your head back as you pull it out of the loops. It's an awkward angle, but you do your best and soon it falls to the floor with a clink. You glance up at him, searching for validation. His gaze is still hard, but there's a glimmer of a smile—pride? delight?—hanging at the corner of his lips.

"Keep going."

Leaning forward, you nudge your nose along the hard length sporting in his pants. His arousal is more than apparent through the fabric of his pants: thick, and long, and impossibly hard. Without breaking eye contact, you stick your tongue out of your mouth and slowly trace it up the length of his covered cock.

His hand tightens in your hair and you yelp as pain shoots into your scalp.

"I asked you to do something. Are you getting distracted?" What was once painful has quickly turned into a delicious pleasure as your face flushes, the hand in your hair teasing tingles down your spine. "Answer me." He grips your hair tighter, forcing your head back even further.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

He releases his grasp just enough that you're able to lean back to the tenting bulge in his pants, but still does not release you fully.

Carefully, you suck the button of his slacks into your mouth, expertly sucking and tonguing the cold metal until you feel it slip through the hole, before moving down to pull the zipper between your teeth and tug it all the way down. You gasp as you realize he's not wearing underwear and your cunt contracts around nothing. You're face to face with his bare cock.

"Sir, may I?"

He nods and you immediately lean forward to lick a broad, wet stripe up from the base of his cock to the tip. Without the use of your hands, you find yourself relying on the movements of your upper body and your mouth to pleasure him.

Slowly, you lick around the angry red head of his cock, teasing a light gasp from him. You continue to do this until you know he’s just on the edge of frustration and before he can say anything, you purse your lips around him.

As you take him into your mouth, you’re particularly aware of the remainder that you’re unable to fit. Usually, you would wrap one or both of your hands around him, stroking him where you couldn’t reach. But now that’s inaccessible to you.

Relaxing your throat, you attempt to take him deeper but choke at the sensation of his thick head hitting the back of your throat.

"You're so good at this, almost as if you were made to have your mouth stuffed with cock."

His praise urges you to take him deeper and press past the urge to gag. Taking a deep breath, you edge forward, allowing him to slip into the tight confines of your throat. He hiss at this and his hands tighten in your hair, this being the first time you’ve deepthroated him. Tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision as you continue to ease him deeper within you.

He begins thrusting into your throat. If you could reach up to wrap your hand around your throat, you would feel the protrusion of his cock pressing forward through the skin of your throat, visible and bulging.

You choke around him and he audibly groans at the sensation.

Jin looks down to find tears streaming out of your face, chin wet with drool. The sight of you, so lost in your actions, strikes something in his chest. As you meet his gaze, your lips so pink and pouted around him, the glaze in your eyes filled with adoration, his hips buck and he thrusts into your throat.

“I’m gonna cum,” he growls. “And I want you to swallow every last drop of it.”

He grabs your head as he fucks up into you one last time, pushing your nose against his pubic bone. You can feel his cum, hot and bitter, sliding down your throat. He doesn’t release you until he’s done. Finally, he pulls you off of him, your lips releasing from his spent cock with a pop.

Air comes rushing back into your lungs, replacing the black spots that had started to pepper your vision with starshine as you look up at Jin clearly. His forehead is shining with sweat and his cheeks are flushed in pleasure. He’s never prettier than he is now, spent with passion.

Jin quickly regains his wits as he pulls you up and takes his thumb to wipe the combination of drool and cum from your chin.

Something gleams in his eye.

“Up against the window,” he orders.

“Wha—”

Before you can finish your sentence, Jin is walking you backward until your back hits the cold glass. You gasp at the sensation of your heated ass cheeks mixed with the cold spark of the smooth surface.

With your back against the glass, hips pushed towards him again, he kisses languidly up your stomach. There is a gentleness in the way his lips whispered against your skin that shoots something through your chest and leaves you wanting more of whatever it is.

You gather yourself enough to look down and see his plump lips pursed around a nipple. As your eyes meet, he bites down around the swollen bud, and you whimper. He continues to bite and suck your breasts, drawing increasingly lewd sounds from you.

But then his lips leave the tender flesh of your breasts and kiss their way upwards to your neck. For a moment you think his gentle side might return, only to squirm beneath him as his teeth graze the delicate skin. Before you know it, his lips are pressed against you and he's sucking the skin in between his teeth.

"You'll leave a mark!" You exclaim, bound hands struggling to escape from where they’re still tied behind your back But he's quicker and stronger than you and he holds you down, stilling your movements, before continuing to suck and bite at your neck.

"Good." He moves his mouth to the hollow of your throat, sucking a bruise to the surface of your skin. "I want everyone to know exactly who you belong to. I want you to wear me, so no one even has a doubt in their mind whose slut you are."

As you look down, you realize he’s hard again. It’s not uncommon for him to be up and ready to go for a second or third round. His cock is red and rock-hard, and as he realizes what you’re looking at he smirks.

“Like what you see?”

“Yes, sir.” You swallow. “Want it—want you.”

“Do you think you’ve earned it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You took your punishment well,” he muses languidly. “And you sucked Sir off so well, too.”

He drags a finger through your slit, forcing you to buck up into his touch.

“Please—” you gasp.

“Since you asked so nicely—” abruptly, he spins you around so you’re facing towards the window. “I’ll fuck you. But I want everyone to see exactly the kind of slut you are for this cock.”

“But—”

“Color?”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. From this far up, you can see the gala, still in full swing. Even from this height, you can see their individual faces and you know if any of the people in sparkling gowns and tailored suits were to look up and squint, they would see your fucked-out form pressed against the window of the penthouse, your hands bound behind your back thrusting your chest forward obscenely. The thought sends a flood of arousal to your cunt.

“Green.”

“Good.”

At that, you feel the head of his cock brush against your dripping entrance. Jin looks down to see his huge cock resting against your red cheeks. You look tiny compared to him, and the sight makes him even harder. As he grips the base of his dick, he pushes gently against your entrance, the bulbous head slipping inside. His cock twitches as he hears you moan.

Jin is undoubtedly the biggest cock you’ve ever fucked. Even after months of him filling you, he was still a tight fit. While you often used lube to ease the slide in, tonight you were dripping wet, your arousal coating your swollen lips and beginning to run down your inner thighs. Slowly, he pushes into you. The sensation of being filled, of being stretched by him has you moaning, the sound filling the spacious apartment.

“You’re such a good slut for me, you take this cock so well,” Jin says as he presses the last inch of his length into you.

Kim Seokjin is a man of control. Despite the painful ache in his cock and the burning desire to pound into you, he isn't done drawing out your pleasure. Torturously slow, he slides his cock in and out of your tight cunt, his thick head dragging against your walls. You whine wantonly, pushing back against him.

He stops.

"Please. Sir," you nearly sob. "Need you."

"And I need you to use your words. This is mine." He reaches down to spread his palm over your sore ass, spreading you even further open for him. The sight of you impaled on his thick cock is one he’ll never get used to. "And I'll do what I want with it."

He can feel you shudder at his words, knowing that his possessiveness affected you just as much as it did him.

"You like that?" he growls. "Knowing you're mine? You're stuffed full of cock and still you want more. What a greedy slut."

"Please, Sir. Need you to fuck me," you beg. Still, Jin makes no indication of moving. "Please. Need you to show them who I belong to."

That does it.

“You. Belong. To. Me.” Each word is punctuated by a thrust, his cock spearing through the tightness of your walls.

“Fuck,” you hiss as he lifts your leg. The head of his cock begins to hit the knot of pleasure that’s tightly wound within your cunt. “Sir, you feel so good.” It’s all you can think about.

“He’s down there, isn’t he?” For a moment you’re not even sure who he’s talking about, so lost in pleasure and the sensations he’s teasing out of your body. “He could look up at any moment and see you like this, tits out, pressed up against the glass, letting me ruin you like this.” You moan at his words. “I bet you would like that, slut.” He punctuates the final word with a particularly hard thrust.

Your pussy clenches around him and he moans as he feels your tight walls grip him tighter.

“I think there’s a part of you that loves the idea of the world watching you get fucked.”

"Gonna—gonna cum," you gasp, your words stuttered out of your mouth by Jin's rough thrusts. "Sir, please, can I come?"

"No."

"Sir, please."

"Did you not hear me?" he growls. "Listen, or I'll stuff that pretty little mouth with something less pleasant than my cock."

You throw your head back, squeezing your eyes shut and clenching your abdominal muscles in an attempt to hold back the waves of euphoria that threaten to wash over you any moment now.

“Please, sir, need to come. I’ll do anything.” The tears that have been threatening to run down your face finally spill over as you’re split in pleasure and discomfort. “Please, anything.”

Jin releases your leg with a grunt and pushes your legs together, making it a tighter fit for both of you. With one hand he pushes down on your lower back, arching it for you. His other hand comes to wrap around your bound wrists, using the grip to power his thrusts into you. Somehow the new angle makes him seem even bigger than he already is and you mewl.

“Tell me who you belong to.”

“You, Jin,” you force out, trying to find your words through the pleasure that he’s pounding into you. “Only you.” Too late, you realize that you had used the wrong name for him and you gasp, ready for whatever correction he deems fit for you.

But it seems that’s exactly what he wanted you to say.

“Good girl. Cum. Now.”

As soon as the sound has left his lips your orgasm barrels through you.

“Jin!�� you cry. You throw your head back, white overtaking your vision. Your cunt pulses around his hard length, spasming for what feels like minutes. Your breath freezes in your throat as sparks of pleasure flood your body.

Watching you come unraveled around his name is what does it for him. He groans as his orgasm washes over him, sending waves of pleasure throughout his whole body. He shudders against you, releasing ropes of cum into your still-pulsating cunt. You can feel his cock twitch against your oversensitive walls as he empties himself into you. His breath is heavy against your neck as his arms tighten around you. As much as you love the Jin in control, these moments when he releases all pretenses are precious to you.

Even as he stays sheathed within you, you can feel his cum begin to drip out of your cunt, running down your thighs. When he finally pulls out, the mix of your combined orgasms gushes out of you and you frown at the proceeding sensation of emptiness.

As you slump against the window, your eyes fluttering closed in pleasure and exhaustion, you feel Jin’s large hands ghost down your arms, releasing the fabring binding your wrists together. When he’s done, his hands come to rest on your hips, turning you as he kneels down in front of you. You gasp as you feel him swipe two of his fingers through the swollen folds of your cunt, as he collects his own cum. The sensation splits you in overwhelm.

"Open," Jin commands, standing up. You open your mouth and he slides the two cum covered fingers past your lips. "Suck." Dutifully, you press your lips around him, swallowing around him until he pulls out, not a drop of cum left on his fingers. His eyes burn in desire, and if it weren't for the exhaustion apparent in your posture, you know he would be ready to go for a second round. "Good girl."

You smile softly up at him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He holds you close and the two of you simply breathe together. You feel comforted against his large frame, his breath flowing easily and freely through him, your own body finding solace in the soft rhythm. He holds you like that for what feels like forever before he tips your weight into his body and leads you to the sleek leather couch. There, he sits down, pulling you into his lap. You curl up against his wide chest, nestling your nose into the crook of his neck.

"How are you?" he asks as he brushes the hair out of your eyes.

"Feel so good," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut in the afterglow that radiates throughout your whole body. Every muscle in your body feels warm and stretched.

"Do you want me to bring you to bed?" After all this time, Jin knows how sleepy you get after a scene like this.

"Mm, surprisingly not sleepy. Just... happy."

He holds you for a while, and you bask in the feeling of his arms wrapped securely around you and the light brush of his steady breath against your hair.

“Earlier,” you begin slowly. “You slipped. You started to call me ‘my’—and then you stopped. What were you going to say?”

Jin is quiet and for a moment you wonder if you misspoke.

“Honestly?” he finally says, his voice brushing over you like a soft breeze.

“Honestly,” you repeat, twisting into him to look him in the eyes. There’s something desperately gentle in his gaze. You could fall into it.

“Honestly, I don’t really know where my mind was going in that moment.” He pauses, chewing over his words. “But, I would like to call you mine—in some way.”

“Yours?”

He nods, shyly. “Mine.”

“Sure, I’ll be yours,” you grin, snuggling into his chest.

“Yeah?”

“But only if you’ll be mine, too.”

“I think we can arrange that.”

Seokjin pulls you tighter and just holds you like that for several minutes before he stands up and disappears into the bedroom for a moment. When he returns, he's holding a slim black box, which he hands to you.

"Put this on," he says.

You open the box to reveal a small black number.

"We're going back?" you ask.

"Only to get our winnings," he grins back to you, pushing his hair back again. "And to show everyone just exactly how much I won tonight."

“What do you mean, winnings?”

“I made a purchase tonight.” He presses a kiss to your lips. “The most colorful piece in the whole building.”

“—You?”

Jin smirks and comes behind you to zip up the beautiful piece of clothing. He traces over the bruises blossoming on your shoulders and neck with a gentle touch before pressing his lips to each and every one of them.

"Only if you're comfortable," he adds softly as you melt against his touch. There's no doubt you're tired. But still, the idea of finally walking into an event with Jin—no pretenses, no questions, no secrets—just together, has a thrill sparking in your core.

“I’m always comfortable with you,” you grin, taking his hand and leading him to the elevators.

|| masterlist || moodboard || ao3 ||

taglist: @velvetwicebang @spicykoreantatertots @usuallynervoussheep @dulcaet

#ficswithluv #changeswithluv #ksmutclub #btsgoldnet #btswriterscollective #bangtanarmynet #hyunglinenetwork #jin smut #ksj smut #ksj #ksj x reader #bts #bts smut #bts fic #smut #fluff #kim seokjin

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biggirllifestyle · 3 years

Text

Over the Rails: Sparkly bands

Summary: After Peter posts, a video of him and his friends at the roller rink on the Avengers group chat, Bucky can’t seem to get his mind off of Peter’s friend who stole the show. And after getting goaded into going skating with the other Avengers (by Natasha’s conniving planning) where Peter’s friend works at well Bucky can’t help but feel that there’s something more to look towards to.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus-Sized Reader

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of physical harm from roller skating, etc.

A/N: It’s something…

If you would have asked her what was going through her mind the moment her eyes landed on Bucky Barnes, well Bibi could have told you that she was freaking the fuck out. She thought that nothing else could embarrass her more than that stupid speech Peter had made her do for losing a wager, but here she was right after face to face with her childhood hero and crush of many years and the only thing she thought of saying to him was ‘What’ll be Sarge?’

Ugh, pathetic.

Here was her chance to finally talk to people who were the most unselfish individuals, who. put their life on the line for the greater good and today she was to become their mentor. Sergeant Barnes seemed to be entertained by her flustered remark, a beautiful smile spreading across his face that made her heart flutter. The Black Widow was sitting on the counter putting on her skates, Bibi didn't feel like she had the guts to let her know that she wasn’t allowed to be on the counter so she let her be.

“I’ll take a pair of twelve in a half skates, doll,” Bucky said as he saw her turn towards the shelf grabbing him a pair of dark faded skates. Her cheeks were burning bright red and Bucky felt a deep satisfaction for being the reason. Somebody yelled out her name from the rink, so she gave him an apologetic smile before pushing herself off and skating towards whoever had called her, Bucky couldn’t help but stare as she glided around with ease.

Natasha shimmied herself closer to where he had bent down to tug off his boots, from the corner of his eyes he could see her dark red skates swinging back and forward nonchalantly but he knew better than that. He looked up at her waiting for a teasing remark but her expression was enough especially as she wiggled her eyebrows at him, taunting him.

Pathetic.

Bucky looked away, lasering on, tying his skates avoiding Nat’s eyes, he couldn’t help but worry that maybe he wasn't cut out for skating as he used to be, maybe Steve had exaggerated a little bit when he was talking about his experience. He stood ready to take a step forward before wobbling, almost losing his footing and falling, okay maybe Steve had exaggerated too much. Natasha jumped off the counter landing neatly on her skates without any form of trouble before throwing him a mocking grin as she skated away, Bucky glared at her retreating form as he finished getting his laces tied, he stood and took a confident step forward and almost broke his nose as his foot slipped he caught himself on the encounter.

He looked up trying to make out if his slip was caught by anybody but it seemed no one had been paying attention to him, he tried again a little more tentatively wobbling towards where Tony, Pepper who had just arrived with Morgan, Steve, and Sam were standing around watching the others get instructions from Peter’s girlfriend on how to stand on their skates, Peter, Shuri, Ned were already skating around trying to outmaneuver each other to see who could do a better move.

He looked around trying to see where you were when he finally spotted you, Morgan, at your side clinging to your arm as she followed in slower glides from her skates, you had taken a slow pace to accommodate to her still being a beginner your skirt flowed around you, and Bucky was mesmerized.

“Wow!” Pepper exclaimed. “She’s going to be amazing with the kids.”

Bucky roused from his trance as he turned towards Pepper who was watching you closely as you and Morgan skated by as both of you raised a hand at them and waved, Tony stood by a camera in hand taking pictures and videos. She turned to him, a small smirk in place as she gave a side glance at Tony who was trying very hard to avoid the conversation.

“Nat might have mentioned you would have an interest in anything on our new nanny/tutor for Morgan and Charlie.”

“New nanny, since when?”

“Since last week, Peter mentioned she was majoring in child development and education and was in dire need of a job. Morgan needed a tutor and we also needed someone who could help me out with Charlie when I had to show up to meetings and Tony was out on missions, so it was a win-win situation.”

Bucky’s curiosity was piqued by the extra information he was given on you, and just as he was about to indirectly ask for more Nat had skated over hitting him at the back of his head.

“What are you doing over here?” She asked as he ignored his pointed glare as he tried to soothe the spot where she had hit him “The whole point of making this happen was for you to be able to get a chance and talk to this girl, so get your ass out there sergeant.”

Buck huffed out a breath knowing it was true and feeling a little triumph in getting Natasha to confess that this was all her doing. He took a step forward as the music changed to a much more upbeat tempo, something that made him feel confident about what he was doing as he finally stepped on the floor you zoomed past him as you gave a full 180 turn that left him a little speechless. Knowing that he was interrupted earlier and maybe this was his only chance to have a conversation with you so Bucky squared his shoulders and took a small little step forward.

And he fell.

Bucky had fallen right on his face in front of everybody and this time it could not be ignored.

He heard Natasha’s laugh from behind him, her loud cackles making his annoyance flair up as he tried to get up but his skate slipped and he fell once more making her laugh harder at him. He looked to his left trying to find Nat and send her a very helpful finger but the only thing he saw was an exchange of money from Tony to her as they clearly ignored his mortification of the situation. He felt like nothing else could go even worse, maybe he could go to Fury and ask him to send him on a mission deep in the jungle where he could disappear for a year or so.

“Are you okay? Do you need some help?”

Forget the jungle, Antártica sounded so much better at this moment. He looked up his hair getting in the way as he saw you crouching down a few feet away giving him space so he wouldn’t be startled by her proximity, he knew that if he were to try and get up by himself it would end back with him sprawled on the floor so he lightly gave a nod at her as confirmation. Just as you were in the crouching position you used your hands to glide towards him, your skirt dragging on the dirty ground and he couldn’t help the frown on his face when he saw it.

It was a pretty skirt. He thought.

You didn’t reach out to him or tried to lift him as others would do but instead, you held out your hand palm up, giving him a say when he wanted to take your hand. He hesitated as he took your hand, it was so soft that he didn't want to let it go. After you gave him a small boost and explained to him the perfect way to position his feet so he didn't slip again, Bucky was up towering over you, your hands holding him so there wasn’t another incident.

“It’s much harder than what people think.” You said to him as you let him go, Bucky pushed his hair back, he had forgotten to bring a hair tie that Nat had given to him earlier in the day so here he was struggling with his hair as he tried to get it in control, you held out your hand again and Bucky felt his heart jump at the sparkly hair tie you were holding out to him.

“People think it’s all fun and games until they break a few bones and twist a few ankles, then they decide that skating just isn’t for them.”

Bucky looked at you as he finished picking up his hair trying to see if you were joking or not a small little smile danced upon your lips and he couldn’t help the small laugh he let out.

“Sacrifices should be made when you want to improve yourself.”

You nodded at his words behind you he could see Morgan dragging along Thor helping him glide about as he held her small hand in his, he turned back to you as you gave him a smile holding out your hand to his.

“I was told you wanted some private lessons, how about you take my hand and trust that I will be the best teacher you've probably ever had.”

#plus size #plus size ofc #plus size oc #original work #bucky fanfic #bucky x plus size reader #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader

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shardminds · 4 years

Text

silver for monsters (1/?)

pairing: emma swan/killian jones rated: e for extra (in later chapters) wc: almost 5k ish

No matter the truth, he carries the weight of her corpse like a shadow.

also available on ao3! ♠

it's my cssns submission!

firstly, a thank you to the wonderful mods for organising and facilitating the event! where would we be without you? and also the cssns discord — you lovely humans are just fantastic.

secondly, i owe my wonderful partner-in-crime, beta and artist (this fic has art, people! coming soon!) my life. she deserves more than i could ever give her. love you, salem! give killy a cuddle from me!

now, a note about the fic. this is a witcher au, using inspiration from the witcher games, books and TV show. i have pulled inspiration from all 3. just a fair warning, considering the nature of the witcher universe, there will be gratuitous violence in some scenes. i will be adding characters and tags as they appear in the work to abstain from spoilers but i will let you know in advance that there is no major character death.

happy reading!

“Fuck!”

The cockatrice rears up, flapping its enormous wings and lunging straight for him, talons poised for attack. At full height, it’s almost three times his size—an intimidating sight, but not an unfamiliar one. Killian dodges at the last second, rolling beneath the dirt-encrusted claws and narrowly avoiding the beak that follows to impale him. If he hadn’t thrown out his palm to cast Quen in time, he’d have been thrown across the sewer, probably landing in one of the many questionable pools littering the place. The beast rights itself, elongating its sinuous throat to prepare for its next attack but Killian is faster, springing to action in its short reprieve. His blade strikes true, the sharpened silver slicing from neck to navel through leathery flesh. A choked shriek pierces the cavernous echo around them but it does nothing to hinder his attack. Killian twists his weapon deeper, severing the thick sinew in its throat with a precision only gained from decades of practice.

The draconid oil he’d prepared had done well to weaken the monster, each touch of his sword against tough hide was met with a harrowing screech, each one emanating from its maw with a sickening gurgle as Killian’s coated sword seared its innards. Good. At least the ergot seeds used in its creation hadn’t gone to waste. The common weeds don’t grow this far east of Misthaven.

One final twist is all it takes, tearing out the creature’s windpipe in all its bloody glory, falling to the filth below, darkening the murk beneath its claws. It shudders, struggling for breath, but continues to advance. The guttural gurgle of its demise falling hollow in the dank expanse. Power simmers in Killian’s fingertips as he throws out his palm to cast Aard, shunting the beast backwards and knocking it off balance.

With a heavy thud, the cockatrice falls—

Right into a puddle of shit.

“Oh, that’s bloody lovely.” He grits out, wiping the sludge from where it splattered on his trousers. He’d been planning to start the ride back west, to the familiar place he was reluctant to call anything but that. He’d been planning to take rest between contracts, among the hamlets of Velen, stopping only to deliver the head of the beast and collect his bounty before taking to the path at full speed.

Now he’d have to fork out for an inn.

And a stable.

And a drink.

Bloody lovely, indeed.

Slipping the dagger from his boot to take his trophy—evidence of a job well done—Killian kneels next to the beast’s shredded neck and begins to cut. It takes a couple of minutes, the toughened hide of the beast proving more difficult than expected, but Killian manages to decapitate the thing without too much protest. Despite being smothered in excrement, both human and ornithosaur in origin, Killian wraps up the head in a linen sheet he’d acquired from the last inn he’d visited, slinging the thing over his shoulder to attach to Smee’s saddlebag for the ride into town. It’s hefty, already seeping dark ichor through the fabric, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Nothing he hasn’t handled a thousand times before.

Shit-stained or not, there’s little people love more than dead monsters.

In his periphery, there’s a shimmer of something long and thin and sharp beneath the ooze of the dead heap.

Feathers. Golden Feathers.

They’d sell for a fair price at any market but, with a wry smile, someone else comes to Killian’s mind. He plucks the protruding tail feathers with a delicate hand and slides them in his scabbard for later. Robin will be pleased.

Smee lingers by the sewer’s decaying entrance, chomping on the greenery of a shallow blackberry thicket without care. Seeing him brings ease to Killian’s bones. The walk to Camelot would be a lot more arduous without him. The dimming sunlight brings out the russet in his hide and he snorts as if to acknowledge the presence of his master. Smee has seen him through so much, his steed for over a decade now, and even as a colt he had stayed true to his commands. He rears his head, giving a soft huff in greeting as Killian reaches out to rub his muscular neck.

“Hello to you too, lad.” He soothes, securing the trophy with thick leather straps to Smee’s saddlebags. It thuds against his hind leg as he shifts to accommodate for the extra weight but Killian talks him through it. “You can rest tonight. We deserve it.”

Smee, ever the conversationalist, responds with a snort. Something Killian would translate as about damn time.

The hunt for the cockatrice had taken longer than he'd anticipated, the cursed beast leading them astray for days before finally returning to roost in the sewers of all places. The sorcerer in these parts—Merlin, he’d said his name was—had informed him it would. They’d sent hunters, knights, even mages to deal with their pest, but none had returned; either fleeing from the beast or succumbing to it.

With the head of the monster firmly attached, Killian steps up into the stirrup and mounts his steed, heels tapping against his belly to spur him forward, back towards the city. With a reluctant snort and a slow start, Smee carries both the Witcher and his cargo to their destination.

It’s long past nightfall by the time they reach the oaken gates and marble paved roads leading to Camelot. It’s a damn sight better than the gravel paths back in Misthaven. The approach to the city is announced with sconces attached to grand flags bearing the sigil of the king, inlaid with gold detailing. A gaudy display of wealth if ever there was one.

Up ahead, before the city entrance, Killian can just about make out the silhouette of a man in robes of purple and gold. Power radiates off him and it trembles in the wolf head pendant resting atop Killian’s chest, even from over 100 yards away. Smee trots closer, almost lazy in his approach. He doesn’t halt until they’re stood before the man who greets them warmly, with a kind face and a gentle smile. Merlin, the sorcerer.

Killian doesn’t trust it.

“I see you’ve dealt with the beast, my friend.” Merlin starts.

“I see you don’t intend to let me in.”

The sorcerer nods at the assumption, as if reluctant to do so and holds out the pouch of coin. Killian lets it thud into his palm. It weighs about right so he doesn’t bother to question it before tucking the payment into Smee’s saddlebag. It’s more than any common contract would afford him.

“The King has requested—”

“The King can go fuck himself.” With a flick of his knife, Killian cuts free his cargo, letting the head of the beast slip to the floor. It cracks on impact, spilling the crimson gore inside, smelling only of death and decay. Iron and rot. Merlin doesn’t recoil, instead choosing to step around and inspect the shattered mass. Mages like him, in positions of power beside volatile Kings, tend to be more accustomed to such displays.

If the stories of King Arthur’s conquests are true, it’s no surprise.

“With your reputation, Witcher,” He starts, prodding the bloodied heap with his foot. It lols to the side, mottled beak clacking against the path. “Do you really think Arthur would take such a risk?”

Killian could not give less of a shit about the opinion of Kings. Especially not ones of lands that dictated their monarchy based on whoever could yank a sword from the sodden shit coated earth. If that were the universal basis for royalty, he’d be King three times over. Merlin waves his hand over the mess of brains and bone, vanishing the mound into nothing and leaving only pristine stone behind. Smee stiffens, sensing the otherness of the man so close to his rear.

With unnatural grace, Merlin steps back to his place between them and the gate, unwavering in his resolution.

“Rumours of the Golden Bride have spread further than you think.”

Of course. Ravens travel faster than horses these days. What happened back in Kovir—

People tend to trust Kings over Mutants, no matter the truth. Killian grunts, the only sign of the tension in his bones in the way he grips the worn leather reins, knuckles taught and surely white beneath his gloves.

“Next time,” He grunts, not flinching at the mention of his past. “Pay upfront. Spare me the journey back.”

Merlin opens his mouth to respond but it’s too late. With probably more force than necessary, Killian kicks Smee into action, turning him to ride away from the white brick barrier that separates him from a good night's sleep before the sorcerer can protest. His work here is done. His contract ended. If they won’t let him into the city, he has no reason to stay. Bath and a bed be damned.

There’s nothing for him here.

They ride onwards.

Killian slows his steed to a gentle trot as soon as they cross the border into Temeria, a silent apology in the calm stroke of his palm behind Smee’s ears.

Moonlight bathes the vast fields of wheat in an ethereal glow. Nekkers peer through the tall sheaves to watch him pass, following him as far as they dare. His medallion thrums with their proximity, the pendant rattling against his mail. If it were any other day, he’d have torn through the harvest, taking down the bastards with broad swoops of his blade. Not today, though. The cockatrice had drained more from him than he initially thought. There’d been no time to brew potions to remedy his weariness, and his supply of dwarven spirit was alarmingly low. The next apothecary along the path would take a beating from his coin purse, that much is certain.

Midnight comes and goes before the path widens into the well trodden roads of more populated areas and more hours pass before they even stumble across an inn shrouded in forest. It’s decrepit and musky, but an inn all the same. It’ll have to do. Killian can tell by the bray of his travelling companion that he won’t last until the next one. There’s water and hay in the mossy overhang out front, its ancient wood almost rotted through but still secure enough to attach Smee’s reins to the post. An old silver mare secured closest to the inn takes one sniff at Killian and sneezes.

“That bad?”

Smee nudges him in response. That bad.

The inside of the inn is as ancient and forgotten as the exterior; thick stone walls, cobwebbed beams, a bar made of mottled oak with ring stains of old ale covering its surface. Upon Killian’s entry, the landlord nods, his pallid skin as thin as paper. The sickness he holds will kill him, it lingers in the shadows beneath his eyes and the pale flesh of his gums as he smiles, with too much joviality.

“Room for the night, is it?”

He will not see the summer.

Killian drops fifteen crowns on the bar, watching the old man’s eyes widen at their shine. “Along with a bath and a bottle of your strongest.”

“Right away, my friend!” He shuffles along, reaching for a slender greying glass bottle that he places on the bar top, before disappearing altogether. The other bar patrons stay quiet, lulled to the edge of listless sleep by the fire crackling in the hearth and the ale in their bellies—gwent games unfinished, tankards half full. Not wanting to follow their lead in sleeping on the hard benches, Killian waits at the bar. He takes a swig, letting the liquid coat his throat in its familiar fire. There are better ways to cope. There are better ways to fend off the dark that threatens to swallow him whole but nothing works quite as well as the burn alcohol leaves behind. Well, usually that’s the case.

Minutes pass and his thoughts, however reluctantly, stray back to Merlin’s earlier words.

The Golden Bride.

Killian had killed her. Killed her, raped her, tortured her, ate her liver, stole the unborn child from her stomach as a payment to the eternally damned gods of old, used her blood for his mutations—the stories change depending on where you are. Nilfgaardians prefer the gory stuff whereas, up in Kovir, they favour the lighter tales. She was their Queen, after all.

The one he couldn’t save.

Each burning gulp helps less and less.

When the dying barkeep waves him over, brandishing a rusted key and an armful of tattered blankets, the burn has gone and only Killian’s thoughts remain.

No matter the truth, he carries the weight of her corpse like a shadow.

The room is barely bigger than a broom closet and the old man has the courtesy to look ashamed of his meagre offerings. It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, a bed is a bed. Along the way, Killian has learnt not to make attachments to the materialistic.

In the centre of the narrow room, manoeuvred between the end of the dusty four-poster bed and the fireplace, stands a solid wooden bath. The water, lukewarm to the touch and stagnant, comes to life with a flick of his palm and a whisper of “Igni”. Killian doesn’t even bother to be neat, letting his weapons, armour, potions, and coin fall to what little floor space there is available before letting himself sink naked into the warmth. The agitated boil helps to shift the stubborn muck customary of weeks on the path.

How long had it been since his last? A few days, maybe? A week? He’d taken a brief dip in the river just outside Camelot before embarking on his quest— had it really been that long? No wonder the mare had turned her nose up. No wonder Merlin had regarded him with such polite distance.

He’d been wandering around smelling like a Necrophage’s anal gland and no one had bothered to tell him. Not that anyone could tell him. That’s the thing with always being on the path—the only things to talk to are your horse or your hunt.

Monsters aren’t always the best conversationalists.

The waters lap away the aches set deep in his bones, settling each worn muscle with its tender embrace. It’s a luxury he can nary afford, but it’s worth it when he can. When he exits, smelling of old soap and lavender, there is only black silt left behind. A dark mirror on the liquid’s surface. He won’t be able to use it again. He takes his underclothes to the small basin by the bedside to soak instead, too tired to even consider spending any more time away from the clutches of sleep.

For the first time in a long time, he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow. The exhaustion of the weeks passed weighing his bones like lead, as if they’d sink straight through the mattress and into the nether below. He wishes they would.

“Killian.”

He jerks awake—no, not awake. Further into the embrace of a dream. Oppressive darkness and silence surround him, his keenest senses rendered useless in their wake. Beneath him, a plush leather armchair. It’s painfully familiar. Precious, somewhat. Worn and comfortable and moulded to him as if he’d spent a century sat only here. This dreamscape. This void.

Oneiromancy. Perfect.

“Killian.”

A woman’s voice— her voice.

“Emma.”

“And I thought you’d forgotten about me.” She smiles, suddenly appearing in his lap, hips straddling his thighs as if it hadn’t been almost five years since they’d last parted. Five long, arduous years.

“Impossible, love. You’re not so easy to forget.” Killian can feel the steady beat of her heart as his hands take her waist. Soft, so soft.

And centuries old.

“You never thought to stop by on your travels then?”

“The path is—”

“Don’t lecture me. I know,” Pouting, she brings her arms around Killian’s neck. The thin swath of lace she’s wearing does nothing to hide her figure but its intricacies marr the details he wants very much to focus on; the blush of her breasts, the swell of her arse, what lies between those slender legs. Each time he tries to take her in, see past the veil of fabric, it shifts, obscuring his gaze once more. Fucking magic. “But I have missed you terribly.”

“Emma Swan, legendary sorceress and advisor to the throne of Misthaven, missing but a lowly Witcher?” The pale expanse of her neck calls for his kiss, so close and yet so far. “People will talk.”

With a violet flash, Emma winks. “Noise complaints, hopefully.”

His eyes slip shut, trying to maintain what little composure he has left. As disconcerting as dream magic is, he doesn’t want the spell to end. The feel of her so close is maddening. Waking to an empty bed will be torture.

Words he can’t possibly say nor mean jump to his throat, aching to be whispered against her mouth, passed to her tongue by his own as they had longed to so many times in the past. They burn.

“Come see me.”

“Emma—”

“I need you. I can’t tell you why—not here—but I need you.” There’s a silent plea hidden in her words, behind the typical bravado she always favours. He almost doesn’t catch it. She adjusts herself slightly, sitting back on his knees and letting her hands reverently trace the scars across his shoulders and chest. Ones she’s seen before and ones she hasn’t, long healed but still raw to her touch. It’s been too long. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and it takes every modicum of restraint he has not to kiss her there and then. “Come to King David’s court in Misthaven. There’s a tourney one week from now.”

“I’m sensing I don’t have a choice.”

“Of course you have a choice. It’s in your best interests to make the right one.”

Killian sighs, letting his palms slide from her middle to her thighs, taking in the phantom warmth he’s missed so greatly. Emma Swan is an enigma. She’s centuries of power wrapped in mystery and untold sorrows and it lingers beneath her skin. She’s the first kiss of morning sun, the dark chill of winter, the wild lilacs that grow along the dirt roads of Misthaven. She’s true love’s first kiss and the denial of destiny. She’s nothing and everything, the beginning and the end.

And, occasionally, his.

“One week?” He muses, hyper focused on the way her nails feel against his skin, as if she were there, as if it were real. Her eyes, green as woodland moss, captivate him in the way they always used to, but they’re not the same. A mere mimicry. Beneath his fingers, the dream begins to fall away.

There’s no depth, just a glimmer of magic below the surface.

Everything’s hollow and when he finally presses his lips to her fading visage, all he tastes is ash, dirt and the absence of all things.

“One week.”

It echoes around the cramped room, a whisper in the darkness not yet reached by morning’s soft first touches. A reminder.

Killian almost missed it. Misthaven. It’s rolling hills and wildflower meadows, deep green forests free of ill fated fiends. Well, mostly free—wraiths and rotfiends are everywhere these days, especially after the war. If they weren’t, he’d be out of a job.

In the five days on the path, across the forgotten poppy-filled battlefields and open plains of Temeria, Killian didn’t encounter much trouble. The first two days were monotonous, non-stop riding through the day and night, brief pauses for food, water and rest.

The day after that saw a kikimora rear its ugly maw as Smee cantered past its roadside hovel, swiping out with its blade-like limbs in an attempt to take out the horse’s legs — it took three swipes of his blade to take it down, the starving queen letting out a defeated whine as glinting silver pierced through her armour and into her brain. Killian left a bomb in his wake, making sure none of her spawn would see the light of day.

Day four drove him closer to the ruins of Vizima, it’s grand stone walls now bleak and crumbled. Killian had been around when it fell, only a few years beneath his belt on the path as the Nilfgaardians withdrew their tyranny. They razed the city, with fire and blood, so that the North would remember what the clutches of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis. The self-proclaimed white flame dancing on the graves of his enemies sputtered and faded just like everyone else on this mortal coil. The flames had kept him warm one night, decades ago, as the fallen city smouldered.

Misthaven greets the horizon on day five. It’s unperturbed woodland gracing his path with an archway formed of two entwined enchanted oaks, their magic forms the base of the wards that surround the city and the sheer power of it is a familiar thrum of energy that has his medallion singing as Smee trots over the border. In the thick bramble bushes beside the sheltered road, fairies shield themselves from view, their sugar plum scent hangs on the air as heavy as horse shit. There’s something he hasn’t missed. After half a mile or so, the rattle of his medallion becomes barely noticeable, a gentle simmer rather than a raucous boil.

Instead of taking the northern road at Lake Nostos towards the bustling city and the castle of King David, they turn to the east, along a too familiar, although far less trodden, path.

Smee huffs at his choices, resisting the tug of his reins.

Killian rolls his eyes. “Don’t you start.”

The Rabbit Hole is, in Killian’s eyes, better than most. Being just outside the city, tucked up against the eastern entrance’s vine smothered portcullis, not many people stumble through its doors by accident. However, with its vast stone hearth, sturdy oak beams and a half decent cellar, the place could weather the harshest Skellige storm with nary but a draught. Ale, food, music and good company. It’s… nice, for lack of a better word.

And, despite the nature of his work, it’s somewhere Killian keeps coming back to. Regardless of the years between his visits.

Smee, ever the dramatic, saunters over to the water-filled trough cemented to the tavern's stable, eagerly eyeing up the hay-filled feedbag beside it. At least, he’ll get a chance to rest as Killian gets his own fill. Haphazardly, he knots Smee’s reins to the hitching post, leaving just enough slack for him to be able to reach his amenities and socialise with the unsaddled gelding tied up on the other side of the post.

Killian pulls his coin purse from his steed’s saddlebags, knowing full well he’ll spend it one way or another. The door swings open before he can even tap the shit off his boots.

“You took your time, Captain.” Will Scarlet, with his signature troublesome smirk, is upon him in an instant, arms thrown around Killian’s shoulders, squeezing tightly as his skinny arms allow. He’d never been one for heavy lifting, more interested in wielding a lyre than a sword, and it shows in the way he greets his old friend as if it hasn’t been almost five years since Killian left him in Toussaint in the bed of a baroness whose husband had not been best pleased to find him there. The stench of Mahakaman mead on the bard’s breath permeates the air. The half-decade has barely touched him.

It hasn’t touched Killian either but, then again, mutations will do that to a man.

“Is that what they’re calling me now?”

Will peels himself away, stumbling back into the oak door frame that knocks the air right out of him with an oof. His brow furrows ever so slightly and someone from the other side of the dimly lit pub chortles at his discomfort. Will throws an obscene gesture his way before coming to Killian’s side instead.

“Just roll with it mate, you wouldn’t like the alternative.”

Killian shrugs. Murderer, Mutant, Devil— “I have been called worse.”

The bard nods in agreement, letting Killian step over the threshold and into the dark innards of the inn. They both have. Back when they travelled together, there was nary a day that insults weren’t hurled their way. Killian never had the chance to apologise back then, and it doesn’t seem right to bring it up now.

Will looks… happy.

“Anyway,” He starts, falling back on his chipper tone and catching Killian off guard as he hops over the bar top with ease, grabbing a tankard on his way. “To what do I owe the pleasure?

“I’m not too sure of that myself.”

Will places the tankard before him, full of a sweet smelling dark ale. “No contract?”

Killian knocks back the mug in one, letting the slightly soured brew flavour his tongue. It’s better than the pig swill he’s settled for along the Path. Then again, Will always was one with good taste; always the finest inns, the grandest company, lining his pockets with the gold of diplomats and dukes alike. Despite all that, The Rabbit Hole suits him, dust and dirt be damned. He hum’s, considering how to answer, before settling for the simplest one. “No.”

“No valiant quest?”

Killian shrugs.

“Ah,” Eyeing him knowingly while taking a sip from his own cup with a smug smile, Will hums. They’ve known each other long enough now for him to be able to read between the lines. “A summons then.”

“Can’t I just stop by and visit an old friend?”

“Theoretically, yes. But that’s not in your nature is it, mate.” There’s a pause. Someone laughs from the other side of the room, lit only by a handful of candles to fend off the dark even in the daylight. Will doesn’t even blink, drumming out a rhythm on the countertop, wearing an ever present smile. “Especially knowing that there’s a certain sorceress within the city walls.”

Killian had no idea what he was here for, not really. One dream and he’d come running like a well trained dog, a pet. He can’t even feel shame about it. Emma could’ve asked him to pick daisies in the grand gardens of King David and he’d have come running, a prisoner to his emotions. His mutations should have rid him of them decades ago and yet—

He lets himself be seen, letting his posture slip to a slouch. The ride was harder on him than he’d anticipated and his limbs call for sleep, the ache of it weighing him down. Will is, above all else, his oldest friend. If he can trust anyone, it's him.

“What’s going on, Killian?”

Lilac and gooseberries, touched with cinnamon and the undeniable scar of power. It singes the air with its grace and sets Killian’s medallion ablaze with activity before he can even register the draught behind him hadn’t come from the door. Will looks up, eyes rapidly widening in a mix of familiarity and surprise, but Killian doesn’t have to. He knows. She must have sensed him when he passed the kingdom's wards, followed the sing of his own power to find him, greet him.

Killian turns and lets a smirk tug at his lips as silence hangs like a criminal, the whole inn rendered mute by her entrance. In awe. In fear.

Emma.

Time hasn’t dared touch her. It hasn’t in aeons. In the years Killian has known her, she has always looked this radiant. Hair curled loosely over her shoulders and a dress of lace laid over silk, bright and beautiful and absolutely incredible. An aura of light surrounds her, bringing illumination to the dim room. From her very core, she is beautiful.

Killian has missed her.

She smiles, knowingly.

"I haven't told him yet."

#cs fic #cs au #ficminds #captain swan #ouat fic #silver for monsters #FINALLY #I CAN SLEEP AT NIGHT

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prolestariwrites · 5 years

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Kinktober #18: Against a wall Prompt 23: You’re going to be sorry for that Pairing: Hendrickson/Dreyfus Warnings: Dubcon, oral sex, anal sex, hate sex

After killing Zaratras and getting rid of the Sins, Dreyfus finds Hendrickson in the tower, enjoying the mayhem below. Written in collaboration with @solynacea

Hendrickson stood at the window, watching the scene outside unfold like a dream. Bodies lay everywhere as the Holy Knights tried to make sense of what had just happened. The Grand Master was dead, the elite Seven Deadly Sins were the culprits, and they were fighting to bring down the ones who had killed their beloved Great Holy Knight.

Or so they thought.

When Dreyfus enters, he is nearly sickened by the twisted grin on his face. He knows that this was all for the good of Liones, even his own brother’s death... he doesn’t know why exactly or understand it all, but deep inside it feels correct even though it makes him angry. Hendrickson’s smug expression makes it all even worse, and he strides forward, determined to throttle him where he stands and end the swirling confusion that has been growing between them.

Hendrickson glances over his shoulder and laughs. “You killed so many. It’s a lovely sight.”

Dreyfus stops, his fists clenching. “I thought Zaratras would be it. I didn’t know there would be hundreds—” “Don’t be so naive,” Hendrickson says, almost dismissively. Then his eyes drag down him as he lets go a laugh. “You look flushed. Murder is an excellent look for you.”

Fury surges up his spine as Hendrickson turns away. He stalks over, gripping the man by his silver hair, and yanking his head back. Instead of fighting, however, Hendrickson looks up, their eyes meeting, and Dreyfus is shocked to feel his body stir at the slope of his throat and the way he licks his lips that curl into a smile. “Your heart is racing,” Hendrickson whispers.

“You are disgusting,” he hisses back.

“Mmm... maybe. But you want me anyway.” His eyes go wide as Hendrickson’s hand slides down the front of him until he can curl his fingers over his stiffening cock. “Why don’t you just do what you’ve been wanting and stop torturing yourself?”

“And what do I want?” he demands.

Hendrickson’s hand gives him a squeeze. “You want to be on your knees.”

Dreyfus grips him by the neck and pulls him away. It’s true, his desire for Hendrickson has been growing daily, nearly unchecked; but he has one thing wrong. He wants to see Hendrickson on his knees, taking his cock, and he groans with the image as he watches his lips part.

He forces him to look out the window as he grinds against Hendrickson from behind. “Is this what you wanted?” he growls in his ear.

“What you wanted, too,” Hendrickson chokes as Dreyfus gives his throat a squeeze.

But then he presses back, as if offering himself, his hand fumbling for Dreyfus’ hard cock, and Dreyfus grunts in response, tilting his hips forward to allow him to slide his hand over the outline. Hendrickson grips him, giving his flesh a squeeze that is nearly painful, and Dreyfus huffs out a laugh as the former druid strokes him with quick, jerky movements.

“I’ve met whores less eager than you,” he says harshly, and Hendrickson sucks in a sharp breath.

Dreyfus thrusts a bit in his hand, still holding his throat so that Hendrickson’s body is nearly bending to accommodate him. He can tell Hendrickson knows what he is doing as he strokes him, and he wonders if he is as pure as everyone says he is. “You’ve done this before,” he laughs in his ear.

“This and more,” Hendrickson hisses back.

At that Dreyfus’ cock grows hard, and he groans when Hendrickson releases him, thrusting forward in search of friction. He releases his neck and pushes him forward. “Put your hands on the wall,” he orders.

Hendrickson gives him a dark look over his shoulder. But after a long moment, the druid turns and obeys, his hands pressed to the stone, his legs spread, his hips tilted up and back.

Dreyfus grabs him roughly, uncaring of whether he leaves bruises in his wake as he drags his hands along the firm curve of Hendrickson’s backside, and Hendrickson lets out a noise that is nearly a groan when he spreads his cheeks to tease along the seam of his body through his robes. “Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks, his lips curling when Hendrickson bites out a curse.

Dreyfus grabs Hendrickson’s coat, yanking it from his body, followed by his shirt. Hendrickson immediately replaces his hands on the wall as he tosses the clothes away, and he takes a moment to stare at the broad shoulders and carved back in front of him, his palms pressing on his shoulder blades before dragging down to Hendrickson’s hips.

The druid arches a bit into his touch, reminding him of a cat. He teases his fingers in the waistband of Hendrickson’s trousers, but his cock is hard and throbbing for attention, and Dreyfus wonders how long he would be able to hold out. So he glides his fingers just under the top of his trousers, feeling his hips bones before plunging lower.

When his palm curves around Hendrickson’s erect cock, Dreyfus must fight to bite back a groan. Roughly he starts to stroke him, enjoying how Hendrickson pants, his fingers bending a bit against the stone as he struggles not to move his body and pump into Dreyfus’ hand. It is a way to keep a sliver of pride, but Dreyfus smiles as he steps up to press his own hard cock against him, because it only makes him more determined to take that from him.

“Bastard,” Hendrickson grits out, and Dreyfus laughs, leaning over him to cage him against the wall.

“How long have you wanted this, hm?” he taunts. “Have you gotten off thinking about me? Be honest now.”

Hendrickson doesn’t reply, and Dreyfus watches with satisfaction as his hands curl into fists. If he is being honest, he has imagined this more than once, taking this strong, proud man and bending him to his will, watching him crumbled beneath him until all Hendrickson can think of, all he craves, is his cock. “All you have to do,” he purrs, pausing to fondle the head of Hendrickson’s length and relishing in the groan it earns him, “is ask nicely.”

The druid presses his forehead to the wall, and Dreyfus dips his head to mouth along his spine, halting at the base of his neck to catch the skin there between his teeth. “Well, Hendrickson?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Hendrickson growls.

“You’re going to be sorry for that,” Dreyfus clucks in his ear.

With one movement he pushes the druid’s clothes down, exposing him to his knees. He drags his hands along the two toned thighs, humming in approval that despite Hendrickson’s language, he is still in a submissive position, still standing and offering him his body. Dreyfus reaches between his legs to fondle the sac that lays heavy under his cock, and then drags his fingers back along his seam, pausing to push a single finger between his cheeks.

Hendrickson hisses in pleasure and drops his head back. “That could be my cock,” he says in his ear, slowly pumping his finger in and out. “But now you must earn it.”

Catlike eyes land on him, nearly furious, and Dreyfus presses his lips beneath Hendrickson’s jaw. The druid smells clean and pure, like fresh snow or summer rain, and he breathes deeply as he teases his body. It is addicting in a way, and painful, as though reminding him that he will never be free of his sins.

Or perhaps it is merely Hendrickson he is addicted to.

“If you wanted me to fuck you, you should have asked,” he admonishes lightly. “Now that you’ve been so crass, I think we might need to find a better use for that mouth of yours.”

Slowly Hendrickson turns. He is scowling, and Dreyfus holds his glare, readying himself in case the druid decides to be foolish and try to get the upper hand. But instead Hendrickson sinks to his knees, his eyes steady on his own even as he reaches to undo his trousers, even as he peels down the fabric so his hard cock can spring free.

Then his gaze drops as he takes Dreyfus in his hand. He pumps once, twice, and then without any hesitation or preamble, he opens his mouth and begins to swallow him. It has been months and months since he experienced this, not since he has pushed away his wife, the new life he now has without any room for her or their sham of a marriage. But Hendrickson swallows him almost greedily, the head of his cock hitting the back of his throat with no trouble at all, and when Hendrickson begins gliding up and down his length Dreyfus wonders if he is out of his depth because clearly the druid is much more experienced than he.

Hendrickson reaches up to caress his sac, and Dreyfus hisses. He grips the short, spiky hair on his head, pumping his hips as he begins to fuck his mouth hard. He wants Hendrickson to choke on his cock, to protest, to come away with watery eyes and a raw throat, to moan and struggle to take him. He wants to feel the satisfaction of knowing he broke through the cool veneer of his fellow Grand Master.

Instead, Hendrickson moves with him, his throat and mouth working expertly. He sucks deeply, his lips tight around him, and it is Dreyfus who is moaning and panting before long. He presses his free hand against the wall for leverage, afraid his legs will give out, but he can't stop, it's too good. He curses Hendrickson as he struggles for the will to stop and pull away, but it's as if Hendrickson was made for him, his mouth made for his cock.

Just when it seems that the pressure will become to great, that he will give in to the wet heat of Hendrickson's mouth, the druid pulls away, wiping his lips with the back of his hand as he stands. Before he can say anything, Dreyfus grabs his shoulder and roughly turns him, pinning him to the wall and grinding his length between his cheeks. Hendrickson wriggles his hips against him, almost like a dare, and Dreyfus growls as he curls his fingers around his throat.

"What's wrong?" Hendrickson gasps. "I thought you wanted me to use my mouth."

With one hand he grabs Hendrickson's hair again and yanks his face up and back so he can slant his mouth over him. Dreyfus knows that Hendrickson has bested him so far, but he'll be damned if he lets him taunt him as well. But the night isn't over, and as his thrusts his tongue into Hendrickson's mouth he reaches around to grab his cock, rubbing his thumb carelessly over the tip to spread the moisture gathered there.

Dreyfus kisses him roughly, licking into his mouth and biting his lips, his tongue never stopping its assault. Meanwhile he strokes him hard and fast, needing to feel Hendrickson grow weak at his touch. Before long he is rewarded with a whimper, and the druid trembles before finally jerking away from the kiss to look away. "If you keep doing that I'll . . ."

He stills his hand, pausing to squeeze the base gently. "You'll what?"

"You'll make me come," he admits through gritted teeth.

"Mmmm. You will, but not until I say so."

Dreyfus smiles when he sees Hendrickson visibly shudder. He grabs his hips and jerks him backward so Hendrickson is nearly bent over, his upper body at an angle as he braces himself on the wall. His hands knead his backside before spreading him open, using his thumb to caress his hole, which almost flutters under his touch. Dreyfus licks his lips and angles his cock at his entrance, pushing gently at first as he feels Hendrickson start to open, noting the way his mouth falls open in a silent groan when he finally breaches him and sinks the head of his cock inside.

He thrusts shallowly into him, the need for Hendrickson to submit greater than his own desire for release. Dreyfus knows that he might as well not be moving at all, the slight grind of his length within Hendrickson only enough to frustrate, and, as he'd thought, it isn't long before Hendrickson tries to press back. With a chuckle, he grips the druid's hips to hold him in place, keeping his body open while he teases him with his cock. "I still haven't heard you," he muses, grinning when Hendrickson bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

Dreyfus laughs and thrusts forward hard, earning a cry from Hendrickson. "Oh, is that how you like it?" he huffs. Again he thrusts, then again, then again, until he is drilling into him, fucking him hard and fast, and he can see Hendrickson's arms straining to hold him up and his cock bouncing with each thrust. The slap of skin is dulled by the stone walls, and Dreyfus allows himself to begin to enjoy the sensation, the druid's body tight and hot and like a vise on his cock.

But Hendrickson still hasn't asked, so with another hard thrust he fills him completely. Then Dreyfus tips his weight forward until Hendrickson's shoulders are also pressed on the wall, and he grabs his cock and starts to stroke him again. "Beg me," he orders through gritted teeth.

Hendrickson moans, starting to rock his hips, both to ease the pressure of being filled and for more friction in Dreyfus' hand. But Dreyfus refuses to move. "Beg me to come inside you," he growls.

He doubles his efforts, stroking him hard and fast, his fist gliding easily over Hendrickson's weeping cock. Dreyfus uses his other hand to cup him under the chin, yanking his body backward, his thumb caressing his throat. "Say it! Say you want to get fucked by my cock!"

Hendrickson grunts in reply. "Un . . . fu . . . I want . . . fuck . . ."

Dreyfus stops his hand to squeeze the head. "Say it," he hisses. "Or I'll make you come now, and then you'll have to take my cock afterward."

Hendrickson shivers. "Fuck me," he whispers. "Please."

There's a pause as Dreyfus savors his submission. Then he presses his lips to Hendrickson's ear, his lips grazing the shell as he speaks.

"What a good little cock-sucker you are."

Hendrickson's protest turns into a cry when Dreyfus begins to move, his thrusts rough and sharp as he fucks into him, his hand resuming its quick strokes until Hendrickson is groaning beneath him. Now that Hendrickson knows exactly who he belongs to, there is no need to draw it out, and Dreyfus bites the pulse in his neck, the taste of blood rich against his tongue, almost crackling with magic.

It is minutes before he feels the familiar itch, deep inside his core, and he slows just a fraction long enough to grunt, "Come, my little fuck toy."

Hendrickson cries out, reaching down to take over stroking his cock. His head drops as he works himself furiously, and just as the first spray hits the wall and he gives a strangled wail, Dreyfus uses both hands to grab his hips and fill him a final time. Wave after wave of pleasure threatens to buckle him, but the white-hot ecstasy shoots through his veins and out the tip of his cock, his seed spilling in thick spurts that coat the inside of Hendrickson's body until he slides out easily, both men panting harshly.

"Tonight," Dreyfus murmurs, stroking Hendrickson's throat, "you will be in my chambers, on your knees, waiting for me. Do I make myself clear?"

Hendrickson stares at him out of the corner of his eye before his gaze drops, but Dreyfus did not miss the cunning there, and a thrill rushes through him at the prospect of breaking him again. "Yes."

#nnt #nanatsu no taizai #hendrickson #dreyfus #maybeishouldsmut #collab #tw: dubcon #tw: dubious consent #tw: noncon #myfic

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greetthedawn · 4 years

Link

Kiss me with those tired lips,

Let us stumble and fall

Oh it’s cold, I know

Just keep holding on

______________________

Song: Courthouse - Iwan Rheon

For as stuffy as the Assassins could be, the initiation party they threw Edward had knocked him flat on his ass.

He woke to a beam of light breaking through the trees. The sun hung in the sky at just the right angle to draw long across his eyeline, rousing him from the depths of his drunken slumber. Pulled somewhere near what could be called consciousness, his eyelids fluttered open, drowsy, and his gaze fell on the pink and orange sky, brimmed by the jungle canopy. He admired how easily their colors faded into one another, how he couldn't quite identify where one ended and the other began, or what the shade between the two might be called. It occurred to him, blearily, that he had slept through most of the day. It was justified, he supposed, given that they had celebrated through most of the night, but he still felt like a tad of a slob in his sauce for it.

He sat up slowly. His head span and his mouth was as dry as the soft earth beneath his fingers. At his feet were the charred remains of a bonfire, each of the coals blackened and free of any lingering warmth. Around the perimeter, he was able to identify the sleeping forms of a number of his friends. To his left, he found Mary asleep on her stomach. Rhona was stretched out perpendicularly on her other side, using the small of her back as a pillow. He smiled warmly. He knew them to be old friends, bonded from their Novice days, but they scarcely saw each other anymore. Rhona headed the Havana bureau those days and Mary seemingly sailed back and forth across every island but Cuba. It warmed his heart to watch them reconnect whenever their paths did cross.

His eyes fell to Mary's left hand, resting gently in front of her face. He could almost imagine her two shortened fingers whole again, the tips hiding in the patchy grass. He reached over and brushed the calloused skin along her knuckles lovingly, cherishing the moment of silent closeness. Stretching out his fingers, he laid them softly between hers. His brand stung, still fresh from the previous night's ceremony but slowly beginning the healing process. It was mirrored on her own ring finger, an inch below the severed tip. The finger held two burn scars in total, one much rougher and older than the other. Her brand was pink and weathered, somewhat jagged around the edges. The Observatory had been surgical in its amputation, but the skin that had healed over the third knuckle was much darker, almost black in the low light of dusk. He was grateful that her Assassin's mark had been spared in the accident.

The first sign of Mary's waking came from her fingers as he studied them. They reached and twisted back to lock with his. Her eyes fluttered open slowly and the muscles along her arm trembled as she stretched her shoulders and back, likely tight from the night's rough accommodations. The motion roused Rhona.

"Blimey," the latter woman complained as she pressed her palm to the side of her head. "How much did you lot let me drink last night?" She wobbled a bit as she pulled slowly into a seated position, supporting herself with her free hand against the dirt.

Edward chuckled and gestured at the spread of empty bottles around their perimeter. Several sat near minute divots in the dirt, as though they'd been thrown down with some force. A few were shattered, leaving behind a brilliant mosaic of brown and green. They'd have to clean those up later, lest Jenny or one of her friends found the shiny shards. "There wasn't much stopping you, mate. And I was in no condition to try, neither."

Mary groaned. "I'm going to hope I didn't drink my full share of those. Not that I can remember enough of the night to be sure." She and Edward laughed together at that, both knowing she had probably, in fact, put the rest of them under the table. He kissed her sweaty brow and she reached out to pull free the sloppy knot of hair at the nape of his neck. She shook it loose with her fingers, knocking out the caked-in clods of earth.

The sound of their voices stirred their sleeping friends at the other end of the ashy fire pit. Adéwalé sat against a tree with his chin to his chest and hands folded across his lap, looking somehow more stately than slovenly. As he stirred, he pushed his drawn hood back and rubbed the sweat off his bare scalp. To his side, Ikal and his partner, Glenna, were curled up together, slowly disentangling from each other's embrace.

"You smell that?" Rhona asked as Edward scrounged through their assortment of bottles in search of some leftover Hair of the Dog.

"Aye," Adé agreed around a yawn, somehow in a perkier state than the rest. "Smells like my supper!" Edward's old quartermaster wasn't often found in his cups and didn't lust for rum as most pirates did, but Kenway suspected that was in part because he didn't feel its effects so strongly as most did.

Together, they all got to their unsteady feet and followed the tempting aroma toward the beach. The enticing odor of the evening's dinner on the fire wafted across the air more strongly when they reached the sandy ship cove, whipped up by gentle coastal winds. Edward's stomach turned unsteadily. He was starving, but at the same time he couldn't imagine keeping anything down for the next week.

They found Jenny sitting opposite Bell, both rolling a wooden ball back and forth between themselves, carving a marginally deeper path in the fine sand with each pass. Massey tended to a pot over a fresh bonfire. The young pair of friends had graciously offered to babysit for the night and day as an initiation present to their captain. It was true, he and Mary made a formidable working team, but their relationship was undeniably colored by their separate and shared responsibilities, both to their crew and to their order. What moments they could find for themselves were more valuable now than any treasure in the Jackdaw's hold. Bell and Massey seemed to understand this. Ever since the duo had begun their Assassin training, they'd become trusted insiders on their crew, among the few to know Mary's true identity. Kenway looked out for his men and it had certainly won him the loyalty of these two.

"What are you drawing up for us tonight?" Mary called out as they approached. She had pulled up her own hair, granting the breeze leave to cool her neck. The evening was a pinch too humid for her liking, Edward knew. He was tempted by the thought of a swim.

"A fine pork stew for the captain!" Massey announced. The lad had always had a taste and talent for the finer aspects of cooking. Their supper was sure to satisfy.

"Jaysus, you all look a right mess!" Bell greeted their group. "I didn't think such a stoic clan had it in them!" He laughed, surely pondering embarrassing events from the night before that none of them would be able to recall.

Mary laughed weakly. "We're not saints, lad, no more so than yourself, and even the Pope likes his wine now and again." She toasted this with a swig from a bottle of grog she had lifted from Massey's cooking equipment.

The salty air whipped up around them with a gentle gust, swirling the smell of the pig all around. Edward pulled Mary tight to his side as they settled onto the sea-bleached logs surrounding the fire. In spite of the pounding in his head, he was bright in spirit. Surrounded by his dearest friends, his family, he was home.

______________________

Those moments like sticks and stone

Break your bones and draw your tears

Well these words, they’ll hold

And let time unfold

______________________

Edward's head broke through the surf. Salt water dripped off his lips as they parted to breathe, some reaching his tongue. The taste, which he used to find unpleasantly intense, he now almost enjoyed. He felt he could finally understand the appeal of the salt licks they used to give the barn animals back in Bristol.

Kicking hard against the current, he pushed back toward his partner. Mary sat in the shallows where the tide rose and gently fell but never fully receded. After their pork feast, the temptation of a twilight swim had been too great to resist. Mary had led him down the beach, leaving their friends behind to tell stories of the night before. They had wandered for some time before coming to the isolated cove where she had spent many days training him when he'd first come to Tulum to stay. Those days seemed a world away now, their reunion in the graveyard and weeks getting reacquainted, preparing for the most ambitious contracts of, hopefully, their lives.

Free from the water's grip, he crouched at her side and pressed a large shard of an opulent shell into her hand. "What about this one?"

Mary grinned at the specimen in her palm. "Might want to dull the edges a bit, but I think it'll make a fine add." She stood, stirring up the sand beneath her and making the water murky. Together, they trudged back to where they had left their bulkier clothes. Mary knelt to add the shard to a small pile of shells and pretty stones they had gathered along their walk to include in Jenny's collection.

Edward collapsed in the sand, exhausted from his dive. The last lights of the setting sun had vanished beyond the world's end, and stars were beginning to pattern the sky in full force. Mary stretched out alongside him, and he inched over to lay his head in the nook between her collarbone and breast. She lifted her hand, pointing at the hazy constellations. "That cluster of five over there..." She gestured at a collection of particularly bright dots. "What do you think the astronomers call them?"

Edward pondered that for a moment. They were arranged a bit like a house, or a square with a pointy hat. "Well that's plainly Turtle Major," he asserted. "You see those trails off the back? The flippers, those are, certainly."

Mary snorted in her laughter. "Aye, I see it."

Edward nodded. "That's not to be confused with Ernest the Fish Man, from the Greek myth about the man who was turned into a fish."

"No?" Mary asked, laughing harder. "Where's he then?"

"Over there," Edward gestured to a constellation to the east.

"What, the row of four? That's just a line, not a fish man!"

Edward shrugged. "Oi, I didn't name them! You'll have to ask the astronomers."

Mary huffed in amusement and kissed the crown of his head. "I love our nights like this," she sighed after a moment, running her hand selfishly across the expanse of his bare chest, wiping away lingering droplets from the sea as she went.

"They are far too few and spaced apart," he agreed with a tone of contentment. He reveled in her closeness. It had been roughly two years since their reunion, and nearly one since admitting their love for one another, but their lifestyle didn't lend itself to gratuitous intimacy. Despite that, or perhaps as a fortunate byproduct of it, he still managed to feel giddy in the moments where he could touch all the lines of her form without watching eyes.

However, laying there in a quiet embrace with eyes growing heavy, something became unsettled within Edward's mind. His heart was intertwined inextricably with Mary's and he carried with him a sense of intimacy, of a mutual, complete knowing of the other. Yet, despite this, he felt a small wedge in the center of that embrace; a trace of their one fundamental disagreement.

"Mary," Edward began, interrupting the easy silence. He anchored himself to the steady rise and fall of her breathing. "I think we should talk about yesterday."

Something in his tone seemed to tip her off to the scene he was thinking of. "I suppose we have to." She lifted a hand to gently run her fingers through his hair. "I'm beginning to suspect we have different plans for Jenny. Would you agree?"

He frowned and, with a deep breath, stated simply, "I don't like the idea of her beginning any training. I don't want this life for her."

Mary huffed, but the sound was warm. "I had worked out as much, though I am left wondering why."

Edward had to admit that he struggled with the why of it. He loved this life, the life he and Mary shared. Neither of them was suited to the civilian way. They'd each come to it in their own unique paths that had led them to each other and had both thoroughly enjoyed most of the journey there. What bits had left their hearts heavy, they carried together. Jennifer, though… she had a chance. Perhaps she had it in her to be soft, to be gentle, to live a life free of blood, pain, and death. "It's dangerous," he concluded. She had become a princess to him, his darling girl. "I want her safe."

He felt Mary nod in sincere agreement. "I want that for her too. I want her free from danger." She pulled away, and they both shifted so that they sat facing one another in the sand. Her look was firm, yet open. "But do you know what's dangerous? Being a woman in a man's world. There are so many perils that lay in the road ahead of her that may never even occur to you, Templars be damned. This girl is going to be able to fend for herself. I want her safe, but not living some sterile existence where she's at the mercy of a husband to vanquish any evil or inconvenience that bedevils her, and to not be that evil, himself. Men fail. Men die. I want freedom for her, Edward. I want liberty and opportunity." She leaned forward for emphasis, resting one forearm on her knee. Her fingers were curled passionately into her palm but there was no aggression in the fist they made.

He reached out for her folded hand, brushing his thumb reassuringly over her scarred and scabbed knuckles. "No one can touch her, Mary," he impressed. "All this time, these years that I have chased power and influence, it's all for her now. All that I am, all that I've become is for you and for her. The whole of our Order dotes on her. Our current resources are unmatched. She's untouchable. We can make certain of it."

Mary narrowed her eyes, and her hand didn't grasp his in return. "You and I have cut down far more powerful folk than ourselves, remember. Resources means nothing if someone with conviction is after you. You can't protect her. Neither can I. We lost her for nearly two years already. I won't have her defenseless if something were to happen to us, not when there's clearly a better way."

He shook his head, unconvinced. "Death is inevitable. Don't think that I don't know that. But I don't want her living the whole of her life preparing for an attempt on it that may well never come. When we go to London, things will be different there. The scores that we've settled in the West Indies won't chase us there. We can build a life for her that's worlds apart from what you and I lived through growing up. Her existence will be one of esteem and ease. Any number of powerful families will clamber to secure her hand for their sons! High-class ladies don't have to fuss about anything more taxing than hosting dinner parties and entertaining their husbands' business partners. How can you not want that for her?"

Mary sighed, visibly weary with his stubborn attitude. "If that's what she wants, I won't begrudge her. But I need her to have options. We can't shield her from everything, though God willing we'll both stay kicking about long enough to try. I don't want her to have to survive as I've had to, but she'll have to know how to fend for herself if the worst comes to pass." She glanced away, gazing out at the dark horizon over the sea.

Edward squeezed her hand. "I'll concede, no woman should be left defenseless. A few of your knife tricks up her sleeve and no common man will dare cross her. I promise you, though. She'll never have to struggle for base survival as you once did."

Mary's eyes broke from the waves and turned back to him. There was a look in them that he hadn't seen in some time, but it set him back on his heels just as quickly as it had in his youth. Sternly, she corrected, "You know as well as I that she won't be up against just common men. She's barely two years hatched, and she's already become collateral damage in a war as old as mankind itself. You can't truly think that an advantageous marriage will save her from her part in it. I know you've seen enough by now to understand the truth. You've come too far. Don't trade one folly for another." Her tone was pointed and left no gaps to expose self-doubt. Her convictions on the matter were clear and certain.

Edward was quiet for a long moment. He didn't have a good response to that argument. Was he, indeed, foolish to think he could separate her from this dark current of history? His view of the conflict was so intimate, he imagined himself part of a privileged few with access to the truth. In his mind, he fantasized of keeping Jenny separate from it all, keeping her a part of the blissfully ignorant many. Perhaps, however, she was born tragically too close to it all. Perhaps it was unavoidable, an inevitability.

With a sigh, he relented. He didn't agree with her, but she was the wind that had always carried him to shore and he couldn't afford to be at odds with her. He knew by now that ignoring her wisdom would leave him adrift. "I've worked on ships since I was just a boy in pursuit of one thing: trying to provide for my family. Whenever I imagined having children with Caroline, I pictured having the ability to drape them in the finest fabrics and pay for the finest tutors just as Caroline's parents had given her. I wanted any daughters I might be given to have the skills necessary to marry well and find someone who would protect them when I no longer can. Never once did I imagine they might learn how to clean blood that wasn't their own from their blouses, or how to sever an artery beyond hope of repair." He laughed darkly. "I wanted so badly to be a proper father, with proper daughters who could fit into society in a way that I have never been able to. I still want that. I want to provide for her and give her the choice of ease that I never had."

Mary sighed, considering his words. "There are many things less easy in this world than the life of an Assassin, Edward. Chiefly among those is a woman without a father or a husband, and it's all too easy to lose those if you have them. I did. If I'd been raised any other more conventional way than how I was, I could very well be working the streets or dead. No amount of money in my father's pocket would have changed that. If you die, Jenny can't inherit a coin of yours. You are right that we live deadly lives, you and I, but that won't change. We've made our oaths. We're in this for life, by choice. Aye, Jenny hasn't chosen this, and I'll be happy enough to give her the option to leave it all behind when she's old enough. Until then, though, I'll be bloody well damned if I'm going to let anyone stop me from giving her every opportunity to make her own way in the world first."

Edward nodded thoughtfully. A choice. A chance. He could live with that. "All right, then. It's settled. We'll raise her as a woman of substance, with every opportunity money can buy. Education, status, all of it. We'll also train her in the ways of the Order. When she comes of age, it'll be up to her to decide what life she wants to lead. Until then, we open every door for her that we can find and close none."

The tension in Mary's fingers relaxed. She nodded slowly, smiling gently. "I think that's a deal I can make."

Edward reached out and brushed her cheek. She raised her eyes to his, and there was peace in them. "I know she's your daughter. She's not my blood, but I see her as my daughter, too. I have every intention of being a father to that girl, and a partner to you. The two of you are my family, and I will always respect your authority when it comes Jenny, but I want to be partners in her rearing. I will take every full responsibility due to the father of a daughter and the husband of a powerful woman."

The slightest smirk touched her lips. "Oh, a husband?" She crawled forward, into his lap, and wrapped her legs around his waist. With her arms draped over his shoulders and her lips on his cheek, she whispered. "I do think I'd like to be married to you."

______________________

Guided only by the light of the moon ahead and the bonfire behind, Edward and Mary waded hand-in-hand behind Adéwalé out into the cove. When they were waist deep, Kenway's old quartermaster turned to face them. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Are you?" his new quartermaster countered. Adé did look a tad nervous.

"Some of us have never participated in a wedding ceremony before. I can only do my best," he countered. Mary and Edward chuckled. They'd both been married before and had been subconsciously preparing for this for some time. Adé had been thrown into the mix just five minutes earlier.

They had decided not to wait any longer. They'd been joined in spirit for months. All that remained was to make it official. They didn't have a minister present, but they did have a ship's captain and open water readily available. Their witnesses watched excitedly behind them from the shore.

Adé took a deep breath, placed a hand of each of their shoulders, and looked up at the sky. "Almighty God, I have brought these souls before you to unite them as one in your eyes." He dropped his gaze back to the couple. "Edward Kenway. Mary Read. Is it your wish to take the vows of marriage?"

They nodded and, with shared smiles, confirmed, "It is."

Adé turned first to Edward, then shrugged. "Alas, I do not know any vows, so I will ask that you make your own."

Edward pursed his lips for a moment, thinking. His first wedding had been in the village chapel, with a proper priest and a strict script. It had been a rather mindless process, to be frank. As he gazed at Mary, he found himself at a total loss for words. What could he possibly say to do justice to the gift she was giving him? Stifling jealousy for the time he was buying Mary to prepare her own words, he eventually stammered the sentiments he had long held private in his heart. "I, Edward, take you, Mary, to be my wedded wife, my partner, and my guide. I have spent many years battling against your wisdom, all for the ruin of myself and those who dare to get close enough to me. I vow to honor your decision to stand by my side by submitting myself, mind and soul, to your love, to your counsel, and to the service of your happiness. With God as my witness, I make this vow to you."

His view of Mary's warm smile of acceptance was obscured by the gathering mist in his eyes. "I, Mary, take you, Edward, to be my wedded husband, my partner, and dearest friend," she responded. Her voice was steady, but had an edge that hinted she, too, was holding back strong emotion. "You have grown into a man I greatly admire and strongly wish to tie myself to for the rest of my days. I vow to walk with you through all of life's terrors, to come with you on every adventure, and to be with you, always, be it in body or in spirit. With God as my witness, I make this vow to you."

The smile Adé gave them showed mingled pride and warmth. "My friends, your souls have been bound together by the Assassin's Creed, and now I have the greatest pleasure of joining them again in the bonds of marriage." He raised his voice so as to be heard by the small throng of onlookers at the fireside. "I now pronounce you Edward and Mary Kenway, man and wife!" Adé nodded to Edward. "Kiss your bride, breddah!"

With a smirk, Mary threw an arm around Edward's neck and pressed her lips forcefully to his. Snickers and joyous whoops from the beach mingled around them with the soft song of the lapping waves. Kenway's heart soared like a seabird as he wound his arms around her waist and pulled her tight to him, never to let go again.

______________________

From courthouse to crackhouse, baby

I’ll follow you blindly, let me

And let all your sins

Come stumbling in

______________________

AN: I live in Seattle, which is one of the hardest-hit areas of the US in terms of COVID-19 infections. Hence, I am on lockdown and have plenty of time for writing. The next chapter will be the last, and I am starting on it today. Our journey together is coming to a close after six very long years.

I have other projects in the works, and I'm excited to explore other worlds outside 1700s Assassin's Creed. This story is my heart, though, and I plan to revisit it soon in the form of a Mary POV prequel someday. I don't think I'll ever write another behemoth like this one until I get around to writing an original novel, but this has really shown me what I'm capable of, given the time.

As always, please leave a review if you feel compelled to do so, and shout out to my lovely Beta Reader!

-Drew

#CWMN Full Chapters #come with me now #Assassin's Creed #kiddway #edward kenway #Mary Read #james kidd #kiddway fanfiction

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azhorratha · 4 years

Text

@zankokukami: It wasn't a very pleasant day when news came in of Zenos' death on the battlefield to Sephiroth, the higher ups knew the both of them were good friends, and there was rumours going around that it was even something more than that.

One of the turks were requested to deliver the news, and he did it with shaky legs, nearly about to piss himself as he knew Sephiroth was no joke either, Zenos was perhaps scarier, but Sephiroth had learned many of technique under Zenos' watch, he knew how to handle a blade.

"Um... Sir, um, Sephiroth?" The turk said, his voice unsteady, he was fully prepared to die today, to be cut up with that ridiculously long sword Sephiroth wielded. "I have some bad news..." He was stuttering, he was afraid. "Zen... Zenos... Zenos has fallen." He made to guard himself immediately, closing his eyes tightly as if that would ease the pain of what's about to come.

There weren't many things that caused Sephiroth to pause and many of those could be counted on one hand. Even then, he'd been in his office all day. Tedious computer work often kept him from the fields, answering emails that could have been a simple two minute call, deleting ones that were completely useless, or having to deal with Hojo. Sephiroth didn't bother with written reports. Most went in the trash and were rescued at the end of the day by his secretary, a habit he'd been chewed out about several times. Didn't mean he was going to stop when they could learn to quit sending them to him.

When the Turk showed up, he was skimming through a mission report from Wutai. His chin turned toward them almost completely unseen but he was listening. The news sent something icy down his spine and made his stomach twist and contort on itself in a way he wasn't familiar with. He didn't like this feeling. Dread, was it?

The file was closed and promptly laid on the table nearby as he turned to glance at the Turk. Rage bubbled inside of him.

"Lies. Zenos won't have fallen to anyone, all of us here know this. You're mistaken. Return to your superior and acquire an official report; rumors will not be tolerated." Everything in his body vibrated in a way that almost betrayed him to the point he had to press a gloved hand down on the report he'd just been holding.

Removing said hand, he took two long strides to the man, towering over him as he looked down the bridge of his nose at him. Useless, pathetic, utterly unworthy to utter Zenos' name.

"Go, now. Should you return with a satisfactory report, I may spare your life this day."

The return of the Turk held nothing positive. Those same few words were uttered and an incident report shoved in his general direction. Report taken, Turk dead.

When Sephiroth left the room, the man looked as if he had exploded. Blood coated the walls and his ribcage sat open, revealing a deep gash. It almost cut through to his spine. He took no pride in the kill and arranged for a helicopter to take him to Zenos’ last known location.

“Sir, we cannot fulfill that or--”

“You will or your last breath is mine. Ready the vehicle, use my account information for any fuel or supplies needed. Less than an hour.” The phone was shut off.

Stalking through the hallways, Sephiroth paid little mind to those around him. The president was sending aides to get him to the man’s office but he didn’t listen. Lazard was in for a difficult evening. He didn’t care.

On location, he found the remote area of Wutai was quiet. At night, the forests were generally alive with the sounds of nature but right then, the only thing he heard were the caws of carrion birds and the motor of the helicopter.

“Stay. I’ll be returning shortly.”

Proof. That was what he was looking for. The incident report held nothing in the way of photos and, if Zenos were truly dead, Sephiroth had to see it for himself. Zenos was a fighter, the only one, that Sephiroth looked up to. To see him on the battlefield sent a thrill through him - fear and excitement, two emotions that he had trouble understanding for a long time.

Then Zenos opened a new world to him, one he’d never thought of exploring. Late nights, fingers in his hair, bruises left on his body from harsh touches. Those thoughts stabbed through his heart and he grit his teeth, slicing through trees and foliage. He refused to believe this.

Trees broke into a field and the stench of rot hit his nose full force. Normally, it didn’t bother him but it’d never been so sudden. He had to cover his nose.

Moonlight lit the clearing and he saw a mound of bodies. All Wutain soldiers, no less, but their presence didn’t give him answers. This was expected after all. Fighting in Wutai often ended this way and Sephiroth wasn’t entirely sure where they kept getting the soldiers - a mystery for another day, he supposed. As he walked closer, he saw they formed a semi-circle.

In the middle lay a familiar body, one he hoped not to see.

His chest tightened and Sephiroth clenched his teeth. Zenos laid there with a smile on his face, eyes closed, but his body was... mangled. Something large had gotten it’s hands on him and he couldn’t begin to understand what. Indents in the mud led away - whoever or whatever had killed him had been taken from the area, to the north. Footprints, a few drag marks, unsettled bodies - Wutai had taken their dead and likely left as night had fallen. He’d be sure to make a return visit but only after he cared for Zenos’ corpse.

Unfamiliar emotions were biting into him. His throat tightened and his eyes burned. Sephiroth couldn’t explain the phenomenon but he supposed it was akin to mourning. Even so, it was close enough to anger that he could rely on that instead. Anger was far more familiar to him but he couldn’t deny that he had an urge.

If it weren’t beating, if it weren’t his, then no one would have it.

As he made his way to Zenos’ side, Sephiroth carefully straddled his body and paused. There, just barely over the edge of his collar, was an undeniable truth that almost tore something from Sephiroth’s throat. A memory surfaced and Sephiroth heard those dulcet tones of Zenos’ voice, in the dark when they bared all to one another, a night he’d never forget. For it to turn to this...

One hand fell to the ground next to golden hair and he stared at Zenos. “You took my heart with you,” he growled. Sephiroth laid his hand on Zenos’ chest and an idea occurred to him. Primal and twisted as it was, he wouldn’t let Wutai keep Zenos’ heart.

Masamune was far too long for such a task but Sephiroth often kept an extra blade tucked into his boot. This was one of the handful of times it was needed. Ribs cracked, muscle tore, and blood spurted across his face as he tore the organ from it’s nest in Zenos’ torso. Sitting there in his hands, the heart still held a semblance of warmth - Zenos must have died hours ago but a body laying out in the sun all day...

He thought nothing of it as his teeth dug into the heart.

As he ate, he thought of Zenos. A graceful fighter with power unmatched, someone who stood to be a formidable opponent for him, a man who inspired him, gave him the highest pleasure that life could offer. Zenos would live on inside of him.

As he returned to ShinRa, Sephiroth held Zenos’ corpse in his arms. Blood, dirt, pieces of trees and branches clung to his body and hair. Horrified faces followed him as he made his way through the halls, not allowing anyone to take Zenos away from him.

“S-seph?”

Angeal’s voice stood out to him and he paused, turning his head - he was listening.

“Carrying a body through the facility isn’t strictly against protocol but if you take Zenos to the morgue, they can fix him up. We can give him a funeral and burial. You’ll have a place to visit him, pay respects to him, anything you need. Let us help you.”

He stopped walking and finally turned to face Angeal. The man flinched back at the sight of him. Blood was centered around his mouth and cheeks, splattered across his face and upper torso. It was in his hair and along his clothing, his hands... There was no doubt his eyes were bloodshot.

“I have no need of such accommodations. Zenos will be fine with me. Thank you for your concern but it’s unnecessary. I’ll see you for training in the morning.”

With that, he turned and continued on his way to his living quarters. Zenos’ corpse was never seen again but Sephiroth kept his swords and clothing. Color him sentimental, but Sephiroth had kept the bones. Zenos’ wired skeleton rested on the bed next to him at night, keeping him company.

#zankokukami #;;sephiroth//general: only one of us will make it out alive #;;sephiroth: drabbles #suicide tw #suicide mention tw #gore tw #blood tw #cannibalism tw #cannibalism mention tw #skeleton tw #skeleton mention tw

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aha-my-villainous-thoughts · 5 years

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Please, keep me. (Good Omens)

Part 4! This whole practice of writing every day is a lot of fun. I hope I feel the same as the month trickles on.

I will do the links for Part 1, 2 and 3 when I’m at my desktop. I still need a title too!! (found one)

Part 4

The incident of seeking out the little angel should have been a one off affair.

It wasn’t.

It became a frequent exercise in emotional torture for Crowley. Now, when he lurked upstairs looking for the angel, he would have to gamble on the appearance of the Keeper at all. Sometimes he would come out at the right time, following members of his duty. Sometimes he might only be a few minutes late. Sometimes he didn’t come at all. Crowley would wait and grind his teeth in anxiety hoping to catch sight of him before he was called away to his own work. The worry that he would miss the milk-coloured curls and furtive glances made him feel a kind of weariness that settled deep into his bones and drained all the enjoyment out of his day. When he did see the little angel his entire being seemed lifted up by it. There was a small part of him that knew it was foolish to hang so much longing onto another being like this, especially in this manner, but he was too far gone on the Keeper and his soft little ‘Oh!’ to be able to turn back now. Come what may, everything that was his was inextricably tied to what was the Keeper’s.

And he didn’t even know his name.

After several cycles of missing sight of the angel in the refectorary, a resolution slowly started to form in his mind. At first it seemed ridiculous, but over time as the angel’s appearances to the hall became more and more unreliable, the idea became less ridiculous.

He could do what he had done that day in the library. Go into those winding hallways and watch the angel from afar. More and more days saw the angel linger behind in the library, clearly to indulge in reading every book he was charged to care for, and Crowley saw no alternative than to move his spying spot to among the quiet shelves.

The trouble was there was really nowhere to hide. The corridors and hallways were filled to every inch with shelves and books, they curved and branched out in every branch. Including all the way up, high enough that Crowley couldn’t quite see the ceiling in the dim suspended lights of the library. Even if there were a space for him to skulk up in the darkness he was keenly aware that that was altogether far too ridiculous an option to consider.

Ruling out the literal stalking, what if he was spotted? How would he begin to explain it? The little Keeper wasn’t the only angel in the library and if Crowley intended to follow through his mad plan the way he did, he would be risking running into them as well.

No, an alternative was crucial.

He was skulking in his usual spot, arms crossed on the ledge and a stormy expression on his face. The Keeper had not appeared for the fourth day in a row and Crowley was getting impatient. He turned away from the hall, silently grumbling at the entire hall of angels below for not being the correct angel. Instead he stared at the mural of animals, letting his eyes shift sightlessly over the complicated interwoven paintings of plants, tree, flowers and creatures. His thoughts ruminated sluggishly, never straying far from the dull ache in his chest.

To see without being seen. To watch without causing alarm. To exist in the same space and yet be not as he was.

He flickered his gaze between the array of beasts staring back out at him. Large and small they filled the shape, horns and tails and hooves. His eyes refocused as he settled down near the paws of the large golden beast with the mane, seeing a tiny little animal with cupped front paws, large eyes and a little tail. He strained to read the words etched in gold next to it.

Mouse.

An appealing little creation, it looked quick and intelligent. Crowley considered it, eyes narrowing as an idea slowly surfaced. It was possible for angels to manipulate their shape. This vessel wasn’t one made of skin and bone as the animals were. An angel’s true form was already condensed into this form, the wings committed to a different plane to accommodate the requirements of the Paradise She had made for them. Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he had released the boundaries of his current skin to be in his natural form, it was a lot simpler to be in a form that was so tactile and grounded to his environment. In theory he should be able to alter his vessel again, to condense himself down further into a form that could hide in plain sight, sneak through the bookcases and watch his angel without discovery.

He could become an animal.

His eyes lingered on the mouse for some time, considering the brown fur, the twitching whiskers. It wasn’t out of the question but something didn’t ring true for him considering the small thing. He stood and began to walk the edges of the upper mezzanine slowly, considering each animal in turn. Some were immediately dismissed - too large or too bulky or unsuited for the narrow spaces. Others were too colourful or had unnecessary additions - what use would a pair of antlers be in a library?

He considered a creature called a cat for some time. It was agile and slim, with clever eyes and short fur. It would be an excellent form to climb and jump in, its paws perfect for soundless sneaking. Perhaps a touch too big still.

He eyed a winged animal called a fruitbat for some time before dismissing it. The ability to fly might be novel, but he doubted it would prove that useful when clambering across the tops of books. Plus, this animal seems to spend it’s life upside down and he wished to watch his angel the right way up.

This pattern repeated for some time before he came to a stop in front of an animal he would not have believed could exist if it weren’t for Her endless imagination. An animal with no legs at all, a long twisting body and tail. Its head was streamlined to join with the body in one fluid shape. It appeared to have an unusual tongue, and eyes that reminded him of the cat from earlier. This animal was an unnecessary colour - a rather bright green, but that seemed to suit its surroundings. He was sure he could change that, maybe go for something that blended with the shadows a bit better.

Yes, it would do nicely. With some imagination and a little Effort, Crowley would become a snake.

Resolution is one thing, but action proved to be another. After Crowley had finished with his day of duties he retired to his room immediately. To change his form would mostly take time and concentration, and he knew he couldn’t be disturbed once he started.

Shedding his robes and loosening his red hair, he sat in the centre of his bed and closed his eyes. He drew his form into his focus, taking time to identify every part of this current form and its placement. He would need to be able to return to it easily, if he was going to be able to switch between them at will. He took care to memorise the ridges and lines that created his face, the line of his jaw and slope of his shoulders. The speckles of paint that had stained his skin over many years against pale skin. The narrow passage of his hips and the calluses on his fingers. Feeling further outside of his skin he was able to feel the joint that held his wings in the incorporeal plane. The knot of bone and cartilage that passed from intangibility into his shoulder blades would be of particular concern when changing, as it was held in the odd position of both existing and not existing at the same time.

Tracing the shape of what he wished to become into the air in front of him, small fragments of light trailed from his fingertips to sketch out the shape and length of the snake. At first he recreated the one he had seen in the mural, but it became obvious that this snake would be too small for him to condense his essence into without discomfort. He would have to make alterations to the form, whilst still retaining the subtlety of the shape. He still needed to be slim enough to creep. One option was to extend the length of the snake, while thickening the middle to give the body the correct level of strength and muscle required to move himself.

It occurred to him that there was a lot more engineering to create a physical form than he had initially expected, and that he should be even more in awe of Her divine imagination than he already was.

It seemed like many hours passed as Crowley twisted and contorted himself, trying to find the correct ratio to pour himself into the framework.

But finally, somehow, he had done it. He opened his eyes, the golden eyes of a large snake, and began to feel through this new form. Not having arms or legs was certainly an uncomfortable sensation, as he had to lift and move his head with his torso and neck, but his form moved smoothly. He looked at himself, pleased with the recreation of soft glittering scales that moved and writhed as he did. He had thought to adopt the blue of his robes, but instead he had darkened the tone until he had found a pleasing shade of smoky black that would wind into shades seamlessly. Despite himself he had been unable to resist painting the underside of this form with the fiery red of his hair. Maybe it was pride, a form of vanity in something he knew set him apart from his peers. Maybe, should he be discovered, he wanted to worth looking at.

If he couldn’t be himself, he would be the most beautiful snake.

Crowley manipulated his muscular body across the room, experimenting with his new form. It was surprisingly pleasurable to slide through the sheets in such a way, surfaces feeling almost luxuriously soft against his scales. He twisted himself up into a coil, resting his head on his tail. He lifted himself up leading with his head, flicking his new forked tongue out in concentration. He found he could extend a very long way just by using the muscles along this body.

A very clever design. He had picked well.

He hissed to himself in pleasure. He would be the very best snake. He would creep into the library and he would be able to watch his charge in peace, observing from the shadows and following along sneakily as the Keeper went about his duties. Oh yes, he would be a very good sneak.

“I am sssnake,” he announced to the room.

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desperationandgin · 5 years

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Market Price (Modern AU Outlander Fic; Jamie x Claire - COMPLETE)

Chapter Six: In the Morning

Rated: M (not explicit)

Also Read on: AO3

Previous Chapter

She could watch him sleep forever. She’s always been an early riser with her work schedule and she assumes he is too, being a farmer. So, Claire indulges while she can, laying on her side facing him as the sun begins to peek through her window shades. It’s just enough light to see his face, to see the way his lips turn up into a small smile and there’s such a swell of affection at that, wondering what he’s dreaming of. Reaching out, her fingers touch his curls lightly, pushing them away from his forehead before twisting one lightly around her finger.

“It’s no wonder ye had a condition to no’ hog the sheets. You have them wrapped around ye like a burrito.”

Claire looks down at herself and it’s true so she opens them, inviting him closer, sighing when he wraps his arms around her. “Well, you did say you run hot,” she counters, smiling with her head tucked against his chest. She tries to think back to the last leisurely morning she had in someone’s arms and nothing quite comes to mind. Mornings past consisted of somewhat formal greetings and questions about how she slept before promptly getting up, each of them readying themselves for separate days that never intersected again until she brought herself home from the hospital. Now, she’s honest to God snuggling. “I go back to work soon. Lunch picnics and early evening dates might go out of the window.”

Jamie’s fingers glide through her hair, lightly massaging her scalp as they do. “We could settle for midnight dates of making sure ye eat and sleep, then.” His voice is still low and gravelly with drowsiness and he nuzzles in against her temple.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she admits, fingers gliding along his chest slowly before tilting her head up enough to see his face. “Would you, after a while?” Frank had grown to resent it, never made plans with her, to try and accommodate her. So many dinners with ‘colleagues’ she always wondered, in the back of her mind, if he was trying to replace her once he realized being married wouldn’t slow her down.

Silence falls over them both for a few moments but his fingers in her hair never falter. “I think, Sassenach, that you’re a rare woman. Full of piss and vinegar and wi’ a heart that has more to give, only no one’s ever given ye a chance.” His hand moves between them, over her chest to press against that steady thumping. “A heart is a delicate thing, ye ken. Especially one such as yours.”

Her breath, caught in her throat, makes her words sound quieter, more unsure than she means to when she speaks. “And how is my heart?”

“A wee bit bruised. It was no’ taken care of properly before. What are missed meals and long work hours compared to the way ye throw yer head back and laugh when I’ve said something that really gets ye going? Christ, to hear that laugh and see that smile, the way yer eyes go bonny and bright, would be worth a thousand rescheduled date nights.”

Claire’s head tucks under his chin, her voice muffled now when she speaks. “Do you always say such perfect things?”

“No. I suppose the inspiration from last night has carried over. It’s only…” Jamie pauses, then sits up, gently placing her on the pillow so he can look at her, see her face and watch her eyes. “It’s only that I’ve no’ ever felt this exact way before. As though ye make everything seem brighter. Ye dinna even have to be physically close. Just the way I ken I’ll see ye again is enough. Although, physically close is no’ a bad way to be.”

Reaching out, her fingers lightly move along his jaw, eyes moving over his face, taking in every feature before she finally speaks again. “Did you know you have the most incredible bone structure I’ve ever seen in my life?”

His eyes had closed before, to concentrate on the feel of her touch but now they open to look at her curiously. “Are ye always this complimentary when a man confesses to ye such deep feelings?”

“No one’s ever confessed something like that to me before. Did I not handle it right?” she asks even as her body shifts and she relocates over him, hips settling against his.

“It was a solid effort, and no one’s ever complimented my bone structure before.” Jamie’s hands move down the smooth expanse of her back until his hands can rest at her hips where his thumbs trace slow circles against her skin. “It was all true, by the way. I’m no’ sure I could ever let you go now.”

Going still, Claire studies a spot on his chest, tries to put into words what he does to her. “This frightens me, I think. I don’t mean I’m afraid of you, I mean I’ve always thought feeling this way this quickly wasn’t possible. That it was something better left for romance novels. Christ, even saying that out loud feels cliche.”

Reaching for her hand, Jamie presses her palm to his and watches the way they seem to fit together before bending his fingers to lace through hers. “I dinna ken what it is between us, whatever it is pushing us together, but it’s there.”

Looking at their hands, she can’t help the knot of feeling unsure in her stomach, of fear and right on its heels, excitement. “It feels right, Jamie.” Slowly, her hips rock; not urgently, just a slow back and forth. “But I can’t help but worry that after the weekend is over and I go back to work, you’ll be frustrated.”

His free hand, the one that’s been planted at her hip all this time, moves up her side slowly. His thumb grazes the side of her breast, sneaks around to stroke a nipple and he watches it harden before shifting his gaze to meet hers. “What will ye do, the first time I cancel on ye while ye’re off because I need to put together a last-minute restaurant order?”

Claire contemplates that, letting out a soft breath. “I would swing by and drop off a meal. Try not to interfere too much if there’s nothing I could do to help.”

“And what about a weekend where I’m so tired, I dinna want to bother wi’ going out once the farmer’s market has closed? When I only want to go home and shower and laze about all day?”

She catches on and smiles softly, tugging his hand to her lips and kissing the back of it. “That depends. Do you care for company?”

“Oh, aye. I’ll always care for yer company.” His hand cups her breast now, hips moving with more intent, watching as her eyes flutter closed then open again, their color darker with building arousal. “Do ye have an answer then? Something to quiet the worry?”

Claire leans over him a moment, close enough so that he can draw a nipple between his lips, understanding without her having to say a word. Lips parting and eyes closed, her response is breathless but unmistakable in its truth. “I trust you, Jamie.” Reaching to the nightstand, her fingers close around a condom and she opens it, scooting back to slide it over him, hard and wanting. Both hands plant on his chest, continuing to rock, to tease as she watches him.

“I trust ye too, Sassenach. I have since ye burned that lamb.” He raises his head to lavish attention to her opposite breast, groaning against her as his hands move to her hips once more, trying to keep her balanced. “Weel, I dinna trust ye wi’ cooking.”

Her laugh is stilted because it comes with a soft moan. “Why--why did that make you trust me?”

Sneaking a hand between them, his thumb seeks and finds her clit, rubbing slow circles there as he watches a flush spread on her skin. “Because ye trusted if ye messed it up I would no’ call the whole thing off.”

When she tries to speak, her words don’t quite make it as she whimpers and closes her eyes. Fighting for an actual thought process, she keeps rocking against his hand. “I was surprised. When you came back,” she admits. They’d known one another less than twelve hours; he’d had no obligation to return and with so much food.

“Couldna let ye starve,” he retorts, moving his fingers faster, delighting in the way she gasps loudly and the way her lips part. It’s an odd thing to notice, perhaps, the way freckles fall over her cheekbones and across her nose, but notice he does as he’s touching her, trying to make her come undone.

“Jamie, I want you inside of me.” She doesn’t even recognize her own voice, breathless and higher pitched.

“No,” he decides on a whim, shaking his head. “I want to watch ye.”

Claire’s eyes open, forehead creasing only as she studies his face to see if he’s serious. When she realizes he is, for a moment she wonders; what does she sound like, look like, feel like? And then, just as quickly, she doesn’t care because he smiles and his fingers move, touch sure and strong. Every stroke feels like he’s leaving a trail of fire in his wake and never in her life has she felt so exposed. But Christ, the way he makes her feel, the way he’s so sure of how he’s moving, watching her face, adjusting to how she responds. She’s positive it’s the fastest she’s ever come undone in her life. He leaves her panting, gasping, and still able to nod at an unasked question as his hand moves and his hips press closer.

The way he fills her makes both of them sigh, her body bowing until her forehead can press to his. The night before was hurried and frenzied, a getting to know one another that resulted in clashing teeth and frantic touching. There is none of that now. Now she realizes, as she pulls back just enough to see his face, that he’s making love to her. He’s trying to touch a part of her that no one else ever has, a part of her that he can keep. Gasping his name has him pushing up more urgently, has her sitting upright and pressing her hands to his stomach as they move in tandem. The need for friction and heat overrides slow and easy and she hears the sounds that tumble out of her, words that are nothing but moans mixed with pleas for more and more until there’s nothing. The first spark of her pleasure begins low in her pelvis and arcs up her spine, exploding out of her in a loud cry that’s half his name, half Christ as her body moves out of her own control. She feels his breathing change, can hear him panting, is aware that one hand stays low on her back while the other moves up to tangle into her hair. Claire hears him and she’s not sure he’s speaking English as he comes, his entire body tense until the only sound is their ragged breaths, the sound of her own heartbeat echoing in her ears.

When his arms tug her down against his chest she doesn’t protest it, too boneless to move away or to the side. They just woke but she can’t move, and so she drifts with eyes closed, listening to the staccato beating of his heart until the rhythm evens and slows a bit. She isn’t aware of how much time has passed when he speaks quietly.

“Sassenach?”

She hums, smiling at his chosen name for her that will, apparently, stick. “Hmm?” No words have yet found their way back to her.

“Do you ken I wil no’ expect ye to be less than the person ye’d like if ye decide to keep me around?”

For a few moments she’s quiet, but then, keeping her head down against his chest, she finally finds her ability to speak. “A part of me still worries, Jamie. I can’t help it right now. This week has been something I never expected.” A week. And not even a full one. “But for the record, I’ve decided to keep you around.”

At her words, his arms wind tighter around her and he kisses the side of her head, only barely containing a smile. “Oh? What was it that won ye over?”

“The sex isn’t bad.”

“Is no’ bad?”

“Is incredible,” she amends, finally rolling so that she can face him, propping herself up on her elbow.

“Much better,” Jamie decides, mirroring her position after relieving himself of the condom, tying it, tossing it in the bin under the nightstand. “Is that it, then? Ye found someone to properly bed ye and ye’re set?”

Claire smiles, letting out a soft breath and reaching out to push her fingers through his curls. “No, that isn’t it.” Her eyes search his, trying to make sense of the thoughts running through her mind. “I know you won’t try to make me into someone I’m not, Jamie. And I know you respect my job just as I respect yours.”

“I ken I’ll have to earn all of yer trust, Claire. But I promise I’ll no’ go anywhere for as long as it takes. If ye trust that for now, then the rest will come later,” Jamie assures her, reaching out to tuck curls behind her ear. “Beyond that, as I said Sassenach, I canna let ye go now.”

She laughs softly and lets her head fall down against her pillow. “Why is that?” she asks, amused and smitten. Happy.

“Because I’m no’ an eejit.” He seals that declaration with a kiss. “And ye kiss me like yer verra life depends on it. I do like that.”

“Oh, do you?” she asks even as she tugs him closer to press her lips to his until they’re both breathless.

“Exactly like that. I canna go another day in my life wi’ out that.” His hand moves down her back and over her hip, pulling her closer and pressing a kiss to her neck.

They stay content, wrapped in one another and touching, kissing, until she lets out a soft breath, reveals a new observation. “Did you know you smile in your sleep?” she asks with a smile of her own.

“Do I? No one’s ever told me as such before. Do I snore?”

“Mhmm, like a pot-bellied pig.”

Jamie gasps, offended. “I do no’, it was a trick question I already ken the answer to.”

“How do you know what sort of sounds you make in your sleep?” she protests, dodging fingers aiming to tickle.

“I’m no’ able to snore when my teeth are too busy chattering because ye tricked me about the conditions regarding yer blankets.”

When she laughs this time it's loud and uncontrolled, her eyes closing with it. She can feel him laughing with her though he stops just to watch her. To take in the roundness of the apples of her cheeks, the way her chin dimples.

“Ye’re the bonniest lass I’ve ever seen, Claire. Everything, from the curl of yer hair to that verra round arse.”

“Oh, stop,” she laughs, even as she lets her hand glide up and down his back slowly. Her fingers trace along the line of a scar, one of so many as she watches his face.

“Ye dinna mind them?” he asks, meaning the scars.

“No, Jamie. How could I?” With her free hand, she strokes his cheek, then drags her fingers up his jawline. “They’re a part of you that makes up a whole. When I touch them, I know you should have died, but you didn’t.”

“Verra nearly, and the pain, it made me want nothing more than to die. But I did no such thing. And now, here I am wi’ ye. In yer arms.”

Claire smiles softly and slides closer, so close that her forehead presses to his. “Here you are. With me.” Their lips meet and she wraps around him, an effort to be as close as possible. “Do you need to go?” she asks quietly. “Duties to tend to at the farm?”

Jamie’s face presses in against her neck. “Aye, quite a few duties.”

Her nose nuzzles against his, eyes closing. “Do you want me to let you go?”

His head drops, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck.

“No, Sassenach. Dinna let go.”

EPILOGUE

This fic is now complete as was planned and written, however, look for an epilogue tomorrow and a couple of one-offs set in this same ‘universe.’ Thank you to everyone who read and shared and commented. You made my first journey into Outlander fic an incredible one! My ask box is open for prompts or anything else if you ever feel so inclined!

#outlander #outlander fic #jamie x claire #jamie fraser #claire fraser #market price #my fic

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queenofgraveyards · 4 years

Text

Gatorade: Cool Blue

maybe Gatorade will be our always

alternatively titled “lindsee 1″

@moonchildstyles

"Office at the end." Liam pointed before he bid me a goodbye and made a beeline for another door and I briefly remembered that Liam had mentioned Sophia was in PR for the company.

I awkwardly hovered before I deiced to knock on the door that simply held a plate saying Styles and I blinked several times as Harry's loud voice called out for me to come in.

"Hi."

I smiled as Harry looked up from his computer and I watched as a lip splitting grin spread across his face and he pushed away from the desk immediately.

"Hi yourself." Harry smirked as he pulled me into him and I puckered my lips immediately making Harry laugh slightly before he complied and I twisted my hands into his hair as I tried to get as close to him as possible.

"How was work?" Harry asked as he pulled away and I shrugged, as I glanced around the office as Harry returned to his desk, it was somehow Harry and not at the same time.

"Same as yesterday." I smiled as I took a seat on the sofa just along from the door and crossed my ankles as I watched him watch me for a few moments before his eyes flicked back to the screen.

"How was Liam?" Harry asked after a few minutes and I blinked several times as I realised he was talking to me.

"Not you." I shrugged making Harry wink at me and I flushed, "He's nice, I like him."

"Don't like him too much." Harry grunted and I felt my face burn even more. "Come 'ere."

I stupidly glanced around the room before I realised that Harry was in fact talking to me, the only other person in the office and I flushed as I caught him roll his eyes as I slowly made my way towards him.

"Missed you." Harry murmured the moment I reached him and I smiled instinctively.

"I missed you too." I replied as Harry pushed his chair out slightly and pulled me over his lap, my face flaming as I straddled him.

Harry's lip pressed against mine and I strained to get closer to him, his terrible habit of teasing every time we kissed still hadn't gone away, I don't think he understood how much I liked kissing him.

And how much I wanted to do it all the time.

"I like it when you wear skirts to work." Harry mumbled against my lips as his warm hand gave my thigh a squeeze, my thighs trying to clench even though they were split across his lap.

"Why?"

"Easy access."

I blushed as Harry's lips pressed to my throat and I swatted his chest in a very weak protest.

"Stop it, this is your workplace!" I scolded, making Harry laugh but continue to suck on various parts of my neck, my resolve weakening with every soft lipped kiss.

"Yeh', m'the boss so I can do what I want, or who I want."

I pulled back from him slightly, worrying immediately at the suggestion that there'd be someone that wasn't me and Harry looked at me for a long moment.

"Jus' you Sunshine. Only you Sunshine."

Harry's lips slotted against mine and I kissed him back fully his tongue running along my bottom lip and I caved immediately, Harry's tongue sweeping in and around and I almost whined at the mint flavour he always seemed to have.

"I have to do work." Harry mumbled slowly, and I pouted making him smile at me before he pressed a quick peck to my lips and focused his eyes on the screen. "Shouldn't be too long."

I lent against Harry's chest as he tapped away on his keyboard, the sound of his heartbeat and the tapping of the keys very therapeutic.

"M'gunna be longer than I thought, sorry Sunshine." Harry mumbled a little while later and I hummed, barely awake any longer, as long as he let me stay on his lap, Harry could stay at work for however long he wanted.

"Hey Angel," Harry nudged me and I blinked my eyes open, sleep sticking to them as I nodded at the sound of my name, "Wanna try something."

I tried to keep my eyes open as I pulled back to look at him whilst I listened, two of my favourite things; looking at Harry and listening to him talk.

"Try what?" I asked quietly, watching as Harry's eyes flicked between me and his screen before he rubbed his jaw and that got my attention, he was nervous.

"Wanna be inside you."

"You want to have sex?" I asked slowly, Harry didn't usually say it in so many words, he was more of a shower, not that I would complain either way.

"Not exactly, I just," Harry looked at me straight in the end and I shifted, slightly nervous. "Jus' wanna be inside you. Think it'll help me concentrate, but you don't have to if you don't want, obviously."

"You're just going to put it in me and not do...anything?" I tilted my head to the side a little bit as I tried to figure out what he was talking about, flushing as Harry laughed.

"You're fucking adorable Sunshine, but yeh' basically. I jus' really wanna be inside."

"Okay Daddy." I shrugged, I didn't really understand the point but when had I ever said no to Harry?

"You know you're a fuckin' angel, yeah?" Harry sounded almost breathless even though nothing had happened yet and I gave him a shy smile as he fiddled around with his belt and I slid back on his thighs so my back was against his desk.

I watched curiously as Harry pushed his jeans down a little bit, and I licked my lips as his cock appeared, not fully hard and I glanced at Harry unsure.

"Wouldn't you rather I just gave you head?" I offered.

"Jesus Christ Angel you're gunna make me cum just with that little mouth of yours." Harry groaned as he tugged himself a few times and I watched as the thick vein on the underside became more prominent.

The thick vein I knew Harry liked when I tongued.

Harry patted his thigh and I did as I was told and moved back to where I'd been previously, his long fingers under my skirt almost immediately and I gasped as one finger swiped across my core almost casually.

"You're dripping already Angel." Harry hummed and I blushed, "Eager for Daddy?"

I whined as Harry dipped the tip of his finger in, the sudden sensation making me clench and him hiss before Harry pulled out his finger and sucked it into his mouth.

"So sweet, my love. Always so sweet."

Both of Harry's hands disappeared back under my skirt and I felt him finger my underwear and I got ready for it to be pulled to the side only to have Harry's movements stop.

"Are you wearing that lace pair I bought you?"

I flushed as I nodded watching as Harry's eyes darkened and I licked my lips.

"Stand up." Harry ordered and I did as I was told immediately, wobbling slightly as I stood alongside him.

Harry maintained eye contact with me as his hands dipped under my skirt again and I felt him hook his long fingers under the sides and pull my underwear down.

I stepped out of them easily enough, watching through wide eyes as Harry looked at them and groaned before he dropped them on his desk and patted his lap.

"Gunna keep them there to remind me of you and how fucking hot you look all fucked out in my sheets after I fuck you like you belong to me."

I sucked my bottom lip under my teeth at Harry's words, my entire body on fire, the anticipation building as I felt him drag the tip of his prick along my slick hole before he positioned it fairly loosely and instead gripped my hips and pulled me down.

My mouth dropped open as Harry buried himself to the hilt inside and I whined as my forehead dropped against his shoulder.

"Shh, Angel, Daddy's working."

Harry petted my hair as he rolled the chair further in, the back of his desk pressing into my spine causing me to jerk, my walls clenching around him and the one hand Harry kept on my bum gave me a firm smack.

Sitting on Harry filled me so much more than having him on top and even though I loved the control he had when we had sex, there was just something about having him buried inside of me that was making my mind spin.

I could feel him twitch every so often as I lent my head against his chest, the clicking of the mouse every so often almost lulling me back into sleep. There was also something comforting about having him so close.

I could probably fall asleep like this.

After a particularly lewd thought about Harry I couldn't stop myself from clenching around him, the velvet walls pulsing on him, and the hand that had been typing slowed down until it stopped.

"I need to fuck you right here, right now Angel."

The strangled whine that left my mouth sounded foreign as Harry roughly pulled himself out of me and I felt immediately empty after having accommodated to his size and the enjoyable burn he left me only to be pulled up and pushed onto his desk.

"You were meant to be helping me concentrate Angel."

Harry stroked himself, his hand moving my wetness along his shaft until he pulled his hand away and looked at it. Harry turned his palm to face me and I swallowed as he raised an eyebrow at me.

"Sorry Daddy."

The word fell from my mouth easily and often these days and I never knew why I found it so weird in the first place, it suited Harry.

"Clean it."

Harry held his hand out towards my face and I lent up on my elbows and obediently cleaned his hand with my tongue, the idea still a bit icky to me but it wasn't the first time Harry had made me taste myself.

And he wasn't wrong, I didn't taste bad.

"Good girl."

I cried out as Harry thrust suddenly, bottoming out inside me as his now clean hand came up to sit comfortably around my neck, his force pushing me back down on his desk as he used his other to grip my waist.

I tried to keep my eyes open as Harry alternated his pressure around my neck but the way he was rocking into me had my entire body shifting on the desk, something was pressing into my back sending small points of pain through my body but it was enjoyable.

"Not a chance." Harry hissed as I tried to lock my legs around his waist, his hands leaving my body to grip my ankles and he pushed my legs up onto the desk so I was spread completely open.

"That's my girl."

Harry grunted as he pushed further in, his hip bones knocking into mine painfully and I knew there'd be bruises, there always were when Harry was finished and I couldn't think of anything better.

The sound of Harry grunting and the sight of him either with his piercing eyes glued to me or with them closed and his head thrown back made borderline feral, there was nothing better than knowing I was making him feel like this.

A sharp moan left my lips as Harry began rubbing tight and hard circles over my clit and my legs twitched automatically, making Harry grin down at me devilishly. His hands grabbed my ankles again to lock them around his waist and I did so.

Harry grabbed pulled me further down the desk towards him, our hips rocking hard and fast against each other as he pulled me upright into his chest, his hand dropping back down between us and my head fell against his shoulder.

"Tha's my good girl, my Angel. Cum for me, Angel."

I whimpered as Harry applied pressure at the same time as a particularly hard thrust and I swear I felt him push up into my stomach.

"Cum all over my cock Angel."

The strangest mixture of a moan and whimper left my lips as my body spasmed on Harry, his hands holding me tight against him as his cock practically impaled me with hard he was thrusting as I came, my vision spotting as all sound became muffled and all I could see was Harry.

"Good girl." Harry grunted as he got to work on almost stabbing himself up inside me as if he was never far enough in, the movements making me whine as my body became overstimulated as Harry focused on himself.

"Wanna cum in your mouth."

My eyes fluttered in a blink before I nodded slowly and Harry pulled back roughly pulling me off the desk and onto my knees, and I sat there staring up at him as if he put the sun in the sky and he did.

I opened my mouth obediently waiting as Harry tugged him off roughly until he gripped the back of my head and pushed me forward.

The first spray of cum hit my lips before Harry quickly emptied himself completely onto my tongue and I sat there for a few moments as Harry stared down at me, with his chest heaving before he nodded.

"Good girl, swallow."

I did as I was told, swallowing the hot mouthful before I licked my lips too, gathering up everything Harry had given me and swallowed before opening my mouth again and showing him my now empty and clean tongue.

"That's my girl." Harry smiled lazily before he held his hand out for me and pulled me up.

"Home now?" I asked quietly as Harry did his trousers back up and nodded.

"Home now Sunshine."

#fic shit #moonchildstyles #also our love child:gatorade

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bonesmctightass · 5 years

Text

Stranded

It was getting colder as the sun dipped ever closer towards the horizon. This didn’t make a damn lick of sense in McCoy’s book, seeing as how it was supposed to be the dead of summer on this planet. It was sorta nice, he guessed. Kinda reminded him of winter vacations at the skii lodge his grandparents owned back in the day. There was a bunch of log cabins strewn about and they looked mighty inviting. But this wasn’t shore leave, and they had a schedule to keep. McCoy hiked his medbag higher onto his shoulder and regarded Spock with a jut of his chin.

“Y’alright? Holding up okay?” He asked, doing what he thought was an excellent job of keeping the worry out of his voice. They were following a representative of the planet to an impressive looking main structure that resembled a medieval castle of sorts. As such, he didn’t want to tip off their hosts that the alien to his left was probably rattling his bones by now, so he kept his voice hushed.

“I am adequate, Doctor. Please do not worry about my current state. We have important business to attend to which is much more pressing than my meager abilities to withstand the cold.” Spock replied stiffly.

“Don’t worry. Don’t worry my ass.” McCoy replied flippantly.

The important business he was referring to was actually the planet’s leader. They had been told he had contracted something on his last visit to the sister planet in the star system. McCoy had later found out, thanks to a rushed blood sample, that it was a mutated variation of the Auroral Plague. He’d had some… unfortunate interactions with the disease in the past. McCoy would not be making that mistake again. He gripped his tricorder and trudged through the snow to the warm haven awaiting them.

“Are you quite certain Mister Spock will be unharmed?” Their escort was wringing her hands nervously, having stopped outside the corridor leading to the main chamber. “If you must turn back to your ship we would understand.”

“There is no need,” Spock said calmly. “I am a Vulcan, and thus immune to the bacteria. For this reason I was the most qualified candidate to accompany Doctor McCoy.”

“I’ve also been vaccinated, as we previously discussed. No harm will come to us, ma’am. We’ll get the job done soon as we can. Please get yourself a safe distance and make sure that no one has access to the area for the duration.”

The woman nodded and quickly retreated, leaving the pair to their duties.

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

“There. That ought to do it. He’ll be right as rain after a few days rest.” McCoy announced triumphantly. This encounter with the Auroral Plague was much more pleasant, all things considered. “Thanks for the help, Spock. You make an excellent scrub nurse.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Doctor. Although I should like to remain in my current position. Now if you are amenable, I would like to return to the ship as soon as possible. I believe I can endure approximately thirty seven more minutes before I begin to lose feeling in my hands.”

It didn’t take a genius to see that Spock was looking considerably more green than usual. The blood capillaries in his face had risen so close to the surface of his skin, McCoy could actually see the fine webbing of his veins. He frowned, not liking the look of that at all. “Let’s get you home to a warm bed, then, shall we?”

They gathered their medical gear and found their way to the entrance. As they were about to enter the grounds to the estate, the same woman from before made an appearance.

“A storm is coming.”

At this, McCoy bristled. He absolutely detested being unprepared. What he detested even more was the thought of harm coming to Spock due to the increasingly plummeting temperature. “What storm? There was no talk of a storm before we beamed down. Are you saying we can’t leave?”

The girl couldn’t have been older than twenty five. Earning McCoy’s ire had the poor thing looking like she’d be reduced to tears any second and he instantly felt bad. “I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be safe for you to beam up now. I really am sorry. Please, I’ve made up a room for you to rest. You will be warm enough for the night and there is nourishment for you both. As soon as dawn comes, you will be able to leave.”

Rubbing his hands over his face, McCoy heaved a heavy sigh. “Alright. Guess we’ve got no choice. Come on, Spock. Let’s follow the lady and we’ll try to get Jim on the comm.”

It looked like Spock was having trouble getting his body to cooperate, which made McCoy even more nervous. “That would be agreeable.”

They set off down the hall and the many twisting corridors that followed.

“Please let me know if there is anything you need. We cannot thank you enough for your healing. Please, anything at all. I’ll be just down the hall.” The girl said as they stopped in front of their quarters for the night. She left as quick as she’d come, leaving the two mean to inspect their shelter.

“I’d better call Jim before things get too bad out there.” Apparently he’d spoken too soon. He tried to send a message to the bridge but the communicator couldn’t get a signal through the heavy snowfall. “Damn it. I guess we’ll just tough it out, then.” He signed and pushed the heavy door open.

The room actually wasn’t terrible. There was a good number of blankets. A nice fireplace, already roaring. Plush carpet spread along the wooden floors. Sort of reminiscent of a bad porno he once saw when he was a teenager. McCoy grimaced and shook his head, focusing his attention instead on the large four poster bed against the adjacent wall. He swallowed thickly, wearily eyeing their accommodations for the night.

“Well. Guess this planet has no qualms about bedsharing.” McCoy huffed. Spock remained ramrod straight on his spot just in front of the door, still in parade rest. He was getting increasingly worried about his friend’s health. “Hey, come on. Get into the bed before you freeze to death.”

“I’m afraid I am unable to move. It appears that the blood flow to my extremities has slowed considerably. My body is beginning to shut down.”

“Jesus, Spock.” Determined not to panic in the face of this new obstacle, McCoy set his jaw and thrust himself into the task of getting Spock into the bed. An incredibly challenging feat, seeing as how his bones were several times denser than his own. “God, you weigh a ton! No wonder you’re so goddamn strong. You lug this dead weight around all day, I don’t know how you can stand it!”

After several embarrassingly long minutes, McCoy was finally successful in getting Spock onto the mattress. He tucked the Vulcan in and piled as many blankets on top of his body as he possibly could.

“How’s that? Any better?”

“I will update you in a moment as I am still quite numb. My apologies for the inconvenience, Doctor.”

“Oh, shut up.” He got up and stoked the fire, making sure the temperature in the room climbed a few degrees higher. “I’m your friend. I’m not about to let you turn into an icicle. At least we’ve got a fire going. That should get your blood flowing again.”

“The feeling is slowly returning to my fingers. I will survive the ordeal, thanks to your aid. If you do not mind sharing the space with me, I suggest you prepare yourself for sleeping. Surely the Captain will be eager for our safe return.”

If you do not mind. As if. McCoy knelt to the floor to remove his boots. He wouldn’t mind. In fact, he would have preferred to coax Spock into his bed the old fashioned way. It took him far longer than it should have to untie the laces. He was delaying the inevitable. He knew he was going to get into that bed. He knew he was going to be mere inches away from Spock’s body. And he knew that he was not going to be able to resist touching it.

Their courtship was a long one. They had flirted here and there. Had a drink once. Met for dinner and spoke of times past. There was something there between them and they both knew it. An easiness. It was so easy for them to come together and speak casually about any number of things. So easy to debate and argue. And so fun. But it was also fragile. So very fragile. Any sudden movement and McCoy feared everything would fall apart. Even speaking about it had been off the table thus far. But there was something.

“Are you going to join me?” Spock asked quietly, startling McCoy out of his reverie.

“Yeah.”

The bed dipped with the added weight. McCoy slid under the blankets and settled stiffly onto his back. He had never been in a bed with Spock before. He had sat across from him in the mess. Even shared a space on the couch in his quarters, once. But most of their camaraderie was spent in the medbay in McCoy’s office. This was new uncharted territory.

“Is this fine?” He asked hesitantly. He could hear Spock inhale shallowly and felt something move against the sheets.

“Leonard,” Spock said seriously. “I am quite frigid. Perhaps you could come closer. If you would permit it, I would greatly benefit from your body heat.”

After waiting the two or three minutes it took to actually process what the hell Spock had just said out loud, McCoy scooted a bit closer. He sidled up against Spock’s side, a hair's breadth away from touching the length of his body with his own. He could feel the heat rolling off Spock in waves, his body desperately trying to return to its normal temperature. McCoy bit the inside of his cheek hard. Just a little closer. Just a bit. For Spock’s benefit.

Another few centimeters and they were touching. McCoy was trying to hold still, trying not to ruin it. Trying not to breathe.

“Is this still fine?”

This time Spock exhaled and he definitely felt the movement of those devastatingly elegant fingers.

“Yes.”

@strangledbythestars

#should there be a part 2????#spones #stranded #prompt #bedsharing #my fic

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nom-the-skel · 5 years

Text

[vore] First Hunt

Digitigrade anthro fox Papyrus and kemonomimi skeleton Bluebunny

Safe vore, 1.5k words [on AO3]

Naturally, the bunny didn’t even hear Papyrus approaching. It wasn’t a regular bunny monster but some kind of skeleton hybrid. He hoped it might not be as cute as other bunnies, but when he caught a glimpse of its face his ears tilted back in dismay. It was adorable, and the little bandanna tied around its neck didn’t help at all. He steeled himself, holding perfectly still so the bunny wouldn’t notice him. He had to do this, or Sans would never stop worrying about him. The bunny had its back to him again, and he was easily in pouncing range. There was no reason to delay any longer. He leaped and landed with his front paws pinning the bunny to the ground on its front. It was almost anticlimactic. The bunny scrabbled at the grass, trying to pull itself out from Papyrus’s grasp. He resisted the urge to lean back and take his weight off it. It was so small and delicate, but surprisingly strong. Giving up for the moment, the bunny looked up at him over its shoulder. He looked back at it awkwardly. “Uh, hello!” It was only polite to greet it. He belatedly added the friendliest smile he could manage, but perhaps it showed off his teeth a little too much, as it made the bunny flinch sharply. He wasn’t sure what to do next, so he just looked at the bunny until it calmed down enough to answer him. “Er. Hello,” it said, then paused. Papyrus still hadn’t figured out how to proceed when it continued. “Do you think you could—that is, you don’t have to hold me down so tight, do you?” “I’m afraid if I reduce the pressure you’ll escape,” Papyrus explained, folding his ears in apology. “All right, I won’t escape. Just stop leaning on me so I can change position.” “All right,” Papyrus agreed. He wouldn’t be terribly upset anyway, if the bunny broke its word and ran off. The bunny twisted around, and then it was lying on its back looking up at him with his paws gently resting on its chest. “Thanks,” it said, breaking the awkward silence. “You’re welcome,” Papyrus answered automatically, and the awkward silence resumed. “So—what are you gonna do with me?” the bunny asked eventually, its ears tilted nervously. “I’m—I’m afraid I’m going to have to eat you.” He felt the bunny flinch at his words. It was still smiling up at him, but he suspected that was just how its skull was shaped. “Oh. Well. I suppose that’s understandable,” it said. “You are a fox, after all.” Papyrus leaned back on his haunches, lifting his paws off the bunny. “I can’t do this.” “Huh? Why not?” The bunny sat up but made no move to escape. Papyrus looked away, pretending he needed to adjust his scarf. When he looked back the bunny was still there. “Go on, bunny. Run away!” he urged. “But I told you I wouldn’t!” “But if you don’t run, I’m going to have to eat you!” The bunny shrugged. “You did catch me! It’s only fair, I guess.” Papyrus whined at it. “You—don’t want to?” the bunny asked, and for a moment Papyrus thought it finally understood. “Am I—unappetizing?” it asked, looking down at itself. “No, of course not! You smell very tasty,” Papyrus rushed to assure it, since it seemed a little insulted. And he had been salivating at its scent ever since he began stalking it. “Then why wouldn’t you eat me?” the bunny asked, brightly. “You—don’t mind?” The bunny laughed. “Well, that hardly matters to most foxes! You’re a very nice fox, aren’t you?” Papyrus couldn’t help but preen a little at the compliment. “And you’re a very honest bunny. I would understand if you took this opportunity to escape, you know.” The bunny grinned. “Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t break a promise!” Papyrus stepped closer to it, then scooped it up in both forepaws. He’d set out to catch and eat a bunny, so he ought to be glad he was going to achieve his goal, and the bunny didn’t even seem upset about it; although it did look a little nervous now that he’d lifted it off the ground. “All right, then. It was a pleasure to meet you, bunny. Goodbye.” “It was nice meeting you too! Even if it means getting eaten.” The bunny sounded a little giddy and he could feel it shivering. He tried to be gentle as he inserted it between his jaws. It tasted like bones and rabbit, and cloth, as it was wearing rather a lot of clothing. Papyrus had fur and found clothing to be redundant, except for his fashionable and heroic scarf, but the bunny had hidden most of its bones with a shirt, pants, gloves, and boots, in additional to its stylish bandanna. Fortunately the material had absorbed some of its rabbitiness, so it wasn’t as unpleasant as he might have expected. He pushed the bunny deeper and swallowed it skull-first. It didn’t resist, but it was still rather large. He could feel its progress into his stomach, and the way it squirmed around even after it arrived. He sat where he was and waited for it to stop, trying not to imagine what was happening to the accommodating little bunny now. *** “Sans! I did it!” Papyrus announced when he arrived back at their house. “Did what, bro?” “I caught a rabbit!” “Oh, really? That’s awesome. Me too, actually.” Sans pulled something out of the pocket of his hoodie and held it up by the ears. It was another skeleton rabbit, a little bigger than Papyrus’s, dressed in orange. “Oh! Another skeleton! Just like my bunny.” “Yeah? Where is it?” “I—ate him already.” “Oh? Wow.” Sans didn’t show any sign of doubt. “I guess you won’t be hungry for this one then.” “Wait,” said the orange bunny. “A skeleton rabbit? Like me? Did he have a blue bandanna?” Papyrus nodded, dreading the bunny’s reaction. “That sounds like—my brother. Did he say his name was Blueberry?” “I didn’t ask,” Papyrus admitted. But there weren’t that many skeleton bunnies running around in blue bandannas. “Your brother, huh?” Sans was infuriatingly casual. “Maybe you’d rather join him, if you’re gonna get eaten either way?” The bunny just dangled there, staring at Papyrus. “Sans, I can’t—” “Sure you can. First time’s the hardest, right?” Sans pushed the bunny at Papyrus, who accepted it rather than letting it fall. “And he wants to be together with his bro, don’t you, bunny? I would. Assuming I couldn’t dust the guy who ate him, anyway.” Sans grinned like it was some kind of joke, and Papyrus was just about to scold him when the bunny nodded. Papyrus looked helplessly from it to Sans and back, then sighed in defeated. “All right, fine.” Two bunnies was not much different than one bunny, right? And this was what both Sans and the bunny in question wanted him to do. He stuffed the bunny into his mouth somewhat less gently than the first one. It stayed limp; it had a similar flavor to the other one, but he could taste its despair too. Sans watched with pride as he swallowed the bunny. “See? I knew you could do it.” Papyrus grimaced, placing a paw over his stomach. The orange bunny didn’t squirm like the blue one had. The first bunny had been still for a while now. He couldn’t think too much about what that meant; he didn’t want to cry in front of Sans. “Paps? What’s wrong?” Of course Sans saw right through him anyway. “You know I never wanted to hurt any bunnies.” “What? Did they get hurt?” Papyrus glared at him. “The first one, Blueberry. He isn’t moving at all now. He’s probably—” “Asleep, yeah. How long has ‘e been in there?” “Asleep?” “Well, unconscious, if you wanna put it that way. But he’ll be fine if you give him some vegetables from the fridge. You wanna let them out already? You won’t get much magic out of the second one.” “What?” How could the bunnies be fine, when they’d been eaten? “Paps, don’t tell me you thought I killed all those bunnies?” Papyrus pressed his ears back in shame. “You didn’t?” “Of course not. How did you not—What are they teaching monsters in school these days?” Papyrus felt his face grow hot. “No, no, it’s my fault, I shoulda taken responsibility for—I thought you knew!” Sans’s ears were pressed back as well. “Didn’t you think the bunnies seemed surprisingly okay with it?” “Now that you mention it, yes!” Papyrus perked up. The first bunny—Blueberry—was never in any real danger after all! “I’ll make them an apology salad immediately!” He hurried to the kitchen and started to bustle around purposefully, getting all the vegetables out of the refrigerator. Then he paused as he realized there was still at least one problem. “Er, Sans? How do I get them back out?”

#nomtheskel writing #kemonomimi skeletons #soft vore #safe vore

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ladywinchester1967 · 5 years

Text

Hubby Knows Best

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!Female Character

Warnings: This is for my Dirty 30; this is porn with ALMOST no plot. Shower sex, light spanking, breath play, unprotected sex, fingering, grinding.

A/N: This was inspired by my husband. There’s a 0% chance he’ll ever read this, but this is dedicated to him. ❤ As always, unbeta’d, all mistakes are mine, pics are not.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It had been a long and exhausting day at work; coming home and leaving it all behind and drinking until she was sleepy, was at the top of her list.

When she arrived in the bunker's garage, she saw the Impala parked in its usual spot and her heart jumped into her throat.

THEY were home, HE was home.

She grabbed her purse and work bag, then walked into the bunker where she met Sam in the hallway, who smiled at her. Tall and broad shouldered, with long brown hair and hazel eyes, Sam was sweet with an easy going disposition and VERY easy on the eyes.

“Hey, there you are.” he said, good natured as always “long day?”

“Yeah,” she said as she sighed heavily “dumb ass people, their dumb ass problems and they stupid shit that they say.”

Sam chuckled and gave her a hug.

“I just woke him up and he's already asking for you.” Sam told her.

“Is he okay?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

“He's fine,” Sam reassured her “just tired, that's all.”

She nodded and let Sam go as she made her way to the bedroom she shared with Dean, her husband of six months.

Dean was slightly propped up on the couch, looking at his phone when she entered the room. He looked up as they smiled at one another.

“Hey there sweetheart,” he said in a sleepy tone “you’re home.”

“So are you.” She said as she crawled on top of him and laid down. He put his phone down, his arms automatically wrapping around her as she placed her hands on his shoulders and laid her head against his chest. His hands slid up and down her back and then to the hem of her skirt. He hiked it up a little bit and let his fingertips graze over her thighs as she laughed.

“What’re you doing?” She asked

“You like it when I touch your thighs.” he said as he continued to do it.

“YOU like touching my thighs.” She reminded him as she looked up at him and kissed him. When the kiss ended he said

“I’m about to jump in the shower, care to join me?”

“I took a shower yesterday.” She told him.

“I’m not saying you have to get IN with me, but you can stay in the bathroom and tell me about your day.” He told her.

“Yeah, I know.” She said.

They laid there a little longer before he asked to get up, which she obliged. They walked into their bedroom and she began taking her dress off.

“Uh oh,” he said “I see booty!”

She laughed as she tossed her dress to the side and he came up behind her, his hands on her hips. “S’ not nice to tease me.” He said lowly and playfully.

“I’m not teasing,” she said as he scooped her hair off her shoulder and started kissing her neck “I’m just getting-ahhhh!” She cried as he lightly bit the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “Deeeaaaannnn!” she moaned as she tried to push him off by bending over to grab her pajamas.

“And you bent over?” He asked “That’s not gonna make me stop.”

She sighed as he started grinding his denim covered cock into her butt. She couldn’t deny him now, she realized as he kissed her upper back. She started grinding back on him and he hummed in delight as he pushed her bra straps down. He stopped moving his hips and started rubbing her shoulders, making her groan in appreciation, her hips stopping their motion as well.

“Mh, that feels nice.” She told him

“You has a long day,” he said “let me help you relax.”

She nodded and stood up, giving into his touch. He started kissing her neck again, his hands working their way down her back until he unhooked her bra, the article falling away from her body.

“Come get in the shower with me sweetheart,” he said “I’ll make it worth your while.”

He always had, she reasoned as one of his hands trailed down her body, his finger tips skimming over her panties and then finding her clit. He placed just a little pressure on it with two fingertips, working it in a slow circle as she let out a mix of a gasp and a whine. She started grinding into him again as he planted open mouth kisses on her shoulder.

He suddenly stopped everything to take off his shirt as she kept grinding on him. He pushed her by the hips into the bathroom that adjoined their bedroom as he started up the shower. It usually took a little while to warm up, which meant he could take off his remaining layers while she twisted her hair up into a high bun. When he was done getting undressed, he stood in front of her, easily towering over her. He cupped her breasts in his hands, his thumbs flicking over her nipples, making them pebble up.

“Mh, quit that!” She moaned

He lowered his head and sucked one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling over the hardened bud. She gasped as he asked

“Stop what?”

“Nothing.” She said as he switched nipples, repeating the motion. He helped her slide out of her panties as she kissed his neck and shoulders, his tanned and freckled flesh smelled like a mixture of gunpowder, leather and his natural scent, which was always pleasant to her. She bit down on his pulse point and worked her way to the other side of his neck, making him moan now. He swung her around so that his back was against the sink and she was in front of him. She kissed across his collar bone, the hollow of his throat and up the other side of his neck. He gripped her hips in his hands, her every curve pressed against his body. He slid his hands around and grabbed the globes of her ass before giving it a firm smack.

“AH!” She cried in pleasure and surprise.

“Come get in the shower with me sweetheart.” He said.

She nodded and got in as he followed behind her, the steam from the shower instantly relaxing her as he closed the shower door behind them. She let the piping hot water hit her back as Dean started to rub her shoulders again.

“See?” He asked “I told you I’d make it worth your while.”

“Mhhh,” she moaned as she closed her eyes “yeah, you have.” She said.

He gently kissed her lips and then asked

“When are you gonna let me take care of you huh?”

“I can,” she said and kissed him again “take care of myself.”

“I’m aware,” he said “and you’re too stubborn to let someone else do it when they’re offering. Especially me.”

“Because,” she sighed as she opened her eyes and they switched positions with him going under the shower head “you have real problems to deal with. The worst I get is someone yelling at me because they think their bill is too much.”

She worked for a lighting company and was part of the billing department.

“Which you know I don’t like.” He said. She’d told him many stories about how nasty some people could get and it infuriated him to no end. She’d come home many a night in tears, unable to hold the frustration and anger any longer. “I sure as hell don’t talk to you like that and neither should anyone else.”

She smiled.

“Look, I know okay?” She asked “But you kill monsters for a living, the last thing you should have to hear about is shitty customers when you nearly died because of a vampire.”

“Well,” He said and wrapped his arms around her like a vine “I don’t care if you like it or not,” he kissed the tip of her nose and slipped a hand around to her front “I’m gonna take care of you.” He slid a finger up and down her folds as she gasped in delight.

He smiled against her skin and continued to work, his finger getting wet with her slick as he applied just a LITTLE bit of pressure to her clit and then added another finger. She moaned, her hips moving back and forth involuntarily. She let a whimper escape her lips as she gripped his shoulders hard so that she wouldn’t fall over. He worked her higher and higher as she panted, she clamped down around nothing as she came, letting a strangled cry come from her mouth. She gushed on to his fingers and he kissed her as she let out another cry.

“Oh my god,” she moaned as they kissed “I need you.”

“You do?” He purred against her mouth.

“Please Dean?” She begged as she licked inside his mouth.

Without a word, he lined his hardened length up with her soaking folds and teased his cock through them.

“Quit teasing.” She chided him

“Just getting you ready sweetheart.” He said as the friction radiated from between her legs and up through the rest of her body. She turned around and bent over as he pushed inside her. The delicious burn of accommodating him spread through her like wildfire, she moaned as he started to thrust. He gripped her hips and pulled her shoulder up.

“Get against that wall.” He commanded.

She pressed her cheek and chest up against the shower wall as he pulled on her hair. “Mhhh, just like that.” He growled in her ear, his pace increasing. She felt like every nerve was alight with pleasure as the sounds of their grunts and moans, along with the shower’s water cascading over both of them and his skin slapping against hers filled the bathroom, it was enough to drive both of them totally insane. He slid his hands up her slick back and wrapped both hands around her throat and began to squeeze. She gasped for air as she clamped down on him, the edges of her vision blurring as she struggled to breathe. She was just about to tap his hand when he let out a primal growl and released her. Her senses flood back as he moaned

“Fuck I’m gonna come!”

“Yes,” she breathed “Yes, Come please!” She begged as liquid heat surged through her system. They let go at nearly the same time, his seed painting her walls white as she milked him for everything he had. They were both breathing hard as he pulled his now soft length out of her and started to rub her shoulders again.

“Feeling better sweetheart?” He asked and she nodded, feeling the vibrations from her climax finally subsiding. She stood up right and then turned to face him again as he tilted her face up to his. She was blissed out, but smiling up at him. “Who was right?”

“You.” She said in a dreamy tone

“Who knows you best?” He asked and kissed the top of her head.

“You do.” She told him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

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hurt-care · 5 years

Text

Back Home

It’s a Lupin-fic drop around here today. Here’s another old favourite

Set during Prisoner of Azkaban

It was three days after his transformation and still Remus Lupin felt terrible. While he was now able to avoid some of the less pleasant parts of the full moon with the Wolfsbane Potion brewed by Snape, his body still had to undergo the transformation that rearranged his bones and organs and left him exhausted and weak. The last thing he wanted was to miss more than his allotted two days of classes recovering, so on the third day he dragged himself out of bed despite a blossoming head cold and forced himself to shower and dress.

He was used to the concerned looks of students and fellow faculty alike after the full moon, but the looks on the faces of his first class told him that he looked worse than usual.

“Are you alright, Professor?” George Weasley asked when Remus had managed to clear his throat and speak loudly enough to settle down his class of fifth years.

“A touch of cold, that's all,” Remus replied and set the class working on counter-curse spells while he wandered up and down between their desks, adjusting wand positions and correcting pronunciations while struggling not to cough on anyone.

By the time his third class of the day filed into his room, he wasn't certain he could be on his feet much longer.

“Professor Lupin?”

“I'm fine, Hermione,” he said, looking up wearily from his spot hunched over his desk. “Just a cold.”

“Err, alright...I'm sorry...I just was going to ask how long you wanted the essay to be?” she said, rocking on her heels as she looked at him with an expression of growing concern.

“Oh...um....sixteen inches I believe I set it at.”

“Is it okay if I have twenty?” she asked, holding out a long piece of parchment as several students holding markedly shorter papers behind her groaned.

“That's fine,” Remus replied, taking the parchment and adding it to the pile of assignments on his desk. He cleared his throat and spoke as loud as he could, hoping the rest of the class could hear. “If the rest of you can turn in your assignments, we'll get started.”

The rest of the class deposited their papers on his desk while Remus tended to his dripping nose with a rather well-loved plaid handkerchief.

“Err...Professor?”

He looked up from behind the shield of soft cloth to see Neville Longbottom gazing shyly at him as he held out a fresh white handkerchief.

“Um...do you want an extra? My gran always packs too many in my trunk. I'm not very good at cleaning spells so she thinks I need about a dozen more than I really do. I mean, the house elves clean them if I need so...um....anyway...”

Remus lowered his own handkerchief and smiled wanly.

“Thank you, Neville,” he said, accepting the starched white square of fabric. “That's very kind of you.”

He tucked the handkerchief into his robe pocket for inevitable future use.

“Alright, everyone,” he said, standing and holding himself steady with a tight grip on the back of his desk chair. “Apologies...my voice is a bit off today so please keep it down so everyone can hear. We're going to start out with recognizing cursed objects. If you could please turn to page....hehh...”

He paused mid-sentence, lowering his red-tinged nose into the sleeve of his robe.

Hurhh-TSGHH!

The sneeze tore out of him with a thick, throaty sound and he coughed twice afterwards to regain his voice. A quiet chorus of blessings came from the students along with a few small snickers from (Remus suspected) Draco and his friends.

“Sorry,” he said with a sniffle. “Page thirty six. Read the chapter and then we'll discuss.”

He sank back down into his desk chair and flipped through his teaching notes while the students read. With his head propped up by a hand, he barely realized he'd started to doze off until a voice piped up from amoung the students.

“Um....Professor? I think we've all finished.”

“Mhm?” Remus muttered, blinking away fatigue. “Oh...right. Sorry. Alright, who can tell me three ways to check if an object is cursed?”

How he managed to keep the class going for another hour he wasn't sure but when he finally dismissed them they filed out into the hallway chattering and laughing. Harry turned in the door long enough to give Remus a small smile before he followed Hermione and Ron out.

Remus rose, joints cracking in protest, and gathering his papers into tattered briefcase. He had forty minutes before his next class and while the idea of popping up to his quarters for a quick kip was tempting he knew if he went back to bed he'd only find it harder to go return to work. Instead he headed for the Staff lounge with his case in hand.

He was nearly there when he ran into the school matron, Poppy Pomfrey. She'd been a new staff member when he'd started at Hogwarts as a boy and had been instrumental in making the arrangements to accommodate a werewolf at the school. They'd grown close during that time and she was one of the only people he'd kept in touch with during the many years since he'd graduated. Even during the years when he went silent, sending no word of his location or doings to Dumbledore, he'd managed to send word to Poppy that he was still alive and making do.

“Hello, Professor Lupin,” she said, looking him up and down with a calm expression.

“Hello, Madam Pomfrey,” he replied. “Just headed to the Lounge for a break. Care to join me for a cuppa or do you have to get back to the Infirmary?”

“I do have to get back, and I think you ought to come along.”

“Oh, no, I think I'll just see if Minerva is around.”

“Remus Lupin,” Pomfrey said, her voice gaining an icy edge to it. “The infirmary. Now.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded.

“Madam Pomfrey,” he said with a small smile. “I appreciate the concern but I'm perfectly fine. I've got a class in forty minutes so I really must be going so I have time for tea.”

“Mister Lupin,” she said, stepping in front of him to block his path towards the Lounge. “Now.”

He felt about fourteen years old again under her piercing gaze. He exhaled, breath wheezing from his lungs in an exasperated sigh.

“Fine,” he relented. “For some potion or whatever you recommend, but I've got to be back by two.”

He followed her down to the Infirmary and stepped inside the familiar ward, heading for the third door on the left. It was one of the private rooms reserved for teachers or students with contagious ailments. It had been his usual resting place after full-moons during his school days where he could be attended by the Matron without revealing his scars and wounds to other patients.

Madam Pomfrey followed him into the room and shut the door behind her.

“Robe and shirt up and off please,” she said, taking up a quill and parchment from a pocket on the back of the door. They floated beside her, ready to record an assessment.

Remus tugged his robe up and off so he sat on the edge of the hospital bed in his trousers and button-up.

“It's just a cold,” he said hoarsely.

“Shirt up,” she repeated. “I need to hear your lungs and heart.”

He sighed and pulled the shirt up and off. If he hadn't been listening for it, it would have been easy to miss the sharp intake of breath from the Matron when she saw his pale torso marred with more than double the number of scars than he'd had when she'd last examined him. The giant puckered brown gash on his side, inflicted the first moon after James and Lily's death, stood out particularly stark against his milky skin.

Circling behind him, Madam Pomfrey inserted a small device into her ear and pressed the tip of her wand to his back.

“Breathe in as deeply as you can,” she instructed. He could practically feel her eyes boring into the jagged scar on his lower back where he'd almost impaled himself on a stair railing in a wolfish rage one Halloween almost seven years ago.

He took a deep breath, feeling his lungs crackle and wheeze in protest. It came rushing back out with a sputtering cough and Madam Pomfrey withdrew her wand quickly.

“Temperato!” she said, touching her wand briefly to his brow as she came around to face him again. A small gold ribbon floated from the end of her wand, twisting into a number Remus couldn't clearly see. The tutting sound Madam Pomfrey made when she saw it told him enough.

“I'll send word to Dumbledore that he'll need to find someone to cover your last two classes today.”

“No,” Remus said, reaching for his shirt to put it back on.

“Yes,” Pomfrey retaliated. “Don't fight me on this, Remus, please.”

In an unexpected gesture, she reached out and smoothed the hair back off his forehead. It was a touch he hadn't felt in years...not since his mother had died...not since Sirius and James and Peter had met him in the mornings after the moon...

“I'll have a house elf bring down your pyjamas and dressing gown,” she said as the quill scribbled furiously on the parchment floating at her side. “I'll get you some potions to help with the congestion and the coughing and to bring down the fever. I think your body just got a bit worn out from the transformation. Nothing to be ashamed about, Mister Lupin. Your classes will be fine. I trust you have lesson plans?”

Remus nodded, swallowing hard to bury the growing lump in his throat.

“Good,” Pomfrey said. “I'll go send for you things, then. Shouldn't be long. Get your lesson plans from your case and I'll send them along to Dumbledore to arrange.”

“It's just a cold,” he reiterated as he pulled his lesson plans from his case and handed them over. “Couldn't I just rest in my room?”

“If you wish, but I'd rather have you here to keep an eye on you for a few hours. These potions shouldn't react with the Wolfsbane but I'd rather be safe and monitor things,” Madam Pomfrey replied, giving Remus' lesson plans to a House Elf who appeared with a 'crack!' at her summons.

“Bitsy, please bring these to the Headmaster and then go to Professor Lupin's room and fetch his pyjamas and dressing gown for me, please.”

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey,” the House Elf said eagerly, taking the papers and disappearing with another loud 'crack!'

“That's settled, then,” Poppy said to Remus, taking her parchment notes and tucking them back into the pocket on the back of the door. “Get changed and into bed when Bitsy returns and I'll be in shortly with the medicines.”

Remus nodded mutely and watched her go. The House Elf reappeared only a short while later with his favourite button-up flannel pyjamas and robe in hand. He pulled the pyjamas on and settled into the single hospital cot. It was weirdly like returning home to sleep in his childhood bed, he thought as he settled into the pillows.

Madam Pomfrey returned after a few minutes with a tray of potions and smiled as she saw him tucked up in the bed.

“This is a strangely familiar sight, Mister Lupin,” she said affectionately. Remus couldn't help but smile back.

“Yes, but I've got a few more grey hairs than—ehh........”

He paused, nose crinkling in anticipation of a sneeze. He took up his handkerchief from its place on the nightstand and tucked it over his nose to catch the outburst.

Ehh-TESGHHTT! Nghh-TSGHH!

With a thick sniffle he wiped his nose and finished his thought.

“I have a few more grey hairs than the last time I was here.”

“Bless you. Me too,” Poppy replied with a laugh as she set the tray down and began dosing out the potions, handing small cups over for Remus to drink. He swallowed each dutifully, putting on a brave face despite the unpleasant tastes.

“That's a good lad,” she said, gathering the tray back up and depositing a few lozenges on the nightstand along with a decanter of water and a glass. “Get some rest, Remus.”

He slid down under the covers obediently and watched her go, shutting the door as she went.

Sleep was quick and when he woke again, it was dark outside and he was coughing harshly. Tears blurred his eyes as he hacked, doubled over in bed with his knees tucked up as his chest heaved and strained to clear. A comforting hand was on his back, guiding him up to sit and putting a glass of water to his lips. In a moment of confusion, he tried to figure out who the soothing person was...his mum? Lily? He could feel the cool hand press to his forehead as the coughs calmed and he sat, leaning against the headboard panting and wheezing.

Ghhh-TSGHHH!

His head snapped forward and he sneezed freely towards his lap with a harsh explosion.

“Bless you!” the person said, putting the hand on his back again and rubbing a small circle. “Poor lad.”

His eyes finally opened and focused. Ahh...right. Hogwarts. Madam Pomfrey.

“Sorry,” he croaked.

“Hush,” she said. “Lie back down. I'll get you another dose of Cough Ease.”

She disappeared momentarily and came back with a spoonful of thick liquid. She put it to his lips and he swallowed the bitter syrup.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked, adjusting the quilts across his legs. He gazed up at her through fever-added eyes and nodded. How long had it been since someone tucked him in? Brought him medicines? His eyes were drooping closed again and just as sleep took him once more he was sure he heard her sigh softly.

The next time he woke there was a bowl of soup on the nightstand kept warm with a charmed tray. He sat up and moved the tray to his lap, eating the hearty broth slowly and feeling the warm liquid loosen the congestion in his head.

When Madam Pomfrey came in to check on him, he was blowing his nose with strained, partly productive honks. She gave him a sympathetic smile and checked to see he'd eaten his soup.

“If you'd like to return to your own bed for the night, you're welcome to,” she said, pressing that same soothing hand to his brow to check that the fever was gone. “I'll send up some more potions for you before you go to sleep.”

He considered the option but shrugged and looked at her with a boyish smile.

“Do you mind if I stay here? I don't want to take up a bed but if it's okay...”

She looked secretly pleased by his decision.

“Of course!” she said. “Stay until you're well.”

He nodded gratefully, settling back down under the quilts. As he snuggled into the pillow, he felt her hand pat his back gently like she used to when he was a boy still frightened from the transformations and in too much pain to sleep. A swell of affection spread through his limbs at the touch.

“It's nice to have you back, dear,” she said as she moved to leave his room again.

He made a sound of agreement from his nest of blankets, unable to find the words to express how utterly grateful he was to be there. For so long he'd avoided visiting, fearing the castle would be too filled with the memories of his friends and forgetting that it still held people who cared for him. He nodded back to sleep filled with a feeling of love for the first time in a long, long while.

#dustyfic

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creative-frequency · 6 years

Text

Ardyn x Fem!Reader: Dark Before the Dawn Ch. 4

Word count: 4546 Warnings: Eventual explicit content, tw: blood, tw: gore, angst, Ardyn being a douche, two endings Notes: This is probably the hardest thing I have ever written. Angst is really not my thing, but that just seems to be where this story is going for now. Thanks for the stitching help @sevansheart ❤️ Tagging: @valkyrieofardyn @poisonous-panda @tyncri @insomniacapples @lucisizunia@themissimmortal @bellab00p @arminartlert @sammy4417 @sevansheart@singergurl91 @xxreighnxx @jastiss @curlyjools

Sweet Disaster -series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

After the short walk in the darkness, to which your eyes have grown scarily accustomed to, you arrive to a lonely, sad-looking building on the side of the road. You don’t remember encountering it on your journey with the prince and his retinue. It’s clear that the dwelling has been long since abandoned, possibly even before the fall of the darkness. The red neon-sign looming over the main door is broken with only the three first letters readable and its metal parts rusty.

“Charming,” you mumble and walk past Ardyn, who looks at the building from under his brows.

After everything he has told you during the last few hours, you can’t stop to think anymore. You just have to push onwards, convincing yourself that there will be a time when you can focus on those thoughts, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll clear your head a bit.

If there is anything good about the wound on your side, it’s that the constant ripples of pain keep you firmly grounded to the present, pulling you from the ocean of confused thoughts and questions. Though, the bad side is that you have lost a lot of blood and currently have no real way of treating the injury. So you just have to hope and pray that it won’t get infected and that the daemon claw didn’t have poison in it.

“Hmm. It’s smaller than I remembered…” Ardyn says half-audibly and sighs.

You glance at him and turn to look for any signs of occupants. Luckily there are no broken windows or suspicious sounds coming from inside. Hope rears its head inside you. You don’t really care about the quality of the accommodations as long as you no longer have to be a daemon bait. Literally anything is better than spending the night outside. While you haven’t been followed anymore for some time, you are not stupid enough to think the daemons would’ve just completely given up.

You continue towards the entrance and see a crooked “Out of Business” -sign plastered on the inside of main door’s glass. Below it is another sign saying: “Hunters welcome!”

You try the handle. The door is securely locked, as expected. With a discouraged frown, you turn to Ardyn.

“Allow me.”

You step aside and watch as he kicks the door open. The loud crack of the lock giving in echoes around you, emphasizing the surrounding silence. Ardyn goes in first to make sure the coast is clear and you follow with meek steps, cursing the stinging pain in the wound.

Ardyn marches to behind the reception counter. “Which room would you like, darling? There’s plenty to choose from.”

“As long as we get separate rooms, I don’t care,” you reply as you look around.

Ardyn scoffs in amusement and you hear the light clink of keys as he grabs one from the board behind the counter.

The motel interior is actually rather nice despite the tacky neon-sign outside. The floors and walls are wooden and there are plenty, almost too many, paintings, old photographs, postcards and such on the walls. It looks like the place was left to wait for someone who would start to run the business anew since there are no papers anywhere, but everything else is neatly in place. The reception room has a homely feeling, but the emptiness twists it towards creepy.

How old school, you think. You knew Lucis outside Insomnia was underdeveloped compared to the Crown City, but inside the dusty old motel it feels as if time stopped decades ago.

“Have you been here before?” you ask tentatively, not entirely sure if you want to know the answer.

Ardyn only flashes a mysterious smile and motions for you to follow. “This way, please.”

He leads you to the end of the hallway and stops in front of the door that has the largest number on it – a golden twenty-one. He unlocks the door and gentlemanly holds it open for you. You hold back an eye roll at the motion.

“You’ll be safe here for the night. I guarantee it,” Ardyn says as you walk past him. The door shuts after him with a satisfying click.

The dark room is a much like the ones you have stayed in with the guys after leaving Insomnia, complete with a dull color scheme and heavy drapes. There are two beds, both covered with striped quilts, an old television and dust everywhere.

You heave a sigh. The moment you see the neatly made bed, exhaustion washes over you. You just want to flop on it and wake up when the sun comes back again. Now that you’re allowed to pause to breathe, a million thoughts rush into your mind along with the painful need to check your wound.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” Ardyn asks concerned and walks after you into the room.

“I’m fine,” you reply dismissively and totter towards the bathroom with the intention of inspecting your injuries there. You try the light switch and immediately afterwards feel extremely silly. Of course there is no power. What did I expect?

You can hear the scraping of matches just before a faint, warm glow paints the floor boards under your feet.

“There were candles?” You turn around and close the bathroom door.

Ardyn places a single tall and slim candle to the table. “Just this one, I’m afraid. I’m sure there’s more somewhere else.”

The living fire makes you feel a lot better. Being in the dark for too long has a way of dragging a person down unnoticeably and you feel as if you gain new strength from staring mesmerized at the flame.

“Or we can always set the drapes on fire,” you joke wryly.

Ardyn puffs in amusement. “I’m sure we can find other ways to stay warm, darling.”

“No thanks.” You roll your eyes to the ceiling and sit down to the bed, then pull the candle carefully closer.

The light is way too dim for you to do any proper inspections, but you try your best. The blood-stained, completely ruined jacket is partly dried against your skin and you rip it off extremely carefully so the wound won’t start bleeding profusely again. Then you take your shirt off, forced by the situation to not care how much skin you reveal to Ardyn. At least you’re wearing a sports bra instead of a regular one.

Ardyn watches silently as you take a deep breath and cast your eyes down.

It doesn’t look as bad as you thought. Actually the cut is pretty clean, though dirtied from the blood that still keeps dripping slowly down your exposed skin. The wound stretches just from above your left hip bone to under your breast, shallowing on its way up.

“Can you go find a first aid kit? There’s gotta be one for hunters somewhere,” you ask from Ardyn and he tilts his head slightly before moving. For a second you think he will refuse to run the errand for you.

“Well, since you asked... Do you require anything else?” You don’t like the smile that spreads to his lips.

“Oh, yeah – any potions you can find. Doesn’t matter if they’re expired. Thanks…”

Ardyn lets out the smallest sigh since he can guess what you need the hunter’s first aid kit for, but stays silent.

Meanwhile he is searching outside the room, you carefully feel out the edges of the wound, not bothered by the blood that stains your fingertips. You’re lucky that the Arachne didn’t cut any deeper or your ribs would’ve been badly damaged. Just the two lowest of them were hit, but not enough to be torn. Hopefully.

Examining the injury makes you feel slightly better: It’s deep in the lower end only and while you’ve lost a lot of blood, at least it’s a relatively clean cut. You don’t want to think about any possible internal bleeding you might have and hold on to the hope that a potion will take care of it. If Ardyn can find the supplies, you should be able to stitch yourself up pretty well. For a moment you mentally prepare for the possibility that you might have to burn the wound to seal it.

“I suppose since you are a nurse, I shan’t be worried,” Ardyn says as he paces back to the room.

You pull a wry grin at him. He places the decades old med kit and a small cardboard box next to you to the bed. Then he proceeds to light the two candles he brought.

Alcohol doesn’t have an expiration date … Right? You wonder as you roll open the disinfectant. The smell is ten times worse than the modern ones you have used and you cough, the forced motions making drops of blood spill from your side to the bed covers.

“Shit…” you curse and check the contents of the med kit and the box.

A shaky wave of relief washes over you. There is a needle and sutures, reserved for any hunters that might have happened to hunt in these parts. It looks like the kit has never even been opened before. Lucky you. Also in the box there are two potions and you don’t want to know the expiration date.

I’m gonna make it through this.

Ardyn takes off his coat and sits down on the opposite bed, brows scrunched deeply together as he watches you.

You grab one potion, shake the bottle lightly and crush it against your palm just over the wound. You feel nothing, just as you were afraid. There is no tingling sensation like there should be, and the essence of the potion just vanished rather than enveloped your side with turquoise sparks.

“Must be too old,” you mumble to Ardyn’s wordless question.

You decide to try another approach so you grab the other potion, lean back on the bed and shake the bottle more briskly this time. When your position is good, you open the potion bottle’s cap as fast as you can and messily spill the vanishing liquid over the wound.

It works. Drops of the healing essence pour into the wound and it sends a tingling jolt through your spine. It doesn’t knit your skin together almost at all, but your main goal is hopefully achieved.

Maybe that’ll take care of any internal injuries, you wish and toss the empty bottle back into the box as you get back up. You feel slightly better.

“Admirable ingenuity,” Ardyn coos and you can almost detect a hint of relief in his expression.

You scoff, then take a clean cloth from the med kit and douse it with the antiseptic. It stings like hell when you even put it near the wound; the vapor from it is so strong. You bite your lower lip and as quickly as you can, wipe the skin clean around the cut.

You attach the suture into the needle and take two deep breaths. The equipment is ancient, but you’re lucky that places like this usually have extensive first aid kits to help out the hunters. Maybe Ardyn knew that too? You grimace inwardly.

“Are you sure about this?” Ardyn asks quietly. A small trail of blood trickles from the wound over your clean skin.

You nod curtly. Your hands are steadier than how you feel. You have to stitch the cut. It’s too deep for the bleeding to stop on its own otherwise.

“Distract me,” you say on a whim.

“Pardon?” Ardyn quirks a brow at you, but the half-smile reveals that he heard you quite well.

“Just… just talk about something,” you huff and try to get into a more comfortable position to start the procedure, “Usually you don’t shut up even if I tell you and now you’re just sitting there and gawking at me.”

“Now, now, my dear. No need for such”–Ardyn leans forward, elbows resting on his knees–“hostility.”

You scoff and would roll your eyes if you didn’t have to keep them fixated on the needle that is about to pierce your skin. The wound is numbly aching, still stinging a bit from the disinfectant, but you know that the second the needle sinks into your epidermis, it’s going to hurt.

Oh, it’s going to hurt like hell.

Ardyn takes your deep inhale as a sign to start distracting. “Is there a particular topic you would like to discuss? Or are you content with just listening to my voice?”

Why does he have to sound so charming, but smug? Asshole.

“What… ever…” you mumble and clench your jaws. It has been a while since you’ve had to stitch yourself, and it’s in no way a pleasant reoccurrence. Maybe you’re already delirious from the pain, but the sting of the needle is not as bad as you would’ve thought.

“I used to have a chocobo,” Ardyn says.

The sentiment is so distracting that you have to glance up midway of pulling the thread through your skin.

“W-what?”

Ardyn smiles almost tenderly, about to dive into some distant memory, judging by the look in his eyes. “Yes. A black one… In ages past they were more common.”

You don’t know what to say. Out of all the things you expected to come out of Ardyn’s mouth, chocobos wasn’t one of them.

“We had many, many ventures together, scouring the face of Eos.”

Ardyn speaks in the same pleasant tale-regaling tone you heard on your first meeting at the outlook in Lestallum. He tells you about the dangers they encountered together with his faithful mount, leading to nights spend in pouring rain and trying to seek shelter. An unheard warm fondness is lilting Ardyn’s voice and you notice how soothing it is to listen to.

Your hands are moving on their own. You can feel the sharp stings of pain on top of the humming one underneath, but somehow they’re not registering into your brain. You snap the thread and place the bloodied needle on the nightstand. Almost done…

“Done already?” Ardyn asks. His eyes never left the gruesome task of yours while he spoke.

“Still need to put on the clean gauze,” you say weakly and turn to take the med kit that is no longer on the bed next to you.

“Allow me,” Ardyn murmurs with a roll of clean bandages in his hand and the beginnings of a wry smile on his lips.

“No, I can do it myself.” Your voice is all but convincing and while you feel tremendously relieved that the wound is now properly treated, the burst of functionality that allowed you to get it done is crumbling away. Your hands are shaking again.

“Be sensible now, my dear,” Ardyn pleads.

“No. I’m the nurse here.” You stretch out your hand to take the bandages.

Ardyn partly sighs, partly groans in exasperation. “While that is true, we both know it’s easier if you just accept my help.”

You stare darkly at the expectant look on his face.

“…Fine.” Your hand drops.

Ardyn moves to sit to your left side and takes off his gloves in a ridiculous, flamboyant manner that makes you groan inwardly. Then he rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt. You try not to look at him or his bare hands because it only would cause you to think about the other times he has been sans gloves.

Ardyn takes the disinfectant to wipe the excess blood from your skin. The heavy odor makes you wrinkle your nose and you mentally prepare yourself for what’s about to come.

Bloodied cotton pads pile up on the bed and you try to focus on something, anything else than the man sitting uncomfortably close to you. You stare off into the distance while his hands work, carefully wandering on your skin and not even bothering to try and act completely decent. You don’t dare to point it out lest he would only get bolder and you would get carried away.

But damn if the touch doesn’t feel good.

You chew your lower lip, forcing your brain to disregard the inviting, familiar scent floating into your nose from Ardyn’s auburn hair. You choose not to see the glances he passes to you, only waiting for you to break and finally give in.

He is so gentle that your heart is aching and the tender feeling is crawling back inside you.

You whole being is aware of how you would be able to do absolutely nothing if he would kiss you now. A part of you, which is quickly becoming the majority, even wants him to. The touch is so warm and caring. The fingertips so tender. Every other emotion is burned when lust coils inside you, setting your body alight.

And all you do is sit frozen still, silently begging for Ardyn to be done with the bandages soon.

Seconds pass in painful silence. You try to focus on the fluctuating pain on your side and not look at Ardyn’s face so close to yours. You breathe in and breathe out… slowly.

“There. All better.” His fingers linger on the fabric, making sure it’s smooth against your skin.

“Thank you,” you mumble and wait for him to retract, which takes forever while you’re still immobilized.

Ardyn sits onto the opposite bed and you hastily pull the shirt back on, relieved to cover your body again. You spend a moment realizing how dirty and torn your clothes are from the game of cats and mouse with the daemons.

“I-I should probably text Gladio that I’m okay…” you begin to fill the silence.

“Yes, that would be for the best so he won’t worry in vain.” Ardyn relaxes on the bed, casually eyeing you.

You take your phone and tap the screen on, glad that you’re able to tell Gladio that everything is fine for now and you’re finally about to get some rest.

But nothing happens. You tap the button again. And again.

“Everything alright, my dear?” Ardyn asks in a tone that is too sly for you to miss.

“M-my phone died…” you splutter in panic.

“Oh, that is unfortunate. I’d offer for you to use mine, but alas, I don’t own such a device,” he says almost humorously and you’re at a loss on how to react.

An uncomfortable feeling strangles your heart as you try to think through the situation. Gladio knows you’re alive and you made a promise to meet him in Galdin. Maybe that will keep him from worrying too much, but other than that, no one knows where you are. Hell, even you don’t know where you are.

You glance at Ardyn. He looks unbelievably content and relaxed as he takes his coat from the bed and gets up to hang it near the door. His beloved fedora and gloves are on the nightstand and you can almost hear him humming again as he rolls his sleeves down.

Meanwhile, you’re in pain and lost. Mild panic and exasperation pound your temples like an approaching storm.

Did he do this? Could he have… done all this?

“You seem awfully happy considering the situation we are in,” you note, “or rather, I’m in.”

Ardyn looks up to you with raised brows, a mask of perfect innocence on his face. “Oh, I assure you, I take no pleasure in this,”–the playful lilt drops from his voice–“but I won’t lie to you and say I haven’t enjoyed your company.”

You scoff dismissively. You’re so done with Ardyn’s sweet talking. What is he even trying to achieve? If he thinks you will jump his bones if he keeps flirting, you are more than ready to prove him wrong.

“Well, I’d much rather be back in Lestallum already than here with you, no offence,” you say passive-aggressively. You don’t like the look of the grin that spreads to Ardyn’s lips.

“Snappy,” he only remarks.

You sigh, holding the irritation inside you and start peeling the dusty, blood-stained blanket off the bed. You can’t wait to get under the covers and sleep. The day has been the longest in your life and you’re exhausted and annoyed at Ardyn’s façade attitude.

“The night is cold. Perhaps we should share the bed,” Ardyn smirks in a suggestive tone.

THAT’S IT.

“In your dreams, Ardyn! Enough already!” you yell and slam the blanket to the floor. A cloud of dust flies into the air, almost provoking the autonomous reaction of coughing. Your heart is hammering inside your chest, wild from you finally taking a stance and protesting.

Ardyn’s devious grin quickly dissipates as he examines your stern look. “Careful, darling. You’re injured. Best not get too excited.”

“I’m not getting ‘excited’!” you claim, but the sharp pain on your side disagrees. You have one job and it’s to make sure your stitches don’t open.

“Oh? Are you sure about that? Perhaps there is something we could do to help you relax?” Ardyn says blatantly and you growl out loud at him.

“Stop teasing me all the time!” you scream at him despite him standing right in front of you. You are fuming, not even realizing your hands are balled into fists and your glare is fixated into Ardyn’s passive reaction.

“There is a connection between us. You feel it too, do you not?” He takes a step closer to you and you immediately back away while furiously shaking your head.

“Shut up. There is no ‘us’. There is no connection.”

There was a time when you would have liked nothing more. Still, the words make your heart flutter with hopeless desire.

“I can see the struggle inside you. Why are you resisting?” Ardyn asks softly in a tone that is melted dark chocolate – sweet, but slightly bitter.

“J-just stop it!” you splutter angrily, “There is nothing… I don’t want to talk about this.”

Denial. Refusal. There is nothing more you can say or do. You just want to escape the situation.

Why is he forcing me to do this?

Ardyn lets out the smallest sigh before turning his eyes back to you. “You’ve never been good at admitting your feelings, my love.”

Your heart jumps. “I’m not playing your wicked game, Ardyn,” you say decisively, trying so hard to disregard the truth in his words.

Ardyn grins impishly. “You know what they say about war and love.”

You shake your head, as if it would make what Ardyn is implying less true.

“No. You should leave me alone.”

“We both know you don’t want that.” He sounds so impossibly cocky and knowing that it’s one of those moments when you just want to hit him with a chair.

“I’m going to get another room.” You try to move past Ardyn, but he takes a step to block your route.

“I can’t let you do that,” he says calmly.

The splash of fury ignites inside you. You stare vehemently at Ardyn, drilling holes into his stupid face with your piercing stare. You don’t even realize you are moving until you grip his shirt violently and try to push him out of your way. The freshly stitched wound on your side sings in pain, but you ignore it. It’s secondary to the burning hatred scorching your insides, demanding to become manifest.

Ardyn barely shifts, but you don’t care that you would have no chance of forcing him to move even if you weren’t injured. There is no way you could physically force him to do anything.

While you still grasp his white shirt, his hands clasp around your wrists. His grip is like a cage that instantly contains your rage, but it only inflames you further.

Ardyn pushes you down to your knees on the floor. You try to scuffle yourself free, but its futile. He crouches in front of you with a concerned look in his eyes.

“Are you quite done, my dear?” he asks while you still try to pull your hands away like a trapped animal trying to escape.

Your knees hurt, your left side is on fire and while your eyes fill with tears, you’re still blinded with rage. You wish you had never met Ardyn. You wish you had never fallen for him. You wish you had never left the City of Light. Desperation washes to the shores of your mind like a tsunami.

It feels as if your whole life has been just a series of mistakes, all leading up to this point where you are beaten and bruised both emotionally and physically. You want to cry for help, but there is no one who could come for you.

The only person who was able to save you from the sweet placidity of death is already in the same room with you, and the feelings you harbor towards him are causing you to burst at your seams. You hate the situation and the excruciatingly obvious fact that despite everything, you still love him.

You can’t take it anymore.

In a sudden movement you push forward, causing Ardyn to lose his balance and fall on his back while surprise flashes through his face. You straddle him, breaths heavy and throat dry. Your hands are shaking and you can’t stop staring at him. His expression is blank, but a glint of curiosity catches your eye.

You summon your weapon and push the muzzle against his jaw.

“I’m immortal, remember?” The tone is low, almost daring you to pull the trigger.

“I don’t care.”

“Then shoot me.” He manages to shrug and pull a taunting grin.

You push the muzzle forward again. Ardyn looks at you with his amber gaze, waiting for your next move. He doesn’t even pretend to be in any danger.

Seconds that feel like hours pass and your dedication crumbles.

“I…” Your grip weakens and the muzzle falls down to his neck. “I… can’t.”

Ardyn takes the weapon off of your limb hands and tosses it away. It lands with a metallic thud against the wood, and after a second it disappears in a flash of blue embers.

With one swift motion, he pushes you off of him and pins you against the cool floor, hands above your head. It takes several seconds for you to realize his grip hurts.

“That’s enough,” he whispers dangerously, stern amber eyes never leaving yours.

Your mouth opens and closes, trying to reach the words that keep slipping off your tongue. There is no softness in Ardyn’s demeanor. No sign of the man you have fallen for.

“You seem to have lost your fire…” he says and presses his nose against your cold neck. He inhales deeply and hums in gratification.

The weight of his body on top of you is familiar and inviting, making yours to ache. You’re dancing on the fine line between tossing your pride away and escaping with its leftovers.

I should have never let you inside my heart, you think and squeeze your eyes shut. Ardyn’s scent floats into your nose. You want to be burned under his touch, to feel that searing connection with his skin against yours all the while you know you shouldn’t be feeling that way.

“Would you like some help in rekindling it?” Ardyn’s tone makes a shiver run down your back.

You swallow.

Chapter 5 VERSE 1

Chapter 5 VERSE 2

#ardyn x reader #ardyn izunia #ardyn lucis caelum #ffxv fanfiction #ffxv #final fantasy xv #fanfiction #my writings #tw: blood #tw: gore #sweet disaster #dark before the dawn

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