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gdinthehouseee · 3 months ago

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Born To Die (CHAPTER 1): KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: your first meeting with the man himself. or at least, you think it's your first…

word count: 5238

tags: slow burn, mystery, gothic and creepy masquerade, vampire!jiyong, human!reader

series masterlist ⛥ next chapter

“It’s got someone else’s name on, I can’t just waltz in there and pretend to be someone I’m not…”

“Who cares? You’ll have a mask on, you’ll be fine.”

“And what happens when I get mistaken for the person on the invite?”

“You’ll be fine.”

That is how you ended up in a stuffy dress, a delicate mask to match, and shoes you can barely walk in. Standing in front of a manor that doesn’t even exist on your phone’s map, gripping the invitation—registered to a name that you or your colleagues didn’t recognise—like it was your only lifeline, desperately trying to hide your nervousness.

Just the other day, a sealed envelope appeared in your letterbox. It's made of heavy black paper, embossed in gold with a single name that didn’t belong to you. No sender. No return address. No one at your agency knows the name on it. No one’s ever heard of the event, the venue, or the host.

But your boss told you to go.

“Maybe it’s a cult,” he joked. “Maybe it’s your big break.”

You didn’t think it was funny. But you go. Because what if it is something? What if this is the one story that finally gets your name out there? You're the youngest reporter at a mid-tier news agency, constantly dismissed, stuck proofreading real journalists' work while you’re told to write, at worst, about petty crime stories that have a straightforward, linear narrative. If you have to write about one more failed burglary, you might rip your hair out. Or quit. Who knows?

The manor looms like something out of a painting: tall and wide, lit from within by an amber glow that spills out across the courtyard in soft, flickering streaks. The walls are ivy-clad stone, older than anything should be, and the iron gates open for you as though they’ve been waiting. At the door, a man in a dark suit and gloves takes your invitation. He doesn’t ask for your name. Just runs his eyes over the envelope’s seal, nods once, and gestures for you to enter.

You’re inside.

It hits you all at once—the sound, the heat, the weight of the air. Everything is velvet and gold, candlelight and shadow. The ballroom stretches impossibly wide, with ceilings so high they vanish into darkness. Chandeliers drip crystals like frozen rain. Soft music drifts through the space, the kind of melody that doesn’t seem to come from a band or a speaker. It just is, as though the house itself is humming.

The guests are beautiful in a way that makes your skin crawl. Tall and graceful, dressed in intricate silks, brocade, and lace. Their masks shimmer like precious metal, feathered and bejeweled, each one more elaborate than the last. They all turn when you walk in. Not suddenly—not all at once. But you feel it. The shift. Eyes behind masks following your every step, heads tilting slightly, smiles that are just a touch too wide. Like they’ve been expecting you. Like you’ve wandered into something you shouldn’t have. Like you’re the only real thing in the room.

You try to blend in, but it’s impossible. Your mask is too simple. Your posture too stiff. Your pulse too fast.

Someone brushes past you, their perfume rich and strange, like crushed flowers and old paper. Another murmurs something in a language you don’t understand, their gloved hand ghosting across your arm as they pass. You keep walking, pretending not to notice the way they all keep glancing your way—just a little too long. Like they’re not curious, but hungry.

A server offers you a glass of something dark red and thick. You take it to be polite, but your fingers tremble on the stem. The glass is cold. The liquid doesn’t slosh like wine.

Somewhere, laughter rings out—sharp and sudden—and then cuts off like it was never there.

You move further into the room, past swirling dancers and flickering candelabras, past paintings that seem to watch you back. You wonder if anyone else feels it. That wrongness. That tension beneath the glamour, like a thread pulled too tight. You weave deeper into the crowd, careful not to let your discomfort show. Your steps echo faintly against the marble, drowned by the rustle of silk and the low hum of voices. The scent of wax, perfume, and something darker—earthy, metallic—clings to the air.

Everywhere you turn, people are dancing. But not in the carefree, joyful way you’ve seen at galas or society parties. These dancers move in perfect synchrony, gliding as if they’ve rehearsed for years. The music sharpens now, winding and slow, and the dancers shift with it like they’re attached to invisible strings.

You catch the eye of one masked figure on the edge of the floor—tall, elegant, dressed in deep, navy blue. Their mask is carved into the shape of a fanged beast, gold-tipped and gleaming. You look away quickly, but when you glance back, they’re still staring.

Someone bumps into your shoulder, and you turn to apologize—but the woman is already smiling at you.

“You came,” she says softly.

Her mask is a delicate creation, obscuring everything but her mouth. Her lips are painted a deep plum, and her smile is too knowing.

“I… I think there’s been a mistake,” you begin, but she simply tilts her head.

“There are no mistakes here.”

Before you can ask what she means, another guest sweeps by and catches her attention, and she disappears into the crowd without another word. You stare after her, uneasy. Then, from the shadows of a nearby archway, a man chuckles. It's low and rasping, like it scrapes the edges of your spine. “Clever in every lifetime,” he says to no one in particular.

You pretend not to hear.

Further in, you pass a group gathered around a long table set with impossible food—fruits that gleam like polished jewels, meat that steams and bleeds onto gold plates, black cakes decorated with red sugared flowers. You’re offered a bite of something unfamiliar by a gentleman in silver and ivory, his gloves pristine despite the wine staining his glass.

“Taste,” he insists. “You’ll never be the same.”

You shake your head with a polite smile and keep walking, heart pounding faster.

The walls seem to lean closer the longer you stay. The mirrors show angles that shouldn’t exist. Some don’t show your reflection at all. You pass one that does—and for a moment, the figure in the glass is smiling, even though your face is not. You step away quickly. It’s too much. Too strange. More than anything, you’re starting to feel watched. Not just glanced at. Not admired. Observed.

You need air.

You spot a set of glass-paned doors at the far end of the ballroom—tall and heavy, slightly ajar. No one seems to be paying attention to them. Or rather… no one stops you from slipping through.

Cold night air rushes over your skin like a balm the moment you step outside. You exhale for what feels like the first time. The terrace is wide and open, stretched out like a marble balcony above the world. The stone beneath your heels is cold, veined with pale silver that catches the moonlight. Ornate balustrades line the edge, carved with strange, curling shapes that almost seem to move when you don’t look at them directly.

A soft breeze brushes past, cool against your overheated skin. It carries the scent of night-blooming flowers and something older—wet earth, ancient stone, maybe even a trace of smoke. You can still hear the faint thrum of music behind you, but out here, it's muffled, distant, like a memory already slipping away.

The only light comes from the moon, full and low, casting long shadows across the terrace. A few lanterns glow dimly from sconces set into the walls, flickering gold and orange like fireflies trapped in glass. It’s just enough to see the garden stretching out beyond—rows and rows of hedges rising like dark waves in the fog. A maze. Or maybe something older. Something designed to trap. The fog rolls slowly across the grass, swirling between archways and winding paths, cloaking everything past the first few turns. Statues loom within it—half-seen, white and tall, their shapes too strange to name.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. For a few blissful seconds, it’s just you and the stillness.

“First time?”

You turn.

He stands at the edge, half-shadowed, moonlight pooling over the sleek black of his suit. His mask is elegant and minimal, a sliver of silver curling up one side like a claw or a crescent moon. The lower half of his face is bare—sharp jaw, expressive mouth, the faintest trace of amusement. You’ve never seen him before, but you’re not sure that’s true.

Still, you exhale, trying to shake the weight of the night off your shoulders. “That obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s done it before.”

You give a small laugh, grateful for the moment of normalcy. “So not your first, then?”

“No,” he says, almost too quietly. “I come every century.”

You blink, then grin. “Wow, I must’ve missed you last time. I was here in the 1800s. Wore a lilac corset with white lace. Almost passed out. Fell for a poet who recited something about violets and dusk.”

“Lilac?” He echoes, after a beat. “With white lace?”

You nod, a little unsure now. “Yeah. Weird detail to pull out, right?”

“And the poet?”

You laugh again, nervously this time. “Oh, he was hopeless. Said his name was Ji… something. Ji-hwan? Ji—” You stop, frowning. “No. Not Ji-hwan. That’s not right.”

“No,” he says softly. “It’s not.”

“You know him?”

“You could say that.”

Silence stretches between you and the mystery man, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s weighted, like the air between you is holding its breath.

“Impressive,” he murmurs.

Your brows knit. “What?”

“Most people can’t describe dreams they had last night. Let alone ones from a hundred years ago.”

You tilt your head and scoff out a polite laugh, assuming he’s continuing the sudden improvisation you started out of your jittery nerves. You look away, down toward the garden maze swallowed in fog, something old and electric pressing against your ribs. It feels like standing on the edge of a memory you’re not allowed to access—like if you reached just a little further, you’d find something you lost long, long ago.

“You haven’t eaten anything tonight, have you?” He asks suddenly.

You glance back. “No. Not really hungry.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because the food here is terrible,” he answers with a crooked smile. “Trust me.”

You huff another small laugh, but the tension lingers. You’re not sure if he’s flirting or warning you. Or both. He’s still watching you like you’re made of something fragile and precious and impossible. Like he’s trying to stop time. Like he already knows how this ends. Was that even possible?

You couldn’t stop yourself from asking, “so what else do you do? Aside from… whatever this is?”

“Cause trouble. Charm strangers.”

“Mm. You’re one for two so far.”

That earns a soft laugh, low and rich. He steps closer, just enough that the edge of his coat brushes your arm. “Tell me what would tip the scale.”

You raise a brow, amused. “That’s bold.”

“You’re on a balcony in the middle of a masquerade hosted by God-knows-who, dressed like a dream and looking like you don’t belong to anyone here. I figured bold was the way to go.”

A laugh slips out before you can catch it. Warm, real. His eyes light up like that’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

“There it is,” he says, quietly. “I knew you had a good laugh.”

“So you’ve been watching me?”

“Of course I have. You walked in like a secret everyone wanted to keep.”

Your smile falters for just a second—the way he says it. Like he means it. Like he’s known you longer than this single conversation allows. He tilts his head, catching the flicker in your eyes.

“Too much?”

“No,” you say, softer now. “Just unexpected.”

He grins. “Good. Then I’m doing something right.”

For a beat, you say nothing—just study him under the low silver light. His mask hides just enough, but you can still see the shape of his mouth when it curves. Still feel something low in your chest that doesn’t quite have a name.

“I could steal a dance,” he says after a moment, almost lazily. “But I think I’d rather steal a little more of your time out here.”

You quirk a brow. “Bold again.”

“Habit.”

“Dangerous habit.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

You bite back another smile, heart ticking faster than you mean it to. And when the breeze moves through the terrace again, lifting the edges of your hair, he’s still watching you—as if he’s memorizing something. As if he already has. Then, he simply extends his hand, palm up between you.The gesture is quiet. Elegant. No pressure, no expectation—just an invitation. You hesitate for a beat. Then your fingers slip into his, and he closes his hand gently around yours. Warm. Steady.

Without a word, he turns and begins to walk, guiding you down the wide terrace steps and into the garden below. It feels like stepping into a dream. The air changes first—cooler, scented thick with night-blooming flowers and something older beneath, something almost metallic. The stone beneath your feet gives way to a soft, mossy path, winding lazily through an explosion of colour.

The garden is nothing like you expected. No tight hedges. No rigid rows. Just wild beauty. Everywhere you look, something’s blooming. Roses the color of wine and ash, foxglove swaying like bells in a silent wind, moonflowers yawning open under the pale silver light. There’s lavender spilling over low walls, clusters of narcissus, pale peonies blooming like secrets in the dark. Petals brush your ankles as you walk. The air hums with quiet life.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

You don’t ask him to.

There’s no sound but your footsteps, soft against the moss, and something quieter still—a hush beneath the silence. Like humming. Like a distant memory.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur.

“It’s never looked quite like this before.”

You glance over, curious, but he’s already looking away again, gaze drifting toward the flowers like he’s known them longer than time.

You walk in silence for a while, passing under low branches and beneath archways grown thick with jasmine. The scent wraps around you. Sweet and dizzyingly warm. It fills your lungs, makes your chest ache.

“This place feels… familiar,” you say, half to yourself. “I don’t know why.”

He doesn’t answer. But your hand is still in his.

“I must sound crazy.” You continue.

“No,” he says finally, voice low and steady. “Not at all.”

You glance at him, expecting a joke, a smile. But he’s looking at you with that same quiet, unreadable gaze. Something about him feels… old. Not in a bad way. Just deep. Pondering. Still.

“You talk like a poet,” you say before you can stop yourself.

That makes him smile — not smug, but soft. Fond.

“Do I?”

“Mm. The romantic kind,” you tease. “Maybe you’re the poet I mentioned earlier. The one from the 1800s.”

He doesn’t laugh like you expect. He just looks at you for a long moment. Then quietly says, “Would you believe me if I was?”

You blink, caught off guard.

“…No,” you say slowly, watching his expression. “But you do have the dramatic stare down.”

That earns a small laugh, low and quiet, curling at the edges.

You walk on, deeper into the flowers. Somewhere behind you, the music from the manor fades completely. All that’s left is the hush of the garden… and the man beside you, still holding your hand like it was always meant to be there. The garden thickens as you walk, blooms crowding the edges of the path in bursts of color and scent. Somewhere behind, the manor has vanished from view, swallowed by flowering branches and ivy-laced trellises.

Moonlight spills across the winding path, silvering everything it touches. Honeysuckle drips from wrought-iron arches overhead. White lilies cluster beneath wild roses, tangled like lovers in secret. You pass through it all in silence, every step deeper into the heart of something forgotten. Here, the garden feels older. Less curated. Less dreamed-up. The flowers grow wilder, stranger. Twists of nightshade blooming in delicate clusters. Long-stemmed orchids, dark as spilled ink, stretch toward the sky. Some of them sway without wind. Others seem to lean subtly toward your footsteps.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. It’s not uncomfortable—far from it. There’s something about the quiet between you that feels sacred. Like anything louder might wake the garden into something else.

Then the path changes. Stone again, older this time. Worn flat by time, cracks laced with moss and silver threads of root. The trees part slowly ahead, and nestled between ivy-choked hedgerows, something rises from the ground.

A mausoleum.

Small. Weathered. The stone is carved in flowing patterns — flowers, stars, something that might be script, but worn down too far to read. Pale vines creep up the sides, blooming with tiny, ghost-white blossoms. It doesn’t feel menacing. Just… quiet. Like the garden has been holding it close for a very long time.

You stop without meaning to, your breath catching.

“What is this place?” You whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are fixed on the structure ahead, unreadable in the half-light. For a moment, he looks like a statue himself—carved from shadow and silver.

Then, softly, “some say it’s where the first guests were laid to rest.”

You glance at him, uncertain if he’s joking.

His mouth curves, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Not during the party,” he adds lightly, as if that helps. “After.”

You huff a quiet laugh — but it dies in your throat.

To the left of the mausoleum, four gravestones sit nestled beneath a drooping willow tree. Their surfaces are dulled by time, weathered smooth in places, with faint lines of script barely legible in the moonlight. You step a little closer, squinting, finally letting go of his hand. The names blur just before your eyes can make sense of them. The carvings seem to shift in the shadows, impossible to hold still in your mind. A strange chill brushes the back of your neck.

Turning toward him again, you ask softly, “Have you been in there?”

He turns his gaze toward the mausoleum, his expression unreadable. The silence hangs for a moment, and you can almost feel the weight of time pressing in from all sides.

“Once,” he says, voice distant. He takes a step forward, his eyes studying the ancient stone. “Strange thing, isn’t it? It always seems so much smaller from the outside… but once you’re inside, it feels endless. As if the walls were never meant to contain what they hold.”

You feel a shiver go down your spine. It’s not quite fear, but something deeper—as though the air around the mausoleum is full of stories, long-forgotten.

He smiles slightly, almost to himself. “And the man who built it? A devoted one. Loved his wife, I think, more than anything else. Or maybe that was his mistake, building something like this for her. The stones never really let go of that kind of devotion.”

You look at him, intrigued. “What do you mean by that?”

He looks at you then, his gaze soft and searching, as if measuring something you can’t quite see. He tilts his head thoughtfully, his words slow and deliberate. “He was a man of wealth, a man of passion. But when his love passed from him, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her forever. So he built this mausoleum, this grand place to keep her memory alive. But… some say it wasn’t just her memory he wanted to preserve.”

You blink, the words settling in an odd, weighty way.

“What did he want to preserve, then?”

His smile deepens, just a fraction, and he steps closer to you. “Not just her. Her spirit. His devotion was so great, he wanted to keep her with him forever. And so he… made sure she was never truly gone.” He lets the words hang in the air, like a puzzle he’s only half-revealed.

You stand there, staring at the mausoleum, the chill creeping deeper into your bones. There’s something in his tone that makes it feel less like a story and more like a secret. One that is just out of reach, like the names on the gravestones.

“Let’s not linger here too long,” he says softly, his voice laced with an odd, tender finality. He offered out his hand once more, and you took it. Without hesitation this time.

He gently tugs your hand, guiding you away from the mausoleum and the lingering chill that had crept into your bones. You’re still caught in the weight of his words, the haunting story of devotion and loss swirling in your mind, but his touch feels like an anchor, pulling you back into the present moment.

As you walk, the garden’s flowers seem to fade into the background, their petals dimming under the canopy of darkness. The distant sound of a breeze rustles through the trees, but it’s almost as if the garden itself has fallen silent in the wake of your conversation.

His steps are steady, measured, his hand still warm around yours. You glance up at him, his face unreadable in the soft glow of the moonlight. It’s hard to shake the feeling that he’s leading you not just through the garden, but through some kind of invisible threshold, into a deeper space that neither of you can quite define.

When you reach the edge of the garden, he pauses for a brief moment, as if assessing the change in atmosphere. His gaze lifts toward the manor, the flickering lights of the party still visible through the trees, like a beacon calling you back.

He leads you back through the stone paths, the shadows of the hedges falling behind you, and toward the iron gate that separates the garden from the mansion. With a slight tug, he opens the gate for you, stepping aside to let you through first. As you pass by, you catch a fleeting glance of the moon reflected in his eyes, something almost wistful about it, but it’s gone before you can truly make sense of it.

Once inside, the contrast is jarring.

He keeps his hand loosely around yours, guiding you back through the grand entrance of the manor with an ease that makes it seem as though you’ve never left. His presence remains a calm contrast to the bustling atmosphere inside, and for a brief moment, you feel a quiet bubble of relief. You’re back in the world you know, yet with him beside you, it feels like you're standing on the edge of something unfamiliar.

He pauses for a moment when you reach the ballroom, a brief hesitation in his steps before he turns to you, eyes glinting with mischief.

“How about a dance?”

The music flows gently in the background, a soft, melodic waltz filling the room as couples twirl and glide across the marble floor. The light from the chandeliers casts a soft glow over everything, the room filled with laughter and a quiet hum of excitement.

You blink for a moment, surprised by the sudden offer, but then a grin tugs at the corner of your lips. There’s something about the way he stands there, waiting, as if he knows you’ll say yes.

“Alright,” you reply with a small, teasing smile, “But I warn you, I’m not the best dancer.”

“Then I’ll just have to lead, won’t I?”

His touch is warm and confident as he gently guides you toward the dance floor. You can feel the soft pressure of his fingers as he places his other hand on your waist, the proximity between the two of you sending a rush of warmth through your chest. The world around you fades slightly, the sounds of the party becoming a soft murmur as you’re swept into the rhythm of the music.

His movements are smooth, graceful, and effortlessly in tune with yours, guiding you through the dance with a kind of quiet elegance. There’s a fluidity to the way he moves, as if he’s been dancing for centuries, and yet, he keeps his attention on you, his eyes never leaving your partially covered face, studying your expressions with a mix of curiosity and something else—something that makes your heart skip just a little faster.

As you sway together, the world around you feels distant, the night air drifting in from the terrace now nothing more than a memory. It’s just the two of you, the music, and the dance.

He leans in a little closer, his voice low and intimate, just above the music. “You’re a natural,” he murmurs, his tone playful. “I might have to keep you on the dance floor all night.”

You laugh softly, feeling the warmth of his breath against your ear. “I’m sure you say that to all your guests,” you tease, but there’s something about the way his fingers tighten around yours that makes you wonder if maybe, just maybe, he’s not entirely joking.

The dance continues, the two of you lost in the movement, the connection, the electricity hanging between you. The night has only just begun, but with every step, every turn, it feels as though time itself is slipping away—just for the two of you. And as the dance comes to an end, the soft melody of the waltz fades into a slow, quiet hum, but neither of you move away immediately. You stay close, his hand still resting on your waist, your fingers lightly intertwined. The energy of the room has shifted around you—couples begin to break away, retreating into conversation, leaving the two of you in a rare, almost forgotten corner of the night.

For a moment, neither of you speak, and it feels as though time itself has slowed. The buzz of the party outside the bubble you’ve created seems so distant now. All that’s left is the quiet rhythm of your breath and the feeling of his fingers lingering on your skin.

One hand stays on your waist, while the other lets go of your hand to slowly make its way up to your face. At first, he gently grazes your jaw, before moving up and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You feel a slight tug on your mask before he whispers, finally breaking the silence.

“May I?”

Your breath hitches—words rendered useless as they catch in your throat—and you nod, suddenly feeling shy.

His movements remain slow as he takes your mask off, finally able to fully see your face fully under the soft and warm ballroom lighting. If you weren’t so close, you might have missed the way his own breathing hitched. Fingers flexed at your waist, for a single fleeting moment, before he relaxed the grip as if to compose himself. You almost forgot how to breathe entirely when he next spoke.

“Beautiful… just as I thought.”

Before you could say anything, the hand on your waist moves to your hand and he brings it to his lips, placing a delicate, lingering kiss on your knuckles. You smile softly, but a sudden shift in the atmosphere catches your attention. People begin to disperse, the evening winding down as the last strains of music fade away. It’s time to leave, it seems. He steps back, but only just. He’s reluctant, you can tell, but there’s something else—something unspoken between you. It’s clear he’s not ready to say goodbye.

“Shall I see you off?” He asks, his voice now taking on a more formal tone, though the playful undercurrent still lingers.

He offers you his arm, a silent invitation to return to the entrance, but this time it feels different—like you’re both stepping back into reality, the night’s magic slowly dissipating with each step you take away from the dance floor. The two of you walk toward the grand entrance, where the final guests are beginning to trickle out. His presence feels like an invisible weight at your side, one that you can’t quite place but are oddly drawn to. When you reach the large front doors, he pauses. For a long moment, you simply stand there, both unsure of what to say next, the air between you thick with unspoken thoughts. He turns to you, his eyes searching yours, and for a fleeting moment, something passes between you—a recognition, maybe, or just the promise of something that could be. He smiles softly, though there's a tinge of sadness in it.

This time, you speak up first, hoping to lighten the mood a little. “I hope next time I can see what’s under your mask.”

“You’re saying you’d like there to be a next time?” His sad smile briefly twitches into a smirk, the glint of playfulness returning to his otherwise dark eyes.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t?” You quip.

He decides to step closer, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your cheek, before whispering in your ear. “Until next time, princess.”

With that, he steps back and disappears into the manor. You’re left standing there with your own thoughts, a whirlwind in your mind. You barely register the rest of the night as you climb into the back of the taxi you called, almost tripping on your dress, and not even caring you had forgotten your mask somewhere. You barely remember the drive back to your small apartment in the middle of town. Nor can you remember hastily tugging the dress off and dumping it on the floor, finally collapsing into bed and falling into a surprisingly dreamless sleep.

The next morning, you curse yourself for not asking the man for any details about himself. You didn’t even have a name. Times like this really made you question how you ended up becoming a journalist in the first place. Ignoring the wave of texts from your boss and colleagues alike, you went about your morning, thankful it was your day off.

You tried to take your mind off everything when a knock at your front door startled you straight out of your thoughts. What the hell is it now?

Wanting to get whatever it was over and done with, you practically marched over to the door and swung it open—

Only to find a single box on the doormat. It was old and wooden, clearly worn down by nothing other than time itself. You looked around, down both sides of the corridor assuming it was some sort of odd prank, but nobody was there. Of course. You decided to pick it up. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a name—your real name, this time—freshly carved into the lid. Curious to a fault, you took it inside and opened it. Wrapped in ancient fabric, there it was…

A lilac corset. Adorned with white lace.

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#bigbang #bigbang x reader #gdragon #gdragon x reader #kwon jiyong #kwon jiyong x reader #kpop #kpop x reader #vampire #vampire au #born to die series

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Text

I Never Missed You 3/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. Angst and smut and fluff (the holy trinity!) in this last part.

Part 1 Part 2

Juice spills all over the table from the oranges you press, but you don't mind. There has been a soft smile on your face all morning.

Simon's still sleeping, and you want to surprise him with a special breakfast today: scrambled eggs, freshly pressed orange juice, berries, and…

"You took my shirt."

You flinch when you hear his familiar rumble not a few feet away. The staircase wailed like a widow last night, but obviously, this man has learned to avoid the creaky spots when he wants. A goddamn heavyweight ninja...

"I'm sorry." You lick your fingers from the juice and try to feign innocence. The sleeves of his black tee reach your elbows, but you're not sorry. Nor do you feel bad about seeing him in your kitchen without a shirt.

"It was not an accusation," he says, the corner of his mouth curving a little, the dark eyes that made love to you last night giving you an approving once-over.

You approach him with a glass full of sun, but it's you he grabs in his hold. Your fingers find the scars on his back as you two embrace, and you feel an odd churn in your stomach.

"What's this…?"

Your hand floats across the embossed, white ridges that crisscross his back. The collection forms an entire mountain range, and it's chilling because you've only brushed the space between his shoulder blades.

"A reminder. To trust no one."

"No one…?"

"No one."

You remain a coward and refrain from asking for more details. You doubt he would even share them.

"I made you breakfast," you lower your gaze to the colorful palette you've gathered on the plates. Is it some sort of an instinct to want to feed a man after they've fucked you so good?

"So I see," he says, ever more approvingly. Then you're lifted on the table, next to the plates, like you're the breakfast.

Soon you're only wearing his shirt and your tiny socks, which Simon decides to leave on, too busy with getting his face between your legs.

No one has done anything like that before… No one has chosen you over breakfast; an entire abundance of delicacies laid out.

He licks you until your legs are trembling on that tortured back. You're pure, you're untouched by evil, and he carries your naivety on his shoulders like it weighs nothing. He flattens his tongue on you, sucks your flesh, tortures you on that table and doesn't even mind his teeth all too much. The peak stubble he hasn't yet shaved stings and burns as he moves across your folds.

Saying that the coarse chin on your silk feels good would be an understatement. You come undone next to the breakfast, clad in golden light shining through the small window left uncovered.

You feel alive, and raw, and stellar. A shooting star, a comet high above the sky, although the space through which you ignite consists of golden rays of sunlight and the scent of orange juice.

He takes the shirt back after he's done. After you're done and try your best to return back to earth with shaking legs. The only thing you're wearing is your socks, but you feel completely naked before him, dopey and dumb before the day has even started. Simon only licks his lips, throws that shirt on, and grabs his plate.

He dares to comment that there's no hot water. You put the kettle on with a wobble, feeling hotness on your cheeks while he sits down to eat his second breakfast like it's the most natural thing in the world: to wreck you first thing in the morning.

…............................

Simon.

He fixes the door on your fridge. He helps you clean your garage and fucks you on the table. Oily, dusty, filthy table. You go to shower after, together. You're giggling; he's smiling. Fully, now.

You want to ask him, Is this free of charge too…? Not just his cock... But his smiles. His assistance and support. The looks he grants you when you come out of the shower, ready to be licked to ruin.

He calls you his Princess to tease you just right. To get you in a state where your eyes flash with half-rage, half-lust, just before he slips inside you. He knows exactly which strings to pull – and then calls you love just when you're about to give him a piece of your mind.

You end up on the table, on the counter, on the floor. He takes you while your jaw slowly falls open from his audacity and his cock, splitting you apart with slow love. The first time he takes you in a missionary, you squirt. It's like his cock was made for you. And he dares to tease you about that, too.

"Did ya just squirt all over my cock?"

You have tears in your eyes, shame on your cheeks, and he's wetter than a wet dog down there… then he makes you squirt again, high on the lewd, obscene praise you just gave him with your pussy.

Your cunt can't lie; he knows it by now. So it's futile to keep your lips sealed either.

Kiss me.

That's what you would've usually ordered. But after an exceptionally quiet and passionate and desperate fuck that leaves you both catching your breath, leaves him hovering only inches from your sweaty upper lip, you whisper…

"I want to kiss you."

You expect him to laugh or mock you, at least crack a stupid joke or two. But he doesn't. Instead, his eyes drop to your lips, and he swallows with a heavy roll, then closes the gap between you two. Covers your mouth with his, uses that strong jaw to open you for devouring.

The kiss lasts long enough for you to begin breathing through your nose. Your inner walls grip him, still buried deep inside, and the gusts of exhales passing through his nostrils hit your face with pure bliss. He’s a little breathless when he parts – withdraws just enough to look into your eyes.

“Will that do...?”

There is a drunken vigor in his eyes of crushed amber, but to your shock, you hear your own question laid out before you. The one you asked when you were going to that party.

Will I do…?

Your hands find his jaw and cup his face from both sides, drawing him back to your lips.

“Yes."

You will more than just do.

And then you say…

"I want more.”

He chuckles a soft scoff on your face.

"Greedy little thing."

Then he swallows you again. You kiss for a good few minutes while he grows half-hard inside you. It's the most romantic kiss you have shared with anyone, ever. He tells you how spoiled you are between the breaths you both catch, then spoils you some more with his mouth and tongue and cock.

You start to curl together in the evening. Just to watch a comedy. He massages your feet and smiles more every day. It's kind of domestic, how he wrinkles his nose at your fine white wine and asks what it is in that decanter you have in your study. When you say it's just some old bourbon, he goes and gets himself a glass like he's finally made himself at home.

It makes your heart grow thick from love. You almost forget why he's here in the first place.

When you ask him about the plan, he explains it to you in detail while kissing his way down your ribs and navel. He takes his sweet time while doing it, kissing the inside of your thigh, the hollow place below the knee, the tender skin under the knee. He kisses your calf and the ankle bone while holding your leg up for his lips with just one hand. Then he does the same to your other leg, but this time, kisses his way from ankle to thigh until he reaches…

You.

You've forgotten half the plan by then because you realize Simon hasn't looked at you like you're a steak or garbage in a long, long time.

He looks at you like you're a queen. You could say he worships you, but the thought alone makes your heart flutter with the anxiety of a fragile hummingbird.

Simon gets you your groceries and gets himself only a beer as a reward. You would happily offer him a case if you knew it would make him happy.

But you don't really know what would make him happy. You don't know anything about this man. You know he likes it when you're dolled up and angry. He likes you when you're sleepy, without makeup, wearing only his shirt. He likes to fuck you from behind and hold you close after. He likes to give you a wash, likes it when you wash him. He likes to watch the two tall trees outside the window sway when there's a strong wind.

"What makes you happy?" You ask one night after you've had him in your mouth.

"Blowjobs," he answers with a straight face, and you shove him in the shoulder. Nicely. Softly.

"No, for real."

"I dunno." He sighs and turns to stare at your ceiling with a bothered look. It's a tricky question, perhaps. Or weapons, not willingly gifted.

"Dogs," he shrugs after a while. "A day of silence. Good whiskey."

He doesn't grant you weapons. You get some rope, but not enough to choke him with it. He trusts no one.

"Why don't you like missionary…?" You continue roasting him while curling your fingers around the pale hair on his chest.

"I never said I didn't like it."

"Don't avoid the question, Mr. Doggystyle."

You prop yourself up on your elbow and place your palm flat over his heart. His stare slowly drifts from the ceiling back to you.

"Simon. Why do you always fuck me from behind?"

He raises his eyebrows like he's innocent of the crime he's being accused of. "Not always."

"Seriously, Simon."

The smug look returns; it gives his eyes a delightful little spark and tugs at the corner of that kissable mouth.

"I like your ass."

"But not my eyes?"

The smile dies, and he gulps down a short surprise, caught between truth and dare. But then his eyes settle like the calming sea under a full moon. Stern, but not remorseless. Bold, but not heartless. If anything, he's naked and bare.

"Darlin'. Love your eyes the most."

Your heart does a backflip. You've been a fool because what else has he done but search for your eyes first thing in the morning? Given you flashes of mischief over breakfast, made love to you with those eyes as you cum around his cock? That liquid fire and smoke hasn't left you since he stepped inside this house.

You breathe together; you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. There was a time when you thought this man was incapable of love, but now you fear he has never been allowed to love enough.

"We never talked, you know," you whisper. His heart swells underneath your palm like a sail.

"What'ya wanna talk about?"

"Us."

"So talk."

Walls are raised so quickly you feel them knocking the warmth out of your body. It's cold, it's Antarctic, the technique he uses to withdraw. Your room turns into a kingdom of ice from the cruel, emotionless indifference he emits.

You've been a fool, yes... And a child.

"You're making it hard," you say, noticing how the man starts to tense up under your fingertips. This is not the way, but you're not smart enough to stop your rampage.

"What happens when you've done your job?"

He doesn't sigh. He doesn't even think twice before giving his answer.

"I go back to the base."

You know now why he's called a ghost. You wonder if he was ever even here. Simon becomes a reminder for you, a reminder to trust no one.

"...Right." You pull your hand away slowly. As if it somehow helps with the pain to pretend you haven't just touched a hot stove and ended up getting your fingers burned.

He notices how you tense up far more than he. The arm around your waist goes tight, and you wonder if you've always been a bloodied steak to this brute, a stupid little princess with your wines, sighs, and wet eyes. He just doesn't want to let go of the last bites of his fine, delicious meat.

"I never thought you wanted a relationship," he says with a hollow voice, and the red rage nearly blinds your sight. You're too riled up to even yell at him.

"Love…" he tries for the last time.

"Get out of my bed."

…............................

His musk still clings to you as you descend the stairs the next morning.

He's sitting at the end of the steps with hunched shoulders and a tense back, exiled into the man he was the first day you met him. Your heart bleeds from the sight, wondering whether Simon has waited there the whole night after you kicked him out of your bedroom. But the boiling bile in your stomach forces you to lift your chin and draw your shoulders back as you walk down those steps with an audible clatter as your heels clack across the parquet.

He must've heard you before you make a racket fitting for an angered queen, but rises only after you've made it halfway through the staircase. You won't allow yourself to even look his way as he draws a deep breath.

"Love. Sweetheart."

But with that, you flash the man a stare full of despise as you walk past him.

"Don't."

"Let me–"

"Don't say a word," you take a sharp turn and raise a hand to shield you from whatever brutality he would like to stain you with. "You don't talk to me. You just do your job. Ok?"

His chest swells with another deep breath, but otherwise, this man is still as a statue again.

"Ma'am."

It takes you a while to notice he has regressed back to that term again, and you tilt your head. The movement is that of a warrior who swings her sword to a guard before a fight. He crosses his hands over his crotch as if to shield the most vulnerable parts from a low blow, but his eyes are full of hateful hurt as he gives you his most pretentious, mocking tone.

"Miss."

Your heart skips a beat – Simon becomes the thing you miss.

A hit and run.

You have to resist the urge to grimace at the pure venom in his voice - it doesn't matter what he calls you because that tone seeps straight through your skin like lye. It hurts; it burns to see him even more withdrawn to his shell than when you first met. He retreats far beyond the front line, he goes further than the rear, and it's a bitter defeat for both of you.

This man has rubbed your feet while you've laughed at a stupid joke in a sitcom. The same man has been inside you – night after night after night. It rips your heart to see a distant, perfectly blank expression on his face after you've seen him give you a plentitude of relaxed and wicked little smiles.

You share the breakfast in funeral-like silence. You wish you could pay him to stay home so that you can go through your day filled with terror and longing without Simon Riley following you around.

"I've been meaning to update you on new intel about the target," he breaks the silence, and your heart feels like it's being put through a wringer. Simon hasn't even touched his breakfast. "Turns out he received training in a sniper unit."

"So?"

"There's a high chance he might prefer to use long-range weapons."

He's professional, curt, clinical. Even more so than when you first shook hands with him. And all the while, those eyes burn you; they examine you like you're the most challenging puzzle he's ever tried to solve. He's cold as ice with his words and hot as hell with that stare. Those eyes seem to pierce your clothes, they even reach under your skin.

"Right," you say without giving him a single look back.

"We have to update our protocol asap."

Our…

We.

"The protocol…" you whisper and finally look up at him. His lips draw into a thin line as he sees how your walls crumble; they didn't last even half a day.

"Simon, I can't do this," you say, your voice breaking. The tears are only seconds away. They blur your sight, but as he rises from the table slowly and takes a hesitant step towards you, you turn your head back to your toast with a snap.

"I want to change bodyguards."

From the corner of your blurred vision, you see how he raises a hand. If you didn't know any better, you could say that he's at his weakest. But the hand falls straight back and gives a twitch by his side. You wonder why he even bothers to disguise the spasm so lousily as a stretch. It's as if he wants you to see that he's in tumult too.

"I'll stay until–"

"No. Get out."

"Miss. I'll just get my things," he says, and you nod briefly. No exchange of gazes is probably the best policy after informing him you no longer need his services. It's better to rip the band-aid off with one yank than try to pretend that this relationship was something more than sexual.

You know he came to your house with minimal belongings, a duffel bag full of spare clothes and a large case which you supposed was a container for different weapons. That is why you notice he takes a surprisingly long time to get those things and leave your house.

When he finally emerges from his room – no, not his room, but the guest room, you remind yourself – he places the luggage in the hallway and comes back to you, probably to say his polite farewells.

"You won't let me speak to you, so I wrote you a fuckin' letter."

You turn to solid stone as he places an envelope between your water glass and cup of coffee. You sit with your heart thumping in your chest as he picks up his things, walks to the door, walks out of it and out of your life.

It's one of those moments you wish you could freeze and rewind. Do everything differently so that it wouldn't have to come to this. Instead, you listen how the front door clunks shut.

Then you send your trembling fingers up from your lap and onto the pure white thing that holds his secrets. You pry it open and find yourself reading the lines, scribbled with surprisingly sophisticated handwriting, through a round of hot tears.

They cloud your vision, but they don't cloud his words.

You skim through the letter in a frenzied hurry once, then again with more control, and try to remember how to breathe.

He shares shrivels from his past, ugly, horrid things which make your breakfast nearly push up your throat. He tells you he stopped dating eleven years ago for a reason. He writes that he would rather be tortured again than make you suffer from his past and incapacities.

There are certain lines that enter your heart like a thief with the most delicate crowbar. Lines like I'm not good with words and You must know by now that I'm a broken man.

Lines like I'm not a fucking poet but I'll miss your warmth even under the desert sun.

Some lines make you want to tear the letter to pieces. Lines such as Don't throw your diamonds in the dust and I can't give you what you deserve.

He thinks you can't take his darkness, so he shelters you from it. He says he would come back to you if he could. You don't know what the hell he means by that.

If he could?

What the fuck prevents him?

You sit inside your empty, lonely house, confident of the fact that it is not you who prevents it. It was not you who just sent him out that door. Who commanded him to leave because you didn't need his services anymore.

The letter makes you cry, and then it makes you boil.

Such sweet words, and so many empty sentences. If only, if I wasn't, if I could.

You get the feeling that he's mocking you again. If only you weren't a princess and a spoiled brat, then perhaps he could reconsider this relationship.

You leave the letter there; you leave your coffee and your breakfast. You almost wish someone would shoot you and put you out of your misery as you call a taxi and go to the heart of the city.

You're completely numb as your fingertips brush silk and linen and all the newest designs. They curl around tiny bottles of bright nail polish and touch the perfumes made from the last free wildflowers of a burning world, but you feel nothing stir inside.

You're emptier than the echo that rings through the malls and corridors of stone; you feel poorer than all the beggars on the street. Shopping always makes you feel better. But now you want to burn all your money, throw your jewels out the window, torch all the fucking stores like some bloody anarchist. You leave every store without buying a thing and try to remember what it was to have lunch without drowning in tears that can't be cried in public.

"I can't give you what you deserve."

That's the line that scalds you most. You know what he meant when he wrote those words, seemingly humble. But your bleeding heart twists that sentence until his words are a testimony of pure rejection.

You have money, so you don't deserve love, is that it?

You want to find him and shake him. It's not about what you deserve or what he deserves. It's not about what anyone deserves. And if the bloody man thinks he doesn't deserve love only because he's made his home in suffering, then he's the last person who should be allowed to decide who deserves what.

You walk through the crowds and streets like a small whirlwind, on the verge of yelling your heart and loneliness out in the air until your vocal cords are raw. You're so riled your mind doesn't even register the gunshot.

The only thing you hear is a glass shattering next to you just before an entire boulder hits you.

His scent envelops you like a safe, warm blanket, even if that blanket weighs a ton and causes your jeans to grate and tear as you two hit the asphalt. Simon gives you bruises, scrapes and burns all across your left side as your body grinds through the dirt.

Another shot is fired; this time, a car's glass is shattered above you, and the body surrounding you tenses until you worry your bodyguard has been hit. The bodyguard you fired this morning, who's still doing his job, who never even left you…

People are screaming and running in different directions all around and above you, but time comes to a halt as Simon rises only an inch or two.

"Stay down," he gruffs in your ear. "Don't move. Don't you fucking move, ok?"

The whole world could've gone silent from the way you only hear his voice. His words. His distress. You remain still as a stone and look up at him – your lips part because he's looking at you with impatience that's not just pressing; it's demanding.

"Yes," you stutter, "yes, of course."

Someone's pissed because a third shot sends him right back over you, and only then do you notice you're clinging to him, to his jacket and his shirt, like he's a human shield. Then the human shield speaks again, and the words that come out only make you grip him tighter.

"He has to change the magazine soon. You stay right here, ok? I'm going in."

"No, don't," your fingers curl around his clothes and try to keep him on top of you. "Don't go. I'm afraid."

I'll get you a dog.

A day of silence.

I'll buy you some good whiskey. I promise…

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, more softly now. "I promise."

Then he rips himself off you. Your body misses his heat like the desert sand must miss the sun, and you realize you've ruined everything as you finally get to watch him in his element. He's agile and beautiful as he reaches for his gun, takes it out, and prepares it in a few seconds to fire death upon your faceless enemy. You've ruined everything because if Simon goes in, he might get killed – he's a human, not a shield, he's not even a weapon – and all the things you never said will haunt you for the rest of your life.

"Don't leave me," you want to reach for him, but don't dare disobey his orders. It should send you laughing: that you're finally doing precisely as he says. You finally trust your life with him, just before he leaves you, leaves you, leaves you.

"Simon–"

"Sweetheart. I never left you."

He looks straight into your eyes. You gulp the tears now.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, and someone is screaming; everythings a buzz, cars whir by as you tell him all the things you meant to say weeks ago. "I never wanted you to go. I always liked you. I– I think I love–"

"Shh. Don't you do this to me now."

The words are so soft you have to struggle to hear what he's saying under his breath. It's like he's talking to himself, and you realize you're an asshole, saying things like that to him when he's trying to concentrate on his mission and his job. But you just can't help yourself sometimes. No one in your life compares to him. No one has caused such a ruckus, such turmoil, such devastation and such love.

"Do what?" you whimper there, motionless on the ground as he gives you a last, painful look before his stare fixes on the piece of glass still unshattered, the dim, transient mirror of a store window he uses to locate movement in one of the buildings.

Then he takes a peek over the car, and you hold your breath – he's the bait now, and ducks his head immediately as two more shots are fired. You don't even have the strength to scream; your whole body simply shudders from the echoing sound of pure fear – how can he play tag with death like that?

And then he leaves.

He rounds the car and darts for the building and the sniper; he disappears from your vision so quickly you wonder if these past weeks have been but a dream.

A hit and run.

"Do what…" you repeat on the ground and curl into yourself even though he said you shouldn't move. You figure it's not that big of a crime to go into a fetal position when you don't know if he's ever coming back to scold you for breaking the rules.

You want to close your ears from the sounds that follow – you fear you'll jinx something if you listen too closely to what happens in that building. You try to concentrate on your breaths, slowly bringing you back to your body. You haven't even noticed that there's blood running down your arm.

It's funny how you only notice the pain after seeing the flowing crimson that makes small rivers around your fingers. You don't want to look at your burning shoulder because the shock is already here.

The searing pulse gets worse as you hear another shot, then another shot. Those sounds pound inside your shoulder and send more fire down your arm. Minutes or hours pass and you think how strange it is that everything's completely still, how bizarre it is that there are no sirens, no cars, no screaming. They've finally closed off the roads.

You only start to cry when you see that he's alive.

You try to rise from the ground to meet him – a bleeding princess, waking from her beauty sleep and realizing everything's just been a bad dream, greeting her knight in a black pair of fitted tactical pants and a pistol on his waist. Diamonds and darkness…

He rushes to you in what seems like desperation. You find it oddly beautiful that he's not only relieved to see his client is still alive and well, he's also relieved to know you're still there. That his princess has waited for him.

He falls on his knees and prevents you from rising. You're quickly wrapped in his arms, feeling so happy and safe that you don't even bother to tell him you're injured. It's just a scratch anyway. Even if your leg was blown off, you wouldn't complain about being picked up in his lap like this.

"Shh. I got you. I got you."

He's cradling you like a child while tears stream down your face, but there's no audible sounds of crying. You weep a whole river of tears and your nose is clogged, forcing you to breathe through your mouth, but there's no wailing, no screaming, no bawling. The first words that roll off your tongue are a child's moody complaint.

"You left me," you mope as he caresses your head.

"Only for a little while."

"You came back."

"I said I would."

More tears flow, and this time you sniffle and sob. He rocks you gently back and forth as you cry in his embrace. Simon would make a good father.

"Is he…?" You whisper, then look up at him. He just nods and gives you a quick scan, drawing a sharp breath when he notices the wound on your arm.

You're placed back on the ground as he inspects your shoulder and tells you the bullet managed to scrape some skin but has mostly just ruined your jacket. You're almost sorry that the wound is not as severe as it feels. You thought the burning sensation meant shattered bones and scarred flesh, but the scratch is no deeper than if you had accidentally cut yourself with a kitchen knife.

"No, I don't want… No hospital," you beg as he offers to take you to ER. You're not spending the rest of the day in a frigid treatment room where tired medical personnel only clean the wound and put a big plaster on it.

"Just take me home," you plead like you're his daughter who doesn't want to go to school today. "Please?"

"Sure. Whatever ya want."

He makes a few phone calls, arranges things with the local police or something. You don't want to know anything about it. You don't want to know who got shot in that building and how.

It's not a taxi that drives you back this time. You don't know where he got a car and a driver, but the vehicle is big and black, and your head is in Simon's lap when you lie in the backseat. There's a panel between the driver's seat and the rear, so you don't even know who's driving, but you're only grateful for the privacy after the crazy morning followed by a murder attempt. You look up at Simon, who looks back at you for the first time while you're in a car together.

"Why did you become a soldier?" You ask, not knowing why you're whispering. He's holding your hand – a simple, wholesome thing to do, but his grip on you is solid and warm and feels equally as intimate as the times this man has been inside you.

"I wanted to help people."

"By killing them?"

"By saving those I can."

He keeps a hand on your cheek too. Simon has spoken softly ever since you were fired at, has been humane and caring and tender, and you realize… This man is naked before you; he's stripped bare from all pretenses.

And he's not darkness. He's not a skeleton or a dead man or even a soldier.

He's a beacon in the night.

"You did a good job," you squeeze his hand softly.

The last glass-like veil in his eyes shatters, but far more softly than those windows shot at with a rifle.

"I live to serve, Ma'am...–Miss."

"Don’t… Simon, please don’t call me a–"

He descends. He doesn't need that hand to lift your chin up to meet him in a kiss. It's not a hungry devouring this time, but a soft promise, a lover's seal. You feel the rest of the shock leave your body in his embrace. There's no more coldness, only a fragile burning.

"You never look me in the eyes," you whisper as a tear escapes from the corner of your eye. It's a silly thing to say when he looks at you with all the love in the world.

"Yes I do," he gives you a soft brush of a thumb across your cheek. His lips are right there, an inch away from yours. "How could you have missed that?"

He's right, as always. The dark love almost swallows the brown of his eyes as he looks at you, shining light on you as he has shined for days, for weeks now. How could you have missed that, indeed? You raise a hand to cup his cheek, not caring about the pain, not even mourning that your blood stains his chin. He doesn't seem to mind at all, so why would you?

When you arrive at your house, he drives away the loneliness, sorrow, everything a rich girl can fear by carrying you in his arms, stepping over the threshold with you like you two are married now.

He peels your jacket off with affection and tenderness, tends to your wound and wipes away the blood that has caked dry all over your arm. The gash has bled a lot for such a small wound, and you purse your lips from how accurately it reflects your feelings for him.

He ties the wound, checks at least two times he's not tying it too tight. His care breaks your heart, because you don't know whether he will leave you after this. There's nothing that keeps him here anymore – there's no way you can keep Simon Riley to yourself. So you abandon him first for the second time, ascend the stairs to your lonely domain while he cleans up the small mess in the bathroom.

It's a small miracle that he follows you. He opens the door to your room without knocking – not because he's entitled to your privacy, but because there are no more barriers between you two. You're gathered in a stout embrace for the second time this afternoon, and you wrap your arms around him to hold him closer.

"You'll leave me soon," you speak to the wall before you, to the man behind you, holding you so gently against his chest. "I'll miss you."

"Love," he murmurs behind you, you feel the words against your back as a warm rumble. "I'll come back. If you want me, I'll come back to you."

"You will…?"

"I promise."

You have no more tears to cry, so you settle for examining the stab inside your heart, the wound that will bleed you dry if no one ties it tightly enough.

"I don't believe you."

"It's not a matter of whether you believe me."

He turns you around and lets you bathe in his warmth again, the same golden light that came through the window when he placed his mouth on you in the kitchen. It's almost frightening to know that there's nothing that can keep him from you. Nothing, except you. The only thing that has stood between you was only and ever pride.

"Simon," you breathe, a soft attempt to introduce him to mercy. "It's not a matter of what we deserve."

He blinks a few times, the chest against your side collapses a little. It's a hard reset. The corner of his mouth tugs, a beautiful betrayal of his surrender, a sign of being hit by a boulder – your boulder, finally bringing the rest of those walls down.

"You think so...?"

"Yes. I think so."

He brushes his knuckles across your sternum – a familiar motion that always manages to lift your heart. You used to think it was foreplay when it was in truth, an attempt to touch the organ said to be the house of love.

You think about the times his harsh breaths have hit you just before he cums, the urgent praise he's peppered you with merely seconds before you've cried from pleasure. Can't get enough of you pet, you’re fucking perfect, 'm gonna make you cum, sing for me, just like that...

You always thought it was a catalogue of shallow lust when it was an offering of naked devotion.

He was as vulnerable as you when you drifted through space together, when you drowned in his stunning midnight sea. He was catching fire and burning too, again and again until you were both satisfied and sweaty. He always held you close after, panted desperate love on your skin, planted kisses on your collarbones and neck before resting his head on your heart. Settling there, over your pulse, like he had finally found his way home…

The hand glides between your breasts and molds itself over your waist. It fits there like a second skin. You're relatively sure his hands were made for holding you.

"You asked what makes me happy," he says, completely naked and bare. The heavy love surrounds you with warm safety; your breath flows freely as you await his confession, the last secret revealed. "I think you know, love."

You know. It has finally dawned on you. What you didn't know was that tears of hope could feel like fire too. You've never been more eager to burn.

"Now keep those pretty eyes on me."

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley imagine #ghost smut #simon riley smut #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #cod fanfic #mw2 fanfic #simon riley fanfic #simon ghost riley x f!reader #ghost x female reader #bodyguard au #bodyguard!Ghost

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0nlythrowharrybeaux · 11 months ago

Text

A Chance - Part 4^

Hello friends, part 4 of the A Chance series is here! I hope you guys like the date! This is going to be the second to last part of the series. Thank you for reading 💖 I hope you guys like it! FIND THE REST OF THE SERIES HERE!

WARNINGS: Hostile work environment (gossip and rumors), mentions of sex, bullying. Ends really fluffy though!

WC: 7.6K

It was finally Friday and you were so eager to go out with Harry. You’d tried to relax with a shower and bath and it did help until you noticed that you already had a chip in your fresh pedicure. Then you started folding laundry and when you were just about to be done and putting your intimates away you decided to try on cute panties until you had chosen your lingerie for the night. You weren’t expecting to have sex but if things got close then you wanted to put in a bit more effort for him. You felt like a sex fiend for having these thoughts but it had been almost two years of you being the only person taking care of your sexual needs.

Finally, the time came for you to start getting ready. You were being careful as you applied some light makeup, you just did a slight smoky eye for the evening. You were slowing your breathing before getting on your eyeliner which was already extra challenging since you’d gotten your nails done as well. Nothing too long since you seldom got a set, but long enough that you were still getting used to them. You had thought a lot about what to wear and decided on one of your favorite dresses. It was a red and white, gingham print, spaghetti strapped dress. It was a square neckline so it didn’t really show cleavage, which you kind of loved. You paired that with your trusty sambas and your candy apple Baggu in the mini shoulder bag style. You had some small silver hoops in your ears and a silver horseshoe pendant around your neck for good luck. It was still hot out, so your hair was held up with the claw clip in a haphazard updo, a few strategic strands were pulled out to frame your face. And you topped it all off with a few spritzes of your favorite perfume and then waited in the kitchen until he was knocking at your door just a few minutes earlier than he said he’d arrive. You hurried to open it up and as soon as you saw each other, you were both beaming.

“Holy shit, you’re so pretty.” He said through an awestruck smile and you glanced away nervously at his compliment for a few moments.

You then glanced back and took him in as well and smiled at his own outfit. He had a plain white tee tucked into some light gray slacks, a thin black belt fixed the two articles of clothing perfectly to his slender body. He had a light yellow, cashmere crewneck draped around his shoulders which added a level of sophistication to his ensemble. And to top it all off, a black cross-body bag spanning from his shoulder to the opposite hip. His feet were clad in his Authentic, black and white Vans, they looked quite worn, which gave his outfit the slight edge it needed.

“You look really freaking good too.” You said as the light from your apartment made his thin t-shirt appear even more translucent than it already was. You could see ink there, but you couldn’t quite make out what the tattoos were. You’d seen the ones on his arms from work, but more? You wondered if you had any more in places that weren’t visible to you yet.

“Ummm, thanks.” He smiled a bit bashfully.

“D-do you want water or need the bathroom or anything before we go?” You asked and he shook his head.

“Good to go. I ummm, actually did bring this for you though…” he said as he reached into his bag and opened it up before feeling around for the surprise item. He pulled out a little brown parchment bag and handed it over to you. You grinned at him before peering inside to see a little keychain with a black leather tag with your name embossed in silver and a couple star charms of different varieties hung from the keyring, the charms looked mismatch-y in an aesthetic way.

“Oh, I love it!” You gasped happily as you looked at it more closely, “Thank you, I’ve been needing a new one.” You said.

“Yeah, I noticed that the one you have there is like, hanging on for dear life.” He explained of your current one. It was a sort wrist lanyard, your name was woven into it but you’d had the same one since you were a literal child. The two ends were currently being held together by a little safety pin.

“Yeah…” you chuckled, “My grandma got it for me on a vacation I spent with them. Got it at their city zoo. I had to have been 10 or 11…” you recalled, “I used to bike to school and my parents worked a lot so I would have to let myself into the house.” You explained, “So yeah, this one has been through a lot.” You chuckled.

“Well, I get if it has sentimental value and you want to keep using it. I have stuff like that too.” He assured you.

“Oh no, that’s alright. I can finally retire it to my memory box.” You said with a small smile, “Besides this one also has sentimental value.” You added and he smiled.

“It does.” He hummed.

“Can you help me switch it out? Don’t want to break my nail.” You said with slight embarrassment.

“Sure.” He chuckled and helped you do that.

“Thank you so much.” You hummed as he handed over your keys.

“Course.” He said softly, you guys just looked at each other for a few seconds.

“I want to kiss you so bad but I fear I won’t be able to stop if I do.” You confessed and he chuckled.

“The feeling is very mutual.” He admitted lowly with a rosy tint on his cheeks.

“Okay, lets go before I run out of will power!” You said and he chuckled but soon you were heading off.

He had planned this with enough time in mind that you could just have a soda while you waited for your order to be ready. So far you had talked about your families and had just gotten into the topic of why previous relationships had failed when they called his name because your food was ready. You continued on this topic as you drove to the secondary location. You weren’t surprised to learn that Harry had significantly more relationships than you did and it didn’t really worry you. He did confess to being a serial dater in his mid twenties because he felt he was running out of time at that point, but that for the last three years he’d been in therapy regularly to help him overcome that need he had to fill his voids with romantic partners.

“I’m so proud of you for that, Harry!” You encouraged him.

“Thank you, I am quite proud of myself too. I did realize how before I would just avoid all of my issues by latching to my partners. I’d lose myself in relationships and now like…I just want a partner to just enjoy the ride with, you know?” He asked and you sighed.

“I do but…I also don’t. I’m quite opposite of you.” You said with a small smile.

“A big shocker there…” he said sardonically before you both laughed it off.

“Yeah, see I avoid closeness with people because I figure that if you come into my life then…you have to leave at some point.” You explained and he nodded, “I know I need to go to therapy t-to work on my intimacy issues and all that, but it’s just the getting started bit that makes me nervous. Like I did have a therapist in high school but I didn’t really vibe with him. He was an older man, so I didn’t feel like I could really open up, you know?”

“Yeah, I can understand that. It took me a few tries before I found this doctor I’ve been with the last couple years. But yeah, when you find that person that you can really be authentic with, the therapeutic experiences changes a lot.” He explained.

“I can imagine. You’ve inspired me to start searching again.” You said and he chuckled.

“Good! I mean, it’s healthy to have that one impartial person, you know?”

“Definitely. And well, I don’t know if maybe I’m speaking a little too in the future, but I mean…I agreed to go out with you because so far you’re the safest I’ve felt with a person in a long, long time and like…I would hope that this can grow into something bigger and better down the line.” You said and he nodded and smiled before turning back to the road.

You were so happy he couldn’t really look at you while you said this. You even felt a bit grossed out with yourself from how soft you felt around him, that was your past hurt peeking through, trying to close you back up again before you got hurt. But you did it anyway because you knew he would never hurt you.

“Anyway ummm…sometimes I might…be a dick when I feel like you’re getting too close.” You explained and since you were now at a red light he glanced over to you, “I hope you can call me out on it when you recognize that’s what I’m doing. I know when I do it, it’s a defense mechanism.” You said and he nodded, “But I don’t want to be that way with you. I want to unlearn all of that and let you see the parts of me that haven’t seen the light of day in years!” You said with a sincere smile, “But it’s going to be hard for me, Harry. And I’m not going to make it easy for you either at times, so I apologize in advance.” You said and then looked into his eyes, “I just hope that you don’t-” you paused when you felt the weight of the meaning of what you were just about to ask him and your gaze flitted away nervously.

“That I don’t what?” He asked and you sighed.

Being this vulnerable made you want to crawl under a rock and never come out. You knew the that people in the cars around you and walking on the side walks couldn’t hear your conversation, but it felt like they could. What a sweet relief it’d be for a 9 point magnitude earthquake to just hit all of a sudden so that the earth could swallow you whole and you wouldn’t have to admit your biggest fear to him. You hadn’t meant to get that deep but it just happened! Like things just tended to happen with him.

“Ummm…I hope that you don’t give up on me. Like when I…inevitably feel the need t-to keep myself safe the way I have all this time.” You explained and his gaze softened.

“Look Y/N, I have liked you for nearly two years.” He informed you and you smiled, “I’m not giving up. Not when we’re leaps and bounds from where we started and more than that, when we’re so close to being more.” He said and you wanted to cry.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” He reassured you, “I want this to work so fucking badly.”

“I do too.” You assured him.

“That’s all it takes, willingness from both of us to see this through.” He said tenderly. You both gasped in fright as the truck behind your car honked loudly as you were holding up the traffic now. “Jesus…” Harry grumbled before you took off again. Just a few minutes later you were driving past the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Your mouth dropped open in surprise as you drove past it before turning on a side street.

“Are we watching a movie?” You asked, trying your hardest not to squeal with excitement.

“Yeah…” He chuckled and then you squealed. You guys were able to get a spot at this lot and were soon looking into Harry’s trunk with a pout of endearment. There was a very large picnic basket with a little bouquet of wild-flowers peaking out of one end and a picnic blanket rolled up and placed neatly between the baskets handles. There were also two large, jade green, corduroy floor cushions. “Gimme the food bag, please?” He requested and you handed it over before stepping back to give him space to fit your dinner in the basket.

“I got the blanket and cushions.” You said.

“Thanks, love.” He smiled before handing them over and moments later you were following the rest of the herds of people towards the cemetery.

While you waited in line you talked about the film “Comet” since the main characters had met here in that film. You talked about BRAT and Charm, both excellent albums that you’d recently been listening to. You discussed sharing a little tub of kettle corn because it tastes better when it’s warm and you should never skip on that given the chance. And then that led to you turning towards him to ask your next question.

“So what’re we watching?” You asked.

“Midsommar.” He said, “I remember you saying you liked that one when we were talking at the bar that first time?” He recalled and you nodded.

“Yeah…so, you’re bringing me to watch a movie about a boyfriend being burned alive?” You chuckled.

“Oh…right…” he chuckled, “Hopefully not foreshadowing.” He mumbled playfully and you giggled.

“Yeah, that’d be a tragedy…” you hummed sarcastically and he chuckled and playfully knocked his elbow against yours.

“You know you’d miss me. You wouldn’t be able to go on without me.” He said dramatically, “Admit it.” He pressed with a smile and you giggled.

“Mmmm…I don’t know…we’re getting there though.” You assured him and he chuckled.

“I’ll take that.” He hummed and you smiled.

If there was one thing that you were so obsessed with Harry over it was this! The fact that he never pressured you into anything. He didn’t try and change your mind or feelings about things. He’d listen and be present with you and be encouraging, but he never imposed his opinions or feelings about things onto you. It made you realize that he liked you as a whole person. Not just your looks, not specific things like your intelligence or humor, but all of those things together, even the things that you felt weren’t so great. He was interested and determined in getting to know all of your facets. The time and care he took in gaining your trust and trying to understand you, well it was paying off. Others had tried before but they’d get frustrated and give up on you quickly. But not Harry, he knew that good things take time to cultivate and he was willing to work hard and wait and see the fruits of his efforts with you. He was mature and confident and handsome and smart and so fucking lovely that you just had to pinch yourself sometimes to ensure that he was a real person.

“What?” He asked with a smile on his face as you just continued looking at him. It broke you out of your thoughts and you glanced away bashfully and shrugged.

“Nothing just…thinking about how wonderful you are and I’m really lucky that you still gave me a chance.” You confessed and he smiled bashfully. His cheeks were going pink so he just chuckled nervously and looked away. “Now you know how it feels.” You teased and he laughed a bit more before glancing back into your eyes.

Soon enough you had found a place to sit and got comfy. Thankfully, you’d shown up early enough that you and Harry could eat and talk a little bit more about whatever you wanted until the sun started to set, indicating the film would be projected soon.

“So what more’s in the basket?” You asked as you finished packing away your empty takeout containers back in the bag.

“Some Prosecco,” he said as he glanced up with a grin when you oohed in excitement, “Reese’s pieces, best chocolate candy you have here.” He said.

“I beg to differ, but proceed…” you hummed and he sniggered.

“I also bought these nerd rope cluster things.” He informed with wide eyes, “ They’re like drugs.” He said pointedly and you laughed, “Fran gave me a bag yesterday,” he shared, “I ate two more that same night at home.” He chuckled and you giggled along.

“You did say you had a sweet tooth, huh?” You asked and he nodded and quickly glanced down at your lips before looking up at you again.

“I’d say so.” He hummed smugly as he watched your pupils dilate with excitement.

“You’re a tease.” You giggled and he smirked.

“What about you?” He asked and you nodded.

“Yeah, but for like chocolate and pastries. Not really candy.” You shared.

“So I nailed it with the chocolate covered strawberries?”

“Absolutely.” You responded eagerly and he chuckled. “So I’ll get the kettle corn because you’ve covered everything else.” You said and he smiled.

“You don’t have to. I asked you out.” He said and you gave him a pointed look and he chuckled, “Alright, I’ll get the Prosecco opened.” He said and you nodded in satisfaction.

Soon enough you were back at the blanket and Harry had the flutes set up all nice and neat for you two. “Ummm, apologies in advance for the lower back pain, I just realized I brought nothing for us to recline on.” He explained as you sat.

“Oh, that’s alright. We’ve both seen this film right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we can lay and chit chat.” You said, “Quietly, of course.” You added when the couple in front of you glanced back when you said that and Harry sniggered.

“We can play 20 questions.” He said and you nodded. “Wanna stay and dance a little after the film?” He asked and you grinned.

“Yeah? Amongst the dead and all?” You asked and he smiled.

“Yeah. You’re into the morbid things right?” He asked teasingly. You rolled your eyes and he chuckled.

Soon enough, the movie had started and you two were laying down, heads on the floor cushions while you looked at each other and mouthed things at each other. You were trying to figure out what the other was saying, but turns out you were both awful lip readers. You kept rolling away to be able to laugh quietly because if you looked at him you would laugh out loud and interrupt the film for everyone.

“We should shut up.” You whispered and he nodded.

“Yeah, we’re being obnoxious.” He agreed quietly and then just stared at you until you were both smiling like fools. He leaned over and kissed your cheek gently, “Lets sit up, you can lean on me.” He said and you nodded. Moments later you were crawling carefully in between Harry’s legs before sitting down between them and scooting back carefully until you felt his warmth behind you. “Want me t’take your clip off?” He asked.

“Please.” You hummed and he unclasped it from your hair before you ran your hand through it and leaned back against him again.

“Thank you, it was stabbing me in the sternum.” He confessed and you giggled quietly.

You glanced to the side and saw that he was supporting his weight and yours on his hands, they were firmly planted to the blanket beneath you so that you could recline and sit more comfortably. You wanted to hold his hand so badly, you’d done it a couple times already, but this was your first date, you wanted to show effort back. So you sat up straight instead and pulled his left hand into your lap so that he was kind of hugging around you. Your heart was pounding erratically as you made this move to be closer. He didn’t say anything, but you felt him relax against your back as you started to weave your fingers into the spaces between his own. Harry certainly didn’t mind it, he was hoping that you guys could share some more intimate moments on this date. He was dying to kiss you again. It took all of his physical and mental strength to not turn you around and do just that. When the credits started to roll people immediately started to stand to leave.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Harry but honestly…the film was not as good as I remember it.” you said lowly as several people around you were raving about it and he laughed.

“I agree but I just…I didn’t want to shit on a film you liked.” Harry said through a giggle as he hugged around your waist from behind. You laughed along and leaned back into him.

“Like without the element of surprise for all twisted shit that happens it’s rather boring.” You explained and he nodded.

“Literally, very boring.” He concurred, “Not very entertaining when you know the point.” He hummed and you giggled.

“You, however, very entertaining. I liked learning that you are an Aquarius and that you’re the eldest of three, like that tracks with how you act and all.” You said and he grinned, “And that you think Birkenstocks are ugly…” You giggled.

“Look, say what you want but I refuse to wear anything of the sort.” He chuckled.

“No, no…I’m not offended, if anything I feel….validated. I agree wholeheartedly. Not on my feet!” You assured and Harry squeezed you a bit tighter through his laughter.

After enough people had left, you and Harry started to gather your things and then moved them closer to the side as you chose a more desolate area to continue chatting in between singing along to “Shining Star” by Earth, Wind, & Fire as you casually grooved along with the other people who had stayed behind to talk or dance a bit.

“Has this been alright?” Harry asked you quietly as he pulled your body closer to his when a slow song started to play.

“Definitely.” You smiled.

“Even though the movie was boring?” He asked through a snigger and you giggled.

“Who cares about the movie when the company is top tier?” You asked and he blushed and glanced down between your bodies bashfully until he felt the rosiness and heat start to fade from his face.

“You look so beautiful.” He said only loud enough for you to hear, “Well, you’re always beautiful, but I’ve never seen you in a dress before.” He added.

“I enjoy wearing dresses, just not for work. S’always so cold in the building.” You explained.

“True. And I mean, based off of your usual work style I just…never thought this was the kind of look you’re into casually, you know? It was unexpected and it’s very flattering on you. I’m trying not to stare but like…I have to just check you out a bit to just remember that you’re real, you know?” He asked and it was your turn to feel the blood rushing up to your cheeks and making your face grow warm at his compliment.

“Jesus…” you mumbled meekly and he chuckled, “You know, it’s weird for me to feel….giddy.” you mumbled and he smirked.

“Do you…like the feeling?” He asked.

“Surprisingly yes.” You smiled as you responded and started to gently scratch at the hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes fluttered shut and he hummed.

“That feels nice.” He moaned in satisfaction, “I think this is my one weakness.” He hummed, “Just…FYI.” He smiled dopily. He literally felt his skin litter with goosebumps at the delicious feeling of your nails gently scratching at that sweet spot on his head.

“Oh really? Not those nerd cluster things?” You teased.

“That too.” He giggled and you smiled, “And probably your lips.” He added and you grinned, “How do you feel about kissing after the first date?” He asked.

“Not favorable.” You joked with a smirk and he sniggered.

“So I should kiss you before the end of the date then…” he said with a playful grin and an adorable side eye and you giggled, “Wouldn’t be after the date…right?”

“Very clever.” You hummed and he chuckled, “But I mean it’s not favorable because that would be waiting too long…I mean, at least in my opinion…” You said coyly and he giggled.

“Is that so?” He hummed teasingly.

“I’m afraid so.” You grinned and he leaned a bit lower as you tip-toed and angled your head to the right. His nose playfully nudged yours before he pecked the corner of your mouth quickly. You started to giggle as he moved down to your chin, “Please…” you whispered and he sighed and then ardently pressed his lips into yours. Your bodies stopped swaying to the music as you became entranced into your kiss. The song switched to “Island in the Sun” and you both broke the kiss to sing the opening line: “Hip, Hip…”

You both laughed before you started to dance again. You sang along passionately with the rest of the people around and Harry twirled you around as the song sped up and when it hit the bridge you both just held hands and spun around quickly until you started to get dizzy and crashed into each other as you guys continued to sing along as the song started to come to a close.

“We’ll never feel bad anymoooore.”

“No. No.” Harry echoed with glee as you started to dance a little less as the song came to an end.

Everything felt so easy with him. The way he was made your effort feel worthwhile. It made you feel like working on the prickly parts of your personality wasn’t going to be as dreadful or taxing as you always thought it would be. That was actually the very reason you had avoided doing all of that healing work for at least a decade now; you realized it was you who was the issue when it took a toll on your first relationship after you left for college. Sure, it was going to be hard and painful at times, but if at the end of the day you got to be with him and see how happy it made him that you were getting better, then it was going to be worth it. A part of you felt foreign and a little disgusted with yourself for being so far gone so quickly over someone, a man, no less! But when you reminded yourself that he tried for months and he was patient and he stayed, those feelings and insecurities evaporated into thin air as quickly as they were conjured. No one had done that for you before.

You knew there were good people in the world, but dealing with someone who is avoidant of intimacy and genuine connection can bring out the worst of the most wonderful and loving people. Especially for someone with a background like Harry’s, who struggled with codependence, like he did in the past. Typically, those anxious types always felt like they could “fix” avoidant types. That they would be the person to break them out of their fear of intimacy by being extremely present and showering them with the affection they craved but seldom allowed themselves to receive. They always felt they could be the exception and show them how good it could be to have someone around all the time. But in really, about 90% of the time it felt like you were being suffocated and corralled with all that attention and effort. It was annoying more than it was endearing. And as an avoidant you just have to flee before you are smothered in another person’s neediness. It was sad when you thought about it, being so afraid to get hurt that your defense mechanism is to close yourself off and be alone so that nothing or no one could ever hurt you or disappoint you or leave you again. It was masochistic but better (preferred even) than being smothered by a person who thought they understood you and thought that they could break down your walls by caring so intensely. In reality, it made your walls stretch even higher. Kind of like Adam, who just wanted to jump in and "save you”, not understanding that acts like that made you feel powerless and pathetic.

Harry though, he got that you didn’t need anyone to fight your battles for you. He came on strong when you finally let him him but he did it in a way that made you feel like he needed you more than you needed him when you finally got some time to yourselves. In reality you probably needed him just as badly, but you just needed to feel and believe that, that wasn’t the case. That didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest whereas it made Adam feel overlooked and inferior. All of these thoughts came to a screeching halt when Harry gently grabbed your face and you blinked a couple times as you realized that he had asked you something.

“Sorry, what?” You asked lowly and he chuckled.

“Nothing, just asking if you were alright. You got really quiet and pensive for a few moments there.” He said.

“Yeah, I’m alright just…thinking I guess.” You shrugged.

“Anything you want to talk about?” He asked and you shook your head

“No, it’s alright.” You declined and he nodded, but you could see that he was looking a little worried upon hearing that.

Your thoughts weren’t any of his business, you knew that logically. And you also knew that he would eventually get over your rejection at an opportunity to open up to him. But despite knowing these things and deciding to leave it be, you found yourself wanting to reassure him that it had nothing to do with him in a negative way. You were just coming to terms with a lot of things about yourself and the possibility of sharing your time and affection with someone for the first time in a long time. You had a soft spot for Harry and it was growing exponentially.

“Harry, I promise it’s nothing bad.” You reassured him as you reached for one of his hands and pulled it down beside your bodies again as you interlocked your fingers with his.

“Okay.” He smiled, looking more relieved.

“I’m really enjoying this date. It’s been fun and unique and so thoughtful on your part, Harry. Thank you.” you hummed with gratitude.

Harry smiled, “I’m glad you’re having a good time.” He said softly.

You genuinely were having a nice time. The effort was everything to you and you couldn’t wait to do something just as nice and thoughtful for him.

After another half hour you were both on the way back to your house making plans for lunch on Monday. The car was coming to a slow stop right in front of your building and then he parked and turned on his hazards.

“Thank you again for taking me out.” You said as you turned towards him and he smiled.

“Thank you for accepting.” He responded.

“Of course. Ummm, I’m gonna kiss you again before leaving.”

“Okay.” He whispered as you leaned in and cut him off with your lips over his.

The collar of of his t-shirt was gripped in your fist as you held him close. And his right hand was sliding up your thigh before gently squeezing the widest part of your hip. His grip was steadying you as you were leaned over the center console to reach him. He’d given you his cashmere pullover earlier in the night when you got cold while walking through the cemetery, but now you were starting to get hot as your kiss intensified and you didn’t want to give it up just yet.

Harry nipped at your bottom lip before giving it a few gentle sucks and pulling back. His nose nodes your playfully before he kissed around your mouth. The corners, your cupid’s bow, and chin. Your hand started to skim down his chest and when you reached his abs he sniggered.

“Hey, hey, hey…” He said softly, “Easy, love.” He hummed and you sighed but nodded.

“Sorry.”

“Oh, it’s not because I don’t want to. S’because I want to, so fucking badly, just don’t want to get carried away.” He explained.

“I get it, I get carried away quite easily too.” You admitted and he smiled.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” He asked and you grinned.

“Yeah. Wanna work out?”

“Perfect. Here?”

“If you’d like, yeah. Then we can get food or something.”

“Alright, see you tomorrow. I’ll text you when I head over.” He hummed and you nodded. Your lips met in a slow and deep kiss once more before you pulled away and hurried inside.

You were on cloud 9 as you washed up before getting into bed. When he let you know he’d made it home safe you said good night. You felt a little bit embarrassed as you got his pullover back over your bare top half to sleep in but you just loved the smell of his cologne and wanted it to be enveloping you over night. You could return it to him when you met up with him the following day.

**************

It was Monday morning and you were in a noticeably chipper mood! Like sun shining out of your ass chipper. You had spent a total of twelve hours with Harry over the weekend and had not gotten sick of him once. For the first time in a long while you felt really good and excited about something, about someone. And nothing could really ruin that for you. You had just gotten up to the editing and writing floor and you had a strange feeling that everyone was looking at you as you walked past them. Maybe you were just imagining it because you had never really walked around with a placid smile on your face before and it did feel a bit odd to be that outwardly happy. You were doing fine of ignoring up until the fifth person passed by your cubicle and peered in to see if you were in. Your good mood was slowly melting away and you wondered if maybe there was something on your face or there was a tear in your clothes that you somehow missed? Regardless of what it was, you stood from your seat and got up to slide your cubicle door closed, but just as you were about to do so, Destiny walked up looking quite nervous.

“Hi, Y/N.” She greeted you.

“Hi.” You responded with a polite smile.

“Do you have a sec?” She asked.

“Uh, sure…” you said warily as you let her into your little cubicle.

“Ummm…I just wanted to tell you in-person that I didn’t tell anyone about you and Harry.” She said and suddenly everything started to click. “I have no idea how everyone found out that you two are dating but they did.” She said with wide eyes.

“Oh…no wonder I felt very…visible today.” You said and she nodded.

“Yeah, it’s what everyone is talking about. I just needed you to know that it wasn’t me.”

“Well thank you for letting me know.” You said and she nodded.

“And look, I know you don’t really care about what people say and think about you, but I know this is a new situation for you t-to be in. So just a reminder that it’s not worth your energy.” She reminded with a small and encouraging smile.

“Thank you, Destiny.” You said with gratitude and she nodded.

“Of course. See you around.” She said before hurrying out and sliding the door closed behind her. You peered over into Adam’s cubicle and saw he wasn’t in yet and decided to just settle back in and got your headphones in and got to work.

Now that you knew people were looking at you, you felt apprehensive and even more under a microscope than before. You soon discovered from Adam that apparently someone had seen you and Harry at the dumpling restaurant together on Friday night. Lunch with Harry had been fine since you’d decided to meet up somewhere, but even then, he didn’t bring anything up about what people were saying, so you decided to follow his lead and just ignore it too. You’d done that before and you could do it again. But as the day progressed you were finding it increasingly challenging to ignore everything you were hearing.

The most prominent rumor you kept hearing was that Harry had lost a bet and that’s why he had taken you out to dinner. Then, people were saying Harry was embarrassed of the rumors because he hadn’t even gone anywhere near you today. Logically, you knew this was a lie, he’d been out collecting interviews for a piece he was working on all morning and it was why you had met up for lunch off campus, but hearing the interpretation people had of this was troubling for you. Normally, this kind of thing wouldn’t even get to you, but it was starting to and not in the way you expected it to. You actually felt more bad for Harry in regard to these rumors. Soon you were starting to feel sad over the consequences he was reaping over this and kept coming to the same conclusion every time you gave it some thought: Harry deserved better. He did, he deserved so much better than this and it was eating away at you that this was your fault.

You’d heard whispered comments and overheard conversations in cubicles as you went to fill up your water bottle through out the day, but your resolve broke when you found yourself in the bathroom stall and some of the women in there were talking about how smiley you were in the morning.

“Did you see how happy she looked this morning? A good fuck will do that for you!”

“Maybe Harry’s taking one for the team and fucking the bitch out of her.”

“He’s collecting that good karma, you know? It couldn’t have be pleasant for him…she probably has teeth down there.”

Those were the kinds of things you’d heard and they were hurting your feelings, but mostly making you feel bad for Harry. He was very well-liked and respected and clearly him spending some time with you was already ruining his reputation. You had to hold in your sobs and wait until they left to leave the stall, but you couldn’t make it to the end of the day with all of this guilt and shame over what this date with Harry was doing to his reputation. So you made your way over to Harry’s cubicle because you couldn’t do this to him. It wasn’t fair. You made some awkward eye contact with a few people as you slid his door closed and then turned to him with a sigh.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked immediately when he saw your puffy eyes and you nodded as you came around to his side of the desk and sat on the empty surface to his left.

“Yeah, m’fine…kinda used to people talking about me.” You said sadly as you glanced down at your fingers tangling together in your lap.

Harry sighed and shook his head, “But not shit like they’ve been saying. It’s awful, love. And if you feel…hurt…that’s expected.” He said and you sighed before biting your lip and shrugging.

“It is what it is… but ummm, I actually wanted to come talk to you. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine…” he assured you.

“Are you really?” You asked and he shrugged.

“I mean, I’m disappointed a bit but who wouldn’t be?”

“I just…hate that this is happening to you because of me and…” you swallowed thickly as the lump forming in your throat quite literally stopped you from saying what you needed to say, “I think that you deserve a lot better than this, Ha-”

“Don’t even go there.” Harry cut you off with a pout and you shook your head as your tears started to fall.

“You don’t deserve this, Harry! I feel awful that people are talking shit about you and treating you like crap because of me! It’s making me feel physically ill!” You admitted sadly. But this wasn’t fair to him. “I can’t be selfish about this, not when it’s causing so much trouble for you.” You said and he smiled.

“You’re worth it to me, baby.” He said as he reached for your hand and you looked into his eyes. “I’m very alright with my decision to date you.” He assured you.

“You don’t regret it?” You asked him.

“Of course not! Getting to know you makes me so happy. Some stupid rumors can’t ruin that for me.” He reassured you. “And there’s no way I’m letting all this shit get in the way of this. Of us.” He said and you bit your lip.

“Are you sure?” You asked him meekly. He’d never seen you look so small and insecure. It made him angry and sad because that wasn’t you at all.

“Fuck what everyone else says, I want to keep dating you. What do you want, baby?” He asked and you sighed as you looked into his eyes. He called you “baby”, it made you want to blush and laugh and cheer all at the same time.

“I want to keep dating you too! But-”

“But nothing.” He stopped you, “M’gonna kiss you now.” He said as he looked into your eyes and you smiled. He pushed himself up from his seat and grabbed your face gently before smiling and kissing you tenderly. Your lips molded together with ease for a few moments before he kissed your cheek and pressed his forehead into yours.

“What I was going to ask before you so rudely cut me off…” you whispered jokingly and he giggled, “What if it never stops? The shit talking and rumors?” You asked and he smiled with a mischievous look in his eyes.

“I tried it your way, just ignoring it and all and you tried to dump me so we’re trying another approach.” He warned you and cleared his throat for a moment before pulling back from you slightly, hands still holding your hips firmly.

“H-harry-” you tried to stop him when you caught on to what he was about to do but his voice overtook your soft plea.

“Although it’s actually no one’s fucking business…” he started, and you buried your face in his chest as his voice projected loud and clear so that anyone within this side of the office could hear, “Yes, I’m dating Y/N! Happily might I add. I’ve actually been trying to get her to like me for two freaking years and I will not let anything ruin this chance for me! So the next person I hear talking crap or spreading rumors about me or my girl is getting reported to HR for creating a hostile work environment.” He concluded.

“Harry…” you whined quietly. Your face was burning with all the blood that had rushed up to it at this very public declaration.

“I know you don’t need me to stick up for you, but that was for us.” He clarified, “No one should be able to ruin this for us. Not when we’re both so pleased about it.” He reasoned and you exhaled and nodded.

“You’re right.” You decided after a few pensive seconds. Harry smiled and tucked your hair behind your ear, “Now, can I have one more kiss?” You asked.

“Absolutely.” He whispered.

Once again, Harry grabbed your face between his hands and leaned in. His lips slowly skimmed yours before you grew impatient and craned your neck just a bit further up until you were kissing slowly. The soft, wet smacks of your lips meeting over and over again were like a melody you never wanted to forget. You had no idea what it was about him that was so fucking disarming but you liked it even though it terrified you at the same time. You loved that he first tried things your way and recognized your ability to take care of yourself, but he was right, his little PSA wasn’t for you or for him, it was for what you two had. How easy would it have been for him to agree that it was all too big of a fuss to keep seeing you? He had just shown you right now that he intended to stay. And as uncomfortable as these public declarations normally made you, a part of you was pleased that he wasn’t embarrassed to make them if it meant proving to you that the rumors and gossip would not sway him from choosing you.

“Thank you.” You whispered and he pecked your lips once more. “I…hated that but it also felt really good.” You confessed and he sniggered.

“Oh I feel you…I hated having to justify anything about us to all these people but I need you to know that I’m not ashamed of you or put off by what other people think or say. Everything I’ve seen of you so far has been absolute perfection.” He said softly and you swore you melted into a puddle of mush then and there. “And I haven’t even seen you naked yet!” He added playfully and you laughed quietly as he did too.

“You’re worth it to me too.” You assured him and he smiled bashfully. “Should we get out of here a little early?” You asked him.

“Definitely.” He agreed easily.

>> NEXT PART >>

coming soon!

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sigh-ra · 5 months ago

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TRY ME ᝰ T. FUSHIGURO

nsfw! ꒱ w.c 590 ꒱ fem! reader

ᯓ★ toji was certainly clingy, to put it lightly.

Beams of incandesce managed to infiltrate beyond the horizontal and long slats of polyester intended to disrupt the benevolent sphere’s generosity during the peak period of its rouse, alternating sheer strips traitorous as warm shards were smacked across the couple’s expansive quilt.

She typically rebuked Toji’s disgruntlement (which he continuously vocalised even till this day) regarding what she deemed an essential to their fluffed palace for both laze and compulsive lechery, a brisk whistle successfully masking his unimpressed scoff when initially informed of the price tag for the “ornamental rag” - earning him both a mouthful and afterwards a history lesson behind the exorbitant rates (which he gathered from her passionate rant was ultimately boiled down to triple-layered fabric embossed with precise stitching, decorative conveying understated patterns)

However, having assessed her current dilemma - which was at first the gleaming radiance thwacked across their entangled frames befriending extra sleep - the issue instantaneously shifted into one of overheating due to additional coverage and the burly figure whose muscular limbs caged her t-shirt-adorned spine against his broad chest.

She internally cursed herself for omitting Toji’s sleeping etiquette at the time of purchase and being negligent in considering a thinner blanket instead because, at least then, she would not have been in this imbecilic predicament.

She nudged the snoozing male with a deliberate jab to loosen the hinges of his Herculean physique.

She struggled to swivel her groggy expression over her shoulder to reason with the clingy bear, debilitated of all toughness when dozed and melded to her beneath the indigo canopy with lunar embroidery consisting of a silvery sphere draped over their homey abode.

“Babe, let me- ”.

“I don’t think so, ma.” He grumbled, his encircled grasp tightening a smidgeon around her waist, chin planting itself further within the crown of her messy locks.

She groaned, attempting another shove as she drawled out, “C’mon Toj, the sun is hitting my face.”

A bewildered gasp parted her puffy lips, dried drool creasing at the softened corners after his crude gesture of roughly cupping her thinly clad cunt; his insensitive palm, engrained with microscopic routes of redemption, salvaged his apathetic speech as the calloused surface pressed against her clit, the flimsy panties a useless barricade as the bud’s prominence pressed against his ruthless grab.

His hefty fingers voluntarily imprisoned themselves between her plush thighs, the middle digit slightly compressing the gossamer garment into her moistened entrance, her body a betrayal for indulging the notion that his dictations were gospel, all of authoritative definitive.

His seemingly settled skull then migrated between the junction of her strained neck and shoulder blade.

An infinitesimal pause befell the assured man, glaucous sight begrudgingly widened from a bleary squint not only due to her unnecessary antics - but the intense oblongs (now brassy as midday’s hours alleviated the brightness) adjuring his vision to be roused.

“Lay still, girl,” He assertively warned, warm breath a blistering strike fanning the crook of her neck, ridged scar faintly grazing the skin split with cockiness upon her underwear’s damp gravitation coercing him to apply further pressure.

“But- ” She groaned, her stable breath slightly unsteady.

“Argue again, and the fingers go in.”.

A shallow exhale of relinquishment to her entitlement to defence pecked his ears.

The concupiscent man still nestled into her side, whose cunning portrait remained shadowed by the limp strands of stygian tickling her flustered flesh, lifted his head with a brazen simper, her unassuming sigh perceived as a vehement plead urging more.

“That sounded like arguing to me, doll.”.

#stqrlverr #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #drabble #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk smut #jjk #jujutsu toji #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #jujutsu kaisen toji #jjk toji #toji x you #fushiguro toji #toji fushigro x reader

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rentsturner · 2 years ago

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Momentary Synergy - A.T.

Alex turner x f!reader

Warnings: smut, use of a collar, dom/sub undertones, soft dom Al, blowjobs, cum swallowing, thigh riding, nipple play, squirting, overstimulation if you squint, pet names

a/n: this is literally just pure smut, also follows an anon request which was ‘after he cums you pull him by his collar into a kiss, you catch his drool with your finger and push it back into his mouth’ but I changed it a little. It’s also kinda short but I hope yous like it anyway. Enjoy.

Alex eyes you eagerly, his gaze predatory as he beckons you over. Two fingers curling towards him, a mimic of the way they move when they are buried in your cunt. But this time they’re asking you to come, not cum - although you're sure it won't be long until the latter occurs.

You crawl towards him, swinging your hips as you move, the look in your eyes showing Alex all the things you want him to do to you. And of course, he can never deny you anything (unless it's an orgasm).

A studded leather collar hangs from Alex’s fingers. Your collar, with Alex’s initials embossed into the expensive leather. You reach Alex’s, taking your place between his legs, spreading your hands suggestively over his thighs, which are clad in tight suit pants.

“Hands off. Show me your neck.”

You obey, kneeling like a good girl, pulling your hair back from your neck to show Alex what he wants. Your pulse is thudding in your carotid, the skin on your neck trembling in time with your heartbeat. Alex runs one finger gently over it and you shiver from the contact. His eyes are dark, pupils blown, long eyelashes fluttering over his pale skin. He looks angelic, but you know there’s a demon hiding beneath that perfect facade.

He brings the collar up to your neck, fastening the buckle so the leather rests firmly but comfortably against your skin.

“Okay?”

You nod eagerly, excited for what’s next.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

Alex smirks at your eagerness, carding his long fingers through your hair and gathering it up into a makeshift ponytail.

“You look so pretty with my collar around your neck. All mine, aren’t you?”

You nod again, practically purring into his touch, desperate for your next instruction.

“Make me feel good, baby.” Alex looks down at you, still smirking.

You smile, knowing exactly what he wants. You bring your hands from behind your back to stroke Alex’s thighs again, only quickly before he tells you off again for teasing him. You unbuckle his belt, unzipping his fly and pulling out his quickly hardening cock.

You pump him a few times, feeling his hard length under your fingers, the velvet softness of his skin, the prominent vein on the underside, the smoothness of his tip. It makes your mouth water just looking at him, wondering how he’s going to fit in your mouth. You lick his tip gently, his whole length twitches as you suckle on the end, the taste of his precum filling your mouth.

You can’t hold yourself back anymore and Alex’s grip in your hair tightens as you relax your jaw and take him into your mouth. You get halfway down his length before his tip hits the back of your throat and you force down a gag, swallowing around his hard cock instead. His girth presses heavily onto your tongue, forcing you to open your mouth wider. You wrap a hand around the rest of his length, stroking and pumping in time with your mouth bobbing up and down.

Alex’s hips buck up and he groans as his tip pushes past resistance and bumps against the back of your throat. Your eyes water, but you don't resist, letting him rut into you, loving hearing his moans and sighs as your hot mouth envelopes him. You whine as you realise you need a breath, pulling off Alex’s cock with an audible pop, but you only have a few seconds to suck in air before you’re pulled back down again, Alex’s finger tugging on your collar.

“Didn’t say you could do that, did I?”

You shake your head as best you can with him balls deep down your throat. He groans as he looks down at you, your eyes watering and drool dripping down your chin as you choke on him. He’s close now, you can feel it by the way his cock twitches and spasms on your tongue. You bring a hand up to play with his balls, massaging them gently, tugging and squeezing. Alex throws his hand back, still holding you down by your collar.

“Fuck, baby, shit, I’m gonna come, and you’re gonna swallow it all, yeah?”

You nod and keep sucking, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing your head and Alex gasps and splutters.

“Good girl, good fucking girl.” He lets out a long growl from deep in his chest as his hips stutter, ropes of cum coating your throat and you barely even need to swallow with how deep his cock is down your throat. You suckle him gently through his orgasm, only stopping when Alex tugs on your collar to pull you off. You press one last kiss to his red tip, before looking up at him. His hair is a mess, sweating and hanging over his face, and his chest heaves as he sucks in eager breaths.

“Fuck, baby, c’mere.”

You shakily stand up, your legs cramping, but Alex immediately pulls you onto his lap. He kisses you eagerly, groaning when he tastes himself on your lips. Your chin is still wet with drool, and you gather the drops with one finger, pulling back to push it into Alex’s mouth. His eyes widen at your action, then almost roll back into his head as he sucks on your finger, before biting it gently with a smirk. You moan, then press your lips back against his. It's sloppy and hungry, you can't get enough of each other. Unconsciously, you start grinding against Alex’s thigh, his suit pants creating just the right amount of friction against your clit as his leg tenses momentarily.

“That feel good, baby?” Alex drawls, noticing your movements on his leg. You nod into his neck, wrapping your arms round him for support as he begins to jig his leg up and down, bouncing you on his thigh. Your grinding, coupled with his movements, has you groaning and writhing on his lap in seconds, your swollen clit brushing perfectly against the fabric pants. You just know that you’re staining his trousers, you don't even want to think about how expensive they are, that’s a problem for another time. Right now, all you can think about is the coil twisting in your stomach, Alex’s hot breaths in your ear and the way the skin of his neck tastes under your mouth.

Alex shuffles underneath you, dipping his head down to mouth at your nipples, which harden quickly under his touch. His tongue flicks at one, eliciting a groan from you, before he sucks your nipple into his mouth, suckling like his life depends on it. He lets it go with a pop, then leans back in to grab it with his teeth, pulling backwards just enough for you to feel a stab of pain, before he lets go and moves his attention to the other one. It sends a jolt through you, the feeling of his teeth nipping on your sensitive bud, his expert fingers rolling the other roughly, pulling and tweaking until you're whining and sobbing - it all feels so good and you don’t know how much more you can take.

You muffle a scream as Alex’s hands grip your hips and press you down even harder onto his thigh, tensing his quad just right, sending fireworks shooting through your body. You throw your head back, unable to hold back your noises anymore as you approach your orgasm. Alex nips one last time at your nipple before he hooks a finger into your collar again, pulling your lips to his and swallowing your moans, pushing his tongue roughly into your mouth. It’s enough to send you over the edge and you rut frantically onto Alex’s leg, his hands helping you through your orgasm. Even when you're overwhelmed and your legs are shaking, his strong arms keep you tight to his thigh, bobbing his leg up and down until you feel a final release, squirting all over his trousers. You scream then, a high pitched pitiful thing as he grinds you slowly against his leg, pulling you through it. Spent, your head drops to his shoulder and you pant into his damp skin, trying to catch your breath.

“Fuck, Alex, that was…”

“Good? Yeah, I could tell.” Alex chuckles, waving his hand at the mess you've made of his pants.

You feel a blush spreading over your cheeks, and you bury your face in Alex’s neck, suddenly a little embarrassed and unsure.

“Baby, no.” Alex pulls on your collar again and you gaze at him. His face is soft, so familiar and perfect. A smile pulls the corners of his mouth up, his teeth showing. He presses his forehead against yours. “That was so hot, baby, so hot, I loved it.”

“Really? But I made a mess.”

“I can buy another pair of trousers. I could buy the whole shop. It’s no big deal. Do you know how hot that was, seeing how good you felt? It was amazing, babe.”

You smile then, realising that it was good, one of the best orgasms youve ever had. Alex nudges your cheek gently with his nose, nuzzling into you.

“You ok, baby?”

“Yeah, just tired now.”

“I bet.” He chuckles again, pressing a sweaty kiss to your temple. “Hey, how about next time I wear jeans? I bet you’ll enjoy that even more.” You smirk at each other, giggling, then you wrap your arms around him, pressing your chests together and breathing in his scent. Alex will always look after you, you know that

Thanks for readin hope yous enjoyed

Tag list (ask if you wanna be added/removed - @ohladymoon @martinipoliz @almluv @zayndrider @madnesstaking0ver @atticssmellgood @leafjoon @turnerside @turnertable

#Alex turner #alex turner x reader #arctic monkeys #my writing #Alex turner smut #alex turner fanfic #alex turner imagine

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0ccvltism · 3 months ago

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Your first moments of awareness and thought are not entirely pleasant.

The sounds, the smells, they are familiar.

Ben, Soldier Boy, was a lover of many vices - sex, drugs, liquor. You recognize the first two in the first seconds of your sentience. The air is heavy with the familiar smoky smell, and you are, unfortunately, facing a very familiar, yet very unfamiliar sight.

That's his uniform - Soldier Boy's Vought-issued uniform, all well-kept leather (less well-kept now in its age, in a state he never would have kept it), latex, and shiny, smooth, emerald green fabric, embossed with little metallic stars - but it is spread over a body that is most certainly not Ben's, and for a moment, you eye the body - aged, wrinkled, heavier - with an idle sort of disgust, irritation, and displeasure all rolled into one.

"Christ on a cross," You drawl, sounding so, so very like the callous, bloody-handed man that had wielded you like an additional appendage for decades, "you aged like shit."

They - the older man, graying but familiar, and the woman, young, perky, movie-star blonde and looking utterly panicked - seem to realize you're there for the first time. There, naked, arms crossed in not-so-silent judgement, back pressed to the textured wallpaper.

"What the fuck -...?!" He starts. You recognize him, at least, from - well, it would be easier to list what you don't recognize the asshole from. Managing supes for Vought, you had gathered over the decades, was a full time job. Ben had to have been the worst, had spent the most afternoons across from this same man in his younger years, a desk between them, deep in discussions turned to bickering, bickering turned to arguing, until you were slammed down on the table like a not-so-thinly-veiled warning -... And then tempers would settle, vices would be indulged, with you as the tool of choice for crushing pills, cutting lines, and the cycle would repeat the next week.

Or maybe the next day.

"Oops," The tiny blonde barely more than mouths, looking frantically, fearfully around the room, as if looking for more of you - more items turned to living, breathing beings, more things of plastic and metal turned to flesh and blood by her inexperienced hands in her moment of pleasure. He - The Legend himself, still clad in bits and pieces of the Soldier Boy uniform, the less important bits discarded, finally seems to put two and two together. He groans.

"What did you do?" He demands of the woman, though his exasperated, resigned tone implies he already knows. Of course he does - retired or not, you are sure he knows Vought's new talent well; the talent he'd made a very flexible rule of not sleeping with. You shift, looking down to examine what bits of the uniform are left at your feet. Helmet. Boots. Belt. The shield is missing. You frown, idly wondering where, exactly, that has gone. Silence reigns. He speaks again, impatient now, and you look up to find his eyes on yours, exasperated. "What the fuck were you?" He demands, and the question might have been funny, were it not a very valid one. It speaks, you suppose, to the reality - he does know, very well, exactly what his little lover is capable of, and what she has done.

"He called me sweetheart." You offer, one brow rising slowly. You see his face fall - smart man, good memory, putting two and two together so quickly, remembering the muttered endearment to a sharpened, polished blade.

"Jesus Christ," He groans.

You stare at him a moment longer, idly examining the way the fabric of the suit strains over a body it was not made for - one whose metabolism no longer keeps up with bad habits that his body never showed a hint of. "Take the fucking suit off," You order. "You're stretching it, and not in a good way."

He stares at you like you've grown a second head - or, you suppose, more accurately, like you are a combat knife that has just gained sentience and a pair of tits and is ordering him around in his own home - before he finally splutters, "A little privacy?" Like it's the most obvious request in the world.

“I don't have any fucking clothes.” You point out the obvious, shifting slightly against the wall. He stares at you blankly, like that's the furthest concern from his mind.

“We'll find -... Christ - just get out.” He starts one sentence, finishes another, and jabs a finger toward the door. When you don't move, he repeats the motion a bit more forcefully, waiting until you finally push off of the wall. “The knife? Really, the knife?” You hear him complain as the door clicks shut behind you.

Author's Note: Hi all! I'm here to join the party! May I present Char, my contribution to @daylighted 's object!reader-verse! A very short intro, but I wanted to get something up for her! I love and hate her in equal measure so far.

Please do not copy/repost my work

#ben's knife!reader #the boys fanfiction #soldier boy fanfiction #0ccvltism Writes

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thecglcatalog · 21 days ago

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It's a Pickle Party!

A fun anytime theme for babies and their grown-ups! Encourage your dom friends to dress their regression slaves in something green for this fun at-home afternoon or park birthday party.

“Pickle-licious” party supplies arrive in four hilarious giant jars – clear pebbled glass with ceramic and wire clip lids and handles. One of them is fitted with a spout for use as a drink dispenser; use the other three for name drawings or decoration! They’ll ship in a big wooden crate painted Jelly Bean Green, which is sturdy enough to use as a seat or pedestal at the event.

Things to See. Spread a place setting for each little guest with a green cowboy-style bandana as a place mat, a scalloped paper plate, a green gingham luncheon napkin, a spoon with a “splat” cutout in the handle, and a cucumber-shaped bottle with a green rapid-flow nipple. More “splats” are cut out of bright green crepe paper to highlight the floor. Meanwhile, owners can graze on relish trays or charcuterie from the three oval metallic serving boards and the plastic pickle dish with its lacy embossed penis pattern. Down the center of the table, strew the shiny green metallic Mardi Gras beads for a decoration, and make a fun wallscape with reusable mylar letter balloons that spell out “PICKLE TICKLE!” An elevated cake plate is a spot for a birthday treat or another little tablescape.

Things to Share. Upon arrival, each green-clad little can choose one of the twelve pickle party hats: four each of a jaunty fold-flat cap, a stuffed velvet puff, and a tulle frill with a coiled “stem.” A decorative jar filled with silicone pickle dildos – a full dozen of them! – is both decoration and favor. And there’s a giant novelty pump bottle filled with two gallons of specialty dill-scented lube … squish some into the dildo jar if you like and have littles try to fish one out! (They could also “bob” for them in an inflatable pool or a little tub.) A jar of Pickle Slickers – our sour-surprise candy bonbon with cucumber-melon flavoring – can be passed or scattered about for more decoration!

Things to Do. It’s a country fair’s worth of pickle-themed contests! First, body paints in three shades of green come in little jars with sponge brushes. Teams of babies can compete to turn each other’s parts into the most realistic batch of pickles! The two best-painted babies can have a dill-lubed deep-dicking as a prize. Second, use the green silicone catheter bags to empty pets’ little bladders and fill them back up again, so they can toddle over to release in a mason jar. Which caregiver-little team can produce a brimming jar the fastest? Third, start a game of condom musical chairs with the 48-pack of green latex condoms and 12-pack of identical-looking, pickle-flavored condoms. The sex slave who licks a pickly dick or dildo is Out!

For more casual fun, inflate the three giant beach balls – they alternate white wedges with bumpy bright green print – for littles to roll around and play with (or for grown-ups to bat over a volleyball net while the littles dig in the sandbox).

What fun to pickle-flavor little’s birthday tickles or just theme a meeting of your CGL play group with these pickle items. And so many of them are reusable for future fun!

#foodplay #oral training #cnc agepl@y #cg/l play party #cg/l play date #forceregressed #humiliation kink #body painting #pee k!nk #omorashi #1cky fiction #dild0

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senkothewarlock · 25 days ago

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DWC #5 (May ‘25 Ed.)

@daily-writing-challenge

(Didn't really feel like I did a good job with this one but, here! Finale soon. I'll try and double-post it.)

Day 5: Restless Faith

The throne room was quiet, the only construction going on now was a few imps using some – surprisingly – quiet Goblin-tech floor polisher. The soft hum as the buffer slid over the obsidian flooring was all the ambience needed. Two figures stood before the throne, frozen in posture save for their breathing. The first one was short for her kind, she carried a hunch in the back, ‘lowering’ her to shy of seven feet tall. Her red skin was clad with a purple and grey bone-padded carapace that covered her torso, plate reinforced hooves and a leather-like textile for her legs that contained a myriad of pockets. Her bionic eyepiece whined as the internal mechanisms readjusted, breaking the monotony.

Her counterpart was taller. Much taller. Twelve-and-a-half feet tall, she stood proud. Large wings tucked in behind her as she stood split legged, four arms; two natural, two grafted on in foul, Fel alchemy, a hand replaced with silver, tucked beneath the wings. Her face was covered in two parts. A thin veil of fabric affixed to her horned helmet masked her eyes, while a metal neckpiece reached up, from collarbone to lips. The piece was a dull tin colour, each ‘link’ embossed with a rune.

The two stood in silence for only ten minutes, yet their statuesque posture made them seem like statues fished from eons ago, a silence that soon broke when a set of side doors opened, revealing the Warlock and her Webmistress. Senko had a long case underarm, polished and kept dust free as several padlocks clanged softly against it with each heeled step she took. Oonee, meanwhile, was dressed to the nines. A rucksack fixed to her back was the only thing to dissuade onlookers from thinking she was of Vol’dunai Royalty, if such existed.

The four met in the middle of the room, the long shadow of the Emerald Throne casted upon them. Senko’s face was taut. Her lips flat and thin, eyes wide and ears sharp. She felt the softness of Oonee slipping her hand into hers, settling her a bit as she addressed the two Man’ari.

“Ladies.” She started. “I do apologise for the disruption to your duties. I hope the urgency is noted.”

Verrith'zaa spoke up, the voice came not from her lips, but from the plating. “We are yours to command, Grandmistress.”

Verrith'zaa spoke coldly. Sure, Zunlara didn’t use any contractions and was a workaholic, but she still had a spark to her. Verrith'zaa, however, spoke only the words needed. She bore no accent from her days on Argus, nor any local inflections.

Zunlara pulled out three tablet-shaped objects. Some sort of slate, akin to the writings of the Trolls. She floated them across to Senko, in which their surfaces began to burn with runes and images – all in the same Fel green as most of the instruments within the Tower.

“Here are ze individuals I believe fit the criteria.” She announced, turning on her hooves to fully look at Senko.

The Warlock began to peruse the trio. The first one was a paladin, a human at some idyllic chapel in the northern woods of Elwynn Forest. She shook her head and dismissed it. Far too zealous, far too… Human for this. The next was an oddity. An ice troll on a small, seemingly uncharted island, between Zul’Drak and the Dragon Isles. Potential was there, yet the third caught her eye and drew a fanged smirk on her lips.

A Pandaren. An outcast. She dwelt at the bottom of a fissure in the Dread Wastes of Pandaria, a lair decorated with wood and amber. Reviled by her people, she was banished for Sha-based experimentations, or so the dossier said.

“This one.” Senko said, her claw tapping the tablet. “Lady Deadleaf. I trust you did your usual and left a rune nearby for quick teleportation, Zunlara?” Senko asked, coyly smiling as she took the tablet into her possession.

“Naturally.” Zunlara said, side-stepping out of the way. A runic circle, hidden in the obsidian flooring flared to life as fel channelled into it. “And you vill be pleased to know zhat, zere has been no issues vith ze teleporting.”

She gave a nod and walked to the circle, her wife still hand-in-hand, she looked back at the two Man’ari and smiled. “Zunlara, please go to my quarters and put the helmet and cloak in storage. Separate.” With a fast step, Zunlara departed, Senko then spoke to Verrith'zaa. “Verrith'zaa, keep the workers in-line. Build me a tower worthy of my name.” Were the last words spoken. The rune flashed and zapped the two away.

Such an expenditure was costly. The asteroid was still in the early stages of being settled and resculpted. The tower shook, ash and dust shuddered off the framework as it groaned. The journey was long, the two Vulpera swam around in the stream for minutes. Teleportation was like swimming in thick air. Each breath was a fight; the pressure alone could force muscle aches or pop blisters. In the voyage, Senko thought back on how strenuous it must’ve been for the Orcs when the Dark Portal burnt through reality.

Oonee, meanwhile, seemed more at ease. Relaxed. Ever the diva, she softly turned around in the void, doing cartwheels and flips. Halfway through her performance, she winked at Senko before ‘diving’ into her, as the two collided, the portal spat them out. They adjusted themselves on the grass before looking around.

The sky was a dark, starless night. Frigid air and dense bushes. The grass’s shade nearly mirrored the blues of the sea around. Trees, thicker than any on Azeroth save for the World Trees, peaked up in the distance. After rattling her possession around to make sure it was intact, Senko gave a sigh of relief as she put the case under her arm and walked off, silently.

“Honey,” Oonee began to speak. “Do you want me to hold anything? You’re looking a bit… pale.”

Senko stopped in her tracks, with one hand holding the tablet to roughly guide the way on where to look for this Lady Deadleaf, and another clutching her casing, she didn’t really notice. She focused on her hand, not the overly zealous dossier pinched between thumb and index and gulped.

A bit pale, was the words Oonee used. Had it been Senko’s? She would describe herself as the child of a Yeti. Her fur was almost as white as snow. A gasp replaced her gulp as she nearly fell to her knees. She stumbled, wobbling around like a leaf amidst the breeze, before the firmer than usual hand of Oonee grabbed the collar of the robes.

“… The case, please. If you’d be so kind.” Senko said, offering it over.

Oonee took possession of it, holding it arm to arm like a dwarf would his rifle. She felt its weight before asking. “What exactly is in this? And why the-“ She paused, counting quickly. “Eleven locks?”

“It’s a great sword.” Senko answered, nonchalantly as she ran a paw over her face, softly slapping herself to get the blood pumping again.

“Senko, in what situation would you need a sword?” She asked, puzzled. Her head canted, ear flopping.

“… Would you believe me if I said half the reason was ‘because I wanted to have one’?”

“Well, yes.” Oonee replied. “Honestly that’s the best answer I could’ve asked for, but now I have to ask – what is the other half?”

No more secrets, Senko. Those were the words she thought to herself. “The other half is to apply corrective measures should a demon prove too hostile to remain on site. I had Faolin teach me some of the basics of domination magic.”

Oonee slowly blinked. A faint flush on her cheers appeared as she went to make a joke, stopping herself. “I was going to say something crass then.”

The two shared a laugh, for a moment, Senko’s fur began to recolour itself the butterscotch she was known for, only for it to fade.

“I dislike having it, truthfully.” Senko confessed, frowning at the case. “It’s a beautiful sword, but I feel… wrong for knowing such power, you know? Given we, as a people, were slaves.” She said, voice trailing off.

“Do you think it’s part of the reason you’re ‘haunted’ or something? A guilt you have for no reason?” She asked, diligently lugging the case.

“I don’t know. I had this done before I fought my mentor, it was a contingency plan – if I couldn’t kill him, dominate him. Anything to get rid of him.” Senko said, scratching at herself restlessly. “Loa above, it is hot here.”

Oonee raised a brow, even beneath the mask, it was visible. “Hot?” She asked, her fluff puffing up. “It’s freezing. Look, our breath is visible.” She said, puffing out an ‘O’ of air.

“… I’m well fucked, aren’t I?” Senko said, forcing a smile and a laugh.

A quick blow to the back of her head was delivered as Oonee caught the case again in her hands. She tutted.

“That isn’t you speaking, Senko. The one I know, and love, and cherish, wouldn’t let a set-back ruin her mood like this. What are you so fond of saying, again?” Oonee lectured, lovingly.

“There is always a way.” Senko said, huffing out. It was an eternal truth to her but saying it out loud felt cheesy.

“There we go! So have some faith in it! It’s not let you down so far, mh?” Oonee said, glancing at the dossier and walking forward, down into a crevice of the land. Ahead of them, in the folds of the land beneath a rotten tree, was an opening. The soft, amber light spilt out past the tiger skin covering the hole. A velvety smooth, soft trail of smoke danced out past the skin. The air begun to carry a sweet scent, of caramelised sugar – the smell of rainpoppies alight…

#vulpera #world of warcraft #dwc2025 #maydwc2025 #grand warlock senko

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just-some-castaways · 10 months ago

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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖎𝖙𝖚𝖆𝖑

(Excerpt from the first draft of an original novella, part 1)

The date? October 19th, 1998.

The place? North Carolina, Appalachia foothills.

The incident? Well, let me try to tell you what happened, before the memory slips my mind, or Garenth goes and makes a big to-do of things by blaming me for the whole mess.

12:11

I shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot, which was difficult when one was crouched in the untrimmed grasses of a long abandoned field. Spikes of needle sized green blades kept poking through my thick woolen cloak and clawing my skin. Somewhere in the woods at my back a barn owl cried, causing me to tense anxiously. Wild animals prowled the trees and called to each other in strange voices I couldn't understand. Shadows shifted and distorted everything, making it difficult to keep my eyes trained on the wooden hut nestled across the grasses from me. In a fruitless attempt to soothe my nerves, I checked my watch again.

12:16

Had it only been five minutes since I'd checked it last? True, I did enjoy fiddling with the silver embossed cover of the antique pocket-watch, the clicking noise as it sprung open to reveal the cogs keeping time inside was deeply satisfying. Yet no matter how hard, or how often I tried, I could never seem to speed up the rate of the little fragile fingers keeping track of the hours and minutes. Apparently, nature cared not for my impatience.

12:21

A black clad figure, distorted by the dense fog and shifting grasses stepped free of the treeline roughly thirty feet to my left, giving me just enough time to sound off a sharp whistle before it vanished again. Moments later I sensed a presence behind me and I shuffled back to the cover of the creaking oaks.

"About time." I couldn't help but keep the irritation out of my voice. "We were supposed to meet fifteen minutes ago."

"I had to avoid some unexpected additions to the party." My companion replied, his voice gruff and deep. Following his pointed finger, I searched the far side of the field to the hut once more, this time spotting two dimly lit bobbing lights, making their way to the building.

"Kegors bones." I swore. "That makes five, we weren't expecting that many."

"What does it change? The ritual is starting, we can't choose our enemies, only our battlegrounds." His tone was firm, though his words echoed a voice I knew well. "We both know what happens if we're too late."

Natural law is upended, people are hurt, and you're to blame if you do nothing. My old teacher's voice drawled in my head. Do you go to battle armed with a stick or a sword?

"Speak for yourself," I smiled, spinning a throwing dagger around my pointer finger. "I wasn't the one late to the meeting." Without waiting for a reply, I pressed towards the shack, using the fog and trees to conceal my path. A muttered curse, aimed in my direction, came from my companion before he too began making his way to the hut, and by association, the forbidden ritual.

#spilled ink #storytelling #short story #excerpts #story excerpt #original story #first draft #creative writing #writers on tumblr #HoC excerpts

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designthoughtsarchitects · 28 days ago

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A 40x60 Duplex Modern Villa Design in Bangalore with Art Deco Touch & Rental Homes by Design Thoughts Architects

Proposed exterior render for Pavan residence

At Design Thoughts Architects, we initially jot down the client’s ideas to design their dream homes. One client who approached us was Mr Pavan. He wanted a modern villa with a touch of Art Deco style for his family of five. Our task was to design two rental homes on the first floor and a duplex-style house on the first floor for the couple and the kids.

Project Details:

Type: Residence / Style: Modern style

Project Architects:

Year of start: 2024

Project Stage: Under construction

Project site area: 40’ x 60’

Site orientation: South facing

Project Location: Anajanapura, Bangalore

Proposing the exterior elevation

Proposed corner elevation exterior render for Pavan residence

According to the client’s requirement, we implemented a modern style with contrasting white brick cladding and red bricks in the elevation. The windows in the elevation are embossed with bold black Georgian grills and glass. The use of rounded corners for the massing exhibits traits of Art Deco and modern style. We executed this along the walls. A unique feature proposed in this project is the curved bay window on the third floor.

This proposed exterior perfectly balances design, texture and material asymmetry.

Understanding the planning proposal of the rentals

As we proceed to the rental homes from the parking through the lobby, we are greeted with chic and modern interiors set in a pastel colour palette. Along the adjacent walls of the Pooja room, we propose a grey-gold wallpaper and a full gold wallpaper for the Pooja with a traditional motif. The lighting fixtures in this area are a mix of contemporary and classical.

We proposed an exterior balcony along the dining spaces in both rental homes to create a visual connection. The kitchen-dining coherently connects the living room and pooja area. The kitchen interiors are made of gloss finish dark metal with notable details like rounded brass handles for the cabinets. All the furniture pieces chosen blend with the colour theme of the space and are modern in appeal.

According to Vastu, this 2-BHK rental plan is ergonomic and is currently being executed. In the interiors of the main bedroom, we bestow luxury villa interior design with a statement wardrobe piece finished with a mirror slider door. The design of both rentals is something to look forward to.

Proceeding with the planning of the duplex

Our client, Mr Pavan, wanted to design a duplex for his family on the second and third floors. This duplex is an intermix of luxury, art deco interiors, spacious layouts, and apt interior-exterior connections. The second floor accommodates family spaces, a library, a kid’s bedroom, a kitchen and dining. The third floor is more private and easily integrates with the exterior landscape.

Deck and library

The deck and library space in the duplex

Common areas and transitional spaces

Kitchen-dining and internal staircase

Bed Space design

Curved bay window design in the main bedroom

Exterior design

Exterior sit-out space with Brick jalli acting as light/heat filter

End note

The spatial planning of each project is updated according to client preference and is monitored regularly until the date of handover to the client. Mr Pavan’s residence is one such ongoing project that we are excited about. Stay tuned for site updates, client feedback and our team’s experience while working on this project.

Feel free to connect and drop your comments.

Join the Conversation: We value your ideas and are open to new design challenges. Reach us at [email protected], visit our website and follow us on Instagram at Design Thoughts Architects.

Thank you for being a part of our design journey; we look forward to hearing your thoughts and ideas. Cheers to many more creative interactions ahead!

Writer,

Design Thoughts Architects

#construction #architects in bangalore #bangalore architects #house design ideas #bengaluru architects #residential architects #dream home #house architecture #home design ideas #modern house design #contemporary architecture #art deco #art deco design #rental house #rental home #rental housing #modern home plans #home plans

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aralezinspace · 2 years ago

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Emboss

~AO3~ Ezio/Reader, mildly suggestive.

Kinktober prompt: Leather

Kinktober masterlist

You had never been able to restrain yourself when Ezio came home from a mission, especially if he had been gone for more than a few days. On this particular occasion, he had been gone just shy of a month, long enough for you to become frantic with concern.

You were about to hunt down any and all of his associates in Roma and demand to know if they had heard from your partner. The moment you were ready to leave, you heard the clatter and creak of the door opening, followed by the clump of boots on the floor and a deep, groaning sigh you’d know anywhere.

“Ezio!” you called, racing down the stairs. He was leaning against the closed door, his eyes half-lidded. They shot open and a delighted, ravenous grin split his face open when he heard your voice.

Ezio didn’t even bother greeting you before grabbing your arms and turning you so you were trapped between him and the closed door. He attacked your lips with a desperate growl, shoving his tongue into your mouth to taste every inch of you.

“I missed you,” he rasped, sliding his lips down to mouth at your neck. Your hands pushed his hood back, revealing dark hair neatly tied with a fading red ribbon. You dug your fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and gently pushed him back. He frowned in warning.

“Let me look at you,” you urged him gently. Your eyes traveled quickly from his head to his toes, stopping briefly where you knew vital organs were, searching for any injuries. On the second pass, you did a double take, your eyes going wide and a red flush burning your cheeks.

Over his customary white robes, Ezio was sporting a brand new set of armor- vambraces, a chest piece, greaves, and a thick belt about his waist, all in deep brown leather. It was shiny and hardly scuffed- all you could see were a few scratches from the hilt of his sword brushing over the chest piece as he moved, and a few scrapes on the vambraces from his hidden blades. The vambraces and greaves had the Assassin insignia embossed onto them, surrounded by artful swirls that would not look out of place on a coat of arms.

Heat began to coil low in your belly as your fingertips ghosted over the smooth leather. The material was warm from the sun and the heat of Ezio’s body, the buckles that held it all together somehow still cold. The smell of the leather and conditioning oil stuck in your nose with a sharp tang. You bit your lip as your touches became more insistent, questing over the armor, gently pressing in to hear the slightest creak of material.

You bit your bottom lip and tilted your gaze back up to Ezio’s face: the look he was giving you was nothing short of blazing, eyes dark and narrowed, the tendons in his neck trying to break out of his skin with the effort it took to maintain his self control.

The man before you was a force of nature wrapped in linen and leather. His choice of material was a testament to the knowledge of his own skills: he didn’t need to encumber himself with plate armor, for no opponent had even the slightest chance of landing a blow. It was built for stealth and speed, light and flexible- the armor of a man who could vanish into the night before his target even knew they were dead.

“I take it you approve?” he purred slowly, a positively feral smile spreading across his face. You nodded twice- short of breath, mouth dry, knees weak. Ezio stepped in closer.

He took your wrists in one hand and pinned them to the door above your head, while the other pressed his leather-clad forearm to your throat, forcing you to lift your chin just enough for him to see your muscles work as you swallowed hard. Arousal flared through you; being the sole focus of this man, one whom the word ‘dangerous’ didn’t even begin to cover, was a heady feeling you couldn’t get enough of.

“Well then, caro mio…” He rolled his hips into yours, a startled whimper bubbling out of you as your legs turned to jelly. His breathy growl sent a shiver down your spine.

“Why don’t you show me how much.”

#assassin’s creed #Kinktober 2023 #my stuff #Ezio Auditore #ezio x reader

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ricardian-werewolf · 1 year ago

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Thank you for answering my ask @corpsebasil - here’s how my idea of that prompt is going: basically my idea is based HEAVILY on the 1995 Richard III set in the 1930s where he’s a fascist dictator.

Kate Beckinsale plays Cecily-Anne. She’s jaded and also unsure of her political leanings in her father’s hellscape; but I love her!

*********

London, 1931.

Cecily pushed her chair back from the desk, and swiveled aimlessly in her seat.

On the desk before her sat a simple, cream embossed letter headed with the seal of a two headed eagle grasping within its claws a mace and three arrows. Three rounds of checks by her father’s advisors had ensured the letter to be free of toxins or poisoned ink. Still, she dug around in her desk drawer and removed a pair of simple, inexpensive leather gloves.

Slipping them over her hands, Cecily held the paper between her thumb and forefinger, and began to read the beautiful calligraphy that spilled across the page. She’d been expecting this letter since she was a mere 3 year old girl, and her father, as compos mentis as he was in 1916, had signed her away in a betrothal deal to secure England’s future.

He’d mistakenly assumed the nation-state to be a mere emissary of the Russian Empire, which would collapse within a year's time. But this state had problems of its own. A swathe of darkness that covered the entire middle of the country and created two from one single state, brought what seemed to be endless war down upon the people’s heads. It was no place for an English princess to marry into. Its royal house, while eight centuries deep into the ground, was small, and prone to marrying one's own cousin. So, the King - Alexander III, had spread his net out into Western Europe to provide a wife for his small, royal spare of a son.

Rumors spoke of a sickly boy, prone to creating chaos wherever he went. Apparently also the black sheep of the family, the boy had left court at 16 to join the army as an enlistment. Some rumored him to be harboring Grisha abilities, but since he was the spare, no one bothered testing the poor thing. Regardless, he’d done his two years of service, seen action in the northern expanses and then gone off to apprentice with a Fjerdan shipbuilder and Zemeni gunsmith. The rumors from court also proposed that he spoke 7 languages and couldn’t sit idle. But, he was charming enough to manage to hold out on this proposal for a shocking 15 years.

Maybe no one assumed Father would remember it’d be a thing he would bother to keep in his head once he got corrupted by the desire to kill his brothers?

Cecily shook her head. Her father was a murderer and power-hungry, but he wasn’t stupid. His bloodthirsty behavior masked a cold and calculating mind that could turn entire armies to fleeing the battlefield with their tails between their legs. He’d been the first to use mustard gas on the Lancastrian forces in the wake of the Great War, but since the Lancastrians mainly polled from men not drafted into the BEF, no one had any idea of the ways gas could be combatted. Yorks’s army of veterans slaughtered the lancastrians at Barnet Heath easily enough.

But now the Wars of the Roses had come to a bloody and frightening end. Cecily rubbed her arms with her palms, and stripped off the gloves. Casting them into the rubbish bin across her solar, she picked up the letter, kicked her heel-clad feet up onto the desk, and began to read the letter from one Nikolai Lantsov.

To Her Highness, Princess Cecily-Anne of England, Lady of Gloucester and Oxfordshire, Princess Royal.

Cecily harrumphed in pleasured surprise. It was something to write to her so openly, but at least it seemed this Prince had done his research. Too many others simply went by “Her Highness,” and left it at that. The added nicety that made Cecily smile was that he’d gone for the correct spelling of her name. Too many called her Cecile, which while the french spelling, was something entirely different. She scanned the letter further.

Instead of inquiries into her health; studies or the like, Nikolai Lantsov had instead endeavored to inquire about which books she loved to read. Did she have a preference for history? Her languages, he hoped, were numerous, and he inquired into her love for certain types of guns in hunting. Archery seemed to be a particular favorite, along with tinkering. Cecily slid open her desk drawer and rolled a small glass cylinder between her hands as she stared down at the letter further. The longer paragraphs inquired about what she did in school, was she privately or publicly educated? He hoped to know if she had gone to university. Had she served in any capacity for the state or civil service? Could she drive, or was she chauffeured? How was her governess? Harsh? Kind?

Cecily spun in her chair and continued to read, grimacing to herself. How the letter had gotten past her eagle-eyed father perturbed her. Unless…

She shook her head. Impossible. He wouldn’t dare send her off to Ravka to get rid of her. She was important to her father. Too important. Though she hated his fascist leanings with a blinding passion, Cecily couldn’t conceive of the idea that her own father would marry her off simply for convenience. But he was a man of centuries. She was, too. In a way. Shaking her head again, Cecily sighed, and dropped the paper back onto her velvet-desk cover. She got to her feet and moved to part the curtains.

Glaring out over Bloomsbury, the English Princess Royal licked her upper teeth, and rubbed a hand over her eyes. If she was being married off as a means of convenience, at least her husband wouldn’t be a bore. She’d tracked Nikolai Lantsov’s childhood with the same detail the Cheka did to anti-communist dissidents. She knew all there was to know about him, and she knew also that Ravka’s beloved royal spare princeling needed a wife desperately. This must have been done behind her back.

Whipping her gold wire-framed glasses off, Cecily pressed her forehead to the cool glass, sighing deeply. The letter awaited a reply. She would need to give it at least a day’s thought, though some part of her wanted to give a simple telegram back containing just one word: Yes. She would shirk the shackles of fascism for the wilds of a country lurching towards hopeful democracy. Balls and promenades would fill her days. She’d need to brush up on her Ravkan before she left. And if she showed just too much interest, her father could cancel the wedding on the grounds of defection. She must not appear to be overjoyed over a chance of breaking from her fathers’s fascist roots. At least, not yet.

There would be screenings. Ravka must appear gullible to the mantles of English Fascism. The ideas of Molesey and Spode had to whet the Ravkan palate. According to the papers, a communist sect of the Duma was in talks with Nikolai to be the major political party. Nikolai advocated for restricted capitalism or democratic socialism, taking from the Nordic states and their programs that worked to offset the Great Depression. He must appear to squash them.

How Cecily hungered to send more than a cursory note back indicating her interest!

She returned to sitting at her desk, pulled pen, paper and ink bottle to her, and began to pen a note in Old Ravkan. Let her father’s spies attempt to translate that! She copied out the bare bones of the letter in English, and had Nikolai’s title written out on that envelope. Slipping it into her outgoing mailbox, Cecily pocketed the other letter and grabbed a stamp from her upper desk drawer. She was just about to place it on the English envelope when a knock came at her door. Right.

Lehzen.

Her governess, cruel, callous, and somehow not a hundred year old vampire - yet she acted as such. Cecily rolled her eyes and settled back in her chair. She did not kick her feet back up on the desk, nor did she slouch. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and she pushed her spectacles up her nose to hide the evident glint.

“Come in.”

The double doors swung wide and in a swirl of 1850s woolen skirts and black velvet edging, Louise Lehzen marched into the room. Stopping once on the edge of the persian carpet, the governess curtsied to her charge, and then sat herself neatly in the wing-backed chair opposite Cecily. Whipping open a vietnamese-esque wooden-hand fan, Lehzen rapped the fan’s ribs on the edge of Cecily’s desk.

“Your correspondence to Prince Nikolai?”

“There,” Cecily pointed to the English note, and watched Lehzen examine it.

“You have no stamp. How are you planning to send it? By carrier pigeon?”

Carrier volcra. All the rage in Ravka apparently since the last Sun Summoner hopped the twig on her first Fold crossing. A shame. She was a cartographer and all!

“Here.” Cecily held up her pointer finger, to which the penny stamp was stuck. Lehzen sighed.

“You are much too old for your childish games, Princess.”

“I could say the same, Baroness.”

That retort earned her a hard whack across the knuckles with said fan, and Cecily winced, refusing to show the pain in her face. She shakily unfolded her clenched fist and breathed out in a steady stream through her nostrils. The longer she held out, the less painful it would be. The Baroness was getting into her twilight years and Cecily knew that she was the last person this woman would ever dare to educate. Nevermind that it wasn’t much beyond the greatness of the British Empire and how to run a household of hundreds of servants, ensure that the finances were set and a million other little things. Lehzen had doubted the likelihood of Nikolai continuing as Cecily’s betrothed.

Nikolai had proved everyone wrong, and Cecily gloated in that fact.

Finis.

#richard iii #nikolai lantsov #fanfic #my fic #fic: where does your faith fall in me #alina starkov #wyn rambles #OC: Cecily-Anne

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