#Thoughts and prayers to you Roses

[acourtofquestions]

Hearth to hearth, the Flame of War went.

Over snow-blasted mountains and amongst the trees of tangled forests, hiding from the enemies that prowled the skies. Through long, bitterly cold nights where the wind howled as it tried to wipe out any trace of that flame.

But the wind did not succeed, not against the flame of the queen.

So hearth to hearth, it went.

To remote villages where people screamed and scattered as a young-faced woman descended from the skies on a broom, waving her torch high.

Not to signal them, but the few women who did not run. Who walked toward the flame, the rider, as she called out, "Your queen summons you to war. Will you fly?"

Trunks hidden in attics were thrown open. Folded swaths of red cloth pulled from within. Brooms left in closets, beside doorways, tucked under beds, were brought out, bound in gold or silver or twine. And swords-ancient and beautiful—were drawn from beneath floorboards, or hauled down from haylofts, their metal shining as bright and fresh as the day they had been forged in a city now lying in ruin.

Witches, the townsfolk whispered, husbands wide-eyed and disbelieving as the women took to the skies, red cloaks billowing. Witches amongst us all this time.

Village to village, where hearths that had never once gone fully dark blazed in answer.

Always one rider going out, to find the next hearth, the next bastion of their people.

Witches, here amongst us. Witches, now going to war.

A rising tide of witches, who took to the skies in their red cloaks, swords strapped to their backs, brooms shedding years of dust with each mile northward.

Witches who bade their families farewell, offering no explanation before they kissed their sleeping babes and vanished into the starry night.

Mile after mile, across the darkening world, the call went out, ceaseless and unending as the eternal flame that passed from hearth to hearth.

"Fly, fly, fly!" they shouted. "To the queen! To war!"

Far and wide, through snow and storm and peril, the Crochans flew.

[dior-luxury]

Love your stories♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️ Could I request the female reader falling asleep on their boyfriends lap with the dorm leaders and vice dorm leaders + Floyd? Thank you.

In the Comfort of You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] dorm leaders . vice dorm leaders + floyd

- [𝐩:𝐬] none

Note: Aww, this prompt is actually so cute are you kidding! I came back from my dance comp early so I celebrated by writing again! (*¯︶¯*)

Riddle Rosehearts

It was a quiet afternoon in Heartslabyul, the garden unusually still after a morning of chaos. The usual string of rules, order, and unexpected mushroom inspections had tired out even the strictest members. The sun filtered through the rose bushes, scattering golden flecks across the picnic blanket laid out under the gazebo. The breeze rustled the leaves above, and the faint smell of strawberry tarts lingered in the air.

Riddle sat upright, posture perfect, a book open in his lap. He was mid-sentence when he felt a shift beside him.

You, his girlfriend, had been curled up at his side for a while, your head resting lightly on his shoulder. But now, slowly, without a word, you repositioned yourself and laid your head fully in his lap.

He stiffened.

Rules. There were rules about propriety. About maintaining posture. About not being flustered in public—even if it was just you two in the garden. His brain fired through a checklist of what he should do. He should tell you to sit up. He should maintain boundaries.

But then he looked down.

Your face was peaceful, softened by sleep. A slight smile played on your lips, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. One hand loosely held the hem of his jacket, as if even in sleep, you wanted to be close to him. You trusted him enough to rest like this. On him.

His heart stuttered.

Slowly, he placed the book aside and stared down at you, watching the way your lashes fluttered when the breeze tickled your cheeks. His hand hovered in the air for a long time—unsure—before he finally brushed your hair away from your forehead, his fingers trembling slightly.

He had always been taught discipline, order, and responsibility. But with you? He felt human. Vulnerable. Safe.

His fingers lingered in your hair, stroking it gently.

“…I suppose... one nap isn’t against the rules,” he murmured to himself.

He leaned back slightly, his other hand resting lightly across your back to make sure you didn’t roll off his lap. He felt warmth in his chest, unfamiliar and wonderful, like a sun blooming behind clouds. For once, Riddle Rosehearts didn't care about rules or appearances. Not when you looked so peaceful. Not when your presence filled his every thought.

And when you murmured his name softly in your sleep, like a prayer wrapped in trust?

He knew he'd never let anyone disturb this moment.

Not even the Queen of Hearts herself.

Trey Clover

The sun was setting over the Heartslabyul courtyard, painting the sky in sherbet hues. After a long day of baking sweets for the next unbirthday party, the scent of sugar and vanilla still clung to the air.

Trey had insisted on taking a break—dragging you out into the garden with a blanket and leftover tarts. You’d tried to protest, insisting you had homework, but he just smiled with that warm, steady patience of his and said, “You’ve earned a rest.”

You sat beside him, legs stretched out, chewing lazily on a berry tart as he leaned against a tree trunk. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and his glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose as he read aloud from a half-open cookbook. You didn’t understand why he found recipe books so relaxing, but his voice was calm, familiar, grounding.

Eventually, the warmth of the setting sun and the soft cadence of his words started to lull you into a haze. Without thinking, you scooted closer and laid your head in his lap.

Trey’s voice trailed off.

He looked down at you, blinking once, then again. The way you curled into him, unguarded, so effortlessly vulnerable—it made his chest ache in the sweetest way. He smiled, one hand coming up to adjust his glasses, the other instinctively brushing along your arm.

“You okay down there?” he asked softly.

No response.

Your breathing was slow and even, lips slightly parted as you drifted deeper into sleep. Your hand rested on his thigh, fingers barely curled like you were holding onto the moment.

He chuckled under his breath. “Guess that’s a yes.”

With infinite gentleness, Trey shifted the tart plate out of the way and used his free hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. He watched the way the sunlight danced on your skin, how your eyelashes cast little shadows across your cheeks.

He didn’t move for a long while. Didn’t read. Didn’t speak. He just sat there, a steady presence while you slept on his lap. His thumb brushed lazy, affectionate circles on your shoulder.

“I hope you know,” he said eventually, voice soft and low like a whisper in a dream, “I could sit like this forever.”

His heart beat slow and full. This wasn’t the chaos of the kitchen, or the madness of Heartslabyul. This was something simpler. Sweeter. Like a quiet lull after the storm.

He leaned down slightly, pressing a feather-light kiss to your temple.

“Sweet dreams, sugar.”

Leona Kingscholar

It was one of those scorching afternoons in the Savannaclaw lounge. The heat had chased most students into the shadows, and the usual clamor had died down to a low hum. Leona had claimed his favorite sun-drenched couch—stretched out with one arm behind his head, the other lazily flipping through a textbook he had no real intention of reading.

You were sitting next to him, legs curled under you, chatting idly for a bit before trailing off. He barely registered the silence at first—figured you were just zoning out. But then something shifted.

You moved closer.

His ears twitched.

Without a word, you leaned over and placed your head directly on his lap. Just—boop. Laid down. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Leona froze.

He looked down slowly, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. There you were, his girl, sleeping soundly across his lap. Lips parted slightly, cheek pressed against his thigh, hands tucked under your chin. Peaceful. Completely knocked out.

For a moment, Leona just stared.

And then—

“…Tch.” He clicked his tongue, but it lacked any real bite. “You’ve got some nerve.”

His hand hovered over you for a beat. He wanted to push you off, maybe grumble something about how he was supposed to be the lazy one, not you. But instead…

His fingers dipped into your hair.

It was light. Barely a touch. Just a lazy comb through your strands, again and again.

“Brat,” he murmured, but his voice was soft, like the desert wind at night. “You really just gonna sleep here without asking? On my lap?”

And yet he didn’t move.

Didn’t complain.

Didn’t breathe too loudly for fear of waking you.

His tail swished lazily across the floor, betraying the contentment he pretended he didn’t feel. The warmth of your body against him made his eyelids droop, but he stayed awake, keeping a silent vigil.

He wouldn’t admit it, not in a thousand years—but having you there, choosing him as your safe place to rest?

That meant more than all the crowns in the world.

He smirked, resting his head back.

“…Guess I’ll let you off this time.”

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie wasn’t used to having time off. Between errands for Leona, club stuff, side hustles, and dodging various school responsibilities, “relaxation” wasn’t exactly on his schedule. But today? For some miraculous reason? He had an open hour. So he dragged you out behind the Savannaclaw dorm where the sun was warm, the grass was soft, and there were no chores to do.

He was halfway through telling you about some weird thing he saw in the cafeteria (“Swear on my granny’s life, the mashed potatoes moved!”) when he realized you weren’t laughing anymore.

He turned his head to look—and there you were.

Head in his lap. Curled up like a cat in a sunbeam. Eyes closed. Asleep.

Ruggie blinked.

Once. Twice.

“…Huh?”

He looked around like this was some kind of prank. “Oi. Y/N?”

No response.

A soft snore.

Ruggie stared down at you, your face squished slightly against his thigh, your fingers loosely gripping his hoodie. He didn’t know what to do with his hands at first. He held them up in the air like you were fragile and he might break you by accident.

He whispered, “…You serious right now?”

His face was bright red. Full-on red as a beet. But his heart? Beating like crazy. Fast and full and warm in a way that made his chest ache.

He glanced down again.

And slowly, hesitantly, the corner of his mouth tugged into a grin.

“Heh… cute.”

Very carefully, he pulled his hoodie sleeve down and tucked it under your head like a makeshift pillow. Then he leaned back on his hands and looked up at the sky, his tail flicking lazily behind him.

“You better not start drooling on me,” he muttered—but there was no venom in it. Just affection.

He sat there quietly, keeping still even when his legs started to fall asleep. When you shifted a little and sighed in your sleep, he actually stopped breathing for a second.

Because no one ever really… relaxed around him like that. Not like this. Not since he was a kid in the slums of the Sunset Savanna. This—being someone’s safe place—was something new. Something precious.

And he’d fight anyone who tried to ruin it.

Even if he’d totally deny that later.

Azul Ashengrotto

The Lounge had closed for the night. The clink of glassware had faded, the last customer long gone, and the velvet curtains drawn tight. Everything was bathed in that dim oceanic glow Octavinelle was known for—deep blues and the shimmer of water against stone.

Azul had finally finished sorting through contracts, sighing in satisfaction as he slid the last document into its folder. You were already sitting on the plush couch in the VIP room, legs tucked to the side, watching him with a soft smile on your lips.

“Hard at work, as always,” you teased lightly.

Azul chuckled, brushing his bangs back. “You know how it is. A businessman’s time is never his own.”

“You’ve got time for me now though, right?”

He hesitated only for a moment. “Always.”

You patted the space next to you. He sat, slightly stiff as always—ever the perfect posture. But he relaxed once you leaned against his shoulder. You chatted for a bit, your voice slowly trailing off as the atmosphere quieted. Your head slipped downward, resting lightly against his arm at first… then lower… until suddenly, Azul felt a shift.

He looked down to find your head in his lap.

Asleep.

Breathing gently.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Azul froze. Completely. His hands hovered mid-air, his back went ramrod straight, and panic flickered in his mind like a school of darting fish.

What do I do? Is this allowed? Is she okay? What if she drools? What if Jade sees—oh seven seas—

He dared to look down at your face. Your eyelashes fluttered faintly. Your lips were parted slightly, your expression peaceful. Unburdened. Completely unafraid.

The kind of peace Azul never had in his own head.

He felt his throat tighten.

You trusted him—him, a calculating, manipulative, secret-wielding businessman enough to fall asleep on his lap.

“…You really are bold,” he whispered, voice breaking into a whisper. “But… I suppose I can’t blame you.”

Cautiously, as if worried he’d shatter the moment, Azul rested a hand against your shoulder and the other—so slowly—began to stroke your hair. The strands slipped through his fingers like sea silk. He watched you for what felt like hours, every so often brushing a strand out of your face or tracing the curve of your cheek with his thumb.

And for once… the silence wasn’t unnerving.

It was comforting.

“Maybe just a little longer,” he murmured.

When Jade poked his head in later to report something, his eyes landed on the scene. He raised a brow—but said nothing.

Azul simply met his gaze, a faint smile playing on his lips. For once, he didn’t care about appearances.

Not when you were in his arms.

Jade Leech

The rainforest in the botanical garden was dim, warm, and filled with the sounds of dripping water and the flutter of hidden wings. Jade loved bringing you here after long days—the two of you wandering between the glowing mushrooms and thick vines, talking about strange creatures and even stranger students.

That evening, you had been unusually quiet.

Tired.

He’d noticed. Of course he had. Jade noticed everything.

So, he suggested you rest.

You both sat on a stone bench nestled under an arch of glowing moss. The lights cast a soft green hue over the clearing. Jade had started telling you a story—some obscure tale about a deep-sea creature with a song that lured people into dreams.

And maybe it was his voice—smooth as silk, low and lulling—or maybe it was the way he ran his fingers lazily through the fern beside you, but soon…

Your head slipped gently into his lap.

And you didn’t move again.

Jade blinked once, tilting his head ever so slightly.

“…Oh my.”

Your face was tilted toward him, cheek resting on the fabric of his uniform pants. Your breathing was deep, peaceful. Your body, curled like a cat, radiated warmth into his legs. You made not even the faintest sound.

And Jade?

Jade was frozen—but not out of panic.

He was fascinated.

You trusted him enough to sleep here. On him. Fully vulnerable. Open. And you didn’t even seem to hesitate.

The corners of his lips curled upward into a smile—genuine and serene.

“Well,” he murmured, reaching out to gently brush your hair behind your ear, “you are more interesting than any mushroom I’ve ever encountered.”

He chuckled quietly, the sound blending into the soft symphony of the garden.

Jade’s hand lingered in your hair, slow and thoughtful. He studied the way you clutched the fabric of his jacket with one hand, like you were anchoring yourself to him. And slowly, his usually composed heart began to thrum, unfamiliar and full.

No one ever rested near him this way.

No one dared.

But you did.

“You’ve caught me off guard,” he whispered, almost reverently.

Not a trace of mischief in his tone—only awe.

He leaned down slightly, brushing a kiss to your temple with an elegant tenderness only someone like him could manage.

“I wonder what you’re dreaming of,” he said softly, his voice a promise. “Whatever it is… I hope I’m there.”

And he stayed perfectly still, watching over you like a sentinel in the jungle. Not because he had to—but because he wanted to.

Because you, in that moment, were the most precious thing in his world.

Floyd Leech

The tide was low in his mood today.

Everything felt boring. Club meetings dragged, the Lounge was quiet, and even scaring first-years didn’t give him the usual rush. He was sprawled out on one of the long couches in the Octavinelle dorm lounge, legs dangling off the side, one arm draped over his eyes.

You were with him, of course—his “Shrimpy.” His favorite toy. His favorite person.

Today, though, he wasn’t teasing you or playfully squeezing you until you squirmed. He was unusually quiet, lying still in a rare moment of calm. You sat beside him, chatting softly at first, your fingers absently tracing patterns into his arm.

But then… your voice faded.

Your hand stilled.

He peeked out from under his arm just in time to feel it—your weight shifting as you gently curled up beside him, resting your head right on his stomach. A warm, sleepy sigh left your lips.

And then nothing.

You were asleep.

At first, Floyd just blinked, his mismatched eyes wide with surprise. “Huh?”

He tilted his head forward, peering at you like a curious sea creature watching a pearl roll into its den.

“You really knocked out, huh?”

No answer. Just the sound of your soft breathing, face nestled into his hoodie, arms curled in like you were hugging a plush toy.

Floyd didn’t move.

Didn’t make a sound.

Instead… his grin slowly, slowly spread across his face.

“Eheh~ Shrimpy... you really are something else.”

He gently lifted his hand and let it fall over your back, his fingers splaying like seaweed, curling into the fabric of your shirt. He didn’t squeeze this time. No chaotic thrashing, no threats of “squeeeezin’ ya ‘til ya pop.” Just the weight of his hand, steady and warm, like he was grounding himself in you.

His tailing mood melted like drift ice under sun.

You chose him.

To rest on. To trust. To fall asleep on, even knowing how temperamental he could be.

That tugged at something deep. Something primal and tender. He could feel his heartbeat slow to match yours, lulled by the rhythm of your breath.

“You’re lucky I like you so much,” he murmured, voice unusually low and gentle. “If it were anybody else, I’d have chomped ‘em by now for touchin’ me like this.”

But he didn’t move. Not an inch.

He just laid there, arm wrapped around you, letting you use his body like a pillow made of seafoam and muscle.

And when you murmured his name in your sleep—barely audible, just a breath?

Floyd melted entirely.

His grin softened, his head tilted back.

“…Guess I’ll nap too, then. But if I drool on ya, it’s your fault~”

Kalim Al-asim

The palace-like halls of Scarabia were quiet in the golden haze of late afternoon. The sun poured through the arching windows, lighting the silken pillows in warm amber. It had been a long day—flying carpets, music practice, and Kalim pulling you into at least three spontaneous dance circles.

Now, you were both on the balcony, surrounded by flower pots and colorful lanterns swaying in the breeze. Kalim had been talking excitedly about a festival his family hosted once—a night where they lit a thousand paper lanterns and let them float into the sky.

You were curled beside him, resting against his side, nodding along as his hands animated every story.

But eventually… your replies stopped.

He glanced down mid-sentence to find you still. Eyes closed. Breathing soft.

Your head had somehow found its way into his lap, resting there like it belonged. Your hands tucked under your cheek, your face tilted up toward him like you were dreaming of the stars he’d just described.

Kalim’s eyes widened.

“Oh!”

He clapped a hand over his mouth immediately, realizing how loud he was about to be.

“She fell asleep,” he whispered to himself, awed.

He looked down at you like you were made of starlight and gold.

You trusted him. You felt safe with him. So safe, in fact, that you’d fallen asleep in his lap under the open sky.

His heart soared.

“Wow…” he breathed.

He reached out, ever so gently, brushing a lock of hair from your forehead, his fingers trembling just slightly. Not from nerves—Kalim was never shy—but from the sheer overwhelming joy of the moment.

He wanted to laugh, to cheer, to kiss your forehead a hundred times.

But he didn’t.

He sat still, barely breathing, his smile wide and wonder-filled.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, his voice full of love. “Like a dream.”

He looked up at the sky, watching the clouds drift by, and then down again at you. His fingers found yours, lacing them together gently.

Kalim’s world was fast, bright, full of noise and song. But this?

This was a quiet kind of joy.

One that filled his chest like sweet air and didn’t need to be shouted.

He leaned down, kissed the crown of your head, and rested his cheek gently against your hair.

“If I had a thousand stars,” he whispered, “I’d give them all to you.”

And there, under the setting sun, with the breeze carrying hints of jasmine and warmth, Kalim stayed absolutely still—just a boy in love, holding his world in his lap.

Jamil Viper

It was late—well past the quiet hours in Scarabia. The sun had long since dipped behind the dunes, and the dorm was bathed in a soft, warm glow from hanging lanterns. The courtyard had emptied after a long day of activities, and only the hush of wind through palm trees and the distant trickle of water from the fountain remained.

Jamil sat beneath the archway overlooking the open courtyard, dressed down in his lounge clothes—simple, dark, loose-fitting, no frills. His shoulders were slouched, rare for someone always so tightly wound. You were beside him, curled up with your legs tucked under you, slowly leaning more and more his way.

The conversation had started casually—stories about Kalim’s antics, about classes, about the endless list of responsibilities Jamil was juggling. But as you listened, your replies grew quieter, slower…

And before he could even finish a sentence, he felt it.

Your head, gentle and warm, settled right into his lap.

Jamil went completely still.

He looked down, blinking, utterly silent.

“…You fell asleep?”

He could hardly believe it. There you were—his girlfriend—just… sleeping on him like it was natural. No hesitation. No fear. Just soft breath against his stomach and one hand lightly curled in his hoodie.

And him?

He didn’t move a muscle.

Jamil wasn’t used to this kind of closeness without strings. He wasn’t used to someone resting on him, not needing anything, not demanding he do something, fix something, prove something.

You were just there.

Sleeping.

Trusting him.

He swallowed hard, his heartbeat loud in his ears. One of his hands hovered above your shoulder, hesitant, as if afraid touching you would wake you—or worse, make the moment disappear.

But then, with a quiet exhale, he let his hand fall gently into your hair.

Fingers threaded through the strands slowly. Carefully. Like you were made of delicate silk.

“Y/N…” he whispered, barely audible.

There was a softness in his eyes no one else ever got to see. He didn’t know if you could hear him in your sleep—but it didn’t matter.

“You really don’t know what you do to me.”

He leaned back against the pillar, staring up at the night sky, the stars peeking through the edges of the courtyard ceiling. For once, he allowed himself a moment of stillness. No planning. No scheming. No worrying about Kalim or school or a hundred responsibilities.

Just you.

Warm and trusting in his arms.

And Jamil—quiet, calm—stayed perfectly still, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he brushed his thumb over your temple.

“If this is a dream,” he whispered, “I don’t want to wake up.”

Vil Schoenheit

The dressing room was quiet.

For once.

The glow of vanity lights lined the mirror, casting golden halos over the room. Bottles, brushes, powders, everything meticulously organized in Vil’s space. You had been keeping him company after his rehearsal—watching him take off his stage makeup with gentle, practiced motions, each movement like part of a performance in itself.

You sat beside him on the plush velvet chaise, your posture proper at first, engaged in conversation. He was mid-rant about a classmate’s awful skincare routine (heaven help them), and you had smiled, eyes soft, head tilted just slightly.

And then…

You slumped sideways.

Right into his lap.

Vil’s breath hitched, and he looked down, mouth parted slightly in surprise.

You… fell asleep?

On him?

“Darling?” he said quietly, brushing his fingers against your shoulder. No response.

Your face was tilted toward him, cheek gently pressed against his thigh, lashes brushing the top of your cheek, lips parted just slightly. You looked so peaceful. So still.

So unaware of how tightly you’d gripped his heart in that moment.

Vil slowly exhaled, lowering his hand to rest on your back. His other hand—still elegant, still carrying the last remnants of lotion—hovered over your hair. And then, with featherlight grace, he began to smooth it back, careful not to disturb your rest.

“Sleeping on a chaise,” he murmured. “That’s hardly ideal posture.”

But his voice had no edge. No scolding. Just… gentle amusement.

Vil Schoenheit was used to control—his appearance, his schedule, his image. And yet, here you were, disrupting all of that with a single act of vulnerability. Trusting him with your body in its most unguarded state.

And it didn’t irritate him.

It moved him.

“This is… dangerous,” he whispered. “You lower my guard far too easily.”

He gazed at you for a long while, memorizing the curve of your face in the soft light. The way your hand rested atop his knee like it belonged there. The softness of your lips, the warmth of your breath.

Vil had been photographed a thousand times, posed beside the most beautiful people in the world.

But this?

This was the most beautiful moment he had ever been part of.

He gently tugged a silk throw blanket from the back of the chaise and draped it over your shoulders, careful not to shift your head. Then, leaning down, he pressed a kiss to your temple—soft, reverent, full of unspoken feeling.

“You’ll be the ruin of me, schatz,” he whispered. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Rook Hunt

The sun had long since begun its descent, draping the vast grounds of NRC in a golden veil. The lush gardens behind Pomefiore dorm basked in that soft honey light, petals curling gently like sleepy sighs, and even the breeze seemed to hush itself to a lullaby. Rook Hunt sat on a stone bench nestled beneath an arch of ivy and lavender, legs crossed with poetic elegance, one arm draped along the bench’s edge, the other cradling a small leather-bound book of Baudelaire’s poetry.

But he had not turned a page in fifteen minutes.

His gaze, normally so sharp and brimming with curiosity, had softened completely—locked onto you, his beloved, curled up in the safest of sanctuaries: his lap.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, of course. It had started with just leaning against him, the sun warming your back and his hand absentmindedly carding through your hair, twirling strands like golden thread between his fingers. His voice had been low, reciting French verses with a soft lilt, letting the words flutter into the air like butterflies. Somewhere between the cadence of his voice, the scent of lilacs, and the rise and fall of his breathing, sleep had stolen you away.

And Rook… was absolutely enchanted.

“Oh, mon ange…” he whispered, barely audible, his breath brushing against the crown of your head.

He didn’t dare move. His usually ever-restless energy was still for once—his stillness more reverent than any silence in the cathedral. Your cheek was resting just over his thigh, your arms folded like a child’s under your head. A soft sigh escaped your lips every now and then, the kind that melted straight into his chest.

It was an intimacy far beyond a stolen kiss or dramatic serenade. This was something quiet. Sacred.

Rook’s gloved fingers ghosted along your shoulder, his thumb brushing ever so lightly against the skin where your shirt had slipped a bit. He chuckled—quietly, tenderly.

“To inspire such trust… Such vulnerability…” He murmured in awe, gazing down at you like one might look at a painting in a gallery, overwhelmed by its beauty but unable to explain why. “Tu es ma muse éternelle.”

The soft flush on your cheeks, the way your lashes kissed your skin, the rhythm of your breath—all of it wove a spell around his heart. A predator by nature, he was always seeking, always hunting the next beautiful moment. But this? This stillness, this peace—this was the rarest prey of all.

Rook leaned back, head tilted toward the twilight sky.

He would sit here forever if it meant you could rest undisturbed. The hunt could wait.

Idia Shroud

The atmosphere in Idia’s room buzzed with low ambient synth music, neon lights tracing cyber-punk lines across the walls, bouncing off rows of figurines and glowing monitors. Ortho had exited the room a while ago, leaving behind a half-empty can of soda and a quiet “I’ll give you two some space, nii-san~” in a sing-song voice that had Idia practically overheating.

You were on the floor, curled in a sea of fuzzy blankets and oversized gaming pillows. Idia had set up your “chill zone,” as he nervously called it—stocked with snacks, manga, and an absurdly cute cat-shaped pillow that he had definitely not bought because it reminded him of the way you smiled.

You had climbed up into his gaming chair at some point, practically draping yourself across his lap, completely fearless. Idia had gone full system error—stiff as a board, hands twitching at his sides, a thousand inner alarms going off.

“Wha—Y-You can’t just—th-th-there’s a process! A sequence! L-like, at least two awkward movie nights before you just go full-on lap-mode!!”

But you hadn’t answered. Your breathing had slowed. Your body had gone warm and heavy.

You’d fallen asleep.

Idia’s heart skipped several beats. He actually had to check that he wasn’t hallucinating. A tiny puff of air escaped your lips, your cheek squished against his hoodie-clad thigh, and your hand, like it had a mind of its own, had curled around the hem of his sleeve.

He froze. Again.

Then slowly, as if afraid to wake a very fluffy, very delicate sleeping beast, he let himself breathe. Just a little.

His hand trembled as it hovered near your head. His fingers twitched like they were afraid to mess it up—you—the whole fragile image of this moment.

And then, very carefully, he let his hand settle into your hair.

“…This is… r-real, right?” he whispered, voice cracking mid-sentence. He bit down on a whimper, overwhelmed.

“She’s literally asleep. On me. Like, I’m not even an NPC in this cutscene. I’m the main questline now.”

A faint giggle threatened to bubble up, but he slapped a hand over his mouth.

Then the other part of his brain chimed in.

What if she wakes up and realizes it’s weird? What if she was just tired and it wasn’t a conscious choice? What if she thinks you’re a total loser for sitting there like a statue?

He shut his eyes tight.

No. No, for once, he wouldn’t self-destruct this moment. Not when it felt like he’d stepped into a rare hidden level that only unlocked when your affection for an NPC was maxed out.

He looked down at you again, marveling at the tiny breath of warmth rising and falling against him.

“You’re like… my safe point,” he mumbled into the dark, letting his fingers finally settle gently in your hair.

A small ping from his PC reminded him a new update had installed.

“Whatever, I already got the best patch.”

Malleus Draconia

It was a rare, quiet evening at Diasomnia. No thunder echoed from the mountains, no duties called for the crown prince, and no students dared interrupt the rare moment of peace Malleus found with you.

The courtyard behind the dormitory was bathed in moonlight, silver threads weaving between tall hedges and ancient statues. You’d been chatting beside him on a stone bench, your legs curled beneath you, fingers grazing his as you recounted a ridiculous tale Ace had told you during lunch. Malleus listened—his eyes never straying from your face, utterly enchanted by your every word. You were warm and brilliant, like the sun he’d always been curious about, and it was moments like this that made him feel closer to understanding it.

But the day had been long. Long classes, longer conversations, and the gentle lull of Malleus’s deep voice had slowly pulled you into the edges of slumber. One moment you were chuckling, your cheek in your palm, and the next… your head tilted gently against his thigh.

Malleus stiffened slightly—not in discomfort, but surprise.

He blinked down at you, your lashes fluttering, your lips parting slightly as your breathing evened out. His first instinct was stillness. Dragons, after all, are patient creatures. He gazed at your peaceful form, processing the trust it took for you to doze off like this—on him. Vulnerable. Soft.

“My treasure…” he whispered, voice low with reverence.

He gently adjusted his posture, making sure your head had a comfortable angle. One clawed hand hovered hesitantly in the air before slowly descending to stroke your hair, tender and cautious, like touching spun gold.

“Even in sleep, you are unafraid of me.” The words were not sad, but filled with quiet awe.

The warmth of your body against him, the subtle scent of your perfume, and the delicate rise and fall of your breath began to unravel something inside Malleus. A rare emotion—one that wrapped around his ancient heart like ivy. He had seen kingdoms rise and fall, yet here you were, the most precious thing he’d ever held, choosing to rest in his lap like he was your sanctuary.

As your hand twitched in your sleep, seeking his, Malleus smiled.

He laced your fingers together, holding you close.

“You will never know harm while I breathe,” he murmured, more promise than poetry.

He remained there, unmoving, for as long as you needed. Watching over you with all the devotion of a dragon guarding his hoard, his heart heavy with love and light.

Lilia Vanrouge

The music from the Lounge had died down hours ago, and yet the two of you lingered in the quiet common room of Diasomnia, curled up on an emerald velvet settee, bathed in candlelight.

You had been scrolling through photos on your phone, laughing at memories, while Lilia lounged beside you, arms spread over the back of the couch, looking for all the world like a retired general watching over his beloved court jester.

His teasing quips had slowed as the hour crept past midnight. You were curled sideways now, legs draped over his, head tucked against his shoulder.

And then… your body shifted slightly.

You sighed—a soft, exhausted exhale—and gently, instinctively, nestled your head into his lap. Your phone slid from your hand to the cushion with a muffled thud.

Lilia paused mid-sentence, blinking. Then he looked down.

“Well, well…” His voice was a whisper, touched with warmth and amusement. “You’ve gone and melted into my lap, little bat.”

There was no complaint in his tone. Only gentle adoration.

He shifted minutely, reaching for a throw blanket folded neatly over the back of the couch. With practiced ease, he draped it over your form, tucking it around your shoulders with a tenderness only centuries of experience could perfect.

As your cheek pressed against his thigh, he could feel the subtle hum of your breath through his clothes. He gently brushed your hair away from your face, taking a moment to admire your features—so soft, so trusting, so utterly you.

Lilia had lived longer than most stars, but never had he found a moment quite like this.

“A sight sweeter than sakura in spring,” he murmured, one gloved hand resting lightly atop your head.

He leaned back, gazing at the ceiling, his other hand lazily tracing invisible patterns against your arm beneath the blanket.

He thought of the countless battles he’d fought, the wars he’d survived, the heartbreaks endured. And yet this moment—this quiet, sleeping you—was what he found himself wanting to protect most of all.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly, “I’ll keep watch tonight, just as I always have. Even nightmares wouldn’t dare bother you while I’m here.”

A mischievous glint twinkled in his eyes, even as his voice remained soft.

“And if you drool on me, well… I suppose I’ll consider it a badge of honor.”

He chuckled lightly to himself, and resumed playing with your hair, humming a lullaby so old the stars had likely forgotten it. It was a melody sung once in ancient fae courts, now resurrected just for you.

Lilia, the eternal guardian, kept his silent vigil, heart full and content.

[softbabybelle]

CORRUPTION𓍯𓂃 r ֶָ֢cameron 003.

rafe cameron x shy!reader

 𝜗𝜚 summary : rafe has been trying to get you alone for far too long and now that he finally has, he won't give the moment up for anything.

𝜗𝜚 words : 2.3k

𝜗𝜚 c!w : smut, humping, thigh riding, public!sex, finger sucking, risk of being caught, praise kink, kinda degradation kink.

part 1, part 2.

days had passed since the incident with rafe cameron and the boy who's name you didn't wish to remember.

this time, you hadn't gone out of your way to avoid the boy but instead went back to normal, almost as if nothing had happened between you two at all. you sat on the couch of tannyhill, giggling at something on sarah's phone with your legs crossed.

now, that simply wouldn't do.

rafe had been eager for a minute alone with you which seemed almost impossible when his sister was hanging off your side every minute you spent at tannyhill.

he was sitting on the living room couch, the one across from you both, scrolling on his own phone, a finger to his mouth as he gnawed at the completely bitten down nail.

his eyes kept travelling over to you, skimpy little summers dress clinging to your form while the skirt part began to ride up your thighs as you moved against the couch.

dirty thoughts swarmed his head, thoughts that shouldn't be repeated out loud. thoughts that shouldn't have been in his head to begin with.

he thought he was sure to be damned to hell for the things he was thinking.

and then, ironically enough, the gods seemed to smile down on him. it was as if all of his prayers had been answered and every beg and grovel had finally been listened to by an angel.

the angel who's name was wheezie, standing in the living room door frame. "sarah." wheezies hair was a mess, thrown into a bun with loose strands of hair sticking out every which way, she looked tired, so awfully tired and dreadful as she stared forward at her sister who's head instantly snapped up. "please help me. i'm trying clean out my wardrobe but it's too much."

a laugh fell from sarah's mouth. "no way. it's your mess, clean it yourself."

but that was when wheezie's arms crossed over her chest, cocking a brow. "I'm sorry, who covered for you and topper last night?"

"wheezie!" sarah exasperated, glancing out into the hallway. ward and rose were upstairs but sarah still didn't wish for them to hear about the late night activities she'd been getting up to with her boyfriend.

defeated, she turned her head back to you, who was sitting so sweetly on the couch, that same sickly sweet smile crawling up on your features. you liked watching the cameron siblings interact, even if it wasn't always so pleasant, there was something oddly homely about it. "'s okay, sarah, 'm fine down here."

"okay." she sighed, getting up from the couch. "okay, you just―just hang out for a while and i'll be down soon, okay?" she watched you nod. "okay, come on, let's get this over with."

and suddenly, tension ran thick through the air.

it was you and rafe, alone.

his legs were spread apart on the armchair he was seated on, eyes running up and down your body. you seemed to notice your dress riding up and instantly tugged it down with pink cheeks. you swallowed thickly. "I, uhm―i wanted to say thank you." your eyes finally looked up to reach his.

the minute he heard your voice, his phone was turned off and tossed away. his head cocked to the side. "what for?" teasing. for he knew exactly what for.

you squirmed in your place. "for everything you did with max."

"didn't seem too grateful when you ran away, hm?" he didn't mean the bitter words that slipped from his lips. he watched the way you hung your head low, eyes glassing over. instantly, a kind of guilt washed over him and he leaned back further into the chair. "c'mere." and he patted his thigh, watching your eyes flicker down. you glanced out to the hallway and he had to roll his eyes. "'s okay, nobody'll see you. they're all too busy."

you did as you were told, crossing the room and landing in his lap.

there was something so sensational about being in his lap again.

memories flooded your head, pictures and images of you and he, in this same predicament inside his bedroom, his lips tainting yours. you couldn't help but latch your eyes onto his lips.

"you wanna tell me why you keep runnin' away, hm?" you don't answer, eyes searching anywhere but his face. he doesn't allow it, turning you slowly towards him once again. "asked you a question, sweetheart."

you fought words inside your mouth, all threatening to come tumbling out. "was scared." is all he's met with.

"scared of what?" his head dips, his eyes trying to reach yours, trying to look in and gauge your emotions. "scared of me?"

you shook your head, fingers reaching out to trail across the fabric of his sweater. "i... liked it when you kissed me." you admitted and he watched as a blush fell across your face, red reaching the tips of your ears. "i liked it a lot but 'was scared that sarah would find out 'n i don't―"

"sarah doesn't need to know anything." he answers quickly. "besides, who you kiss..." his fingers trailed across your bottom lip, sucking in his own bottom one between his teeth as he gazed down at them, sweet like honey. "is none of her business, yeah?"

you nodded too quickly, too eagerly, too convinced by his words too quickly. "'m sorry, rafe, 'm really sorry."

"think i know how you can make it up t'me." his fingers left your lips and placed themselves against your hips. "you wanna make it up to me?"

"yes, please." came out too swiftly.

he couldn't help but smirk at your eagerness. "'m gonna kiss you again, okay?" and suddenly, you could feel heat pooling in the bottom of your stomach. he leaned in, his breaths falling hot against your face, his scent filling your senses. and just as his lips brushed against your own, he whispered. "you gotta promise me something first, 'kay?"

you licked your wet lips. "anything." wanting nothing more than for rafe to lean in and seal the kiss. you'd do anything he ever asked.

"no runnin' away this time." his fingers pinched at your jaw, holding it so your eyes could reach his. "you want this? you take it 'n you don't go pushin' me away again, alright?" a curt nod. "words, princess."

"promise." you spoke quickly. "promise, rafe, please."

his lips quirked.

but he didn't keep you waiting.

when his lips crashed into yours, you were very aware of the fact that you were sitting on the couch of tannyhill, the living room door wide open. all it took was for ward or sarah to come down the stairs and they'd see what you'd been up to.

they'd see that you weren't such a good girl after all.

but you couldn't seem to care.

you were too focused on his hot hot lips, tongue slipping into your mouth as he deepened the kiss, hands pinching at your waist, holding you in place.

your mind began to unravel, all you could think about was him. rafe cameron. you were sitting on his lap, kissing him, again. and you swore it was a feeling unlike any feeling you'd ever felt in your entire life. it was making you so desperate, so messy, so wet.

and you were sure he could feel it too. he tugged on your waist, rolling your hips against him.

you let a whimper be swallowed by his mouth.

his lips finally broke from yours for air but he didn't allow himself enough to fully regain his breath before they were latched beneath your jaw, sucking and kissing harshly.

again, he rolled your hips. you weren't sure if it was him moving you or you doing it by yourself now. you could feel him growing hard beneath you, you could feel him pressing himself up against your clothed pussy and all you could think about was how much you needed everything off.

you needed to feel him, skin to skin.

it seemed so close yet stretched so far away.

his hands ran up the skin of your thighs, pushing the fabric of your dress up as he went. "r-rafe." you whimpered out, head turning to the door. "someone could see―"

"'s what you asked for, isn't it?" his hands were rough against you, tugging the dress upwards, not caring for the family who remained upstairs. "isn't it?"

you swallowed thickly. "yes." you stammered out. "b-but―"

"you still wanna make it up to me, don't you?" his brows knitted together in this false sense of sadness, as if you'd done something awful to the poor man. you'd felt suddenly guilty for even suggesting that you stop.

you felt yourself ease against him, your own brows pinching together. "'m sorry, rafe, swear 'm sorry. i'll do anything, jus' please don't be angry―"

"'m not angry." he assures you, fingers brushing up and down your thighs, inching too high. "jus' need you to do something f'me, can you do that, sweetheart?" you were nodding like a puppy, eager to do anything he would ask of you. he maneuvered you so you were situated on one of his spread thighs and not his lap anymore. "y'gonna rub yourself on my thigh like the pathetic good girl you are, okay?"

you'd never done anything like this before.

suddenly you began to panic. "rafe, someone'll hear 'n―"

"nobody'll hear you, baby, jus' gotta be nice 'n quiet, yeah?" you still looked hesitant, top teeth clamping down on your bottom lip. "would make me feel so good, princess 'n you jus' wanna make me feel good, isn't that right? yeah, baby, jus' wanna make rafe feel good, you're such a good girl, aren't you?"

and you don't know how, why, or when but suddenly, you're doing just what he told you.

your hips are stuttering as they move against his jeans, you can feel your panties growing wetter and wetter with every jolt of movement.

rafe doesn't appear to be doing much, hands skillfully moving your hips while he leans back against the armchair.

"there you go, good girl." his cock twitched in his jeans, watching your hesitant, shy face as you moved oh so slowly on his jeans. "lift your hips f'me, sweetheart." you did as you were told, pausing to lift yourself up from his thigh. his hand moved beneath you, tugging your panties to the side and rubbing gentle circles against your clit.

"oh." fell so sweetly from your lips that to anybody else, it would have appeared almost innocent. but rafe was well aware of how dirty you really were.

he landed you back on his thigh, letting you rub yourself against him, this time, it was your bare pussy that ran up and down his jean-clad thigh.

he groaned at the sight of you, free hand coming down to fix his situation that was suddenly growing in his pants. he pulled at the jeans slightly, trying to make his growing bulge less noticeable but there was simply too much to hide.

your eyes cast down to his hand, then to the bulge and you found a little whimper leaving your mouth.

his eyes studied your face, watching you lick your already wet lips and rubbing yourself against him a little quicker. sweet, poor, innocent, you was so turned on by his growing dick. and he could feel it by the dampness of his jeans turning wet hot

you really were filthy.

a particularly loud whine left your lips and rafe realised that perhaps it wasn't a smart idea to start this whole thing off while his whole family was home.

but he couldn't stop now. that'd be cruel. especially seeing how worked up he'd gotten you.

he trailed his fingers up to your lips and tapped on your chin.

you didn't even need to be told, you simply opened up. he stuck his digits right in, feeling your flat tongue against them and spit coating them.

"so filthy, baby." he uttered so softly, as if he were complimenting you. "what'll we do with you, huh?" you only whimpered around his fingers. "'s okay, sweetheart, gonna get that pussy stuffed jus' like you want. just gotta be patient, yeah? can you do that f'me?"

and you're sloppy against his thigh, sloppy against his fingers. you can feel juices rubbing against his jeans and dribble forming at the gaps between your lips and all you can do is not so dumbly.

a stutter of your hips.

a grin on his lips.

"you gonna cum, already, huh?" it didn't take long, but you were already approaching your orgasm. he wished now more than ever that he could take pictures with his mind. that he could frame this moment and pull it out every time his dick got hard. he slipped his fingers out from your mouth. "gotta ask like a good girl before you cum."

your hands pawed at his shoulders. "please, rafe." your mind was turned to mush. "please, please, please."

he shrugged so cruelly. "'m hearin' a lot of beggin' but i don't hear you asking me yet."

"p-please, can i cum?" your face was red hot, embarrassment flooding your features quickly. "please?"

he smirked, leaning back against the armchair and removing his hands from your waist. you were a big girl, you could finish yourself off. "go on, princess."

he watched as your hands pawed at him, hips stuttering and eyes rolling backwards, mouth falling open. it was such a pronographic, filthy scene. and yet, he knew by tomorrow, you'd be prancing around in the same little dress and everyone would see you as the same lovely good little girl that you pretended to be.

and rafe thought that was enough to make him cum in his own pants.

[flowersforjude]

𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Remmick x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You had been taught from a young age that your body was a vessel for sin. You pray. You obey. You repent for desires you've never acted on. Until one night, something old and unholy walks out of the swamp. Remmick doesn’t ask for your obedience. He simply asks for you.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12,353 (I'm incapable of writing short fics anymore stg)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Mature Content-Explicit Descriptions Of Sex | Religious trauma, Shame-based upbringing, Mentions of blood, Vampire themes, Slight power imbalance (handled with care), Typical historical sexism, Horror themes, Smut: PIV sex, Loss of virginity, Period sex, Biting/marking, Worship kink, Oral(fem!receiving), Fingering, Begging/dirty talk, Dom/sub themes, Blood kink.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | This is the freakiest shit I've ever written and I love it. I may have gotten a bit carried away, but I was a vampire slut as a teenager so this was like going back to my roots! It might seem a little drawn out, but I promise you it's worth it.

masterlist

“LORD, IF THERE BE ANY WICKED THOUGHT IN ME, CAST IT OUT.”

Knees sunk into warped pine, you knelt before the pulpit. Rigid spine drawn upwards like penance carved into posture. The chapel groaned with age beneath you, floorboards moaning like the ribs of something half-dead. Still, you didn’t move. Not when your knees screamed. Not when sweat slicked down your back. 

Pain, after all, was a righteous offering. 

Beyond clouded glass windows, Mississippi’s summer pressed its damp mouth to the world. Cicadas shrieked into the thick air—bold and blatant. As if even God’s smallest creatures knew no shame. 

But you did. You’d learned it young. 

At thirteen, the blood had come for the first time. Bright and damning, soaking through linen drawers like spilled sin. Your mama had wept into her handkerchief, Bible clenched to her chest.

Your daddy made you sleep in the shed out back that night. 

“You’re unclean now,” Mama had said. Her voice gentle as cattails blowing in the wind, but no less firm. “The devil speaks through blood like that.”

Since then, your body had become something separate from your soul. Something threatening to it. Something to be managed.

And so, you managed it. 

You scrubbed every corner of yourself with lye and scalding water, rubbed lavender oil behind your ears and under your arms to keep the scent of you polite. You covered your chest tight beneath your high-necked dresses and crossed your ankles even in sleep. You swallowed down every tremble, every heat that rose under your skin when you caught sight of a man’s hands. Thick-knuckled and dirty from work, veins like roots. 

When the wicked thoughts came—as they always did, uninvited and slow—you banished them with prayer. Over and over until your throat went hoarse and your vision blurred. 

Lord, make me clean. Lord, make me still. 

You learned to live inside the rhythm of denial. Every dish was washed with precision. Every verse memorized and recited without fault. Every smile measured, every word weighed. Even your silence was studied. Measured like sugar for a pie crust. 

Your daddy called you his “God-fearing girl.”

The town called you sweet. Gentle. A lamb.

But none of them heard the screaming behind your ribs. Still, you stayed soft, obedient. 

You turned your eyes away from boys who looked too long. You flinched when your daddy’s voice turned thundering at the pulpit, screaming about Jezebels and harlots and fire licking at the feet of women who let their hips sway too loose. 

Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night, thighs damp and heart racing, some dream fleeing your memory like smoke. The shame that followed was near biblical. You would kneel in front of your window and pray ‘til sunrise, whisper to the floorboards so Mama and Daddy wouldn’t hear. 

Still, deep in the belly of you, a wanting took root. Not loud, not crude, just hungry. Starved from being ignored so long.

That hunger frightened you more than Hell.

The sun had just begun to sink when you uncurled from the floor, joints stiff, knees aching with the kind of pain that settles deep and stays. Your dress clung damp to your back. The chapel had been empty when you arrived, and now as you left, it remained the same. The air still, dust dancing lazily in halos through fogged glass. 

Stepping outside felt like surfacing from deep water. The humidity met you like breath on your skin. Thick, and warm, and a little too familiar. Your shoes pressed down the dirt path in soft grinds on the pebbles, the hem of your dress sweeping across your ankles. 

Home was only a half mile away. Past a narrow field, and through the grove of pines your daddy always said was cursed. “Too quiet,” he’d muttered once. “Ain’t right when the trees don’t even sing.”

You never asked him what he meant. You were taught not to question the wisdom of men like him. 

The cicadas faded as you reached the edge of the trees. The air shifted, cooler now, like something had drawn the heat out of it. There was no wind. No hooting owls, no coyotes yipping, no chirping of crickets. The absence of all nighttime sounds. 

You paused.  

The setting light had gone strange, pale silver-washed, as though the sun had dipped too fast beneath the horizon. The shadows stretched longer here. Almost deliberate in their reach. 

It was then that you saw him. 

He stood beneath a drooping cypress, half swallowed by the gloaming. At first you thought he might’ve been carved from the tree itself—so still and rooted. But then he moved. Not like just any man, not exactly. Not with effort or weight in his steps. He simply shifted. Like water finding the shape of a new vessel.

Your breath caught in your throat. 

His eyes, too pale to be safe, met yours across the thinning distance. He looked like some creature out of folklore. The kind from tales whispered between women who’d seen too much and men who drank too late. Broad, sharp-jawed, dressed in a white and blue striped button-down with a pair of suspenders hitched over his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled, revealing forearms etched with faint old scars, and the collar of his shirt hung open—loose, like he’d never worn a buttoned thing in his life. 

He had no hat, no weapon, not even a smile. 

You should’ve run, but your feet stayed cemented to the gravel, fists tight in your skirt.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you like he knew the trance you were under. A muscle feathered in his jaw. Not with tension, but curiosity. Amusement, even. And when he did speak, his voice came low and smooth, like creekwater over stone. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, mouth curving up in the sort of smirk Mama warned you about. “Didn’t think anyone’d be out here.”

Your lips parted and then sealed shut again. You took a half step back, careful not to trip over the hem of your dress. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb—” you began, but his head tilted just a fraction. 

“You’re the preacher’s girl, right?” he asked, eyes narrowing with delighted focus. 

You nodded, barely. “Yes, sir.”

He huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “No need for ‘sir’; I’m not that respectable.”

Silence stretched between you. Even though you’d been raised on the belief that it wasn’t polite for girls to talk too much, you wanted to fill the quiet. Spill your voice into the cracks. Your pulse throbbed in your throat before you rounded up the courage. 

“You shouldn’t be out here this time of night.”

“Neither should you, preacher’s daughter,” he drawled, a flicker of something dark and knowing curling the corner of his lips. “But here we are.”

He didn’t look like anyone from town and certainly didn’t talk like one. None of the townsfolk would’ve spoken to you the way he did. Unguarded and heedless of who you were. No, he wasn’t from around here at all. And yet…nothing about him seemed inherently strange. Just out of place. Like he belonged to a different world that had nudged its shoulder against yours for a moment, just long enough to make the air odd. 

He rocked back on the heels of his feet, like he was settling into the moment, not at all eager to leave it. “Didn’t catch your name.”

Giving out your name to strangers never seemed like a good idea to you. It felt wrong just to hand it out, especially not to spooky men alone in the woods. 

“Don’t think you need it, mister.” Your words are nearly swallowed by the blood rushing in your ears. 

That smirk returned, subtle and crooked and ruinous. “Suit yourself.”

His voice curled around the words like telling you he’d figure out your name anyway. Whether you gave it to him or not. And maybe he would; in a town as small as this, everybody knew everyone. 

He took a step forward. Not as a threat, not even boldly. 

The breath in your chest locked up tight anyway. Your ribs caging something suddenly wild and very much awake. Heat pricked at your cheeks, and shame rose in your belly like smoke curling from a chimney. You didn’t know this man, but the shape of him, the sound of him, felt like something your body recognized before your mind could catch up. 

You were both terrified and enchanted by him. 

“You always walk this way alone?” He asked.

You glanced away from his thralling eyes, throat going bone dry. “Ain’t usually anyone else out here.”

“You’re a peculiar thing,” he chuckled, pointing a wagging finger at you. 

You stiffened. “Why d’you say that?”

He shrugged, hands tucked lazily in his pockets. “I’ve been ‘round town awhile. Seen enough to know who stares down their nose and who just keeps their eyes down.” He fixed you with those keen eyes, turning up his nose almost like he was sniffing. “But you look like you’re tryin’ not to see at all.”

You sucked in a breath. You could feel your heart banging around inside you, like it wanted out.

This was wrong. 

Not just him, but the way the trees leaned in like they were listening, the way your skin felt charged under your dress. You could hear it echoing in your skull, how your name would sound rolling off his tongue if you’d chosen to give it to him. 

You didn’t even realize you’d taken a step back until your heel slid slightly on gravel.  

“I should get goin’,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out like water breaking through a dam.

He didn’t stop you as you danced around him. 

“Sure,” was all he said, amusement bending his voice. “Don’t let the woods eat ya on the way home.”

Your pace started out slow, but you could feel him behind you. Something made you look back. 

He’d moved back to where you first saw him, there under the swaying cypress tree half devoured by dusk and shadow. He stood just as still, only now his head was tilted the slightest bit. Like he was listening to something distant or savoring something close. 

When he caught you glancing at, him he grinned. Wickedly. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he’d caught a glimpse of the crack in your pious little shell and was toying with the thought of prying it open.

The moonlight caught his eyes, or maybe it wasn’t the light at all. For just a moment, they flashed red. Not bright. Not like fire. But like crimson blood. It was just a glint, sharp as wet teeth in the dark. 

Your breath hitched as you took a step back, your eyes still on him. Then another until your pace quickens into something just shy of a run. 

He watched you leave, that grin widening as you stumbled through the brush, skirts snagging on twigs, heart pounding like a hymn sung too fast. He didn’t chase after you, but he drank in your fear like it was fine whiskey. 

You could almost hear that smile taunting you. Ain’t you lucky I let you go?

YOU DIDN’T WALK HOME NEAR THE GROVE ANYMORE.

You took the long road instead, through rows of dry fields and along the ridge where wild blackberries grew. 

But no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, you still saw him. 

Not fully at first, just a shape in your periphery. Standing motionless at the edge of things. Watching the horizon as though he had all the time in the world to wait for you to come to him.

You never stopped when you saw him; never spoke to him. You kept your eyes forward and your mouth shut. But your palms went damp against the cotton of your skirt, and your heart slammed into your ribs. 

You hadn’t slept that first night. 

You stayed curled under your quilt, ears straining at every creak in the house. You told yourself it was just wind on the windows, just the groan of old nails in old wood. But deep down, you knew better. 

Because the next evening, he was there again—this time down by the riverbed. 

You’d gone to fetch water just as the dark came on, trying to outpace the setting sun, but when you reached the bank, he was already there. Sitting on a fallen log like it was a church pew, skipping stones across the slow-moving current with easy, idle flicks of his wrist. 

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t really need to. 

You could feel his gaze on your back the whole time you filled the pail, like fingers dragging down the slope of your spine without ever touching skin. When you turned around, he was gone. 

You blinked once, twice; nothing but empty woods and water rippling in dusky light. The pail trembled in your hands the whole way home. 

By the third night, you started to wonder if you were going mad. 

You didn’t tell Mama or Daddy. You couldn’t. What would you even say? That some pale-eyed stranger was haunting the dirt roads and riverbeds. Staring like he could see every wicked little thought you’d tried so hard to drown.

No. 

That would only earn you a slap and a verse from Leviticus. 

So you stayed silent, but you didn’t feel safe. 

Especially not the fourth night when you saw him outside your bedroom window. 

It was just past midnight; the house had gone dead quiet hours ago. The air was heavy with heat and thunder-stillness. You’d risen from bed to press your forehead to the glass, the way you always did when your dreams left you flushed and frightened. The nighttime sounds had gone silent again. 

And then he was just there. 

Standing at the tree line just beyond the garden fence. Unmoving and unblinking. Lit only by the moon in the same striped shirt, the same loose collar, his hands in his pockets like this was nothing unusual. Like he belonged right there. 

You didn’t scream or dash away from the window. You just stared because a part of you had been expecting this. Dreading it and needing it in the same capacity.

His head tilted again, same as before. Curious. Amused. That slow, knowing smirk unspooling like thread across his mouth with those razor-sharp teeth as the needle.

 A chill slid down your spine like the slow crawl of a water moccasin, cold and coiling. Your heart jittered wild in your chest, beating like a grasshopper’s wings. Part of you screamed to look away, but some buried piece of you—that part the prayers never reached—couldn’t drag your eyes from him. 

You hoped he wouldn't see the internal tremor of your bones, but you knew he did.

He just watched you, like he was trying to decide whether to devour you or let you rot sweetly on the vine. The air felt thick with something unholy. Then from the darkness, a sound soft and low and syrup-slick. 

A laugh straight from the depths of Hell. 

He moved then, pushed himself from the fence post like it cost him nothing, the slow drag of his boots through the grass loud enough through the closed window. The garden seemed to hush around him; even the insects ceased their chattering. 

The moonlight reached for him as he stepped forward, bent toward him like it knew him. Like it’d been waiting to kiss his skin. 

You’d heard plenty of stories in church warning folks about demons who walked only in the dark and wore man’s skin like a borrowed coat. You’d never put much stock in them. 

But now?

Now he was standing in your garden, eyes burning like embers and teeth too sharp, framed by a mouth that smiled like it knew the taste of brimstone. 

He was beautiful in the way demons often were depicted hunting for mortal souls. Terrible and magnetic and full of ruin. 

And every bit of him seemed to say just one thing.

Come closer, little lamb. The door’s already open.

You didn’t remember unlatching the window. Just that your fingers were already there, trembling against the iron hook.

It groaned softly as it opened, just enough to let the air in. Enough to let him near.

He was closer now, no longer by the fence but halfway through the garden, where your mama’s tomato vines curled up splintering stakes. His boots were sunk into the dew-dark earth, but he moved like something that didn’t need to touch the ground to get where it was going. 

When he made it to the window, you gripped the sill to steady yourself. 

“Why you tormenting yourself like this?” His voice was whisper quiet, but it slithered right under your skin like smoke through a crack in the floorboards. You flinched but couldn’t bring yourself to move away. 

“What d’you mean?” Your voice sounded so small in this moment. 

He stepped closer still, until he was just beneath the window. His hands stayed in his pockets, body loose with an ease you’ve never seen another person possess. But his gaze was the only restless thing about him. It was fixed on you shining bloody, sharp, and starving.

“Lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured. “Pretending I’m the one you’re still scared of.”

Your throat worked around the thickness gathering there. 

“I don’t—I was just—” You broke off. Words slipped through your fingers like running water.

He tilted his head in that slow, animal way. “Oh, darlin’” And then with a quick click of his tongue, he frowned at you, like it saddened him that you couldn’t see the way he did. “You ain’t really afraid of me.”

The thought made your stomach twist. “I am,” you said too fast. 

“No, darlin’. You’re afraid of what you feel when I’m close. That heat in your belly. That little pulse in your throat. You were raised to call that fear.” He leaned forward just a hair, voice going lower. “But it ain’t.”

Your eyes stung as you blinked the emotion away. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” 

He looked at you like something half-ripened and trembling on the vine. A peach not yet plucked, but splitting at the seam just the same. 

You turned your face slightly, ashamed of how badly you wanted to hear what he might say next. The window creaked as you pushed it open a little more. Not to get closer to him, but to let in some more air. That’s what you told yourself.

His eyes followed the movement. “You ever ask yourself why I keep comin’ back here?” He asked. 

You couldn’t find an answer. 

“You think I hang around ‘cause I like the scenery? The garden?” His mouth carved, those fangs of his poking out. “It ain’t the tomatoes bringin’ me, sweetheart.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could calm the racing in it with sheer will. “What are you?” you whispered. 

He smiled wider but didn’t answer. “Why’d you open the window tonight?” He asked instead. 

That struck something deep in you. A place none of your daddy’s sermons had ever managed to reach. You just stood there, bare feet on old wooden floor, moonlight kissing your cheekbone, your heart loud enough you were sure he could hear it. 

Then, with his eyes fully shining crimson and his voice softer than breath, he spoke with a flicker of something ancient. “Come outside.”

The words hit you low in the belly. And for a split second, you almost did. Almost pulled yourself over the sill without a second thought, like a girl in a folk tale about to be taken by the monsters lurking in the woods. 

But you didn’t. Something made you stay where you were, clinging to the windowsill like it was the edge of the world. Or the edge of your sanity. 

“I can’t,” you whispered. 

He watched you a moment longer, the red glow fading from those unnatural eyes. He nodded just once, like he expected that response from you. His grin lingered as he turned away. 

“That’s alright,” he said. “You will, or either I’ll hang ‘round long enough for you to invite me in.”

He seemed to blink out of existence then. There one minute and gone the next. With his presence no longer holding you in thrall, you stepped back from the window like it had burned you. Heart hammering all the way up your throat as you slammed the window shut. You dropped to your knees without thinking, palms slapping the floorboards, breath coming entirely too fast. 

You prayed, but not out of devotion; out of desperation. 

But no amount of prayer could vanish the image from your mind. 

His face in the moonlight. 

That devilish grin. 

The way his preternatural eyes seemed to strip you bare without even trying.

It was demeaning how intense the thought of him felt, how vivid it was. How warm. He’d crawled under your skin like a fever and made home there. Uninvited and relentless. 

And worse, it was disgusting to want like this. To fantasize in such a way about a man you’d only spoken to twice. One who you knew nothing about. A man who might not be a man at all. 

Because what you’d seen…the flash of red in his eyes, the fang-like teeth, the way the light didn’t touch him, the stillness that came with him that felt wrong in a world always rustling. 

You were certain he wasn't human. 

And still, he’d become the subject of every dark corner of your mind. 

Your nightmares, yes—those came first. Dreams of him dragging you into the woods, tearing into you with those monstrous canines.

But the fantasies came after.

Sinful ones that had your fingers curling in your sheets. Your thighs pressed tightly beneath your nightgown. The shame bloomed fresh each time when you saw the sunrise and realized your soul hadn’t been struck down for the things you let yourself imagine.

You hated it. 

You hated him.

You hated yourself most of all.

And yet, even as your knees ached and your lips whispered psalms too fast to understand, a single, damning truth settled at the base of your spine like a stone.

You weren’t praying for him or even the thoughts to go away. Because in the most blasphemous parts of yourself, you enjoyed this.

The night after he visited the window, you dreamt of him. 

He came not through the door, but through the trees. Born of shadows and honeysuckle, and grinning beneath the weight of the moon. His presence pulled the night close, like even the dark bent towards him in reverence. 

The grove bloomed around you, but it was wrong. Cyprus roots split the ground like vines. The air was thick with humidity and the heavy, heady scent of sweet rot. Moonlight filtered through the branches, pale as spilled milk, and everything was silent, as if the world held its breath. 

You stood barefoot in the middle of it all, nightgown clinging to your thighs, the hem damp. The trees whispered in a language your bones seemed to know. There was no wind. 

Then he appeared—just was, suddenly—behind you. Closer than your shadow. 

One hand came to rest on your hip, the other brushing your hair aside, fingers cold but careful, like he was unwrapping a relic.

“You ain’t a saint. Not a sinner neither.” He breathed, voice like molasses poured slow. “Just a…sweet-blooded thing.”

You couldn’t speak. You wanted to, but no words made it free before they died in your throat. Your body pulsed with some kind of rhythm not taught by sermons, but by earth, bone, and blood. His hands roamed without urgency, touching you like something holy, as he hummed low with his sinner’s breath. 

Your knees gave out when his hands wandered too close to between your legs. He caught you holding your weight up with one arm. He lowered his mouth to your throat, inhaled, and sighed like he’d come home. 

And then—

Then the woods split with light, hot and blinding, and his eyes—pale as salt, rimmed in red like dying coals—met yours for a single, damning moment.

You woke with a sharp gasp violent enough to cut through the air. You shot up in bed, heart galloping and skin clammy. The dream clung to you like moss, heavy and damp. 

You felt it before you even looked. 

The wet heat between your thighs and the ache low in your belly. The blood smeared across the sheets like rust on Sunday white. 

You didn’t scream.

You just wept. 

Curled into yourself on the stained bedding, rocking like you had done as a child during storms, when thunder shook the windowpanes and Mama told you to hush. That the rumbling was just God. 

You buried your face in your hands and whispered like a sinner at the feet of the Lord. 

“I didn’t ask for this.”

But somewhere, somehow, you knew you had.

THE NEXT MORNING BROUGHT YOU NO MERCY. You woke in a fever of shame, the sheets damp and streaked rust-red. 

You’d barely stripped them from the bed and gotten them to the basin when your mama walked in, face already drawn with suspicion. She stopped short when she saw the washboard and the clear water turning pink.

Her mouth flattened. “You ain’t due,” she said simply, but it wasn’t a question. 

You kept your eyes on the suds, hands starting to shake as you scrubbed harder. 

“You been temptin’ something,” she murmured, voice gone cool and critical, like a snake easing through garden grass. “Lord sees everything, and so does a mother.”

You didn’t answer; you didn’t need to. Nothing you said would’ve made a difference. 

By noon your daddy knew. She’d told him in hushed tones over the breakfast table, her words laced with worry and faithful dread, her hands trembling around her coffee mug. 

The blood was a warning, she said. A sign that the devil was whispering, and her daughter was startin’ to listen.

The preacher’s face went hard as wood. There was no screaming, no belt. Just that look, and that was always worse. 

He sent you to the chapel before lunch, said it was time you remembered what it meant to be clean. Pure. God’s own daughter, not some wild thing led by flesh and fever. 

So you knelt all day.

Until your knees throbbed and your spine locked straight, until the air inside the church went stale and sweet from summer heat, and your throat was hoarse from whispered pleas.

You weren’t allowed water or allowed to sit. 

Just kneel, pray, repent. 

By the time evening came, your whole body ached. But the ache inside was louder. A low, relentless pulse that no prayer could silence.

When your daddy finally opened the chapel doors and sent you home, you walked like a ghost through the dusk, eyes empty.

You didn’t try to sleep that night. You knew it would be no use. So, you sat on your bed and waited. Waited because you knew he’d be out there. 

And when the animals fell quiet, when the breeze turned cool and still, and the moonlight poured soft and white through your curtain like cream in a glass, you knew. 

He’d come back. 

He wasn’t at the window, though. He’d gone to the tree.

The old white oak out front, the one your great-granddaddy planted with his own two hands nearly a century ago. Mama always called it the family’s spine. Said its roots ran so deep it could hold back Hell itself. Said it shaded the porch like a preacher’s hand. Protective and watching.

But tonight, it didn’t feel holy. Tonight it felt like it was aiding him, and he was anything but holy. 

You went out the front door before you could change your mind. Quiet as a fallen soul slipping out of confession, you opened it. The screen groaned on its hinges and snapped shut behind you.

The air outside was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and something faintly coppery, like blood in well water.

He leaned lazily against the oak’s trunk like he’d grown from it. Like he owned it. His sleeves were rolled, and his shirt rumpled. Shadows seemed to tuck themselves around his boots like hounds curling at their master’s feet. 

Once again, he let the silence simmer between you for a moment. If he was surprised you came out, he didn’t show it. 

You looked right back at him, jaw locked with some emotion that wasn’t quite courage. 

“I oughta tell you to leave,” you said, voice stifled but firm. 

He didn’t move. “Why don’t you?”

Your fingers knotted in the fabric of your nightdress. “Cause you won’t listen.”

That made him grin. “You’re smarter than you let on, preacher’s daughter.”

The night air wrapped tight around the both of you. The oak branches swayed without wind.

You stepped off the porch, slow like stepping into a grave you’d dug yourself. Dry leaves crunched beneath your feet as you got close enough to see his eyes already glinting that wrong shade. Like moonlight kissing iron.

He didn’t look monstrous tonight. Just wrong, like words spoken in reverse. 

You’d meant to confront him, to tell him to leave you alone. To make him. But now you stood before him, your voice softened like wax near flame. 

“Are you the devil?” It came out thin, breathy.

He let that sit in the air for a moment. A beat, then two. 

Then finally, “Would it matter if I was?” The words slithered straight down your spine.

You stared at him, heart thudding, lips parted, but no response seemed good enough. No verse, no warning, not even a whispered prayer. Because a part of you already knew. 

The devil in the pulpit wore rage and brimstone. 

The devil in the garden wore moonlight and a smile that made your knees weak. 

He pushed off the tree like he was just stretching his back, Like he hadn’t shattered your whole world view with those words.

You stood there like a deer caught by a hunter, bare feet in the loamy dark. The grass kissed your ankles, damp from the dew. The moonlight carved both of you into something unreal. Him all shadow and sharpened grin. You soft and lit from within like a lantern half-extinguished.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, but it came out too fragile. It didn’t sound like a protest; it sounded like longing dressed up in your Sunday best.

He stepped leisurely but with a certain deliberateness as the night seemed to part for him. “I ain’t the one who came knockin’, lamb,” he murmured. 

“I didn’t knock on nothin’,” you refuted. 

He looked at you through those searing eyes. “You came out the door, though.”

He reached you, then stood right in front of you. Close enough that you could smell the faint hints of aged cedar wood and burnt ashes and the unmistakable stench of blood. One of his hands lifted, slowly, to hover by your cheek. Not touching you yet, like he wanted you to touch him first.

“Tell me no,” he insisted.

Oh God, you should’ve. It was right there on your tongue, but you couldn’t get your voice to work. Not even as you felt a bead of sweat roll down your temple. From the heat, or fear, or something else you didn’t rightly know. 

Instead, you leaned forward like a sinner falling from the clouds of Heaven straight to the pits of Hell. It was just enough to let the tip of your nose brush his. Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt his exhale ghost across your lips like a curse. 

His fingers slid into your hair at the base of your skull and gripped. Not too tightly, but firm enough, as if testing whether or not you’d pull away. 

“Tell me no,” he provoked again, letting the sharp points of his teeth bare beneath a grin. “Go on, fight me.”

You did nothing. You said nothing. 

He chuckled. “Thought so.”

Then, before you could blink, he seized your shoulder with a grip like iron and spun you, swift and brutal as a summer storm. Your back hit his chest with a thud that knocked the breath from you, his body a wall of heat and muscle. 

One arm banded tight around your waist, the other clamped low on your hips, unyielding and possessive. Like he meant to etch his touch into your skin, make sure no part of you ever forgot it. 

You gasped, a soft, startled sound that was half swallowed by the night.

His breath dusted along your cheekbone, slow and scalding, as his hand slid up—up—to your throat. Not squeezing, just resting there. As if to remind you how easily he could. 

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“That noise?” he hummed, voice with a growl like thick honey. “Ain’t even half of what I’m gonna have you singin’ for me.”

Then his mouth was on yours.

It was rough, yes, but there was an underlying horrible delight in it. Like he was savoring a ripe apple from the Garden of Eden itself. 

He kissed you like he was committing sacrilege. It wasn’t tender or kind; it was sin made flesh and pressed to your mouth. Heated like he wanted to scorch your skin, ruin your body and soul alike. 

You whimpered into it before you could stop yourself, shame and want bleeding into each other. Becoming something you couldn’t tell apart from the other. His other hand came to rest at your waist, splayed over your hip like it belonged there. Like he’d known the shape of you long before you’d met, long before you were even born.

You were shaking, not from fear, but from the weight of everything you’d been told you must never want. 

He kissed you like he already owned your hunger. And maybe he did. 

Because when his lips left yours and trailed down the edge of your jaw, you tilted your head like you’d done it a hundred times. Like your body recognized him, even if your soul still hadn’t caught up. 

“You feel that?” He whispered against your neck. “That ache in your belly?”

You nodded before you realized you were moving. 

“It ain’t shame, sugar. That’s you wakin’ up.”

His tongue brushed your skin, and you whined, the sound catching on the back of your throat. You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve fled. 

But instead your fingers reached up to curl into his hair. 

You were dizzy. Drunk on the darkness and whatever he was made of. Your thighs pressed together as if they could cage the heat rising between them. As if they could quiet the throb that started the moment he touched you. 

“You know I can smell it, right?” He said, drawing back just enough to look you in the eye. “The blood dripping outta that pretty cunt.” His thumb swiped the corner of your mouth. 

A ragged gasp ripped out of you, loud and trembling, like it’d been wrenched from the bottom of your lungs. Heat flooded your cheeks—hotter than Hellfire, hotter than a July sun. You tried to turn, wide-eyed, unsure if you’d even heard him right. But his hand stayed steady at your throat, a quiet pressure that kept you still. Anchored in place like a lamb frozen before the slaughter. 

Your breath hitched again, this time rougher, rougher than the words he’d just spoken.

No one had ever spoken of your body like that. As if it weren’t sacred in the way of being a temple of God’s creation, but sacred in the way of what being his would feel like. What being hungered for felt like. What being known felt like.

Your whole life had been Bible verses and closed doors and whispered warnings. And now here was this…creature, saying the unsayable, grinning like he’s torn a veil straight off Heaven and made you look at what was behind it.

“You gonna let me taste?” His voice sang into your ear, raspy and filled with near giddy enthusiasm. 

“W-what?” The word barely made it out, brittle and panting, like it didn’t belong to you at all. Your head was spinning, thoughts colliding like thunderclouds. You weren’t sure if you’d imagined what he said, if the world was tilting, or you were simply losing your mind. Everything inside you recoiled and leaned in at the same time, like a moth drawn to flame. 

“Just a little taste. It’ll be good, I promise.”

His words slid across your skin like velvet and barbed wire. You felt them in your chest, in your belly, in the places of your body that remained unexplored. The world has gone too quiet around you. The branches, the air, your own breath. 

You froze in his arms. Not from fear, but from the nearness of the house just behind you, your parents asleep in their bedroom not twenty steps away. From the raw ache between your legs. From the heat twisting inside you and the shame curling around it like ivy. 

You wanted him. 

God help you; you wanted him.

But not here, not in the front yard. Not under your great-granddaddy’s tree. Not with the windows dark and your daddy dreaming just feet from where his hand gripped your waist like he had every right to.

Your hand left his hair to press against his chest. 

“I—” You swallowed hard. “No, I can’t.”

He went still. Real still. If you were a smarter girl, you’d be afraid right now. 

After a beat, he let out a low breath that sounded somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice coaxing instead of mocking. “Little lamb has teeth after all.”

His hand dropped from your throat slowly, the other sliding away from your waist. He didn’t lurch back or scowl. He didn’t curse or shame you; he just let go.

“You ain’t angry?” You whispered.

He tilted his head, grin turning softer than what you’d seen before. “Nah, I’m not angry. ‘Cause you will say yes,” he said certainly. “One night soon.”

“Tomorrow,” you blurted out.

His brow lifted, one corner of his mouth ticking up. “Tomorrow?”he echoed, slow and teasing, like he wanted to roll the word across his tongue again just to savor the taste.

You nodded abashedly. “It’s Sunday. Mama and Daddy’ll be at evening service. I’ll stay home. Say I’m unwell.”

A smile bloomed across his face like the devil hearing a hymn warped just enough to suit him. “Well, now,” he drawled. “Ain’t you full of surprises?”

Your breath came fast, chest rising like the air had finally remembered how to move. 

“You’ll come?” You asked, quieter, like part of you still doubted he was real. That all this was just temptation stitched into a dream.

His eyes roved over you one last time. “You’ll be the one invitin’ me in.”

He took one more step back into the dark, the shadows seeming to reach out to surround him. He gave you a final crooked grin, then, like always, he was just gone.

The air sighed after him. The oak creaked softly, as if exhaling too. 

You stood in place for another moment, your heartbeat ringing like church bells in your ears.

Tomorrow.

 You’d spilled the word without thinking, without planning; now it hung in the shadows. Stitched into the air between the tree and porch. It felt inevitable, though. This moment, you, him. 

You turned toward the house, and the screen door groaned as you pushed it open. The hallway was still, lit only by the faint moonlight seeping through the kitchen lace. Your bare feet whispered across the floorboards, each one squeaking like they wanted to tattle.

When you entered your room, you didn’t go to the window. He wouldn’t be there, but he said he’d come back. And you believed he would. Not like a boy who was hungry and impulsive. But like something old and well practiced in the art of patience. 

As you lay in bed, quilt pulled to your chin, your knees ached from the chapel. But your lips were sore from his mouth. Somewhere beneath your ribs, a hunger had bloomed.

Because the devil in the garden hadn’t asked for your soul. Only your permission. And you’d given it.

MORNING CREPT IN SLOWLY AND SWOLLEN, HEAVY WITH THE SCENT OF RAIN AND YOUR DECISION. The sky outside hung pale and dull, as if the sun had second thoughts about rising. You stirred beneath your quilt, limbs stiff with ache, the ghost of his touch still clinging to your skin.

At the breakfast table, your movements were brittle, precise—a porcelain doll feigning breath. Spoon untouched. Biscuits going cold. You pressed a hand to your forehead, faking the flush of fever, and let your eyes linger unfocused on the woodgrain in the table like scripture too worn to read.

Your mama’s gaze was a blade behind her coffee cup. She eyed the tremble in your fingers, the pallor in your face. “You’re lookin’ a shade unwell,” she said at last, voice wrapped in thin linen concern, suspicion tucked neat beneath.

You didn’t look up. “Didn’t sleep good.”

The words rasped out like smoke from a chimney long gone cold.

You played the part through morning service, like a seasoned actress cast in her shining role. You wore your sickness like silk, light and convincing. Spoke only when spoken to. Let your eyes blur with imagined weariness. Folded your hands as if they weren’t stained with things that meant you’d burn in Hell. Sang the hymns like psalms of penance, though your mouth felt dry as ash.

When your daddy called for the wayward to rise, you stayed seated. When the prayer commenced, you bowed your head and kept your breath shallow. If they’d looked closer, they might’ve seen the lie curling beneath your lashes. 

But they believed you as easy as breathing. 

Easy as sin. 

By the time evening rolled around, you should’ve been in flames for how much you’d lied. But no lightning split the sky. No voice boomed from the heavens. Only the quiet nod of your father, the distracted sigh of your mother as she tied her shawl.

“A girl ain’t any good to the Lord if she’s too weak to stand,” your daddy said.

The words carried like a benediction, final and unquestioned. Your mama’s mouth twitched, tight as a drawstring purse, but she didn’t argue. Only adjusted her shawl and spared you a glance that lingered on your flushed cheeks. 

She left chicken broth simmering on the stove, the pot sweating like a guilty man in a prayer tent. “Don’t let it boil over,” she muttered, already halfway through the door.

You nodded, small and solemn as a lamb offered up on an altar.

The screen door clattered shut behind them, the sound sharp and thin in the warm hush of the house. A moment later, you heard the truck rumble to life, tires groaning down the gravel path like some beast being roused from its slumber. Then thick golden silence. 

The sun spilled sideways across the kitchen floor, the last light of it butter-yellow and dying. Shadows stretched long across the wood, and the house exhaled slow, as if even the walls knew what you were gonna invite in.

You sat at the edge of your bed with your hands folded tight in your lap. The lamplight fluttered beside you, casting the room in warmth and shadow. 

Your knees bounce once, twice, before you caught them with your palms. You swore you could hear the mantel clock ticking from the front room, but it could’ve been your ears ringing too. It grew louder with each passing second, like the calling of vultures as they circled a carcass. 

You shouldn’t have done this.

The thought passes through your mind as quickly as a hare. 

Any good girl would’ve known better. God-Fearing girls kept their windows closed at night and didn’t go out to have conversations with demons. They didn’t ache like this, in their bellies and bones.

Your window was closed, the front door too. He couldn’t come in unless you invited him. 

You could still stop it. You could still crawl into bed, hide beneath the hush of your parents’ God, and pray till your tongue went dry.

But the truth was, you didn’t want to pray no more. Not to a God who never answered you. Not to a god that was full of so much hatred and wrath.

You felt closer to the divine when he touched you. When he acknowledged the ache inside of you and didn’t shame you for it. When he decided your longing was his very own guitar string to pluck, then you ever felt when you cried out to God.

You wanted to know what it was like to be chosen. Not by God, but by the thing that watched you from the darkness like he wanted to devour you. You wanted his wickedness to ravage you. Let it seep into your soul and let you free.

But it still didn’t stop your fingers from shaking. Didn’t stop the thin sweat from blooming at your neck. 

The house had gone still. Too still. The kind of hush that settles on graveyards before storms. The kind you’d grown to recognize the last few nights. You could feel it building in your marrow. The pressure, the waiting. The dread that didn’t feel quite like dread. 

The clicking of the parlor clock bleeds through the walls, every second scraping against your skin like the bite of a distant insect. 

There was a knock.

Your breath caught, snagged in your throat like a fishhook. The room seemed to pulse with the sound. The wallpaper breathing. The floorboards holding their breath.

You rose like something called from a grave, unsure if it was your soul or your sin dragging you forward. Each step toward the door was heavy as a church bell. Your nightgown whispered against the wood floors, and every inch of you felt stretched—thin, lit from within like a lantern at the end of its oil.

You could feel the thrum of him through the wood as you reached the door. 

It looked the same as always—plain pine, white paint flaking at the edges, Mama’s lace curtain tucked in the window. But tonight, it felt like a boundary. A final veil between the life you were born into and the one you’d invited with your own trembling tongue.

You placed your hand on the knob.

“Lord forgive me,” you whispered, but you didn’t mean it. Not really. Because there was no salvation in what you were about to do.

Just surrender. 

The brass was cool under your palm, a mercy against the heat rising from your bones. You knew what stood on the other side. Knew he was waiting. 

You cracked it open slow like. The night spilled in like a secret, soft and damp and full of promise. 

He stood on the porch, the light catching on the edge of his smirk. He didn’t move, didn’t even shift his weight. 

He stood with the patience of something older than the air around you, something well-fed on the rituals of yearning girls and the sweet rot of their defiance.

The threshold hummed between you like a live wire. You could feel it. That old, bone-deep rule, the one no sermon ever spoke of, but every trembling child knew. Evil couldn’t cross unless you let it.

His eyes gleamed beneath the brim of night, catching what little moonlight the porch allowed. There was no white in them, no mercy, just a glint like storm-wet iron and the promise of undoing.

“Well,” he drawled, voice low and velvet-thick, “ain’t this a pretty picture?”

He took a breath, though he probably didn’t need to, and the porch boards beneath him groaned as if straining under the weight of something not entirely flesh. “I can’t come in,” he said, quiet, like the words were meant to be stitched into the air and left hanging there.

“I know,” you answered. All you needed to do was say the words. 

His lips parted, not quite a smile this time, but something softer, something that made your belly twist. “Then say it,” he said. “Say it proper, darlin’.”

A shiver ran up your spine, cold as baptismal water. You stared at him, at the way the shadows clung to his shoulders like a mantle, at the way the porch light dared not kiss his skin. You thought of all the stories your mama told, of blood and beasts and doors left ajar.

But you didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore.

You believed in what was right in front of you. 

So you parted your lips and let the words fall, soft as rain on a coffin lid. “You can come in.”

The moment you said it, the air seemed to shift. Like the house exhaled, or maybe it was you. Something unlatched inside, something old and hungry and no longer chained to the warnings of your father’s God.

He crossed the threshold without a sound. Not a step. Not a breath. He simply was there, inside. Closer than you thought he’d get.

Your lungs seized.

He smelled like blood still. You were beginning to think he always carried the scent with him. He leaned in close enough that your heartbeat stuttered.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice all honey and hunger.

And then the door clicked shut behind him with the sound of something final. 

He didn’t jump on you right away, just looked around your home with seemingly curious eyes. His gaze moved through the house like a ghost tasting the air. Like he could see the prayers still stitched into the wood grain. Smell the repentance caught between wallpaper seams.

You watched him, chest tight, body wired with something above nervousness. He didn’t say anything else at first, didn’t need to. The hush between you was a thing with weight, heavier still for what was about to be broken.

His gaze found yours again, and in it was that same stillness he wore like a second skin—like he was made of waiting.

“Do you... want anything?” You asked, the words foolish, half-wilted on your tongue.

He stepped closer. Just one pace. But it was enough to draw the warmth from your skin and replace it with something cooler. “I already got what I came for.”

His voice slipped over your ears like dark silk. The space between you seemed to shrink, and you weren’t sure if it was his doing or your own. He raised a hand and touched the edge of your jaw. Just the pad of his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, where your breath caught and held.

“Told myself I’d wait,” he murmured. “Let you lead.” His eyes dropped to your lips, then returned, gleaming. “But I’m a selfish thing sometimes.”

And before you could reply, before you could decide if you’d stop him, he bent forward and kissed you.

It was softer than you expected. So unlike the first time. There was no fire, no bloodlust. Just the aching press of mouth on mouth, as if he meant to read you by taste. Your hands curled at your sides, then rose of their own accord, fingers brushing the stiff cotton at his chest. His palm came to rest against the curve of your back, anchoring you in the middle of the storm you’d conjured.

You moaned against his lips, a sharp and involuntary sound, and he pulled back just enough to speak into your mouth, voice roughened with want. “Show me.” You didn’t ask what he meant. You already knew.

You stumbled backward down the hall, his mouth never far from yours, hands on your waist like a brand. He followed you with that inhuman stillness, that predator’s grace. Each step was made not of footsteps but of intent.

And when the bedroom door groaned shut behind you—

He turned you with fluid, startling ease, hands firm as iron as he swept you off your feet. You gasped, instinctively clinging to him, arms locking around his shoulders. Your legs, guided more by instinct than thought, wrapped around his waist as though your body already knew what to do. The world tipped, spun, and all you could feel was the press of him, his hands, and the dizzying pull of gravity undone. 

Lowering you down to the linen sheets of your bed, he moved like judgment falling slow from Heaven. His hands hiked the hem of your nightgown up your legs, bunching the fabric like offerings at the feet of an altar. The mattress beneath you was soft, rich with rot and temptation. 

He positioned himself between them, a serpent coiled in the garden, barring any retreat. One hand dropped to the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing higher like a creeping passion vine. You felt yourself relax into the sheets, widening the passage of your legs for him without even meaning to.

He watched you earnestly, like you were the only holy thing he put faith in. His hands reached for the soft cotton of your panties, like he was peeling back a church veil, uncovering something too sacred for daylight. When he pulled the fabric aside and leaned in, he let out a moan like he was breathing in sin straight from the source. 

A sound rumbled from his chest, low and devout. “Oh God almighty,” he near groaned, voice thick with awe and hunger. “Ain’t you a sight, darlin’.”

In a flash, your panties were off, and you were exposed to him, the night air, and God Himself. You knew you should've been embarrassed; the shame should’ve been eating you alive. But even with your bleeding center, raw and red as a dogwood bloom in spring, all you can do is look down at the demon between your legs. 

By the lord, he’s drooling. Thick spit glistening on his chin, dripping slowly like sap from tree bark. His eyes were lit with hunger that bordered on worship.

You’d been taught since the first time you bled that it was a curse. That it made you unclean. A doorway for devils, a mark of Eve’s sin carved fresh each month into your flesh. Mama said that blood like that was how the devil spoke. That it had to be washed out, silenced with scripture, buried beneath cotton drawers and long skirts and locked knees.

But here he was, salivating at the sight alone, eyes blown wide as if your body’s bleeding was the beginning of a gospel only he could read.

That’s why when he said, “You smell so sweet, darlin’. You gonna let me taste you?”

You nodded, “Yes.”

His mouth is on you in an instant. 

You nearly let out a scream, but your continued piousness stitched your lips shut. Your fingers twisted into the blankets instead, clenching around them until your bones hurt. He licks a stripe up your center, pressing harder against the top where something shoots hot white spikes down your spine.

Stars blink in and out of view behind your eyelids like fireflies caught in a mason jar. His mouth moves slowly, like easing into cold creekwater. He leaves little licks on that tender bud of nerves at the apex, drawing sounds from you like spirits from a grave, keening soft in the back of your throat. His mouth feels like the first warm rays of a new summer sun breaking through the clouds as his tongue glides up and then rolls over that button. He presses a sugary sweet kiss to your slit, hands prying open your legs as wide as they’d go. 

Turns out, that sweetness of his was just borrowed time—grace before the ruin.

He growled into you, like something pulled from the floorboards of the church, thick with rot. Then his wickedness grins, all teeth and no mercy. He grips your hips tight, nails sinking into your flesh like marks left by the devil making a covenant. His tongue works you over with near evil intent. He consumes you like it’s the only desire he’s ever had, gulping down every drop of your essence like it’s a sacrament. Like you’re the altar and he’s been starving for centuries. 

Your legs shake in his hold as the moans you’re holding back threaten to spill out, scattering like dandelion seeds caught in the wind. When he moves to suck on that delightful spot, again you can’t help but cry out, “Oh God!”

The snarl that tears from his throat thrums through your core, like a storm shaking the rafters. When you glance down, you’re met with eyes glowing the color of fresh blood spilled on altar steps. Feral and lit with something not of this world. A predator’s gaze.

“No name you should be sayin’ but mine,” he growls, voice rough as bark and twice as deep. “Remmick, sweetheart. That’s all you need.”

“Remmick,” you say breathlessly, testing how his name rolls from your tongue. Like the strike of a match just before it catches fire.

He hums low in his throat. “That’s right, baby,” he said before his face disappeared inside you once again. 

Something warm is coiling in your lower belly, winding you up like a pocket watch about to snap. Each swipe, each roll of his tongue, has that feeling growing tighter and tighter. Your voice pushes past your mouth in quiet cracks. 

It’s so wrong, downright wicked, what he’s doing to you. Wrong that you’re lettin’ him, wrong still that you don’t want to stop. Can’t even bring yourself to think about stopping, not when it feels like this. Like salvation dressed in silken sin. How can something born of such pleasure be damnable?

It surely doesn’t feel like Hell. It feels like Heaven’s front porch, and you’re laid bare beneath a man that knows every secret you swore to bury. If this is damnation, then maybe it’s always been stitched into your skin. Maybe Remmick’s touch ain’t dragging you down… maybe it’s just showing you where you already belong.

That thought should scare you senseless, but you can’t feel anything aside from him drinking from you so deeply, like he’s trying to crawl inside of you.

He speeds up his ministrations, his tongue raking across your core, licking all the way up to that sweet spot. You gasp as a fire begins to accompany the ringing coil in your belly. His mouth is so warm against you, laced with carnal motive. Everything sounds so soaked down where he works: the glide of his tongue, the quell of your blood, and the wetness from your arousal. 

He’s done being slow; he’s done teasing you to death. The unhurried air about him is gone as he devours everything your cunt gives him.

“Damn,” he groans against you, lips moving to kiss the inside of your thigh. “Never tasted anything quite like you.” Then, quicker than you can draw a shaky breath, there was a small sting. A sharp and sudden feeling, like the prickle of a thorn. You felt his fang split the sensitive skin, felt the warmth of your blood bloom from the cut. 

Remmick chuckled low, the sound curling around you like smoke. “My bad,” he drawled, voice thick with mock apology. “Sorry, darlin’.” But the glint in his eyes betrayed him; it hadn’t been an accident, and you both knew it. Before you could answer—not that you had the breath to—he dipped his head again, tongue darting out to lick the trail of blood. 

His eyes flash for a split moment, and a rumble of pure animalistic satisfaction comes from his chest. He redoubles his efforts once his mouth is back on your center. 

You're shaking all over now, barely able to conceal your growing cries. You slap one hand over your mouth, the other going to fist in his hair.

His tongue focuses on that bud, circling over it with obscene faithfulness. Your fingers in his hair pull without meaning to, making him shudder between your legs, moaning into you like he wants you to rip the strands from his scalp. 

Remmick moves his attention lower, to the entrance of your very being. His tongue delves into that passage, thrusting deep enough it had your back arching off the ground. His nose nudges your bundle of nerves in time with the press of his tongue. 

That coil in your lower belly threatens to give. Fireworks burst in your vision as his mouth stays locked in that position. Thrust, nudge, thrust, nudge. Even as your hips begin to rise up to meet him, he holds you still with his arms bolted around your thighs. 

You squeal behind your palm, tears pricking in your eyes as the feeling that’s been building burns through you. Like the holiest Hellfire merged together by your coupling. It races across your every nerve ending, Remmick groaning when he feels you clench around his tongue.

And he doesn’t stop, not when your thighs close around his head. Not when your hand in his hair tries to pull him up. Not when you whimper his name to get his attention. 

He keeps running his tongue over you, cleaning up every drop of blood, and your arousal. When he finally does move away, raising his face to look at you, he’s an absolute mess.

The silence that followed was a different kind of divine. 

The kind never heard in churches, but in the hush of a forest after a storm. Not peaceful, but the aching stillness of something changed. Something that was never coming back. 

You laid curled in the mess of it, linens beneath your back, the ghost of him still between your thighs. Shame and satisfaction bleed together in your bones. 

Your body was still trembling as Remmick leaned back on his heels. His hands smoothed up your thighs, calming the shaking even if he didn’t mean to. His eyes no longer glowed red, but they hadn’t dulled either. They watched you like a man who’d found God in a place no one else thought to look.

“Well now,” he said, voice lowly laced with honey. “Look at you.”

You flushed, turning your face into the crook of your arm, ashamed of the tears still clinging to your lashes and the heat still pooling between your legs even after everything. Your body felt unfamiliar, like you’d been rewritten. 

Remmick chuckled, soft and smug, but not unkind. “Didn’t think you’d come apart like that. Thought I’d have to work harder.”

You shot him a look then. Half glaring and half gawking at him. 

He grinned wider, teeth white but not sharp now. “Ah, don’t give me that face. You should be proud, sugar. That was a kind of worship, what you just gave me.”

He reached for you, slow as syrup spilling from a spoon, hands sliding over your hips. You flinched under his touch from sensitivity, your skin feeling fuzzy with little aftershocks. And your body, the traitorous thing it was, arched into his palms like a flower reaching for sun.

“We ain’t done,” he said, voice curling low in his chest. 

Your breath caught when he dipped to kiss your belly. Once. Then again. Moving higher as he went, his lethal canines scraping along your flesh. 

You glanced down to look at him, gasping when you see what’s now decorating your stomach. Bloody kiss marks are smeared across your skin. His messy face making you stained right along with him. 

Remmick smiled against you, eyes flickering up to meet your stunned expression. “Let me ruin you proper,” he whispered with soiled lips. 

He moaned into you, eyes still locked on yours as he slid a hand between your legs. One of his fingers pressed into that passage, same as his tongue had done moments ago. 

You gasped at the foreign feeling, head pressing back into the pillow.

“Nuh uh,” he scolded. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You do without hesitation, eyes darting back down as if beguiled. His mouth continued to press kisses to your belly while his finger worked in and out of you. Your breath began to quicken again, sparks of that fire reigniting. He added a second finger, making you whine at the intrusion. But it wasn’t an awful feeling; it was strange but satisfying. 

“Remmick!” You cried out when he curled them upwards, pressing against something that brought tears to your eyes. He kept that movement up once, twice, and three times before you went to close your legs around him. A pathetic few tears spilling over. 

“Oh, darlin’.” He cooed, prying your legs back open. He moved then, body stretched over yours, chest brushing yours with each breath he didn’t need to take, his weight settling on top of you. 

You shivered as you sniffled, caught somewhere between the aftershocks and the ache for more. 

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your cheek. “I know what you need. I know how to help.”

One of his hands slid into your hair, fingers gliding through the strands with a sweetness you hadn’t expected. He stroked along your scalp, petting you like something precious. Like you hadn’t just let him defile you beneath your daddy’s roof. Like you weren’t still marked by his mouth and your own undoing.

“You want me to help you?” He asked, a certain amount of smugness dripping into his tone. 

You gave a soft, half-broken nod. 

That was all it took for him to rip your nightgown over your head. You had no time to be concerned for your modesty, because he was already fumbling with his belt, unbuckling and unzipping in a haste that was almost reeling. He tore the suspenders from his shoulders, shoving his trousers down before working on his shirt. Before you could fully prepare yourself, he was back over you. Your naked bodies perfectly aligned with each other. 

“Ain’t no sense in drawin’ it out,” he spoke against your throat, voice thick and taut with something close to hunger. “Cunt’s already beggin’ f’me. 

His hips rocked forward, not yet inside but threatening, the hard press of him sliding along the heat of you. You gasped, legs twitching to close around him, but he growled—low and guttural—grabbing your thighs and spreading them wider, anchoring them with his own. 

“Promise it won’t hurt too bad,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth, gentler than he had any right to be.

Your fingers clutched at his back, at his arms, nails catching skin, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, it made him press in harder, dragging the thick length of him through your slickness with a hiss through his teeth.

“God,” he muttered, head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re soaked for me. Didn’t think you could get sweeter, but damn.”

Then, with no further warning, he pushed inside.

The air left your lungs in one shattered breath, back arching off the bed as the stretch burned through you. He filled you in one steady thrust, rough but precise, like a man who knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t see the point in waiting.

“Remmick—” you whimpered, voice high and caught between a sob and a moan.

“I know, I know,” he rasped, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he drew back to surge forward again. “It’s hurting so good, ain’t it? But you can take it. You will take it.”

He set a hard rhythm, driving into you in a way that’d leave you sore later on. You swore you could feel his craving wrap around you with each thrust, tight and invisible, choking out everything else. Your hands had started fisted around the sheets, knuckles bone-white, but now they raked up his spine, wanting just to feel him. His muscles jumped beneath your touch, a tension coiled tighter than wire. 

With your hands occupied, your moans and cries were free to float through the air. Remmick’s hold on your hips allowed him to pull you into him. He did so roughly, as if to remind you where he was, what you’d let him do. 

An especially harsh snap of his hips had you sucking in a stuttering breath. It felt like you were being split apart, like a log sliced through with an axe, but it was the most divine thing you’d ever experienced. He made love to you deeply enough that it felt like he was caressing your soul.

Remmick is groaning and panting above you, seemingly losing his own composure right along with you. Cock pressing into you as one hand moves from your hips to between your bodies. His fingers find that bud again, pinching and teasing it until you were crying again. 

“Keep crying, sweetheart,” he moaned into your neck. “Y’tears are just as sweet.”

You shuddered at his words, tears still spilling, core clenching around his length. He grunted at the increased tightness, breathing deeply to steady himself as he drove inside of you with more urgency than before. His tongue darts out to lick up your throat before sucking a mark there. His fangs teasing their sharp edges over the sensitive skin. 

“Remmick, I…” Your damp eyes rolled back as a loud moan interrupted you. The incessant movement of his hips made it hard to form a coherent thought. Along with his fingers swirling your bud with faster and faster motions. Your body quivered as you felt that fire build up once more. 

“You gonna cum again so soon?” He chuckles, basking in the control he’s got over you. 

“Yes, please,” you can’t help but plead. 

His eyes flash that dangerous crimson, fangs bearing as he grins down at you. He picks up his pace, all but battering his cock into you. He still works his digits over your bud, overwhelming you with the onslaught of feelings. 

Your belly coils tighter and tighter like before. That warmth bubbling within you, begging to boil over. When it finally does, it’s the most violent thing you’ve experienced. It burns but in the most euphoric sensations, making you clamp down around him as you nearly scream his name. 

Remmick paws at you, movements faltering just a bit. He moves your legs higher up on his waist, letting himself sink deeper inside of you. Stars blink in and out of your vision; you whimper as you feel him invade every corner of your being.

His moans become more frequent, more loud. His hold on you becomes more bruising with each sharp thrust. Watching him lose even a piece of his control seems to draw out your release. You clench around him again, making an almost pained grunt leave his parted lips. 

“I need—” he mumbles barely audibly before he’s slicing a fang along your neck. That small, recognizable sting blooms across your skin again as he splits it open. Hot blood flows down your throat, but he’s licking it up before covering the cut with his mouth. 

He sucks your blood from the wound, still slamming into your center. It only takes a few more before he freezes, a deep moan reverberating against your skin. Warmth seeps into you as he finishes. 

You both remained still for a moment. The room smelling of sweat and sin, like a baptism gone wrong. Every shuddering breath you took felt like it snagged on something unseen, a seam torn open and left to bleed. 

Your body trembled beneath him, limbs slack, soul aching in the hollows where his name had carved itself. There was a warmth between your legs that wasn’t all yours and a dull sting at your throat that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. His mark. His claim. And you had let him do all that and more. 

Remmick collapsed beside you, not with the grace of shadow, but with the slow, satisfied sprawl of something fed full. One arm draped heavy across your waist, anchoring you in place like he feared you might float away.

Neither of you spoke for some time, only breathed each other in. The tip of his nose brushing against your temple as if he needed to memorize the scent of you post-ruin.

Then his voice came, low, rough-edged, and tender, like gravel soaked in molasses. “You alright, lamb?”

Your throat was too raw for speech, so you just nodded, once or twice, eyes fluttering closed.

He shifted, careful this time, easing the tangled linens higher to shield you. His fingers found your hair again, dragging through it in absent strokes. Not with lust now, but with reverence. Like you were a song he hadn’t heard in a long time.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmured.

“It’s a good shake,” you whispered back.

He grinned as he kissed your shoulder with blood stained lips.

You turned your face into his chest, where his heart didn’t beat but his warmth still lingered. “I don’t know who I am anymore,” you confessed.

He curled around you like the dark curling around a dying candle. “That’s alright,” he assured. “Reckon you never liked who you were before anyhow.”

You couldn’t think about how he was probably right. Couldn’t think about how at some point he’d have to leave. Maybe never come back. You didn’t want to think about going back to normal preacher’s girl life after this. After him. 

Even if it meant your soul was damned, you didn’t care much. You just wanted to be his, not saved, but his.

Outside, the cicadas sang like mourners, but in his arms, you knew salvation. Not the kind Heaven promised, but the kind that came with being held in the devil’s gentle hands.

﹙taglist﹚ @001-side

Listened to Ethel Cain on repeat while I wrote this.

[grenadehearts]

a bit suggestive! thinking about bf!kirishima who loves to mark you but is so shy and embarrassed seeing the after-effects.

boyfriend!kirishima is the type of man to be completely, hopelessly pussywhipped by you. So much so that the moment things get even remotely physical—whether it’s a slow, lazy makeout on the couch or something rougher and hungrier—he loses all coherent thought. His brain just shuts off, replaced by a single, overwhelming instinct: you.

He’s so consumed by you, so high off your taste and touch, that he leaves a trail of bite marks along your skin—his sharp teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm, just enough to draw out those soft little yelps he lives for. He trails his mouth down your collarbone, pressing wet, messy kisses into your skin, each one louder and sloppier than the last. Between every kiss, he murmurs praise like a prayer, over and over again, his voice muffled against your flesh:

“Perfect girl… mine… my wife… mine, mine, mine.”

You’re not his wife. Not yet. But in Kirishima’s eyes, you already are. And he wants you to know it. He fully intends to put a heavy, glimmering diamond on your finger—one that catches the light just like your eyes do. Until then, he marks you the only way he knows how: with his mouth, his hands, his love.

Your skin—so soft and warm and his—ends up coated in blooming bruises and faint indents from his teeth. Each one a love letter scrawled in violet and rose. And later, when the haze lifts and he catches sight of your body in the soft light of morning, painted in proof of his hunger, he goes all shy and flustered.

“Oh… shit, babe,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes trail over the marks. “I got carried away again, huh?”

He’ll tug one of his oversized shirts over your head, fumbling with the fabric like maybe if he covers them up, it’ll make his embarrassment disappear. But you just grin, shrugging it off, wearing each mark like it’s something sacred. Because to you, it is.

And he melts—his face going red as he buries it in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping around you tight as if he could somehow shield you from the sight of the love he’s already left behind. He might get embarrassed every time, but he’ll never stop. He’ll keep coating you in his adoration, over and over, because loving you is instinct. Loving you is need.

masterlist link here.

taglist: @luvseraphh @xoxojisu @candiiee @cvnt4him @soundtrqck @lotusstarr @cupkiki @wokasiv @badslittlemuffin @moonstonejpg @chlosology @princessshnazzy @203steph @chitteringcicadaeyes @idk1187 @notartemis777 @chosostonguepiercing @chocolatedefendorbaa @t33th--r0t @3lenaatvt @the-faceless-bride @tuneinwlosers @gethexxed @dreamcastgirl99

[mrsimpurity]

pussy inspection with old man logan.. and he’s wearing his reading glasses.. omfg

cw: smut (nsfw), implied age gap

it’s late in the evening. a small bedside lamp illuminates the faint rose blush on your cheeks caused by the scene in front of you. it’s logan. he’s right between your legs, the hairs on his beard tickling your inner thigh, his face so close to your bare pussy, you can feel his quiet breathing on your skin. he’s wearing his glasses, of course he is. 

with two fingers, he spreads your glistening folds and blows lightly on your clit, the action making you shiver and instinctively try to shut your legs. but he pries them open again, his whole frame now between your thighs. you’re forced to face him, you just can’t look away. this feeling of being splayed out for him like a meal, vulnerable and nude, is erotically nauseating, addicting.

“you’ve been a good girl, right?” logan asks, slicing the tension in the air. you swallow and nod with a quiet “mhm”, not trusting your voice to speak.

in response, he places a soft kiss on your clit, the action eliciting something wild in you, a feeling of obedience, an all-consuming thought that this is what you were made for. to please him and get rewarded.

the cool wind blows through the open windows, making the curtains sway lightly and goosebumps erupt on your legs. logan lifts his gaze, looking up at you through his glasses which were resting carefully on the bridge of his nose. he gently runs a reassuring hand up and down your thigh.

“let me warm you up, baby.” he speaks softly.

and you oblige, you give yourself to him. perhaps the unconventional dynamic of your relationship was unnerving, a little too much for such a young thing like you. but that’s exactly what he was here for - to help you. so he rushes to your aid, releasing all of your pent up tension for you. you mold like putty in his hands, his beard covered in your juices, your limbs limp by the end of the night, the only time you speak being when you come undone on his tongue, whispering his name like a prayer.

[beloveds-embrace]

Fae au thought

One of them storming into her chambers only for her to be in the middle of a bubble bath. Completely bare of all things fae. So utterly human, so utterly vulnerable.

yes || masterlist || trying my hand at actually writing johnny’s accent

It was Johnny.

Of course it was Johnny.

The door slammed open with the force of a man too furious to remember propriety, the wood crashing against the stone with a bang that echoed like thunder down the gilded corridor and scattering the softly glowing wisps that floated lazily in your chambers like fireflies caught in honeyed light. The very walls groaned in protest, ancient ivy carved into the pillars flinching at the fury that surged in behind him. His voice followed, sharp, brimming with a fire he rarely let show in court.

"Where the fuck were you- ?!"

Every faelight in the room flickered, dimming in tandem with his rage. Then, silence; a heavy, suffocating silence.

You turned in the tub, water sloshing gently against porcelain as your hand rose to clutch at the side. Bubbles clung lazily to your shoulders, slipping down soft skin untouched by glamour or adornment. No jewelry curved your ears to points. No talon-shaped rings or flower-laced braids. No velvet. No corset. No thorns. Bare as a whisper, as a prayer. Soaked in steam and solitude, skin flushed from heat.

Only you.

Bare, human, and blinking at him like a deer startled mid-step in a clearing.

The fury drained from him in an instant.

Johnny’s lips parted, then closed. His eyes flicked- once, only once- before they dropped to the floor, jaw tightening with restraint. The fire had not gone out, but it was merely stifled now, banked beneath something deeper and rougher.

“Dinnae mean to…” he muttered, voice cracking low, throat bobbing.

You remained quiet, shoulders curling ever so slightly inward. The room, warm and fragrant with oils and rose petals, suddenly felt too still, too quiet, even though distant flutes played, music still drifting in from the spring festival below. One of the glass windows glowed a faint blue, letting in the moon’s touch. You reached for a towel, slow and deliberate, never taking your eyes off him.

And you- so achingly human- were the only thing in the room that didn’t shimmer. It made you seem all the more delicate.

“… You could knock next time.” You said, softly, not with anger, but with a tiredness that had settled deep into your bones. The kind that no glamour could mask. The kind even Thrain’s company barely eased. The kind that had nothing to do with being fae or queen or wife, and everything to do with simply being alone for too long. With being human in a place that did not welcome it.

Johnny didn’t leave, though, even if he should have.

Instead, he stepped back once- just once- and turned his head, gaze fixed on a tapestry like it had offended him personally.

“I thought somethin’’d happened,” he said, voice low and rough, accent thick. “Ye weren’t in yer chambers, or at the table. No one had a fuckin’ clue where ye’d gone. Court’s been crawlin’ all day- bastards won’t stop askin’ for more time wi’ ye. Price is snappin’. Gaz nearly stuck a blade in some prissy noble’s gut when he asked too sweetly where’d you gone. I dinnae even know where Si’s at an’ I’m almost too afraid to ask.”

You sank back into the water, letting the warmth cradle your frame.

“I just wanted a bath,” you whispered, sinking back into the bath, water lapping gently at your collarbone. The petals shifted around you, soft and luminous. “Not a title. Not another favor asked of me. Just…” Your fingers trailed across the surface, drawing circles. “To be myself. For a little while.”

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t heavy this time, and neither was it angry. Quiet.

After a moment, you heard the sound of boots stepping away. Not leaving- just moving. Then the faint scrape of wood against stone that had been etched with centuries’ worth of wards to keep wicked things at bay.

He was sitting, less like an advisor and more a knight keeping watch outside a princess’s door. But even closer than that.

“I’ll stay,” he said gruffly, crossing his arms as though daring anyone to argue with him- even you. “Not lookin’. Just… watchin’ the door.”

A pause. Then, in a voice so quiet you’d never think he was even capable of, Johnny sighed. “… Take yer time, queenie. Dinnae let me take this away from ye.”

You had no answer for that.

But when you rose, wrapped in soft linen and smelling of dusk-flowers and magic, your bare feet kissed the glowing floor, and your eyes met his- he didn’t look away this time.

Not even once.

(You told yourself it was not hunger that colored his eyes; you doubted he’d find a human attractive.)

[cowgirlvi]

mdni. sub-bottom vi. fem-top reader. vaginal sex. strap-on usage. rough sex.

vi masterlist

word count: 1.2k

since your breakup with vi, there’s been numerous rumors circulating around campus—stories of her charming girls with sweet, romantic dates, only to take them home and leave them thoroughly fucked. under normal circumstances, it might bother you. except you know vi, you know how tightly wound she gets, how unsatisfied she must be, because it’s clear none of those other girls have put in the effort to actually fuck vi. 

you haven’t heard a single whisper about any of them actually giving vi what she needs, stretching her out the way she craves, pressing their cocks deep inside her tight pussy. you imagine it must be eating her alive. vi’s always had a greedy hole—an orifice that’s bottomless and sweetly pathetic.

besides, you’ve seen them; the women she dates. they’re harmless, prudish, well-mannered, pretty in a conventional way. not one of them could fuck vi properly. they wouldn’t even know where to begin.

so it’s amusing, really—watching vi try to provoke you. the way she flaunts them like costume jewelry, hoping to catch your eye. but you offer nothing in return. no reaction, no flicker of interest or jealousy. there’s simply nothing there worth responding to.

which is why you aren’t surprised when vi appears at your doorstep a week later, shy like an abandoned pet. she’s blushing, trembling, her sea-glass eyes rimmed with guilt and some shadowy element of hope.

“can i help you, vi?” you ask, not unkindly, but with practiced indifference.

”i just—i feel bad about the way things ended between us,” she stammers, the lie crumbling on her tongue like wet sugar.

”mmm, you do?” your fingernails tsk-tsk against the doorframe. “okay then. will that be all, vi?”

when you begin to close the door, vi thrusts her hand against the wood with a thud, face suddenly stricken with shame. “baby, wait i—fuck. i miss you, okay?” she reluctantly admits.

you smile. you already knew that.

that’s how vi ends up in your bed, silk sheets wrinkled like the petals of a crushed rose. her legs are held up to her chest and your strap is buried deep inside her cunt, pressing painfully against her cervix. it’s a fitting consequence for her betrayal—for being such a stubborn slut that she sought out pleasure in other people, instead of coming to you.

”you missed me, huh?” you murmur, thrusting sharply, your voice velvety with cruelty. “that’s funny. i heard you’ve been keeping pretty busy.”

the sight of her stretched open, pussy weeping around you, is so familiar that it nearly bores you. but no, there’s joy in it more than anything. the sadistic kind of joy one only feels when their favorite toy remembers its owner.

vi goes cross-eyed as you slam into her again, a noise halfway between a sob and a prayer tumbling from her open mouth. you touch her slit—just a trace—and she shivers, instinctive and pathetic.

“yes, yes—mmffuck!”

it’s overtly apparent; no matter how many girls vi brought home, no matter how many times she tried to lose herself in someone else, nothing could compare to this. the realization fills you with a sense of pride; a deep feeling of assurance and certainty that you are, in every way, irreplaceable.

”fuck, baby, your pussy’s a mess,” you murmur in astonishment. after all these months, how could you forget what a sloppy, wet hole she has? “bet none of those girls knew how to take care of this greedy little thing.”

vi shakes her head with something like reverence, her voice catching. “ahh, only y-you—it’s only ever been you—hunghh—i swear!“

you meanly grope vi’s breasts, admiring the way her fat tits jiggle. once upon a time, the sight of vi’s naked body might have stirred something possessive in you—jealousy, perhaps, at the thought of someone else witnessing her like this. but now, as you watch vi unravel beneath you, all you feel is a quiet, amused detachment. an urge to murmur something soft and cutting about how pathetic she is.

you know vi—know her body better than she does herself. she needs to be filled, used like she’s a worthless doll, stripped of all purpose except pleasuring you. she needs it hard and unyielding and constant. from the look on her face—wrecked and anguished—you were right to assume that nobody else came close to giving her what she craves.

“you just needed someone to fuck you right,” you coo. “someone who knows what a sick little baby you really are.”

“yes,” she gasps. “please—need it harder, fuck!”

you relish in how desperate she is for you. vi’s so cute when being fucked open; demanding everything from you, whilst unable to give anything back but cries and spasms. it makes you feel delirious—fuckdrunk, even. all you can hear is the wet percussion of your hips against hers, and her high, helpless mewls. you’re hitting all the right spots, striking cords deep inside her gummy walls that make her jolt with electricity. you’re fucking vi in a way no one else will ever be able to replicate.

"fuck, vi... you're so tight," you say dizzily, but you don’t let up; still relentlessly jackhammering your cock inside her.

her pussy is creaming around your strap, leaking down the curve of her ass. her body—that magnificent machine of muscle—is locked up tight, close to tipping over the edge. her abs twitch involuntarily, plump breasts bouncing, arms trembling as she attempts to hold her legs apart for you, and her thighs—those strong pillars—quake like leaves in a storm.

vi squeals suddenly, pressing her hand against the taut plane of your abdomen—a futile attempt to slow your unrelenting pace.

”i’m gonna—gonna—ohhh!” 

her eyes roll, those bright coins of consciousness swallowed by the dark. vi’s tongue spills from her mouth, silly and helpless. her thighs snap shut instinctively but you pry her open again, unwilling to let her escape the pleasure you’re giving her.

“come for me, vi,” you say. “who knows if i’ll ever want to fuck you again after this, so make it count.”

edited (6/2/25)

[kalisbaby]

“From the River to the Sea.” A Poem by Samer Abu Hawwash, translated by Huda Fakhreddine

every street, every house, every room, every window, every balcony, every wall, every stone, every sorrow, every word, every letter, every whisper, every touch, every glance, every kiss, every tree, every spear of grass, every tear, every scream, every air, every hope, every supplication, every secret, every well, every prayer, every song, every ballad, every book, every paper, every color, every ray, every cloud, every rain, every drop of rain, every drip of sweat, every lisp, every stutter, every yamma, mother, every yaba, father, every shadow, every light, every little hand that drew in a little notebook a tree or house or heart or a family of a father, a mother, siblings, and pets, every longing, every possibility, every letter between two lovers that arrived or didn’t arrive, every gasp of love dispersed in the distant clouds, every moment of despair at every turn, every suitcase on top of

every closet, every library, every shelf, every minaret, every rug, every bell toll in every church, every rosary, every holy praise, every arrival, every goodbye, every Good Morning, every Thank God, every ‘ala rasi, my pleasure, every hill ‘an sama’i, leave me alone, every rock, every wave, every grain of sand, every hair-do, every mirror, every glance in every mirror, every cat, every meow, every happy donkey, every sad donkey’s gaze, every pot, every vapor rising from every pot, every scent, every bowl, every school queue, every school shoes, every ring of the bell, every blackboard, every piece of chalk, every school costume, every mabruk ma ijakum, congratulations on the baby, every y ‘awid bi-salamtak, condolences, every ‘ayn al- ḥasud tibla bil-‘ama, may the envious be blinded, every photograph, every person in every photograph, every niyyalak, how lucky, every ishta’nalak, we’ve missed you, every grain of wheat in every bird’s gullet, every lock of hair, every hair knot, every hand, every foot, every football, every finger, every nail, every bicycle, every rider on every bicycle, every turn of air fanning from every bicycle, every bad joke, every mean joke, every laugh, every smile, every curse, every yearning, every fight, every sitti, grandma, every

sidi, grandpa, every meadow, every flower, every tree, every grove, every olive, every orange, every plastic rose covered with dust on an abandoned counter, every portrait of a martyr hanging on a wall since forever, every gravestone, every sura, every verse, every hymn, every ḥajj mabrur wa sa ‘yy mashkur, may your ḥajj and effort be rewarded, every yalla tnam yalla tnam, every lullaby, every red teddy bear on every Valentine’s, every clothesline, every hot skirt, every joyful dress, every torn trousers, every days-spun sweater, every button, every nail, every song, every ballad, every mirror, every peg, every bench, every shelf, every dream, every illusion, every hope, every disappointment, every hand holding another hand, every hand alone, every scattered thought, every beautiful thought, every terrifying thought, every whisper, every touch, every street, every house, every room, every balcony, every eye, every tear, every word, every letter, every name, every voice, every name, every house, every name, every face, every name, every cloud, every name, every rose, every name, every spear of grass, every name, every wave, every grain of sand, every street, every kiss, every image, every eye, every tear, every yamma, every yaba, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, all…

[unboundprompts]

hi! i wanted to ask how could i write a scene of a band performing and make it flow smoothly? Reactions to it and inner dialogue of the leader singer while performing?

I hope that makes sense!

Thank you :)

How to Write a Band Performance

Set the Atmosphere with Sound and Sensory Details

Use sensory language to capture the energy of the music, the movement on stage, and the audience’s reaction. Think about the sounds of instruments, the lights, the thrum of bass vibrating through the floor, or how the crowd looks.

Example: The drums kicked in, a thunderous heartbeat that pulsed through the packed venue. Strings followed, filling the air with an electric charge, and the lights dimmed just enough for the crowd to lean in, hungry for the next note.

Anchor the Lead Singer’s Focus

The lead singer might catch moments in the crowd, like a fan mouthing every lyric, someone laughing, or even seeing familiar faces in the sea of people. These little connections add a human touch and make the performance feel alive.

Example: He spotted a girl in the front row, eyes closed, every word leaving her lips like a prayer. She knew each lyric by heart, maybe better than he did. That look kept him grounded—kept him singing.

Use Inner Dialogue to Show Nerves, Confidence, or Distraction

Let the lead singer’s mind wander a bit, but keep it tethered to the music. They might think of something unrelated that they suppress to stay focused, or maybe they reflect on what this song means to them, especially if it’s deeply personal or symbolic.

Example: Here we go. Breathe. Just like rehearsal. But it was never just like rehearsal. Each word brought him back to the night he wrote it—a night he barely survived. He shook off the thought. No. Tonight, it’s just for them.

Describe Body Movements and How They Connect to Emotion

Physical sensations can be as telling as dialogue. The lead singer might feel the warmth of the spotlight, the stickiness of sweat on their skin, or the way their voice feels strong, raw, or strained.

Example: He gripped the mic stand, fingers tight, and leaned forward. His voice cracked on a high note, but he let it, gave it to the crowd raw. They wanted his truth, his realness. That was all he had to give.

Show the Crowd’s Reaction

Describe reactions like a wave, where energy ebbs and flows. The crowd might sway during slower parts, roar during the chorus, or go silent in the song’s more intimate moments. This back-and-forth dance adds rhythm to the scene.

Example: As the first chorus hit, the crowd became a sea of outstretched hands, fingers clawing for a piece of the music. A roar rose, then softened as they sang with him, their voices tangling with his own, something fragile and fierce all at once.

Balance Between Action and Inner Thoughts

To keep the scene flowing, alternate between what the singer does (interacting with the mic, moving on stage) and what they think. Too much inner dialogue could slow down the scene, so give action and reaction space to keep the reader engaged.

Example: He took a step back, holding the last note, letting it resonate through the space. He stole a glance at his bandmates. They were lost in the music too, faces set, eyes closed. It felt like the old days—a secret between them, shared with everyone.

End with a Climactic Moment or a Release of Tension

End the scene with a dramatic finish, like a powerful note, a burst of applause, or even silence if it’s an emotional song. The lead singer could feel relieved, drained, or exhilarated by the end.

Example: As the last chord faded, a brief silence hung over the crowd—a pause, a heartbeat—before it shattered with applause. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him, knowing that for now, the song was enough.

[radawaycunt]

Imperator

Also on AO3

Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 6.7k words

Summary: Once, you only had the memory of the curious barbarian poet, entertaining guests at a party with both violence and verse. But it's not until you see him again, now as emperor, that you get to know the man underneath the titles.

Warnings: Minors DNI this fic is 18+, power imbalance (emperor/servant to freedwoman), mutual pining, slow-ish burn, sort of forbidden love?, lots and lots of fluff good lord, some jealousy, some angst, lovey dovey smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), maybe some historical inaccuracies lol (I care a lot okay), and iii think that's it but lmk if anything else!

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

"Love will enter cloaked in friendship's name."

– Ovid.

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

“The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth the descent, and easy is the way. But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.”

That was the first time you had ever heard him speak, the deep timbre of his voice riddled with contempt. Moments before, he had killed another gladiator, his blood spattered on him like a gruesome adornment. But there was no savagery in his fierce eyes, no mere bloodthirst in the sneer directed at Emperor Geta, your Dominus. His glare was even, like a cold, blue flame that promised not just violence, but retribution as well.

You’d recognized the poem immediately, just as taken aback as everyone else. Nobody moved, the room’s collective breath held in anticipation of the inevitable repercussions of such an offense. Emperor Geta made the slightest move to raise his sword and you gripped the decanter of wine tighter, but your face remained impassive.

“Virgil,” supplied Macrinus, trying to placate him with a broad smile. “He was taught poetry just to amuse you, Imperators.”

There was another momentary pause in which neither twin was sure if they should believe him. But then, Caracalla snorted, standing up to clap the taller man’s shoulder.

“A poet,” He said, laughing. “That’s genius, Macrinus.”

“Yes, certainly very amusing,” Geta said begrudgingly, his jaw clenched. 

He and the gladiator had not stopped staring at each other for one moment, like two vipers poised to strike. 

“Good, I thought you’d like that,” Macrinus said, approaching his fighter to grasp his shoulder, perhaps in warning. “We live to serve you both.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing your poet at the upcoming games in the Colosseum,” he spits out, throwing the sword aside with a loud clatter. “Let’s see how his verses work for him then.”

Macrinus nodded at his steward to take the gladiator away. He was smiling, seemingly amused, as the steward approached him. As he was being shoved back to the atrium, his eyes took one last baleful look around the room. For the briefest second, you thought his eyes met yours, striking you like a piercing arrow, but then he was gone. 

You had no time to dwell on it though, as Emperor Geta returned to his seat and raised his glass to be refilled. But that didn’t mean you would forget so easily, even if your paths might never cross again. All you could do was offer a prayer to the Gods for him. 

—--------------------------

The next time you saw him, he was no longer a barbarian gladiator hailed from a distant land, but the new – and rightful – Emperor of Rome. His name was not Hanno, but Lucius Verus Aurelius, and he was the son of the recently passed Queen Lucilla, whom Rome still mourned. 

He was not cruel like the twins had been, rarely raising his voice, much less his hand. His demeanor was usually calm, but sometimes he stalked the halls restlessly, as if unsure what he should be doing. He still rose with the sun and trained for a couple of hours in the morning, already used to the routine he’d had as a gladiator, but after that, it was all politics. Endless scrolls of parchment to pore over, meetings to hold with the senate, and lending a patient ear to the populace’s needs. The weight of an empire was on his shoulders, and yet he didn’t bow under it. 

During the day, you served his wine and silently hovered around for anything else he might need. At night, you drew his baths, kept his torches lit, and prepared his bed. You would have helped him disrobe too, already used to it from your days of serving Geta, but he chose to do so himself. He was not quite used to his every need being attended to, self-sufficiency deeply ingrained in his being. Mostly, he waved away other servants, leaving you instead to care for him personally. 

There were times when you caught him looking at you as if you seemed vaguely familiar, a furrow in his brow when he couldn’t place you. You couldn’t fault him for not remembering you from Senator Thraex’s party, but there was a certain thrill at having piqued his curiosity regardless. Still, you kept your head down and offered no hints, as was your place. 

Until one night, while he watched you add aromatic oils and test the bath’s temperature, he finally asked the question that had been on his mind for days.

“What is your name?”

You were startled at first, not having expected him to address you at all. You told him your given Roman name, Domicia, and bowed your head respectfully. He pushed himself off the doorway and stepped into the bathroom, humming thoughtfully.

“Of the home,” he said, referring to the name’s meaning. “Are you Roman? Is that your real name?”

You shook your head in answer to both questions. “I have been in Rome for many years now, though.”

“I have not,” he said, a note of melancholy in his voice. “Yet I grew up here, in these very halls…”

He trailed off, looking around absently, lost in his memories. You could not begin to imagine what he had been through, what he had seen. You had heard of his being sent away as a child, with absolutely no choice in the matter, and could empathize with him. 

All you had ever known was a humble life in your native country, until you were stripped of your freedom and brought to the capital of Rome. Neither place felt like home, just the past and the present, and perhaps he was viewing things the same way. You could imagine, even understand, the bittersweetness of returning to a place one thought they might never see again. 

“We are honored and grateful to have you back, Dominus,” you said. “I hope things have been to your satisfaction.”

“I have no complaints,” he said, yet he sighed. “Though becoming accustomed to being here, in my current position, is going to take some more time.”

“If there is anything I can do to make it easier for you, please let me know.”

He inclined his head gratefully, your eyes meeting for a moment. “Thank you, Domicia.”

He had the barest of smiles on his handsome face, but you could tell it was genuine. You felt one corner of your lips tugging upwards, but you looked away out of propriety. Even if you were in the same room, you were leagues apart, and it would do you no good to try to imagine otherwise.

You stood up, grabbing the decanter from a nearby table to have it refilled. “Your bath is ready now. Would you like refreshments other than wine?”

He nodded and you bowed, making your way out. By the time you returned with more wine and a platter of olives, bread, and cheese, he was already in the bathtub, leaning back with his eyes closed. Your feet padded softly on the mosaic floor to avoid  disturbing him, and you left his refreshments on the table near the tub.

You settled at one side of the room just in case he might need anything, staring off into the middle distance and letting your mind drift. He glanced at you sidelong, his curiosity having only grown after your brief conversation. He still had that nagging feeling that he had seen you somewhere before, but he didn’t want to ask outright.

You felt his gaze on you but pretended not to, keeping your eyes averted. You thought again of the poem he’d recited, how different his demeanor had been then. You wondered what other verses he’d been taught, and if you might ever hear him recite anything again. He had a voice for poetry, somehow turning the words into a sort of enchantment, keeping one entranced.

“Doesn’t it feel… strange sometimes?” he said suddenly, staring up at the ceiling. “When things settle and you realize how far you have come? How much you’ve had to sacrifice for it?”

You hummed in agreement, waiting for him to say more. 

“Sometimes, I even wonder if it was all worth it.”

Still lost in a haze of verses, you spoke before you could even think it through.

“Fortunate is he whose mind has the power to probe the causes of things and trample underfoot all terrors and inexorable fate.”

He sat up, surprised. “You know Virgil.” Recognition finally dawned on him. “You were at that party, weren’t you?”

You nodded. “Your words then were just as sharp as your blade.”

He huffed, leaning against the edge of the tub as he remembered his barely contained hatred. “Were you taught poetry to amuse, as well?”

“No, I used to read it with my mother when I was younger.”

“Who else have you read?”

“Ovid, Sappho, Horace…” You became a little flustered as he raised his eyebrows. “My mother was a bit of a romantic.”

“And you?”

It was your turn to huff with amusement, looking down at your hands. “I don’t believe I inherited that trait, no.”

The truth was that in a place such as Rome, love was quite hard to come by. You didn’t actively search for it, its ephemeral nature making you less inclined to, but you were no complete stranger to it. You’d never let it take root, though, for it was not something you could afford to have. 

“What about you, Dominus?”

“Me?” he said. “I suppose… I’m not entirely sure anymore. I used to be, at one point.”

His haunted expression told you not to press him for details, so you just nodded sympathetically. The two of you lapsed into silence, the weight of tragedy hanging between you. You’d had a lot more time to become numb to your circumstances, but it was clear the pain he was experiencing was still fresh. 

“I will be forced to remarry eventually.” He sighed heavily. “Produce heirs to carry out the lineage, show Rome a unified front.”

“Well, whoever you marry shall be the most fortunate woman in the empire.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, looking over at you. “You really believe so? You’re not just flattering me?”

“Of course,” you said, giving him a cryptic smile that made him laugh again. “I’m perfectly serious.”

“Oh, I am sure you are.”

After some time, he rose with a small splash, prompting you to immediately approach with an outstretched towel. His nudity barely registered in your mind, having already glimpsed him a few times. You wouldn’t dare to look at him directly, even if you were more than a little curious. You tensed as his fingers barely brushed yours in the exchange, but you quickly stepped back to give him more room.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, water dripping down his sculpted arms and chest. You went to start tidying up, studiously keeping your eyes on your task. He watched as you picked up the refreshments to take to the main chamber, a part of him wishing you would look at him instead. 

“One more thing,” he said and you immediately turned around. “Please, I want you to call me Lucius.”

Your face heated up at the mere thought of it. “I could never be so bold…”

“I insist,” he said, holding up a hand as you began to stammer again. “Perhaps only when it is just the two of us, if you’d prefer.”

“I will certainly try my best,” you said with an awkward grin, trying to keep your composure.

He chuckled. “Good enough for me.”

—-----------------

Weeks passed, and while Lucius still hadn’t managed to get you to call him by name, he had certainly gotten you to open up more. In the evenings, the two of you swapped more poetry, often sharing your own interpretations of the verses. At some point, he even had scrolls fetched from the library for you to read to him. He enjoyed the mellifluous sound of your voice, so at odds with your serious expression when you were concentrating. To have him as your sole audience was already titillating,  but the fact that he paid close attention was even more of a rush.

During the day, you anxiously looked forward to those handful of hours in which everything else disappeared. No speak of Rome, politics, or bitter memories, content with being each other’s brief escape. You still held yourself at a certain distance, though, always aware of the chasm between you. Yet he never made you feel inferior, often encouraging you to share your thoughts and opinions with him despite your reticence. You would even dare to say he cared, or at least that’s what you wanted to believe.

You wouldn’t necessarily say you were getting attached, for that would be too unrealistic of a fantasy, but you could not deny the butterflies in your stomach that often appeared while around him. His easy, handsome smile, the kindness in his eyes, his patient indulgence when listening to you, and the effort he put into making you laugh…

But the spell was abruptly broken the day he received a visit from his friend Ravi, who had brought someone for him to meet – a respectable Roman lady. A widow, as it happened, just like Lucius. Her hair was perfectly styled, falling in ringlets that framed her lovely face. She wore a lavender-colored dress with a matching veil, much fancier than anything you’d ever owned, and was adorned with golden jewelry. More importantly, she was freeborn, and thus a perfectly good candidate for marriage.

You swallowed hard, otherwise keeping your expression neutral. You hadn’t thought he would start meeting potential brides so soon, and you certainly hadn’t expected how it would make you feel. At least, Lucius also seemed surprised, not expecting his friend to try to set him up without consulting him first. Still, he assumed the role of gracious host and welcomed them warmly, leading them out to the gardens. He glanced over his shoulder at you as you silently trailed behind them, but you didn’t meet his gaze.

The three of them reclined on the couches of the outdoor dining area, shaded by a wooden pergola. It was a beautiful sunny day, the birds singing accompanied by the gurgle of the large fountain at the center of the garden. A gentle breeze stirred the foliage, carrying the faint, sweet smell of a dozen different flowers. 

You served them wine and hovered close by as another servant brought them food to snack on. Lucius had deliberately sat across from where you stood just so he could keep an eye on you. You’d withdrawn into yourself, trying your hardest to remain indifferent instead of worrying about whether the meeting went well or not. If it did, then you had to be happy for him, but if it didn’t… Well, at least that would buy you a little more time, if nothing else.

“Such a lovely garden,” the lady, Ilaria, said as she looked around. “One could never tire of such a view.”

Lucius nodded absently but said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“I could see you fitting in perfectly with all the other flowers here,” Ravi cut in, smiling with as much charm as he could muster to make up for it.

Ilaria inclined her head, modestly waving off the compliment. “Oh, you flatter me, Ravi.”

He gave Lucius a subtle, pointed look to encourage him to follow his lead. Lucius sat up and cleared his throat, only just focusing on the conversation. He had been trying to get your attention as subtly as possible, but he hadn’t been successful. 

“Er, yes, it’s always a treat to spend time out here. Certainly helps to clear the mind.”

Ravi shook his head a little and tried not to snort with amusement, thinking he was a lost case. Ilaria smiled, unbothered, taking a handful of grapes from a platter and popping one into her mouth. 

“I’d wager there is much on your plate, Imperator,” she said. “And having to manage the household staff on top of everything else… Must be a little overwhelming for you, no?”

“Well, I am a very busy man, yes, but it hasn’t been all that bad,” Lucius said. “I’ve certainly had a great deal of support to see me through.”

His words managed to reach you, softening you up infinitesimally. This time, when he glanced at you, you finally looked back. The ghost of a smile was on your face, but you quickly looked away before it could actually manifest.

“I see. Well, I’m very glad to hear that,” Ilaria said, sharing a curious glance with Ravi, who looked slightly apologetic. “Though perhaps you have considered that having someone run the house for you would take a big burden off your shoulders. I would be more than happy to lend a hand if you’d consider it.”

His eyebrows raised slightly at her boldness, not missing the eagerness in her gaze, poorly concealed behind her innocently helpful demeanor. He certainly did not want to get her hopes up, but he smiled graciously to soften the blow.

“Ah, perhaps in the future, when I have more time to worry about such things,” he said, politely noncommittal. “But I appreciate the offer.”

Her smile wavered and then froze, not wanting to seem too disappointed. “Of course, Imperator.”

For the remainder of their visit, Lucius let them do most of the talking, any remarks he made were studiously polite and yet still a little aloof. Finally, after a few hours, he excused himself, needing to return to his duties. Ravi seemed hesitant, like he wanted to stay behind and speak to him privately, but he would have to wait for another day. He escorted them both out, thanking them for visiting, but he did not exactly invite Ilaria to return to the palace. Her disappointment was more palpable then, but she hid it with as much grace as she could muster.

When they were gone, he turned to you with a shake of his head and a sigh, grinning with bewilderment.

“I do not enjoy being ambushed,” he said as if he felt the need to explain himself. “Decent enough as she seemed.”

You bowed your head in agreement, more relieved than you would like to admit. You had no real reason to have been upset earlier, given that there was nothing between you except for a certain kinship. Even so, it was clear he had not wanted you to be hurt, and you were very thankful for that. You offered him a small smile and some tension seemed to leave his shoulders.

He inclined his head towards the eastern hallway leading to his study. “Come, I would like you to read some documents to me. I can get work done faster that way.”

The tablinum was spacious but cozy, with a door to one side that led to a smaller patio. Before, the twin emperors had never used the room, but now it seemed well lived in. There was a mess of scrolls and wax tablets all over his desk that he still hadn’t let you organize. On the wall behind, there was a recently completed fresco of a gladiator riding a chariot pulled by two horses. For another wall, he had commissioned a portrait of Vesta, goddess of the home and the hearth, but it was still a work in progress. He was particularly proud of that one, an unspoken gift for you, his muse.

You lit the oil lamps in their alcoves, bathing the room in warm light. Lucius sat at his desk with a heavy exhale and scanned his notes to remember where he had left off the previous day. You sat on a stool beside him, unfurling the scroll he handed you and resting it on your knees. The texts you read didn’t always make sense to you, but you understood their importance. The fact that he was entrusting you with such work was an honor you did not take for granted.

“Start in that middle section. There is some stuff I would like to revisit,” he said, taking up his stylus. 

You nodded, finding what he was referring to and starting right away. You read to him for the next couple of hours, only stopping if he needed you to repeat something or in case he needed more time to make his notes. A few times during the latter, you glanced up to take in the focused furrow of his brow, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he pondered. You wondered what he might be thinking about, wishing he would impart some more knowledge on you. 

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, shadows deepening in the corners of the room. Another servant brought him dinner, but he didn’t seem too hungry yet. He handed you his cup of water when he heard you clear your throat a few times, insisting when you were reluctant to take it. 

When he was done for the day, he stretched his arms over his head with a groan and slumped in his seat. You neatly rolled the parchment back up and stood so you could stretch your legs. 

“I hope I haven’t tired you too much,” he said, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back. “You can take the rest of the evening off from reading if you’d like, but I would still appreciate some company.”

“Well, I still need to draw your bath and…”

“Somebody else can take care of it,” he cut in with a shrug, not preoccupied.

You hesitated. “What would you have me do instead, then?”

“Just sit back down, relax for a moment,” he said, getting up. “Here, you can have my chair. Much more comfortable.”

You were about to protest, but he gave you a look that said it was not up for discussion. You pursed your lips, uncomfortable at the idea of being idle, especially while taking up his seat. Still, you obeyed and sat down, hands folded on your lap. Feeling a little bold, you looked at him as if to say ‘satisfied?’ and he huffed in amusement.

“Wait, stay still,” he murmured suddenly, leaning down.

You froze as his face hovered mere inches away from yours, his breath fanning over your cupid’s bow. Delicately, he removed a stray eyelash that had been resting on your cheekbone, and he pulled back a little so you could see it on the pad of his finger.

“Make a wish,” he said.

All you could do was stare at him for another breathless moment that seemed to stretch on infinitely. You licked your lips nervously, drawing his eyes there before they returned to hold your gaze. Your heart was like a nervous bird fluttering wildly in your ribcage. Your mind was mostly blank, but the one thought that popped up was ‘I wish he would close the distance right now.’

You gently blew the eyelash away, your wish scattering into the air alongside it. The Gods must have decided to grant it immediately, for he did not pull away, instead slowly leaning in. His lips brushed yours tentatively and you closed your eyes, rejoicing for the barest second before you forced your face to turn away.

“We shouldn’t…” you murmured, the words hard to utter when a desperate want clung to your throat like honey.

“Why not?” He whispered.

“It’s not– I’m not…” You vaguely gestured towards yourself, unsure of what the right words were. 

He pulled back to look at you better. “Was I too presumptuous?”

You shook your head. “Not at all.”

“Then what is it?” He pressed.

“Dominus, please.”

“Lucius,” he pleaded, loathing the title. “Say it, please.”

“Lucius,” you said finally, though your eyes still spelled defiance when you glanced at him. “Is it not obvious? We both know it’s impossible.” Your lower lip trembled slightly. “I have a heart, too, you know? I don’t want it to be broken.”

“I know that, of course I know that!” He said, placing his hands on your shoulders and crouching in front of you. “I have no intention of breaking your heart.”

“Surely you understand where I am coming from, though.” You sniffed, keeping tears at bay. “I am not wife material, like the lady Ilaria. I have nothing to offer, no dowry, no family name, or even an inkling of Patrician blood. ”

“I do not care for such things. I would never demand them of you. Even if we cannot marry, I will not marry anyone else that isn’t you,” he said with a firm, determined shake of his head. “But I can still give you my name, along with your freedom. That’s all that matters to me.”

You gasped, the shock of his words akin to a bucket of ice water being dumped over you. Now you let the tears spill over, like a dam had finally burst. He kissed them away, his hands cupping your face gently.

“I have been thinking of nothing else since I met you. I’ve already made the arrangements… I suppose I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“You honor me,” you said, smiling despite the tears. “You always have.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He asked. “You have given me more than you think. You brought me the peace I have been so desperately seeking for a long time.”

“I-I don’t even know how to thank you.” You placed a hand over his. “If you desire to give me your name, then I shall give you mine in return.”

You told him your name, the real one, which you had been hiding ever since your Roman name was given to you. He had never asked you for it, knowing that one’s name was the only thing one could truly own in this world. And now for you to give it freely… He repeated it, testing its shape on his tongue, and smiled radiantly.

“Pairs rather well with Lucia Veria, if I do say so myself,” he said with a proud chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you’ll have it, that is.”

You knew by the disarming earnestness in his eyes he wasn’t just offering the name, but himself, as well. His whole heart in the palm of your hand, should you choose to care for it. You felt as if you had already made that choice a while ago, when you first recited Virgil back to him.

“I will,” you said with an elated chuckle. “Of course I will.”

He took your hands in his, kissing both of them. “Then first thing tomorrow, we will make it official.”

More tears flowed as a result of an overwhelming rush of both gratitude and love. You had tried to ignore your feelings, not uprooting them but instead silently letting them grow unacknowledged. For once, it had seemed worth the risk of heartbreak. After all, the love hadn’t stemmed from something as fleeting as lust, but a mutual understanding and respect. It was more than you could ever ask for, and yet everything you desired.

You leaned your forehead against his, your noses brushing as he tilted his head back. This time, it was you who brought your lips to his with a tentative sort of tenderness, propriety still at the back of your mind. He responded in kind, letting you set the pace so as not to scare you off. If you weren’t shaking so much, you might have noticed he was shaking, too. 

In that kiss, there was the promise of mutual devotion, sweet and sincere. You were still holding each other’s hands, as if afraid you might drift apart if you let go. You understood then why odes were written about this feeling, as all-consuming as the churning waves of the sea. All those verses had never resonated with you more. 

Perhaps you had inherited the romanticism, after all. 

—------------------

The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine, the fresh sweetness of it bringing you a sense of tranquility. You leaned against the windowsill, looking up at the stars and trying to piece together constellations. The world seemed drastically different now that you had your freedom, so vivid, so open, so alive. You even noticed it in your posture and the lightness with which you walked, as if you were floating. Lucius had said you were radiant with it.

He’d insisted on taking care of you the same way you’d cared for him, eager to show you his gratitude. You had been hesitant at first, but at his unwavering conviction, you relented, curious how it might feel to be spoiled. All that day, he had served you reverently, taking time off from his duties to focus solely on you.

You couldn’t help getting flustered at all the attention, his ardent gaze like a caress every time it met yours. His touch had so far been entirely chaste, but even the smallest, most innocuous contact was heightened with anticipation. The brush of his fingers over yours when he handed you something, a guiding hand on your lower back, even a touch on your shoulder to make you aware of his presence.

There were a few sneaked kisses in both the garden and the tablinum, each one of them leaving an undercurrent of warmth under your skin that promised more. It was like a slow, drawn-out game of chase, neither of you in a rush to reach its conclusion. If anything, it only made you want each other more. 

After the sun had set, when the two of you drifted along as if in a drunken stupor, Lucius went to prepare a bath for you in his chambers. You were nervous and exhilarated, every moment spent waiting for him to be done an exquisite agony. Until finally, he poked his head around the bathroom door.

“It’s ready now,” he said, beckoning you with a smile.

You followed him into the bathroom, hands wringing anxiously. Flower petals were scattered on the mosaic floor, leading towards the steaming tub. Flickering candles bathed the room in a warm glow, making your shadows dance on the wall. You looked at each other, both knowing what the next step was but hesitant to initiate it. He averted his gaze first, gesturing towards the door.

“Would you like me to give you some privacy?”

You shook your head, desire making you a little more brave. “I… I would love some help undressing, though.”

His spine straightened, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “With pleasure.”

He crouched to slowly pull the hem of your long tunic upwards, rising with it. You lifted your arms so he could get it over your head, the fabric falling to the floor unceremoniously. Your eyes were fixed on his face, drinking in his expression as he took a step back to get a better look at you. The bare expanse of your skin robbed him of breath, his eyes roaming over every curve and plane of your figure. He wanted to sink to his knees again and lay his forehead at your feet in worship, but he stood still, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“The evening star is the most beautiful of all stars,”  he said in a low voice, quoting Sappho.

Warmth spread from your chest to your face, and you smiled coyly as another verse came to mind. “Come to me once more, and abate my torment…”

You offered him your hand, which he took, and he led you to the tub. You daintily stepped in, sighing contentedly as you sank into the water’s enveloping warmth. He knelt next to the tub, leaning against it with one arm propped on the edge. 

“Have I told you enough times that you are beautiful?” He said. “I don’t think it has been enough.”

You huffed with amusement, looking down as you fought a geeky grin. “Well, about a hundred times with just your eyes. A few times out loud, though.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I’ll have to show you in other ways, too… If I may.”

You nodded, silently granting him permission. He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on your lips before standing up. He took it upon himself to bathe you, starting out by scrubbing your scalp. You leaned into his touch, eyes closing in bliss. He smiled at your soft, pleasured hum, and vowed to elicit as many more as he could. 

Things took on an almost ritualistic quality, with him focused entirely on his task. You were loose limbed, letting him move you about as he used a cloth to scrub your skin. He didn’t try anything that might be deemed unsavory, though you let his tender, reverential touch reach places no one had touched in a very, very long time. But he didn’t linger, to your slight frustration, not wanting to jump into things too quickly. The flames of your desire were stoked slowly, warmth running through you like sweet wine. 

When he was done, he helped you step out of the tub and immediately got to drying you off with a towel. You caught his eye for a moment, his pupils blown wide with equally fervent desire. You stopped yourself from clutching his arm, wanting to anchor yourself to him, but he could still tell you were growing restless. He kissed your shoulder, tapping the tip of your nose playfully with his finger.

“Not done quite yet,” he murmured, not missing the way you involuntarily pressed your thighs together. “You’ve always been very patient.”

“For the first time, I fear it might be running thin…” you said, to which he smiled. 

He grabbed a small glass bottle of rose oil and lathered some in his hands. He anointed your body with it, the heady scent of one of Venus’s favorite flowers permeating the air. As he reached your chest, you took hold of his wrist and brought his palm to rest over your heart. He felt it beating rapidly, your chest rising and falling with each panting breath.

His eyes fell to your lips, slightly parted with want. He grasped your chin with his free hand, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“I have been thinking about this for a long time,” he said, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. “But I hadn’t wanted to touch you until now, when you actually felt like you had a choice in the matter.”

You clutched his wrist tighter, his thoughtfulness only making you want him more. All those hours he must have spent yearning, unaware that you were stuck thinking of him too. As emperor, he had the right to take whatever he wanted, but having previously been a gladiator, he understood the monumental importance of bodily autonomy. Very few people in Rome had such a privilege and he couldn’t bear the thought of being the one to rob you of it. 

You kissed him in response, much fiercer, hungrier, than all the other kisses you had shared so far. A desperate sound escaped his throat and he clasped you against him tightly. Swiftly, he scooped you up into his strong arms and carried you out to the bedchamber as he would a bride.

Gently, he set you down on the bed and pulled away to remove his tunic. This time, you were not meek about his nakedness. You brazenly stared at him, eyes mapping out the lines of his muscles, the pink, raised skin of his scars, and the soft trail of hair on his abdomen that seemed to suggestively point downwards. 

His shoulders were squared with pride at your ogling, a sly smile on his face. He’d had an inkling before of your attraction, but to see it on full display was narcotic, and he felt himself pulse with an aching need.

“Come closer,” you said softly.

He did, climbing over you, his warmth immediately enveloping you. You hid your face on the junction between his neck and shoulder, embarrassed at all the thoughts rushing through your mind.

“What is it?” He asked, raising an eyebrow with amusement.

“Nothing,” you said, voice muffled against his skin. “I just… I do not think you realize how badly I wanted this, too. I-I don’t want to ever stop.”

He chuckled indulgently, nudging your head so you’d look at him. “Neither do I.”

He kissed you again, and again, and again. You were so close to him that the lines of your bodies became indivisible, but it still didn’t seem like enough. Your knees hiked up to his hips in a silent plea, but he did not give in quite yet, wanting to prolong things for as long as he could.

Still, unable to resist a little bit of mutual torment, he slid upwards until his hips were aligned with yours. You gasped as you felt the velvety underside of his erection against your slick folds, each small movement making you tremble. Your brows furrowed and your lips parted in a wanton expression, your eyes shiny and half lidded as you looked at him.

“Lucius,” you whimpered. 

“I know,” he murmured soothingly, kissing your neck. “I know.”

Neither of you were willing to break apart from your embrace, so there wasn’t actually much of a preamble. Feverish, he sank into you slowly, your nails digging into his biceps as he stretched you open. That first round was frantic, almost animalistic, all the pent up longing finally being released. His body rolled over yours with the power of the sea’s waves, leaving you awash in ecstasy.

Neither of you lasted very long, but it didn’t matter, as you were nowhere near spent. Lucius, still in the afterglow of his orgasm, lazily began to kiss you all over, wanting to discover every mole and freckle, every tender spot that made you squirm, and every other little detail that made you you. 

He settled between your thighs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive bundle of nerves. You tried to prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, but he wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled you closer. 

“What are you– Oh,” you gasped at the first flick of his tongue, the entirely new sensation disarming you. 

He tasted his essence mixed with yours, a groan rumbling in his chest. You tightly grasped the sheets under you, arching against his face. You bit your lip to stop yourself from making the most undignified sounds, but it was hard to focus, especially as his fingers were added into the mix. Your body burned brighter than any brazier, his arms pinning you down as he conquered you with his mouth. You shattered once more, crying out as he helped you ride it all the way through. 

After, you lied side by side, facing each other. You’d still not had your fill of him, but you needed to gather your strength for the long night ahead. You shared a breathy chuckle, as if still in disbelief it had finally happened, and he kissed your sweat-slick forehead.

“Now that was poetry,” you said jokingly, making him laugh again. 

“You put every verse to shame, my love,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You kissed his palm, adoring, and tangled your legs with his. A swell of emotion unlike anything you had ever felt rose within you. It was as if he had awakened a new part of you that you hadn’t known was dormant, bringing you back from an existence that consisted solely of drifting through days that blended into one another.

He was just as grateful to have found you, his peace, his solace, the woman who would always guard his heart. He murmured your name reverently, a reminder that you were his, and he was yours. You drew closer to him, like a moth to flame, and pushed him onto his back, straddling him. His hands came to rest on your hips and your eyes were full of mirth as you held his gaze.

“As it happens, I find myself compelled to compose some more with you.” You grinned playfully, hands sliding up his chest. 

He mirrored your grin, not minding the idea one bit. “Relentless, just like the great muse Calliope.”

“Well, when inspiration strikes… It can’t be helped, can it?”

“No,” he said. “Not when it comes to you.”

------

[f0ofishies]

first times w/ bllk men.

You didn't even know how you even pulled the supposedly best striker in the world. Yeah, you were done for when Noel Noa had made you explore the city of Paris for a first date after pining after you for months now. He definitely didn't ask his teammates on advice.. definetly.

You giggled at him once again, walking around the city of love. How romantic, you thought for a bit. Your palm grazed his big palm, looking over the scenery from your now balcony. You both reached home a few minutes ago.

"Love?" His deep sulky voice called out to you. Tilting your head just enough to meet his golden gaze, he looked straight down. "Are you ready yet?" He whispered. Blunt and straightforward..

"Ready for–" "Love making." He was always vocal with you, even about his desires for you. Words caught up in your throat, as a light brush crept around your ears. "Now..?" He just clutched your palm even more. "Yes. Now."

Shittt–! You looked down at him. He was three fingers deep in you already, curling both his index and middle finger. He pressed on the spongy spot that made you wail. Honestly, he didn't knew how long he'd been yearning for you to squirm.

"My cock isn't even inside you yet, mon coeur..?" You've recently found out, he dirty talks in french even if you had no idea what he was even chanting in your ear. Praises– insults..? Too dumb on his fingers to even knew.

"You're too big.. that's why!" You tried to reason with the white-haired man, he couldn't help but groan at how you've been clenching. "Mmm.. stretched you for so long.. you've.. gotta be ready.." He groaned, leaning you down to a missionary position.

Your palms had been tugging at his white buttoned up shirt, well half buttoned now. He'd been stopping his advances, only wanting your first time climaxing on him first. "No, no, wait I'm so close..!"

He finally pulled out, your slick walls even gripping at his fingertips. "Mm, ready now.." He huffed a bit, shifting his position. Your teary eyes widened hearing the sound of a plastic ripped– did you just saw a size L condom?

Your mouth went dry, as you gawked at his size. Pinkish tip with some visible veins– "Baby is that even going to–" "Yes, yes it will.." Sliding the plastic wrap around himself, he let out a groan.

He wasn't vocal before, sure, but now he's panting a bit.. trying to squeeze the tip right pass your tight walls. "Please relax.. amour.." You couldn't even respond, your hole clenching like crazy "Ugh– nuh..!"

"Mon Ange.." He hooked over both your thighs that were burning over his broad shoulders. Your pretty nails– thrashed around his back. "Mmm! Noelnoelnoel.." Your voice murmuring his name like a prayer.

And when he finally bottoms out, he lets out a small brief chuckle. "Hah– Merde.. you're so tight.. still too tight.." He held up your calf a bit, it angled him deeper.

"Your body was made for me, baby.."

Dating him? How'd you even pull, Michael fucking Kaiser, the German Prodigy people call him most of the time, or maybe the arrogant bastard people know him by. Yeah you were just dating this soccer player by some miracle chance..

You couldn't help but giggle softly, as he finally visited you in the small apartment– barely making a living from your job.

"Michael.." Your voice drawled out his name as he finished a hot shower at your apartment, wearing only just his sweatpants. Your eyes indulged in the sight of him. "Ogling me again, huh?"

"Totally not." Light footsteps grazed against your wooden floors as you approached the blonde haired man. Your hands grasped his neck, tracing the subtle blue rose tattoo that displayed. "Mein Schätzelein.." Hearing the subtle nickname made your heart raise.

"Oh, and what would that entail now?" You've always liked the way his accent rolls off his tongue. Made you feel special– Michael, even with his complexities, made you feel good. "Nothing, dear." He replied smoothly.

Sharing a short fleeting kiss, he had pulled away from you. You were a bit annoyed.. he knew you've been wanting to initiate some intimate stuff in your relationship, considering you've been dating for months now! Not one sex even happened yet!

You lurch over his fingers lightly, "Love.." The small whisper you entailed. "Are you not even attracted to me–?" His eyes widened a bit, then his facade faltered a tiny bit, but hardened back again. "No, baby.. just.."

"I'm so ready..!" You whined at him, like a kid wanting a plushie. "What's stopping us?" He just glanced back down at you, "Are you serious–.."

You stroke his jaw as he holds you close, one hand on your waist, the other at your hips. "You're telling me– you've never done this before.." Your hole spasming in the cold air hovering over his pretty pink tip. "No, never.."

He couldn't believe how hard and red he was, he would always flex on other people about everything but this. He'd touch himself, yeah, but this is a whole another level for him. "t's fine.. you'll love this feeling.." You whisper.

"Ah–!" He let out a strangled moan, finding the way how you slid in so easily into him. You've stretched yourself out beforehand– sneaky minx, he thought. But he didn't mind, before you could even roll your hips.. he stabilized you.

"No, no let me– do the honors..!" He wanted to still be superior, so he did what he would logically do. Thrust upwards, fully bottoming out. "Michael–!" Your face changed– wasn't he a virgin how'd he..?

"Let me do it,, cause I want to fuck you so badly..." Michael was a vocal person that's for sure, he'd be praising you in german, as he switched both your positions. One of your legs thrown over. "...urgh.. Michael– so good.." You squirmed like a bunny in heat.

He twisted you around once again, your body facing the sheets. "Now.. just arch like that– No Liebling.. I said arch." He growled right in your ear as his palm guided you into the position he wanted. No way he was a virgin!

You've been dating the doting puppy of Kaiser a long time. Sometimes, his loyalty faltered as his purple eyes gaze right past you. Alexis Ness. He's always so sweet..

Too sweet, even for you. You really couldn't tell if he's actually genuine, sometimes.. you could tell he was annoyed by the way his eyebrows shifted, but you didn't mind.

He'd been dragging you into his apartment now that he moved out of Kaiser's place. Finally happy, you both got your own space. Both of you resting on the bed being all lovey dovey.

Your hands brushed past his light brown–purple hair, the fingertips tangled in between. He gave you a small kiss in the inner conner of your lips, his eyebrows relaxed. "Mmm, Alexis.." You whispered his name in a plea.

"What, Schatz..?" He just giggled, leaning closer as he gave a big fat kiss to your cheek. You just huffed at him as he nuzzled more. And suddenly, something clicked in you.

"Alexis Ness, are you hard?" The question popped out so suddenly, he even shuddered as he looked down in the buldge between his legs. "Oh– Scheiße.." He spouted.

Ness was about to pull away before you suddenly grasped his wrist. You stared at him and then shaked your head. You both knew you had no expertise what's so ever.. and no Kaiser around, so...

"Alexis, I want you." You mumble low enough just for him to hear. His ears turn red as he looks at you. "What– but we.." "I don't care– let's try it please..!"

"Fuck, I never done this remember.." He'd bought a pack of condoms after your pleas– as he slipped it on him, he shuddered. You were just laying on your back, staring at his pink tip. "Neither have I.." You giggled being so amused at this.

"Are you even–" "Oh my– fuck me Alexis..!" You cut him off as he approached the bed slowly, his muscular build around your soft ones. "How do I even.." He lined it up a bit, as he let out a small whine.

He slipped past your puffy lips, and he saw the way it clenched around nothing. "You're teasing..!" You whined, but he really wasn't.. he's just having such a hard time even getting it in you. "No, my love, I'm really trying here.."

And finally, just when he slipped in.. the inches entering you– yeah you were a loud mess by then. Ness wasn't the huge type.. but he had girth that's what happened..

"Oh– Alex–! mmmngh.. you're really.." He bottoms out, he looked down at his pelvis hitting against your body. He rolled his hips as you let out a scream. "Mein Herz, you're too loud.." He chuckled as he rolled again and again and again.

It was too addictive for him to stop, you knew that. The way he experimented on going slow and long thrusts then changed up to repeated and fast thrusts in a heartbeat– made even your skin flushed. He gripped the fat of your ass a bit as he felt himself getting closer..

"I dont– don't think I'm going to even last longer.. fuck just let me please..! Sonnenschein.. I'm gonna do it inside, okay!"

[aceyalonso]

can you stay the night? - CHARLES LECLERC

pairing : charles leclerc x bestfriend!reader

summary : you and charles had always been comfortable with each other, comfortable enough to cuddle, go out on "platonic" dates, and maybe comfortable enough to leave a toothbrush at his place

warnings/notes : swearing, y/n is kinda dense, charles is a simp, sexual innuendos, romantic stuff that they think as platonic, suggestive-ish (??) scene (no actual smut)

word count : 14.2k

song : la vie en rose - édith piaf

a/n : happy 600!!! no angst this time around :p (this fic is a bit long because ik @nepobbylver is gonna love this HAHAHAH)

masterlist

May 26, 2024 - 5:12 PM

Y/n settled against Charles, his soft blond dachshund snuggled comfortably between them as they cuddled on the couch. She ran her fingers through the dog's fur, enjoying the simple moment of comfort in his presence. Charles wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer as they continued to relax in the quiet peace.

As they continued to snuggle together, a thought occurred to Y/n. She shifted slightly, looking up at Charles with a curious expression. "You know," she began, "I have to ask. Is this really how you want to celebrate your home race win?"

Y/n paused for a moment, her fingers still idly stroking the dachshund's soft fur. "I mean, don't get me wrong, this is nice, but I was just thinking...don't you want to go out to dinner or something? You've won your home race, after all."

Charles chuckled softly, drawing her closer. "Honestly, I just wanted to spend time with you," he replied, his voice low and warm. "But if you want to go out, we can do that too."

A small smile curled Y/n's lips. "And leave this little guy all alone?" she teased, looking down at the dachshund. The dog lifted its head, as if sensing they were talking about him, and wagged its tail lazily.

Y/n couldn't help but laugh, reaching over to give Leo's head an affectionate pat. "Sorry, buddy," she said, her tone playful. "Looks like it's nap time for you. Go back to sleep."

The dachshund yawned widely, as if in response to her words, before settling back against her and closing his eyes, content to ignore them again.

Charles chuckled, watching the interaction between Y/n and Leo. "Looks like he's already got it figured out," he said, his arm still around her. "A relaxing night in might actually be the perfect way to celebrate after all."

Y/n's smile faded slightly as she looked back up at Charles. "I know, but it just feels like… you should be celebrating more, you know?" she said, her voice softly. "You just won your home race. Shouldn't you be doing something bigger than this?"

Charles sighed, a mix of resignation and affection in his voice. "Alright, alright," he said, giving in to her insistence. "If you want me to celebrate that bad, we'll go out tomorrow. We can even bring Leo along."

Y/n's face lit up with satisfied surprise. She hadn't expected him to give in so easily, but she couldn't help feeling relieved. "Really? You don't mind going out tomorrow?" she asked, almost too eagerly.

He chuckled again, amused by her eagerness. "Yeah, really," he reassured her, his arm still around her. "We can have a nicer celebration tomorrow, with dinner and whatever else you want."

She held up her hand in a prayer gesture, looking upwards as if addressing some higher power. "Thank you, oh benevolent lord," she said dramatically. "For providing me with free food tomorrow, I am eternally grateful!"

Charles rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "You're ridiculous," he said, a hint of affection in his voice. "You're getting one meal, and you act like it's a gift from the heavens."

Y/n nodded in agreement, her exaggerated gratitude fading a bit. "I mean, you're not wrong," she said, a tinge of resignation in her voice. "Monaco is not exactly wallet-friendly, especially when it comes to food. I'll take what I can get, honestly."

Charles chuckled, his hand absentmindedly stroking along the dachshund's back. "Well, don't worry," he assured her. "I'll make sure you get a proper meal tomorrow. No more scavenging for leftovers for you."

Y/n's smile waned as she gave him a playful glare. "Now you make me sound like some orphan kid begging for scraps during the Victorian era," she retorted, a hint of mock indignation in her voice.

Charles laughed heartily at her comparison. "Oh, come on," he said, his tone both amused and affectionate. "I didn't mean it like that at all. You know I'd do anything to make sure you were never hungry, Victorian era or modern day."

Y/n's mock frown softened into a genuine smile, her heart fluttering at his sweet words. "I know," she admitted, leaning against him. "But I couldn't resist the chance to give you a hard time about it."

Charles chuckled, his grip around her tightening slightly. "Of course you did," he teased. "You never miss an opportunity to give me a hard time, do you?"

Y/n burst into a dorky laugh, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Hahah, hard," she echoed, the innuendo in her tone not lost on either of them.

Charles grinned, lifting his hand to gently cover her mouth. "Maybe you should just go to sleep," he teased, pretending to sound serious. "Save the innuendos for later."

Her eyes widened, a laugh muffled against his hand. She playfully wriggled against his grip, feigning protest but not really wanting him to let go.

He chuckled, enjoyed the way she struggled against him, the playful back-and-forth between them. "Careful," he warned, his tone filled with mock severity. "Keep that up, and I might have to keep you quiet another way."

Y/n's eyes widened with mock horror, her expression over the top dramatic as she stared up at him. "Oh, lord," she gasped, in a faux-dramatic voice, "You're not going to gag me, are you?"

Charles' smile widened at her reaction, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Keep up the smart mouth, and you just might find that out," he threatened, his voice low and teasing.

She scrunched up her nose in exaggerated disgust. "Ew, Charlie, ew" she says, her tone overly dramatic. She tried to look irritated, but the playful gleam in her eyes betrayed her true feelings.

Charles laughed at her reaction, shaking his head at her dramatic display. "Oh, come on," he teased, clearly enjoying the banter. "Don't act like you wouldn't secretly love it."

Y/n shot him a mock glare, refusing to admit that he might be right. "Oh, please," she said, her tone defiant. "As if I'd enjoyed being gagged. I'm too much of a free spirit for that."

He chuckled again, his hand still placed over her mouth "Oh, you're a free spirit, alright," he agreed, enjoying the banter. "A free spirit that could probably use a little lesson in restraint."

Y/n laughed, gently maneuvering Leo off her before standing up. "Get off me, you muppet!" she playfully mimicked, her voice filled with exaggerated indignation. She stepped away from the couch, a small grin still on her face.

Charles couldn't help but chuckle at her playful exit. "Yeah, yeah," he replied, his tone amused. "Go ahead and leave, but keep in mind, I now know one surefire way to shut that smart mouth of yours."

Y/n paused for a moment, her eyebrows raising slightly. She tried to maintain her mock annoyance, but the gleam in her eyes revealed her intrigue. "Okay, and just how do you plan to do that, smart guy?"

Charles leaned back against the couch, a smug smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You really want to know?" he asked, his voice low and suggestive.

She shook her head, feigning nonchalance. "Nevermind," she said, her tone dismissive. "I need to use the bathroom anyway."

He gave her a knowing smirk as she made her escape. "Sure, go ahead," he replied, not letting her get away without a snarky comment. "But don't think I won't remember this later."

She rolled her eyes as she walked away, pretending to ignore his snarky comment. "Oh, I'm sure you will," she called back over her shoulder, disappearing down the hall towards the bathroom.

Y/n had just finished washing her hands when she suddenly opened the bathroom door. "Hey, Charlie?" she called out, her tone casual.

Charles, who was still lounging on the couch with Leo, lifted his head in response to her call. "Yeah?" he replied, curious to know what she wanted.

Y/n stepped out of the bathroom, her hands still slightly damp from washing. "Hey, so," she began, a small smile on her face. "Are we gonna order food, or do you think maybe I should make something?"

He sat up a bit on the couch, mulling over the options. "Let's order in," he decided, a lazy grin on his face. "No need to cook when we can get food delivered, right?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "So, you're paying, right?" she asked, her tone half sarcastic, and half-serious.

Charles chuckled at her question, knowing she expected him to pay (as per usual). "Yeah, yeah," he agreed, not really bothered by it. "I'll pay for it, don't worry your pretty little head about it."

Y/n settled back on the couch again, cradling the sleeping dachshund in her arms. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft as she cuddled with the dog. She leaned back against Charles, her hand automatically finding its way to Leo's warm, furry body.

He wrapped his arm around her, drawing her closer. He watched her fondly, enjoying the peaceful moment. "You know, most people would take advantage of my kindness and order the most expensive thing on the menu," he teased lightly.

She chuckled, running her fingers through Leo's soft fur. "Oh, I won't go too crazy," she promised, her voice filled with pretend innocence. "Just a small order of caviar and a glass of champagne, nothing too extravagant."

Charles laughed heartily at her answer. "Right, not too extravagant," he repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "A small side order of caviar, she says. You're lucky I'm feeling generous tonight."

Y/n smiled at his sarcastic response, enjoying their banter. "Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?" she replied, her tone lighthearted. "A little bit of luxury every now and then never hurt anyone."

Charles chuckled, shaking his head in mock resignation. "Oh, believe me, I'm all for spoiling you," he assured her, his arm tightening around her. "Just try not to bankrupt me in the process, alright?"

She laughed, snuggling against him, her fingers still idly scratching Leo's head. "I don't think I could bankrupt you if I tried," she teased. "You're a rich F! driver in Monaco, after all. I doubt a little caviar is going to break your bank."

Charles chuckled, his hand lazily running along her arm. "Hey, don't underestimate your powers of persuasion," he warned, his tone playful. "You could convince me to buy you the moon if you tried, I'm sure."

Y/n laughed heartily, shaking her head. "Oh, the caviar was just a joke," she clarified, her tone lighthearted. "I mean, who in their right mind actually enjoys that salty, fishy stuff? It's like eating fancy seawater, if you ask me."

Charles chuckled, enjoying her commentary. "Yeah, that's a fair assessment," he agreed, nodding his head. "I'm pretty sure the only reason people eat it is because it's expensive and somehow considered posh."

She nodded in agreement, a smirk on her face. "Exactly," she said, her tone amused. "it's like a status symbol for the rich and fancy. The more you spend on it, the fancier you are."

Y/n shook her head, her smirk turning into a thoughtful expression. "Alright, enough talk about weird expensive food," she said. "What do you want to order? Pizza, Chinese, something else?"

Charles thought for a moment, considering the options. "Hmm, I'm up for anything," he replied, his hand idly tracing patterns on her arm. "What are you craving, mon ange?

She thought for a moment, her gaze wandering towards the kitchen. "I kind of feel like pizza," she admitted, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "But then again, I could go for some old-fashioned comfort food like mac and cheese."

He nodded in agreement, his hand still trailing up and down her arm. "Pizza sounds good," Charles said, his voice casual. "And honestly, mac and cheese isn't a bad idea either. We could get both if you want."

Y/n looked up at him, a hopeful expression on her face. "Really?" she asked, her voice tinged with excitement. "You'd let me get both pizza and mac and cheese?"

Charles chuckled at her eager expression, unable to resist her excitement. "Sure, why not?" he replied, his tone indulgent. "We can have a bit of everything. No need to limit ourselves, right? Especially when I'm paying for it."

Y/n's eyes lit up, her smile widening at his agreement. "Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine gratitude. "I promise I won't get too carried away. We can get pizza and mac and cheese, and maybe a side of mozzarella sticks for good measure."

Charles laughed heartily at her enthusiasm, loving the way she got excited over food. "Mozzarella sticks?" he repeated, his tone amused. "Now you're pushing it. But, since you asked so nicely, I suppose we can get some mozzarella sticks as well."

Y/n grinned, her excitement growing with each added food item. "You're the best!" she declared, snuggling closer to him. "I swear, you give in too easily. All I have to do is bat my eyelashes and say 'please' and you're wrapped around my finger."

He chuckled, his arm encircling her waist. "I can't help it," he admitted, his tone fond. "You're too damn cute when you get excited about food. How could I resist giving you what you want?"

She smiled slyly, a hint of gloating in her expression. "See? I knew it," she teased, poking him in the side. "You're a softie, deep down. All I have to do is ask nicely and you'll cave."

Charles snorted, feigning offense. "Softie?" he retorted, his tone lighthearted. "I prefer the term 'indulgent' when it comes to you. I just like making you happy, that's all."

Y/n's smirk widened, her hand coming up to poke his chest playfully. "Indulgent, softie, whatever you want to call it," she teased, her voice filled with affection, "the point is, you can't say no to me. And you know what? I love it."

Charles laughed, shaking his head at her teasing. "Yeah, yeah, you win," he conceded, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I admit it, I can't say no to you. Especially when you look at me all cute and expectantly, begging for pizza and mac and cheese."

Y/n nodded, a satisfied smile on her face. "And mozzarella sticks," she added, her tone firm. "Don't forget the mozzarella sticks. I can't have pizza and mac and cheese without some fried cheesy goodness on the side, can I?"

She thought for a moment before turning to Charles. "And can we get some soda?" she asked, her voice hopeful. "You know, to wash down all this unhealthy food we're about to consume."

Charles grinned, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Of course, we can get some soda too," he agreed, chuckling at her request. "We need something other than water to balance out all this greasy, delicious goodness."

Y/n smiled victoriously, clearly satisfied with his willingness to indulge her. "Yay, soda!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with childish excitement. "You know, I could get used to this whole 'getting whatever I want when I ask nicely' thing."

Charles chuckled, his hand giving her a playful tap on the head. "Oh, don't get used to it," he warned, his tone jokingly stern. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret spoiling you so much."

She laughed, leaning into his touch. "Oh, come on," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You know you love spoiling me. Admit it, you secretly enjoy it when I bat my eyelashes and ask for things."

Charles didn't bother denying her accusations; he knew she was right. He simply chuckled, choosing to indulge her playful banter instead. "You know me so well, don't you?" he said, his voice filled with affectionate amusement.

Y/n grinned, her smile widening as he acknowledged her observation. "I have a sixth sense for these things," she teased, her tone filled with mock self-importance. "I know when you're secretly enjoying spoiling me, even if you won't admit it."

May 26, 2024 - 8:12 PM

Charles groaned, his hand resting on his stomach. "Oh, I'm so full," he lamented, his voice tinged with mock despair. "I shouldn't have had that fourth slice of pizza, but it was just so good."

Y/n sat next to him, her own hand on her stomach as well. "I know what you mean," she agreed, her voice slightly strained. "I swear I can feel my stomach expanding. But you know what? It was worth every single bite."

She laughed heartily, her stomach feeling more and more stuffed. "You're right," she agreed, her voice tinged with reluctance. "We should probably clean up before all this grease and sauce dries up."

Charles groaned again, his hand still resting on his stomach. "Ugh, I don't wanna move," he protested, his voice filled with exaggerated laziness. "Can't we just take a little food coma nap first?"

She chuckled at his melodramatic reaction, shaking her head. "As much as I'd love to join you in your food coma, we should probably clean up first," she reasoned, her tone slightly authoritative. "Otherwise, we'll regret it later when everything's dried up and stuck to the plates."

Y/n had just stood up, plates in hand, when Charles gently pulled her back down next to him. She looked at him with a mix of surprise and confusion, her hand hovering in the air where the plate had been a moment ago.

Charles placed the plates back onto the table and pulled Y/n closer to him, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, his body relaxed against hers, seeking comfort in her proximity.

Y/n didn't resist his pull, instead leaning into his touch. She reached up, her hand gently caressing his hair, her fingers running through the messy strands. "You know, you're just using me as a pillow now," she teased, her voice soft and affectionate.

He chuckled, his eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of her fingers in his hair. "Can you blame me?" he asked, his tone lighthearted. "You're so comfortable, and I can't be bothered to move right now."

Y/n sighed contently, her fingers continuing to play with his hair. "You're just being lazy," she retorted, her tone fond. "But I guess I can be your cozy pillow for a little while longer."

Charles smiled, his body relaxing even more as her fingers continued their soothing caress. "Good," he mumbled, nuzzling his head further into her shoulder. "I could stay like this forever."

She chuckled as Leo padded over to them, his furry little body weaving between their legs. "Hey, little guy," she greeted the dachshund, reaching down to pet him. "Did you enjoy your food too?"

Leo, his belly full and content, simply looked up at Y/n with his innocent little eyes. He wagged his tail happily, clearly content after his own feast.

Charles laughed, his head still resting on Y/n's shoulder. "Looks like Leo was just as successful at stuffing his face as we were," he commented. "He's got that satisfied, slightly bloated look for sure."

Y/n laughed, her hand still running through Charles' hair. "You can say that again," she agreed, her tone light. "I don't think I've ever seen a puppy eat that much. He's like a little vacuum cleaner."

She scooped up Leo, the dog happily settling on Charles' lap. Then she turned to Charles, her tone more serious. "Actually, I should really get going and start cleaning up all this mess," she said, gesturing to the collection of plates and takeout containers on the coffee table.

Charles groaned again, his hand still resting on his stomach. "But I'm so comfortable here," he protested, his voice laced with mock protest. "Can't it wait just a little longer?"

Y/n chuckled at his protest, her tone firm but affectionate. "No, no, you relax," she insisted, standing up again. "You did pay for the food, after all. I'll take care of cleaning up."

Charles watched her as she stood up, a pout on his face. "Are you sure?" he asked, his tone reluctant. "I feel bad just sitting here while you do all the work."

Y/n smiled at his concern, her tone gentle yet firm. "It's alright, Charlie," she reassured him. "I can handle this. You just stay put and digest all that food we ate."

Charles relented, his pout turning into a resigned smile. "You're too nice to me," he admitted, his hand rubbing his stomach again. "But alright, I'll stay here and try not to fall asleep."

May 26, 2024 - 8:30 PM

Y/n wiped her hands on the towel, and a satisfied smile appeared on her face. The dishes were clean, the leftover food was packed away, and the coffee table looked presentable again. "There, all done," she announced, her voice slightly tired but content.

She heard a soft, gentle snoring sound as she walked closer to the couch. She chuckled softly, her eyes falling upon Charles. He was fast asleep, his head lolling back against the couch, his mouth slightly open.

Y/n couldn't help but smile at the adorable sight. Leo was sleeping peacefully, his tiny body nestled in Charles' lap. His little paws were tucked beneath him, and his tail was twitching slightly as he dreamt.

Charles, on the other hand, was in a deep sleep, his face relaxed and peaceful. His chest rose and fell with each slow, steady breath he took. It was a sweet, innocent sight to behold.

Y/n settled down on the floor beside Charles, her elbow resting on the cushion of the couch, her face close to his. She looked at him, her eyes soft and content. The soft snoring filled the room, creating a soothing background noise.

She smiled, her eyes still on Charles. She knew all too well how exhausting race days could be for him. The physical and mental energy he expended was immense. It was no wonder he was sleeping so soundly right now.

Charles stirring in his sleep caught Y/n off guard. Suddenly, his hand moved and accidentally smacked Y/n in the face. It wasn't a hard hit, but it was enough to make her slightly recoil.

"Ouch!" Y/n exclaimed, her hand instinctively going to her face where Charles' hand had made contact. She rubbed her cheek softly, a mix of surprise and confusion on her face. "Charlie, wake up. You hit me in the damn face."

Charles roused from his sleep, his eyes slowly fluttering open. He looked blearily at Y/n, still slightly groggy. "What?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "What happened?"

Y/n chuckled, her hand still on her face. "You accidentally hit me in the face while you were asleep," she explained, her tone light-hearted. "Looks like you were dreaming about a boxing match or something."

He blinked, his mind slowly catching up to what Y/n was saying. "I did what?" he asked, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Oh no, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

She laughed gently, shaking her head to reassure him. "It's fine, I'm okay," she chuckled, her hand still massaging her cheek. "You didn't hit me that hard. But maybe you should watch your hands next time you're dreaming about boxing."

Charles stretched his arms, a tired yawn escaping his lips. "Yeah, I guess I should head to bed," he agreed, his voice groggy. "I'm feeling pretty beat after that food coma."

He rubbed his eyes, then turned to Y/n. "Oh, and make sure you use my bathroom to freshen up," he reminded her, his voice still tinged with sleepiness. "You can use whatever you need in there."

Y/n looked up at Charles, a quizzical expression on her face. "Why can't I use the guest bathroom?" she asked, her tone slightly puzzled.

Charles sighed, rubbing his eyes again. "Right, I forgot to tell you," he mumbled, his voice tired but apologetic. "The guest bathroom's pipes need fixing. Can't use that one. Gotta use mine tonight."

She nodded in understanding, her eyes meeting his. "Alright, no problem," she said, a small smile on her face. "I'll use yours then. I don't want to be without a shower tonight."

He returned her smile, his eyes filled with exhaustion but also affection. "Thanks for understanding," he murmured. "Goodnight, and enjoy my bathroom."

Y/n watched him go, her eyes lingering on his sleepy form as he headed down the hallway to his bedroom. She smiled to herself, feeling a mixture of affection and amusement at Charles' tired but sweet gesture.

May 26, 2024 - 11:38 PM

Y/n sat on the bed, scrolling through her phone in the guest bedroom. She glanced at the clock on the wall and noticed the time was 11:38 pm. Realizing it was getting late, she decided it was time to get ready for bed. The thought of a relaxing, warm bath sounded perfect right then.

She gathered her small toiletry bag, a fresh towel, and a change of clothes. She quietly walked out of the guest bedroom and headed down the hallway to Charles' bedroom. Upon reaching his room, she gently turned the doorknob, not wanting to wake him if he was still asleep.

Charles' voice came from inside the room, his tone groggy but awake. "You can come in," he mumbled, his words slightly muffled by his pillow. "I'm awake."

Y/n smiled slightly, grateful that he was awake and ready for her. She pushed open the door and stepped inside, her eyes immediately adjusting to the dim lighting in the room.

Charles was lying in his bed, propped up against the pillows, his hair was tousled and his eyes slightly heavy with sleep. Despite his sleepy appearance, he was watching her as she entered. "You're taking a bath?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Y/n nodded, holding up her toiletry bag and towel. "Yeah, thought it would help me relax before bed," she replied, her tone soft. "Is it okay if I use your bathroom for a bit?"

Charles nodded, a sleepy smile on his lips. "Sure, take your time," he reassured her, his voice slightly hoarse from sleep. "You can use the bathroom as long as you need."

She smiled in appreciation, and his kind words made her feel more comfortable. "Thanks," she said, her tone grateful. "I won't be too long. I just want to unwind a little before bed."

Y/n walked into the bathroom, her toiletry bag clutched in her hand. The soft glow of the bathroom lights illuminated the room as she entered, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

She set her things down on the counter, her mind already contemplating the warm, relaxing bath she was about to enjoy. The bathroom was neat and spacious, the fixtures and tiles gleaming in the soft light. The ambiance was quietly soothing, perfect for a late-night dip.

She turned on the faucet, allowing the water to run in the bathtub, creating a soothing, gentle sound that filled the bathroom. Steam began to rise, the room slowly filling with a warm, comforting humidity. The bathroom was now a miniature sauna, perfect for relaxing tense muscles and calming the mind.

After a few moments, the tub was filled to a comfortable level, bubbles foaming on the surface of the water. Y/n tested the water with her hand, ensuring that the temperature was just right. Then, she turned off the faucet and started to undress, her clothes being neatly folded and placed on the counter.

As Y/n stepped into the tub, the warmth of the water enveloped her. She sank into the bubbles, a sigh of contentment escaping her lips. The stress of the day, and the tiredness in her body, all seemed to melt away as she immersed herself in the soothing water. Her eyes closed, her limbs relaxed, and her mind started to unwind.

The steam curled around her, the scent of bath oil mingling with the warm, moist air. She lay back, the water lapping gently at her neck. A few moments passed, the only sound in the bathroom being the soft, gentle splashes of water. Y/n felt her thoughts drift further and further away, her body becoming more and more relaxed as she luxuriated in the tranquility of the moment.

Her mind wandered, memories, and thoughts coming and going gently like a light breeze. The rest of the world seemed distant as if nothing could disturb this blissful sanctuary. She closed her eyes, her breathing slowing, and her body utterly surrendered to the comfort of the water. Time seemed to stand still, her mind floating in a contented blur.

The soothing warmth of the water and the tranquility of the room lulled Y/n into a doze, her mind and body completely relaxed. She lost track of time, her thoughts drifting further and further away until she slipped into a light sleep, the bubbles and steam gently surrounding her.

However, the peaceful moment lasted only a few short minutes. The sound of the bathroom door opening gently roused her from her doze, the sound bringing her back to reality. Y/n's eyes fluttered open, blinking away the daze as she focused on the figure in the doorframe.

The bathroom door had opened, allowing a sliver of light from the outside to fall across the tile floor. Charles stood in the doorway, a slight frown on his face. He hadn't intended to disturb her, but his need for the bathroom had grown too great to ignore.

His hair was a disheveled mess, and his eyes were still half-closed with sleep. He tried to look away, to give her some privacy, but his voice betrayed his concern. "Sorry," he muttered, his tone soft and gravelly. "Just really need to go... I didn't mean to wake you up."

Y/n stirred, pushing up from the water. The bubbles clinging to her form, she sat up in the tub, her eyes on Charles. "It's okay," she reassured him, her voice still tinged with sleep. "I dozed off for a bit. I'll get out in a minute."

Charles hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting away and back to her. He tried to keep his eyes from wandering too far down, but the sight of her in the tub was a bit distracting. "You're sure?" he asked, his voice a bit hoarse. "I... I can wait."

Y/n chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the confines of the bathroom. "No, it's fine," she reassured him, her tone light but firm. "You need to go, I can get out."

She quickly grasped her towel and wrapped it around herself, securing it at her chest. Charles turned his gaze away, respecting her modesty. He kept his back to her, giving her the privacy she needed.

The sound of her getting out of the tub made a slight splashing sound, the water shifting as she rose. She stepped out onto the bath mat, her hair slightly damp, and the towel clinging to her form.

Charles nodded, still facing away to give her some privacy. "Alright," he said, his voice still a bit gravelly, "I'll be done soon. You can wait in there and brush your teeth when I'm done."

Y/n nodded, her grip on the towel tightening slightly. "Okay," she replied, her voice soft. "I'll wait here. Take your time."

As soon as the bathroom door closed, Y/n hurried to get changed. Although the bath was relaxing, the knowledge that Charles was waiting just on the other side of the door hurried her movements. She slipped into her fresh clothes, the material cool and comfortable against her still-damp skin.

Within a few minutes, she was fully dressed, her hair still a little damp but tucked away from her face. She checked herself quickly in the mirror, making sure everything was in place before taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

The silence in the room was broken only by the occasional sound of a car passing on the street outside. Y/n sat patiently, waiting for Charles to finish. Her mind began to drift, her thoughts a mixture of relaxation and anticipation.

Just as she started to feel a bit antsy, the sound of the bathroom door opening broke the silence. Charles emerged from the bathroom, his hair slightly disheveled but otherwise looking much more awake.

He smiled slightly as his eyes met hers, his expression a mix of tiredness and relief. "All done," he said, his voice still roughened by sleep. "The bathroom's all yours."

Charles leaned against the doorframe, still feeling a bit groggy, but also enjoying the sight of her moving around his bathroom. He tried not to look too closely as she bent over to reach for her toiletry bag, the sight of her in his bathroom quite domestic and slightly stirring.

He waited patiently as she rummaged through her bag, her fingers pulling out her toothbrush and toothpaste. She started to brush her teeth, the sound of the brush against her teeth and the water from the faucet filling the small space.

Charles watched her quietly, his eyes following her movements. He observed the way she moved, the way the light played across her skin, and the small sounds she made as she brushed her teeth. It was all very mundane, yet somehow strangely intimate.

The moment felt almost surreal, the quiet of the night and the intimacy of the bathroom creating a bubble of comfort and familiarity. Charles's mind was still a bit hazy with sleep, but he found himself enjoying the simple act of watching her brush her teeth in his bathroom.

Y/n continued brushing her teeth, her cheeks slightly puffed with foam. She then remembered the plan for the following day and spoke with a foamy mouth, her words slightly garbled. "Where... are we... eating... tomorrow?" she managed to ask, her toothbrush still swirling in her mouth.

Despite her toothbrush-filled mouth, the question was clear. Charles chuckled softly at the sight of her, her hair slightly messy, dressed in her pajamas, and talking with a mouth full of foam.

He leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest as he responded. "I was thinking we could go to that new café downtown," he suggested, his voice still rough with sleep. "I've heard they have great pastries and coffee."

Y/n nodded, the toothbrush still in her mouth. The idea of pastries and coffee sounded delightful, especially in the morning. However, the foam made her answer turn into a series of mumbled sounds, leaving Charles unsure of what she was actually saying.

Charles chuckled softly, amused by her foamy response. "I'll take that as a yes," he said light-heartedly, unable to keep a smile off his face.

She tried to respond but ended up sending a few drops of foamy toothpaste sputtering onto the sink. She quickly rinsed out her mouth, spitting the foam out. "Sorry," she sheepishly apologized, her cheeks slightly pink. "Hard to talk when my mouth is full of foam."

Charles chuckled again, the sound echoing around the small bathroom. "It's fine," he reassured her, his voice warm. "It was entertaining to watch, even if I couldn't make out half of what you were saying."

Y/n leaned against the counter, exhaustion beginning to show in her every muscle. Her shoulders sagged, and she let out a weary sigh. "I'm too tired to walk back to the guest bedroom," she mumbled, her tone weary and a bit whiny.

Charles saw her slouched form and sympathized with her fatigue. He knew it was past midnight and she'd had a long day. "You can just sleep here if you want," he suggested, his tone gentle yet practical.

Y/n perked up slightly at his suggestion. The idea of collapsing into the comfort of a bed without having to move sounded heavenly. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice a tired murmur.

Charles nodded, his eyes softening at her tired state. "It's fine," he reassured her, a small smile on his lips. "I don't mind. This bed is plenty big enough for both of us."

Y/n hesitated for a moment, her cheeks slightly warm. The thought of sharing a bed with Charles was undeniably intimate, but her body's need for rest was so great, that she couldn't find the energy to protest. "Okay," she agreed, her voice barely more than a weary murmur.

She stumbled to the bed, her weary steps almost resembling a slow run. She practically collapsed onto the sheets, the soft, cool fabric feeling luxurious against her tired body. She landed on the bed with a satisfied sigh, the impact sending the sheets billowing slightly.

Y/n sank into the bed, her limbs feeling like lead. A weary groan escaped her lips as she wrapped her arms around a nearby pillow, pulling it close to her chest. The pillows felt soft and supportive, the bed molding around her form like a cozy, welcoming cocoon.

Charles watched her with an affectionate smile, amused by her eagerness to be in bed and the speed with which she had buried herself in the pillows. He moved to the bed, sitting on the edge and watching as she settled into the sheets.

He couldn't help but chuckle softly at the sight of her, her body half-buried under the pillows and blankets. Her eyes were closed, the exhaustion of the day evident in the way she had slumped into the soft bedding.

"Comfy?" he teased gently, his tone a mix of amusement and affection. He reached out and ruffled her hair, his fingers briefly touching her forehead.

Y/n mumbled an affirmative reply, her words barely intelligible as she mumbled into the pillows. "Mmmhmm..." was all she managed to get out, her eyes still closed, and her body snuggled deep into the bed.

Charles smiled at her sleepy reply, finding her exhaustion endearing. He continued to sit on the edge of the bed, watching as she nuzzled into the pillows, almost melting into the bedding.

"You look like you're ready to hibernate," he teased her again, his tone gentle but amused. He reached out and ran his fingers through her hair once more, his touch tender but affectionate.

Charles smiled at her lack of reply, amused by her quick transition into sleep. He had barely finished speaking when he saw her body relax further into the bed, her breath evening out into the slow rhythm of sleep.

He chuckled softly, realizing she had fallen asleep mid-conversation. He stood up from the edge of the bed and walked over to the light switch, flicking it off. The room fell into darkness, the only light coming from the sliver of moonlight from outside.

Charles carefully slid into the bed, trying not to disturb Y/n's sleep. Once he was settled, he moved closer to her, gently maneuvering her body so she was pressed against him. His arm curled around her, pulling her close against his chest, and he held her close, her warmth and soft breathing against his skin.

He lay there, awake, listening to her breathe, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest. The soft sound of her breathing was like a lullaby, and he found himself soothed by her closeness.

Charles began to hum softly, his voice barely above a whisper. The melody was slow and soothing, the song a soft rendition of Édith Piaf's "La Vie en Rose." His voice was warm and gentle, the sound reverberating silently in the quiet room.

He continued to hum as he held Y/n close, the sound of his voice mingling with her soft breathing. The melody was a small, comforting addition to the silence, a soothing lullaby only meant for her sleeping form.

As he hummed, his eyes traced her features in the dim light. He could make out the soft curve of her nose, the gentle angle of her jawline, the fluttering of her eyelashes against her cheeks. She looked peaceful in sleep, her face relaxed and free from the lines and shadows of daytime.

His hold on her was gentle but tight, his arm wrapped firmly around her, keeping her close. The feel of her body against his was comforting, a steady reminder that she was there, safe in his arms.

Charles's voice trailed off as he finished singing the final note of "La Vie en Rose." He let the silence settle for a moment, his breath a soft sigh against her hair.

Then, he whispered, his voice barely audible in the darkness, "God, if only you knew how much I love you. If only you weren't so dense." His tone was affectionate yet tinged with a hint of melancholy.

Charles continued to hold Y/n close, his eyes still on her face, even in the dim moonlight. He whispered softly to himself, his words barely a sound.

"One day," he muttered, his voice a whisper. "I'll tell you one day."

His voice was filled with a mixture of determination and uncertainty. He knew confessing wouldn't be easy, and the fear of rejection was a constant gnawing in the back of his mind. Yet, the need to tell her how he felt was growing more powerful by the day.

For now, though, he'd continue to hold her close, appreciating the quiet intimacy of the moment. He closed his eyes, listening to her steady breathing, and willed himself to sleep.

May 27, 2024 - 8:16 AM

Y/n stirred, her eyes slowly fluttering open. The room was filled with the soft morning light, and for a moment she was disoriented. Then she became aware of her surroundings, the realization that she wasn't in her own bed slowly dawning on her.

She sat up, her head still fuzzy from sleep, and her eyes widened as she saw not Charles but Leo lying next to her, in the same spot Charles had been the night before.

The sight of Leo sleeping peacefully made her blink, a rush of surprise and confusion going through her heart. A million questions raced through her mind. Where was Charles? Was this a dream? But she quickly became aware that this was very real, and Leo was indeed sharing the bed with her.

Y/n's hand moved almost on its own, gently reaching out to stroke Leo's head. The soft fur felt warm under her fingers, a stark contrast to the cool sheets she had just woken up from.

Leo stirred slightly at her touch, his head nuzzling closer to her hand. He let out a soft, contented sigh, still mostly asleep.

She scooted closer to Leo on the bed, her eyes still heavy with sleep but her curiosity stirring. "Leo," she whispered, her voice soft yet a hint of worry in her tone. "Do you know where Charles went?"

Leo blinked open his eyes slowly, his intelligent gaze meeting hers. He yawned widely, showing off his little tongue before tilting his head to one side, clearly not understanding her question.

Y/n's head whipped around at the sound of a laugh, and her eyes met Charles's form standing in the doorway. A wave of relief washed over her as she saw that he was okay and had not disappeared into thin air.

"You're here," she said, her voice a mixture of surprise and relief. She pushed herself into a sitting position, shaking the last tendrils of sleep from her mind. "Where did you go? And why is Leo in the bed?"

Charles chuckled at her question, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. He walked over to the bed, a cup of coffee in his hand. "I went to get us both some coffee," he explained, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, next to where Y/n was still sitting.

"And as for Leo," he added with a smirk, "he just wanted to keep you company."

Leo had also perked up at the sound of Charles's voice, his tail thumping softly against the sheets. He let out another soft sigh before stretching out, rolling onto his back and exposing his stomach.

Charles took a sip of his coffee, his eyes watching Y/n and Leo with fond amusement. "Seems like he's quite comfortable here," he commented, his voice laced with a hint of humor.

Y/n yawned and stretched slightly, her eyes still half-focused on Leo's adorable form on the bed. Her gaze then flicked to Charles, a sleepy smile on her lips. "Well," she teased, her voice still raspy with sleep, "who wouldn't be? Your bed is huge."

Charles chuckled at her comment, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I guess I have a lot of room to share," he replied, his tone lighthearted. He took another sip of his coffee, savoring the hot liquid.

"It's a good thing," he added, his tone becoming a bit more serious. "It means I have enough space for both you and Leo." He reached out, his fingers gently scratching behind Leo's ear, earning a soft, satisfied whine from the dachshund.

"See? He likes the bed," he said, his tone softening as his gaze met Y/n's again. He put down his coffee on the bedside table, his eyes studying her face. "How'd you sleep?"

Y/n took a moment to consider his question, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "I slept well," she answered, her voice still a bit dazed from sleep. "Although, I admit waking up to Leo instead of you was a bit of a shocker."

Charles chuckled at her reply, his shoulders shaking slightly with the sound. "Sorry about that," he apologized, his tone slightly sheepish. "I didn't want to wake you, and I didn't expect Leo to take my place so quickly."

Leo, as if sensing they were talking about him, let out a small, tired 'woof' before rolling over onto his front, his paws sticking out adorably. He let out another sigh, his eyes half-closed in contentment.

Charles bent down and patted Leo's head gently, his smile widening at the dog's adorable display. "Looks like I've been replaced," he joked, his tone playful but laced with a hint of affection.

Y/n chuckled softly, her eyes watching the interaction between Charles and Leo. "Looks like you have," she agreed, her tone light and amused. She reached out a hand, scratching behind Leo's other ear, eliciting another soft whine of contentment from the dachshund.

She pushed the covers off, reluctantly leaving the warm, comfortable bed. With a small groan of sleepiness, she stood up, the cold hardwood floor against her bare feet.

"I'm going to go use the bathroom," she announced, her voice still hoarse from sleep. She stretched her arms over her head, yawning widely as she made her way across the room.

Charles watched her as she moved across the room, her sleepy form padding towards the bathroom. "Take your time," he said, his tone gentle. "I'll be here when you're back."

Y/n nodded, her hair slightly mussed from sleep. "I won't be long," she said, her voice still half-slurred from sleep. She pushed open the bathroom door and disappeared inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Charles leaned back against the headboard, turning his attention to Leo, who was now rolling back and forth on the bed, seemingly enjoying every inch of the large expanse of sheets. He couldn't help but chuckle at the sight, reaching out to scratch the dog's belly gently.

Charles's hand continued to rub Leo's stomach, his eyes watching the dachshund lazily rolling around. His question hung in the air, the weight of it echoing around in his mind.

His expression softened, and he spoke softly, his voice just above a murmur, "When do I tell her?"

He hadn't expected a response from a dog, but speaking his thoughts out loud helped to somehow organize them in his mind. The sound of Y/n moving around in the bathroom filtered through the door, background noise to his contemplation.

Charles sighed, the weight of his feelings for her seeming to get heavier with each passing day. The need to tell her how he felt was becoming more urgent, the words threatening to spill out at any moment. But the fear of her rejection, the possibility of losing her friendship... it was enough to keep him holding his tongue.

As the moment passed, he shook his head slightly, forcing the thoughts away for now. Y/n would be out of the bathroom soon, and he didn't want her to see him too lost in his own thoughts.

He turned his attention back to Leo, continuing to rub the dog's stomach, the repetitive motion helping to soothe his own restless thoughts.

The sound of the bathroom door opening brought his attention back to the present. He looked up to see Y/n exit the bathroom, her hair slightly less mussed now. She walked back to the bed, her steps a bit less sleepy than before.

"Feel better?" Charles asked, his voice still a soft murmur. He watched her approach, the morning light from the window casting her figure into a soft golden glow.

Y/n nodded in reply, a small, satisfied smile on her face. "Yes, much better," she answered, her voice clearer now, having lost the sleep-induced huskiness. She collapsed back onto the bed, the soft sheets welcoming her tired form back into their embrace.

She scooped up Leo, her hands gently holding the dachshund's small body against her chest. She cradled him against her, his soft fur rubbing against her bare skin. Leo let out a soft, contented sigh, snuggling closer to her neck, his warmth and scent offering her comfort.

Y/n looked down at Leo, her fingers gently stroking the soft fur on his head. A soft, affectionate smile tugged at the corner of her lips, and she whispered, "Oh, you're my little baby, aren't you?" she cooed, her tone soft and affectionate.

Leo's ears perked up at her words, his small head lifting from where it was resting at her neck. He let out a soft whine, as if in agreement.

Charles watched the interaction between Y/n and Leo, his heart skipping a beat at her use of the word 'baby'. The casualness with which she used it, the affection in her voice... it made something stir within him.

He couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his lips, a mix of fondness and subtle jealousy swirling within him.

The word 'baby' echoed in his mind. He wanted to hear her say it to him, longed to have that affectionate tone directed towards him. But he pushed the thought away quickly, not wanting to dwell too long on his own unrequited feelings.

He chuckled softly, his tone purposefully lighthearted, "Looks like Leo's got a new favorite."

Y/n looked up at Charles with a playful, mock-mean expression, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "What do you mean, 'new favorite?' I've always been Leo's favorite," she declared, her voice carrying a hint of playful defensiveness.

Leo seemed to sense the playfulness in her tone. He let out a soft 'woof,' his little tail wagging fiercely as if agreeing with her statement.

She stuck out her tongue defiantly at Charles, her tone playful but laced with a hint of satisfaction. "He loves me more than you," she stated, holding up Leo as if to prove her point.

Leo seemed to know he was the center of their playful argument. He let out a soft whine, his head tilting from side to side as if unable to pick a side.

Charles feigned hurt, placing a hand over his chest in mock-shock. "Ouch," he joked, his tone light but with a hint of genuine amusement. He raised an eyebrow at Y/n, playing along with her banter.

"Traitor," he muttered jokingly to Leo, though his eyes were still on Y/n, the sparkle of humor dancing in them.

Charles leaned back against the headboard, a hand rubbing his chin in thought. "Unfortunately," he said, his tone laced with a slight hint of disappointment, "the café is closed today."

He paused for a moment, mulling over his next words before continuing, "Apparently, the owner is having his birthday party, and he's given all his employees the day off."

Y/n's expression mirrored Charles's disappointment, a small pout on her lips. "That's a shame," she replied, her voice softer, the playful banter from before replaced by a genuine hint of disappointment.

She looked down at Leo, who was now lying comfortably on her lap, his little eyes closing as if falling back asleep. "I was looking forward to their pastries," she added, her tone slightly wistful.

Charles reassured her with a small smile, his tone hopeful. "It's okay," he said, his words gentle, "We can stay here for now, and later we can go out for brunch."

He shifted slightly, turning his body to face her more directly, the morning light bathing them both in a soft, warm glow.

"Besides," he added, his tone a hint more playful, "we can have Leo all to ourselves for longer. He seems quite content right where he is." He nodded towards the dachshund, who was still lying peacefully in her lap, now fast asleep and lightly snoring.

Y/n looked down at Leo with a soft smile, her fingers gently scratching behind the dachshund's ear. "But is it normal for puppies to sleep this much?" she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern.

Leo stirred slightly, his little nose twitching as if sensing they were talking about him, but he continued to sleep, his tiny paws moving occasionally in his dreams.

Charles nodded in confirmation, a small smile on his lips as the memories of Leo's earlier antics filled his mind. "Yup," he confirmed, his tone casual. "He had a major case of the zoomies this morning. Running laps around the living room, barking, the whole nine yards."

Y/n's eyes widened in surprise, a hint of disbelief coloring her voice. "I slept through that?" she asked, her tone laced with a mixture of shock and amusement.

Charles chuckled at her reaction, nodding. "Oh, yeah," he confirmed, his voice slightly amused, "You were out like a light."

"You were completely oblivious to all the commotion," he added, a hint of fond admiration in his voice. "Leo was running circles around the room, barking like his little heart was about to burst, and you didn't even twitch."

Y/n couldn't help but laugh at the mental image of Charles trying to wrangle a hyperactive puppy while she blissfully slept through the chaos. "I feel like I should apologize," she said between giggles, "but it's also kind of funny that I missed out on all the fun."

Charles chuckled along with her, his eyes sparkling with amusement at the memory. "It was a sight to behold," he said, his tone lighthearted. "Honestly, I didn't know what to do with him. He was like a little tornado, zooming around the room at top speed."

"I tried to get him to calm down a bit," he confessed, "but he was having way too much fun. He was chasing his own tail, running into walls, yipping and barking like he'd just discovered the meaning of life."

Y/n looked down at Leo, her initial shock replaced by a soft, affectionate smile. "Poor baby," she murmured, her voice soft and gentle. "He must be exhausted."

She gently stroked the sleeping dachshund's head, her fingers gently running through his soft, short fur.

Leo stirred slightly in his sleep, his little nose wrinkling as if in response to her touch. His eyes remained closed, but he let out a soft, contented sigh, snuggling deeper into Y/n's lap.

Y/n looked up at Charles, a soft yawn escaping her lips. "Can I go back to sleep for a bit?" she asked, her voice still a bit drowsy.

Charles smiled, nodding gently. "Of course," he replied, his tone reassuring. "You can sleep for as long as you want. Leo and I will be right here when you wake up."

Y/n's shoulders relaxed in relief, her tiredness seeming to overtake her. She let out another, wider yawn, her eyelids already starting to droop. "Thanks," she murmured, her words slightly slurred with sleep.

May 27, 2024 - 10:21 AM

He gently shakes Y/n's shoulder, drawing her from the pleasant world of dreams. "Y/n," he says softly, his voice warm and gentle. "Wake up, sleepyhead. It's time to get ready."

Y/n slowly opens her eyes, the remnants of sleep still clinging to her. She blinks a few times, her vision clearing, and meets Charles's gaze. "Already?" she mumbles, her voice still thick with sleep.

Charles nods, a small smile on his face. "Yep," he confirms. "I'm all set, and Leo's ready too."

He gestures towards Leo, who is now sitting by the bed, his little ears perked up and his tail wagging as if he understands the conversation.

Charles nods patiently, his smile still in place. "Sure," he replies, "Take your time. I'll wait for you here with Leo."

Y/n smiles in appreciation, and with a last, lingering glance at the duo, she heads into the bathroom to freshen up.

A few minutes later, Y/n poked her head out from the bathroom door, her hair still slightly damp. "Charlie," she called, her voice carrying through the open door, "Can you grab my dress for me? I left it on the bed in the guest room. I had it all ready last night before I fell asleep."

Charles looked up from where he had been playing with Leo, the dachshund now chewing on one of his shoes. "Sure thing," he replied, standing up and heading towards the guest room.

He navigated his way into the spacious guest room, the bed neat and tidy, the dress laid out meticulously on top. He picked up the dress, his eyes running over the delicate fabric and the design that Y/n had chosen.

He took a moment to appreciate the dress before walking back towards the bathroom, the dress safely in his hands. As he approached the bathroom door, he knocked gently, alerting Y/n of his arrival.

"I've got the dress," he called out, his voice soft so as not to startle her. He waited for a moment, giving her a chance to respond before proceeding.

Y/n peeps out from the bathroom door once more, a warm smile on her face. "Thank you, Charlie," she says, genuinely appreciative of his help.

Charles smiles back at her, holding the dress out for her to take. "You're welcome," he replies, his voice gentle. He takes a moment to appreciate the view of her standing there in the doorway, the morning sunlight catching the wet strands of her hair and making them sparkle.

He hands her the dress, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. There's a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of Leo's soft panting and the distant hum of city life outside.

Y/n emerges from the bathroom, the soft fabric of her dress falling gently around her legs. She smooths out any wrinkles, adjusting the straps and hemlines until she is satisfied.

Looking up at Charles, she says, "All ready," her voice cheerful despite the early hour.

Charles does a slow, subtle scan of her appearance, his gaze taking in the way the dress hugs her figure and accentuates her curves. He can't help the small appreciative smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Y/n scoops up Leo, the dachshund snuggling comfortably against her chest. She grabs her phone from the bedside table and gives Charles's hand a firm pull, practically dragging him towards the door.

"Let's go," she urges, her tone full of eagerness.

Charles chuckles at her eagerness, allowing himself to be led by Y/n, their hands still linked together, and follows her towards the door. Leo lets out a soft little bark as if cheering them on.

The three of them head out into the hallway, Charles keeping pace beside Y/n as they make their way towards the front door. The soft pat-pat of their footsteps and the occasional squeak from Leo were the only sounds in the apartment.

They reach the front door, and Charles holds it open for Y/n and Leo, a gentlemanly gesture that seems almost second nature to him. "After you," he says, his tone light but filled with affectionate warmth.

Y/n grins at his old-fashioned chivalry, passing through the open doorway with Leo in her arms. "Why, thank you," she says, her words tinged with affectionate amusement.

Charles follows, letting go of the door as it closes behind him. He falls into step beside her, their shoulders nearly touching. "No problem," he replies, the corners of his mouth curving upwards into a small, private smile.

She notices Charles's unwavering gaze and asks, a hint of curiosity and amusement in her voice. "What? Is there something on my face? You've been staring at me the whole way down."

Charles's smile widens, caught in the act. He sheepishly rubs the back of his neck before replying, "No, no, nothing on your face. I was just watching you with Leo. You two are so cute together."

Y/n smiles, her gaze shifting down to Leo in her arms, who is oblivious to the conversation. "Oh, yeah," she says, a hint of pride in her voice, "We do make a pretty cute pair, don't we?"

He nods in agreement, his gaze shifting to both Y/n and Leo in her arms. "Absolutely," he says, his voice soft and sincere. "You and Leo are the cutest pair I've ever seen."

His eyes dart between Y/n and the dog, taking in the sight of the dachshund, so completely at ease in her arms. The elevator dings as it reaches the lobby, and he steps out, holding the door open for Y/n and Leo once more.

They step out into the lobby, the world outside the glass doors filled with the sounds of the city. Charles leads them out into the street, the sun warm and bright. As they walk, he can't help but glance at Y/n every so often, a small, fond smile playing on his lips.

The pair walk down the street, crossing intersections and passing by shops and cafes. Leo stays snuggled in Y/n's arms, his little head resting on her shoulder. Y/n and Charles walk quietly beside each other, the comfortable silence between them occasionally broken by a comment or a soft laugh.

They reach an open-air café, the outdoor seats under a shady tree filled with people enjoying their breakfast. Charles pulls out a chair for Y/n, gesturing for her to sit, his chivalry still very much in play.

"Have a seat," he says, his tone warm and gentle. "I'll go get us some breakfast menus."

Y/n smiles in appreciation, settling down on the comfortable chair with Leo still in her arms. She watches as Charles makes his way towards the counter, weaving through the tables and chairs with ease.

He reaches the counter, chatting with the employee behind it and perusing the menu on the wall. After a few moments, he returns with two breakfast menus, a smile on his face.

He hands one of the menus to Y/n and takes a seat across from her, a small gap between their chairs. He opens his own menu, his eyes scanning over the options. Leo stretches in Y/n's lap, his little arms and legs stretching out as he lets out a soft yawn.

Y/n grins at the sight, her fingers absently running through Leo's soft fur. She looks at her own menu, her eyes darting over the various breakfast items. "So many choices," she muses, her tone a mix of amusement and slight indecision.

Charles glances up from his own menu, a lopsided smile on his face. "Tell me about it," he agrees, a small huff of laughter escaping him. "I don't know if I want pancakes, eggs, or just a straight-up bowl of bacon."

Y/n laughs, imagining the sight of a plate stacked high with bacon. "A bowl of bacon does sound tempting," she replies, her tone jokingly serious. "But it might not be the best choice for breakfast."

Charles laughs along with her, the sound filling the space between them. "True," he concedes. "I don't think I want to start the day with a heart attack waiting to happen."

He looks back down at the menu, his expression thoughtful. "How about waffles?" he suggests, the word coming out slowly as if he's mulling over the idea.

Y/n considers the suggestion for a moment, her lips curving into a small, approving smile. "Waffles sound good," she agrees, nodding her head in agreement. "But only if they come with extra syrup."

Charles grins at her request, his eyes lighting up in amusement. "Extra syrup? That's non-negotiable," he clarifies, his tone still lighthearted. "Waffles without enough syrup are just sad, cold pancakes."

Y/n laughs in agreement, the sound ringing out around them. "Exactly," she says, a firm nod of her head. "Syrup is the most important part of a waffle. Without it, it's just a waste of carbs."

He wags a finger at her in a playful manner, his tone half-serious. "You know, I'm starting to think you just have a thing for sweet things. Coffee with too much sugar, syrup on everything..."

Y/n grins slyly, feigning ignorance. "Me? A sweet tooth?" she replies, her tone innocent. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I just like my food to have actual flavor."

Charles gives her a mock-skeptical look, a small chuckle escaping him. "Oh, really now? So that time last week when we shared a cheesecake and you almost went into a sugar coma..."

She laughs, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "That was for scientific purposes only," she clarifies, her tone light and playful. "I was testing my body's tolerance to sugar. It's all in the name of science."

Charles rolls his eyes in mock exasperation, his tone equally light. "Right, because science always requires two whole slices of cheesecake to be eaten in one sitting."

Y/n raises a finger in the air, a mock-serious expression on her face. "Science demands dedication," she says, her tone bordering on solemn, though her eyes still sparkle with amusement. "It's not my fault that cheesecake is the perfect medium for testing."

Charles watches her, his expression is fond and affectionate. He's so used to her antics and quick wit that even her playful arguments are endearing to him.

"Alright," he concedes, a small, affectionate sigh leaving his lips. "You win this round, scientific genius."

Y/n grins, a triumphant glint in her eyes. "I win every round, Charlie," she retorts, her tone smug. "It's a curse, really. My powers of logic and science-based reasoning are just too much for mere mortals like yourself to handle."

Charles laughs, shaking his head in good-natured defeat. "I should've known better than to argue with a genius," he admits, his tone filled with amusement. "From now on, I'll just stick to nodding along and agreeing with everything you say. Much easier that way."

May 27, 2024 - 11:42 AM

After they're done with their breakfast, Charles pays the bill and they head out of the café, Leo snuggles comfortably in Y/n's arms. As they walk back to Charles' place, he can't help but steal small glances at Y/n and Leo, his heart swelling with affection.

Leo gives a soft yip of recognition as they approach the apartment building, and wiggles in Y/n's arms, eager to get back to the familiar surroundings.

They enter the elevator, the metal walls gleaming in the harsh artificial light. Charles stands close to Y/n, Leo's weight between them, their arms occasionally grazing against each other.

The elevator dings, signaling their arrival at Charles' floor, and they make their way to his door, Leo's little paws tapping eagerly against the plush carpeted floor.

They enter the apartment, the door closing behind them with a resounding thud. Y/n sets Leo down, and he immediately barrels off, small paws thudding against the floor as he scurries into the living room, a little ball of energy.

Charles shuts the door behind them, his eyes lingering on Y/n for a moment before looking away, a slight flush creeping up his neck.

He clears his throat, the blush on his neck deepening slightly. "So, Y/n, I was wondering... when will you be driving back to France?"

His voice wavers slightly at the mention of her leaving, his heart heavy at the thought of not having her around. But he tries to hide it, maintaining a casual tone.

Y/n glances at her watch, her expression thoughtful. "I should be leaving for France before 5PM today," she replies, her tone firm. "The roads can get busy, so I want to make sure I have plenty of time."

Charles nods, a faint feeling of dread settling in his stomach. "Right, right," he says, forcing a small smile. "Gotta beat the traffic." He tries to match her casual tone, but the tightness of his voice betrays his emotions.

Y/n senses the change in his demeanor and steps closer, her voice softer now. "Don't worry, Charlie," she says, meeting his gaze. "I'll be back before you know it. And we can FaceTime every night until then. It's not like I'm disappearing off the face of the Earth."

She gives him a reassuring grin, her own heart heavy at the thought of leaving him behind. But she knows they need to face this reality, and her determination overrides her sadness.

Charles looks at her, his expression a mix of relief and sadness. "Yeah," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're right. FaceTime will be great. We'll stay in touch. And I'll plan our next movie marathon for when you're back."

He gives her a lopsided smile, his eyes filled with warmth and affection. "Just... promise me you'll drive safe, yeah?"

Y/n smiles, a genuine warmth radiating from her eyes. "You know I will, Charlie. Promise," she assures him. "And we're definitely having a movie marathon the moment I'm back. Just keep the popcorn ready."

He nods, a soft chuckle escaping him. "You know I always have popcorn ready," he says, his voice tinged with affection. "And we might as well make a day of it. Pizza, popcorn, the whole nine yards."

Charles glances at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, the hands ticking softly, the rhythmic sound echoing in the small space. "You still have about five hours before you need to leave," he points out, his tone thoughtful.

He looks back at Y/n, his expression hopeful. "How about we watch a movie? Take our minds off the fact that you're leaving for a bit?" He offers her a small smile, the invitation genuine.

Y/n smiles, a bright sparkle lighting up her eyes. "That sounds like a great idea, Charlie!" she exclaims, a hint of excitement in her tone. "You make the popcorn. I'll pick the movie."

Charles nods in agreement, a grin spreading across his face. "You got it," he says, his tone light. "I'll whip up some popcorn. You get the movie set up. Just don't pick something too depressing, yeah? I don't think I can handle both of us feeling sad."

Y/n laughs, playfully rolling her eyes. "Please, I have impeccable taste in movies," she retorts, her tone laced with mock-affronted humor. "I wouldn't dream of subjecting you to a depressing film. We'll stick to feel-good, laugh-a-minute kind of stuff. We can save the melodrama for another day."

She makes her way over to the couch, the soft cushions beckoning her. She takes a seat, kicking off her shoes and getting comfortable. The sound of the grandfather clock continues, marking the passing of time, as Y/n scrolls through the movies on the TV, searching for the perfect film to suit the mood.

"Hey, Charlie!" Y/n's voice rings out across the room, her tone light and playful. "I've got two options here: 'Mamma Mia!' or 'Wild Child'. What do you feel like watching?"

Charles appears through the kitchen door, a bowl of fresh popcorn in his hands. He chuckles at her shouts, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, both sound tempting," he muses, his tone light. "But let's go for 'Mamma Mia'. Can't go wrong with some ABBA, right?"

Y/n grins, nodding excitedly. "You read my mind, Charlie. We can't pass up ABBA on our movie night. It's a crime against good taste." She taps a few buttons on her phone, queuing up 'Mamma Mia!' on their streaming service.

Charles hands her the bowl of popcorn, his fingers brushing against hers in a fleeting moment of contact. He settles down beside her, a comfortable distance between them, as the opening credits of 'Mamma Mia!' begin to roll. They munch on the popcorn and lose themselves in the familiar tunes and lighthearted storyline, enjoying the shared moment together.

As the movie plays on, Y/n finds herself singing along to the ABBA classics, her voice light and slightly off-key, filling the room with a contagious joy. Charles joins in too, his tone deeper and more confident, harmonizing with Y/n's vocals. They laugh at the cheesy jokes and dance along to the catchy songs, their worries momentarily forgotten in the shared fun of the musical.

May 27, 2024 - 4:22 PM

As the credits roll, and 'Hamilton' comes to a close, Y/n catches sight of the digital clock on the side table. The bright red numerals read '4:22 PM', and a sense of unease washes over her.

"Four-twenty-two?" she exclaims, a hint of panic creeping into her voice. "Damn, how did time slip away so fast? I need to get going soon."

Charles glances at the clock, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. "You're right," he nods, his tone tinged with regret. "We need to get you back on the road soon. Can't have you driving after sunset." He rises from the couch, gesturing towards the guest room. "Let's get your things ready."

In the guest room, Charles helps Y/n pack her clothes efficiently. They work together in a comfortable silence, their movements synchronized. Charles carefully folds Y/n's clothes and tucks them into her suitcase, his touch gentle and efficient.

As they work, the atmosphere in the room is tinged with a sense of nostalgia and a hint of sadness. Although they're focused on the task at hand, they're both aware of the impending separation looming over them.

Y/n's gaze occasionally meets Charles as they pack, the unspoken emotions lingering between them. Charles steals glances at her, his eyes softening at the sight of her. Y/n, too, finds herself stealing glances at him, her heart growing heavier with every item packed.

Once the suitcase is packed, Charles closes it with a gentle click, securing the zipper. He steps back, his gaze meeting Y/n's with a mixture of sadness and affection. "All set?" he asks, his voice a soft whisper as if he's reluctant to break the comfortable silence that has settled between them.

Y/n looks at him, her gaze filled with an unspoken emotion, a mix of yearning and bittersweet acceptance. "Yeah," she says softly, her words barely above a whisper. "I think so. Just one more thing to do."

Without hesitation, she closes the distance between them, enveloping Charles in a tight hug. Charles wraps his arms around her, holding her close. The embrace feels like an unspoken promise, a silent assurance of their connection despite the physical separation that awaits them soon.

They stay like that for a few moments, and the world around them seems to fade away. For those brief seconds, time stands still, and they allow themselves to savor the warmth and solace of each other's presence. Eventually, Y/n pulls back slightly, her eyes meeting Charles's in a silent understanding. It's time for her to leave.

"I should get going," she says, her voice laced with a mix of sadness and determination. Charles nods, understanding the finality of the moment. "Alright," he whispers, his voice a tender caress against the stillness. "Drive safely, okay? And don't forget to FaceTime me tonight."

"Of course," Y/n confirms, her voice steady despite the pang of heartache. "As soon as I get settled, we'll FaceTime. You can't get rid of me that easily." A smile tugs at the corners of her lips, a bittersweet expression that echoes the emotions swirling within her.

Charles smiles, mirroring Y/n's bittersweet expression. "I wouldn't dream of it," he says softly, his fingers gently brushing a stray hair away from her face. "Until tonight, Y/n. Drive safely, and I'll be here waiting for your call."

May 27, 2024 - 5:42 PM

Y/n's car pulls into the parking lot of her apartment building in France. As she parks, a sense of familiarity washes over her, the sight of the place she calls home comforting after the long journey. But there's an emptiness, too, a void that she knows will only be filled once she's reunited with Charles.

Gathering her belongings, she steps out of the car, the familiar scent of the French countryside filling her senses. For a moment, she just stands there, soaking in the surroundings, a mix of emotions swirling within her - excitement to be home, sadness at the prospect of being away from Charles.

The sun dips below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the landscape. Y/n takes a deep breath, the cool evening air filling her lungs, and she starts walking toward her apartment building.

As she approaches the entrance, a bittersweet pang tugs at her heart. The thought of being separated from Charles for days, maybe even weeks, is daunting, but she knows they can weather this distance.

Y/n dives into her unpacking routine, meticulously organizing her things. However, she keeps getting side-tracked; a stack of books needing proper arrangement, a pile of photos requiring categorization, or a collection of trinkets demanding specific display spots.

As a result, she doesn't notice how time ticks away as she turns her simple unpacking task into a full apartment makeover.

By the time she checked the clock, 4 hours had passed. Her apartment looks spick and span, but she's only unpacked about half of her luggage. She lets out a laugh; it seems unpacking and cleaning were just covered for an impromptu interior design overhaul.

As Y/n finishes up the last of her unpacking, a sudden realization hits her. Her toiletry bag, a staple for any extended stay, is nowhere to be found. She recalls leaving it behind in Monaco. Frustration and disbelief flit across her face, the inconvenience of the situation sinking in.

Y/n stands in her spotless bathroom, torn between two unappealing options: going a night without brushing her teeth or making a late-night trip to the store for a new toothbrush. The thought of sacrificing oral hygiene isn't all that appealing, but neither is the idea of stepping out in the brisk evening air to buy new tooth-cleaning supplies.

Just as Y/n contemplates skipping her evening teeth-cleaning session, a sharp pang of longing for Charles hits out of nowhere. It catches her off guard, the realization of being separated from him sinking in once again. The empty toothbrush holder on the bathroom counter seems to echo the emptiness she feels without his presence

Suddenly, the truth hits Y/n with the force of a freight train. The feeling of having left something behind wasn't about a toothbrush at all; it was the poignant realization of leaving Charles behind in Monaco. Their separation weighs heavily on her heart, and in that moment, she misses his presence more than ever.

Y/n finds herself gazing at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, a sudden clarity dawning on her. A profound understanding washes over her as she whispers quietly to herself, "I love him."

The words hang in the air, echoing in the silent apartment. The realization brings a flood of emotions: joy, vulnerability, relief, and a sense of finally acknowledging what has been there all along. She loves Charles with a depth and intensity that leaves her breathless.

Without a second thought, Y/n hastily snatches her phone and car keys from the kitchen counter. She dashes through the darkened apartment, hastily flicking off lights and unplugging appliances as she goes.

Within minutes, she's out the door, the cool evening air enveloping her as she steps outdoors. A sense of urgency fuels her stride as she makes her way towards the parking lot, each step carrying her closer to the road that will bridge the physical distance between her and Charles.

Y/n's hands grip the steering wheel as she navigates the darkening streets, her heart beating with anticipation. The night is deep, but the city lights guide her way as she drives towards Monaco.

The prospect of seeing Charles again fuels her determination, her foot growing heavier on the pedal as she presses onward. Every mile feels like an eternity, but she knows that each one brings her closer to the moment when she'll be reunited with the one person who truly matters.

Her thoughts wander, imagining the moment when she'll see Charles. How his eyes will light up, or the warm embrace they'll share. The images fuel her determination to keep driving faster, to bridge the distance that separates them just a little bit quicker. The cityscape whizzes by, but she's resolute in her goal: to be with Charles once more.

May 27, 2024 - 11:09 PM

As Y/n stands outside Charles's door, a rush of emotions washes over her. Her heart races, a mix of nerves and excitement coursing through her veins. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself before finally knocking on the door. The sound of her knuckles against the wood echoes in the quiet night.

Y/n braces herself, unsure of what awaits on the other side. Will Charles be surprised? Happy? Relieved? The anticipation gnaws at her, building with every passing second.

The sound of soft footsteps approaches from inside, and then the door swings open, revealing a bewildered Charles. He stares at Y/n in disbelief, his expression a mix of shock and delight. "Y/n? What are you doing here?" he queries, his voice tinged with both surprise and warmth.

Y/n musters up a shaky explanation, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and slight hesitation. "I... I left my toiletry bag here," she stammers, her words tumbling out in a hurry. "I didn't realize until after I had unpacked and organized my things. And, well, here I am." She flashes a sheepish smile, trying to downplay the fact that she drove all the way back just for her toiletry bag.

Charles stands dumbfounded for a beat, his mind trying to process the situation. But then, a slow grin spreads across his face. "You drove all the way back... for your toiletry bag?" he says, a hint of amusement in his tone. Despite the unconventional reason for her visit, he can't help but find the situation charming in its absurdity.

Y/n gathers her courage and blurts out her true feelings, the words spilling forth in a rush. "I... I missed you," she confesses, her voice filled with a mixture of earnestness and vulnerability. "I know it sounds crazy, but being separated from you, even for a few hours, felt unbearable. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing."

Her words come out in a rush, her emotions spilling over. "God dammit, Charles, I love you!" She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks as the words escape her lips, laying her heart bare in front of him. The vulnerability and intensity behind her confession hang in the air between them.

He doesn't waste a moment, pulling Y/n inside and pressing his lips against hers in a passionate kiss. There's a sense of relief and longing in his touch, the realization that their separation was unbearable for both of them. Y/n clings to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, matching his fervor and intensity.

Charles pulls away just enough to meet Y/n's gaze, his eyes filled with a mix of adoration and vulnerability. His voice carries a hint of awe as he continues, "You have no idea how long I've prayed for this moment. That maybe, just maybe, you felt something for me too."

His confession hangs in the air, the sincerity in his tone washing over Y/n like a wave of emotions.

Y/n's heart swells with a rush of emotions as Charles's words sink in. The longing she had tried to deny was mirrored in his own confession.

"I prayed for this too," she admits, her voice filled with a mix of vulnerability and tenderness. "I didn't realize the extent of my own feelings until the moment we said goodbye. The thought of being apart... it was unbearable. And now, here you are, saying what I've been too afraid to put into words."

Charles leans in for another lingering kiss, breaking away just long enough to ask, "Can you stay the night? I don't want to be apart from you any longer. Please." His voice is filled with a mixture of tenderness and longing, silently pleading for a positive response.

Y/n smiles, her heart filled with warmth and anticipation. "Yes," she whispers, the words barely above a breath as her lips brush against his. "I'll stay the night. Nothing would make me happier than being with you, right here, right now."

He gently pulls Y/n towards the bedroom, his lips never leaving hers as they make their way through the apartment. Once inside, he locks the door behind them, shutting out the rest of the world.

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@nepobbylver @wobblymug @xoscar03 @irishmanwhore

[bluudsucka]

august night - remmick x fem!reader (chapter I)

chapter I - chapter II - chapter III (coming soon)

summary: it's the middle of the night in august and your husband isn't home, most likely spending his night with one of his many mistresses. but that didn't bother you as tonight was one of the many nights your lover, remmick, comes and spend some 'quality time' with you.

word count: 5k

warnings: smut, female reader, religious undertones, vampire sex, infidelity, bloodkink, blood drinking, blood loss, spit kink, oral sex, squirting, praise kink, slight mention of the hive mind, slight fluff at the end, remmick is down bad fr

author's note: my first ever fic, i was bored and wanted to write somethin'. i envisioned his lover to be black while writing this, i'm open to criticism to improve on my work, thank you so much for reading! enjoy!

The buzzing choir of cicadas enraptured your thoughts peacefully as your forehead that glisten with sweat pressed against your clasped over worked hands. You always enjoyed hearing the insects sing their song, it brought calmness to your frenzied and sporadic thoughts, and somehow those thoughts worsened when you would recite your nightly prayer.

Your lips mouthed the words you knew since you were a child, though no sound escaped from your mouth. Bruised knees planted firmly onto the dark wooden floor boards that would creak and groan underneath the shuffling of your weight, your elbows placed on top of the soft bedding that you shared with your husband.

Your husband.

A strong Godfearing man - who so happened to be a preacher - he was an adequate protector and provider, always giving you want you needed. A home that shielded you from the dangers of man and beast that lurked within the countryside, barn animals to cultivate fresh provisions, and social standing within the tightknit community that the church provided. But the one thing your husband lacked was willpower.

He was a cheater.

Women was his weakness, he would be gone days at a time, entertaining whichever woman he decided to obsess over that week. At first it broke your heart, so much in fact that you'd became bedridden when you saw him fucking a woman after Sunday Service. Ironically the sermon that day was about protecting the sanctity of marriage. You wanted to leave him - truly you did - but the elders within your church convinced you not to.

'As man; we all suffer from sin. It is not the way, but forgive and pray for him, so that he may seek the right and righteous path.'

You cried after hearing their words, but you did as told.

You prayed.

Oh, God. Did you pray.

But nothing changed.

With a sigh you ended your nightly prayer with an airy 'amen' and rose up from the hard floor. Sweat clung to your body due to the heatwave that Mississippi had, it had been hot for days now, and it oddly seemed like the nights were hotter than the mornings. You made sure to take an extra long bath before bed, but with how much you're sweating you knew you'd have to take one again early in the morning.

Slinking yourself between the bedsheets, you rested your head onto the soft feathered filled pillow, your eyes staring straight into the water stained ceiling. You told your husband to fix the pipes that caused the stain, he assured you that he will.

That's been five weeks ago.

You didn't bother blowing out the candle that sat onto the mahogany end table, the flickering of the small fire casting shadows across the cream colored wallpaper, the shadows enhancing small cracks and tears within the thinly cheap plaster. Frenzied thoughts turned into worry as you tossed onto your side, staring out the grime covered window, the night was eerily black. No stars, no moon, nothing. The muffled cicadas chirping only made your heart ache more.

His side of the bed was empty, he should be here by now.

As if on cue, loud knocking reverberated through the small one story home, you couldn't help to adorn a toothy smile. Jumping from the bed like it was molten lava, you dashed towards your heavy front door, the floor creaked and squealed underneath your bare feet.

With nimble fingers you hastily unlocked the many locks that held your door shut, biting your lip as you squeezed your thighs together. You couldn't help it, this man was everything to you. He made you feel things no man ever could, not even your husband could achieve reaching you to nirvana like how this man could. With a turn of a knob you were face to face with your love.

Your one and only.

"Hello, pretty girl. ya' missed me?"

There he stood, tall and proud, his broad shoulders rolling as he mumbled those soft words to you. He wore something different tonight, a light baby blue button up shirt that wasn't buttoned to the top, showing a white wife-beater underneath the clean dress shirt. Black suspenders held up his thick dark wool trousers, and your eyes couldn't help to glance at his thick hand that hung lazily over the strap that connected to his banjo.

He always had that instrument on him, always strumming away on the metal strings, singing you songs that came from his homeland that was far, far away from Mississippi. The instrument was strapped tightly around his body, you hope he'd sing you a new tune tonight. Leaning forward, his dark eyes scanned your features, taking in your beauty just like the first night you'd invited him in.

But he didn't pass the threshold.

The golden chain that hung around his neck glisten underneath the warm ember light that enveloped your home, you loved twirling that chain with your fingertips after he made love to you, and you couldn't wait to do it again tonight.

"You gonna make me stand out here? Or do I gotta beg, like last time?" He smiled, the sight of his sharp canines made your heart skip a beat. You remembered a few nights ago Remmick upset you, greatly. He didn't mean to, but he did. You both had a rule when he would come visit.

Don't talk about your husband.

Remmick couldn't stand the man, often turning pictures of your husband around and out of his view when he would come over, but he never outwardly stated that he despised him.

But you knew.

One night as his ice cold hands raked over your body, touching you in places only he knew that'll make you squirm with delight, he whispered softly in your ear: "I wonder if that preacher knows his wife is sleeping with the devil?"

You pulled away quickly from his comment, reality and shame crashing into your core, it felt like you just been trampled by wild horses. Staring at him your face twisted in disgust, not at Remmick, not fully. But disgust at yourself. At the end of the day, you were a cheater too, and the worst kind.

You were fucking a vampire.

That night was cut short with you rushing him out of your home, stating that he should never speak about your husband in that way. Even though the love between you and your estranged spouse was wavering, the love was still there. And as badly as it hurt Remmick, he knew you'd always have some sort of soft spot for that preacher.

Pulling yourself together, you opened the door wider, making enough room for Remmick to enter. "N-No, come in."

And come in he did, the wooden floor groaned underneath his heavy steps as he waltz within the home casually, as if he lived here himself. He started his nightly routine: turning those pictures of your husband around, making them face the wall, if it was up to him he'd wait until that preacher came back from whoever he was with and drain all of the blood from his body, killing him in an agonizingly slow death. You shut the heavy wooden door, a loud thud echoed through the home as your fingers locked the door again, each click of locks turning made Remmick smile.

Nobody in their right mind would lock themselves in with a vampire, but you were his, and he was yours.

He'd never hurt you.

"You're late, I was worried about you." You whispered, walking towards the taller man, as your arms wrapped around his stocky shoulders. He was so cold, like a corpse, but that didn't bother you none. In fact you were fond of his icy touch, especially in this Mississippi heat. Resting your head onto his chest his hands worked over your body, squeezing each curve he possibly can until his hand rested on the back of your head. With a feather light touch, he began to stroke your hair as the both of you swayed side to side, content with finally being in each other's arms after a long day.

"I know sugar, I'm sorry. I had a few things to take care of..."

"A 'few things', Remmi are you--"

"It ain't nothin' like that, I was hungry. I know, I should've waited till I got here, but a man's gotta eat. And I don't wanna drain you dry, pretty girl." Remmick assured, he knew that your mind would wonder, that was one of your many quirks. He would never entertain the thought of forming this kind of relationship you both shared with someone else, Remmick had carried an indifference towards the living for centuries now, only using them for sustenance and knowledge.

Nothing else.

He wouldn't betray you, unlike that preacher.

Pulling away from his freezing embrace you glanced at his face. Scanning his beautiful features - you loved staring at him, you could do it for hours - maybe it was some sort of vampiric charm? You didn't know, but all you did know was the burning desire to taste him, and for him to taste you.

"Got room for dessert? Come 'ere." You sighed as your hands raced over his thick biceps, stopping for a beat to trace the abnormally blue veins that adorn his forearms, and then interlocking your finger with his. You guided him towards the bedroom, though he didn't need guidance, as he'd enter your bedchambers several times now.

His hungry eyes danced across your frame, you wore a dusty pink nightgown, his favorite one that you own. It was so thin that wearing it was useless, he could see each and every curve of your body. Not to mention your raised nipples poking the fabric, begging to be licked and suckled on. Once you both entered the bedroom, you placed Remmick onto his side of the bed, the one closest to the door. The one that's away from the window.

Even though you made sure to invest in thick blinds, you didn't want to risk it, you often use your body as a shield when rays of sunlight peeked through them. With a sigh he pulled the banjo off of his body, leaning the instrument against the nightstand. He waited for this moment all day, as drool began to form in his mouth.

He hated drooling in front of you, the worry of him freighting you always crossed his mind when he would drool, but you were never frightened.

In fact it turned you on. The thought of him drooling over you made the butterflies in your stomach intense, and the familiar ache in your loins grow stronger. Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, his dark eyes followed your movements. Your fingers opened the drawer of the nightstand, digging deep into it, pushing books and junk paper out of the way until you found what you've been looking for.

A sharp knife.

A switch blade to be precise, the kind that could slice through meat and possibly bone with enough force. Turning to face him again, you opened the palm of your hand that was covered in bruises and cuts. Your husband had questioned you about the sudden appearance of these flesh wounds, but you would tell him that you accidently cut yourself cooking or from doing chores around the house.

With a wince you slashed your hand open, crimson pearling from the wound as it slowly spilled out of the cut. Remmick held your hand within his as he looked up at you with reverence, as if you were an angel sent to absolve him of his sins. With quickness he placed his lips over the cut, his tongue lapping up the thick blood as if it was liquid gold. He tried his best not to sink his sharp teeth into your skin, he knew about your fear of being turned.

You weren't ready yet, and he understood.

So to circumvent this; you came up with the idea of him drinking you from an open wound, avoiding using his poisonous teeth in the process. He moaned against your palm as he sucked the gash on your hand, trying his best to get as much blood as he can. You tasted so sweet, and the memories that clung onto your blood tasted even sweeter.

Your memories and experiences swarmed his mind, pulling him deeper and deeper in ecstasy. He could see everything you've experienced, all the highs and lows, all the pain and happiness, all the heartbreak and love. He could feel everything, he could see everything.

The time that you skipped Sunday school as a teen to share your first kiss with a boy in a cornfield, that moment when you tasted alcohol for the first time, and that aching feeling of when you cried for days after you found your husband with another woman.

You ran your free hand through Remmick's thick and dark hair, your fingers separating each curl you could find as you watch him drink from you, your core growing wetter by the second.

"That's it, baby. Drink it all, drink all of it." You encouraged, which earned an eager nod from the man, his large hands squeezing yours tight. You winced at the pain of him holding your hand in a chilled vice grip, but you didn't pull away.

You'd never do that until he got his fill.

With a wet pop he pulled his lips from your hand, a string of saliva connected his bottom lip and your palm, his lips were stained red from your blood. His once dark eyes were now ruby red, the most beautiful shade of red you'd ever seen.

Remmick shot you a toothy smile, his fangs more prominent than ever and his eyes were glossy. It was as if he'd taken a hit of an intense drug, he couldn't help but to lull his head to the side, trying his best to catch his breath. You were breathy too. Watching him feed on you made you horny, so incredibly horny.

The cut on your hand was still bleeding, and with one final lick the man finally spoke: "Lemme patch you up, pretty girl."

Remmick reached into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out a roll of bandages, with a lick of his lips he began to wrap the bandage around your hand tightly. The high of him feeding from your hand slowly washed away as the sting of the wound bit at your soft skin, you hissed when the bandage pressed against the wound.

"I know, sugar. I know. Thank you for this, baby. Thank you for feeding me."

You didn't reply, you didn't need to. He knew you'd gladly offer him your blood, but being the gentleman that he is, he had to verbalize his gratitude. You didn't need to do this - but you did.

He's forever in your debt.

Your eyes flicked between his chiseled pale face, his gentle hands that wrapped the bandage on your wound, and the growing bulge within his black pants. He was aching to be inside you, and you were aching for him to take you fully. Once he was done dressing your cut, you placed steady hands onto his strong shoulders, and without a second thought you planted a heated kiss onto his crimson lips.

He quickly kissed you back, his hands cupping your face as he pulled you closer towards his frame, making you straddle his lap in the process. The taste of iron filled your mouth as the kissed deepened, both of your tongues danced with each other as blood that stained his lips now stained yours. His sharp canines dragged against your lips, as he tried his best to savor the blood that clung to them.

He wanted to bite down - it took so much willpower to stop the urge to do so - his cold hands trailed down your cheeks towards your neck, he felt your pulse underneath his finger tips.

He couldn't wait for the day you finally let him sink his fangs into you, the day when the both of you could finally be together.

Forever.

But until that day comes, he settled on coming to you at night and fucking you before the sun would rise, and before your husband would come home. Leaning himself back onto the bed, your body pressed flush against his, caging him in. But he wouldn't dare leave you, not when you're so needy for him, not when he's so needy for you.

"Take these clothes off, Remmi." You whimpered out between fevered kisses, his cold lips cooling down your burning hot skin. Without a word, he did as he was told, leaning up again and shrugging the suspenders off of his shoulders.

His fingers skillfully unbuttoned his shirt, tossing the fabric to the side, your hands reached under his wife-beater that clung onto his lean body, feeling the cold yet well trained muscles under your fingertips. Remmick didn't like talking about his life before he'd turned, you always wondered what he did before. Was he carpenter? A farmer? A blacksmith? You wanted him to tell everything about his life, before turning and after.

With a chuckle he tossed the thin undershirt aside too, only wearing his pants now. You leaned in and kissed his neck, where his pulse would be. But there was nothing, you couldn't feel a heartbeat or the heat. He was dead, truly dead. But that didn't stop you from sucking on his neck, your lips grazing the gold chain that hung around his neck. You knew the mark you'd leave would rapidly heal, disappearing as if you hadn't kissed there at all.

Lightly, he moved you off of his lap, laying your body onto the soft plush of the bed. Causing you to whine from the sudden disappearance of his touch, Remmick shook his head playfully as he unzipped his pants, kicking his heavy boots off in the process. With swift movements he pulled his pants along with his boxers off of his lower half, freeing his dick from the tight confines of his pants.

You moaned in pleasure at the sight of him fully nude, your eyes gazing at his dark brown happy trail that lead towards his hard member. You then tucked your legs underneath yourself, your hands reached for him as you began to lightly stroke his thick shaft.

"Now it's my turn to taste you." You whispered, placing a light kiss on the flush tip of his cock, you filled your open and bloody mouth with him. The familiar and comforting taste of him sparked a carnal fire within you. Nimble fingers maneuvered up and down on the base of his cock, Remmick was thick, you could barely fit him in your mouth but that didn't stop you from trying. The twisting expression of pleasure that adorned his face sent shockwaves of fulfillment through your body.

Squeezing your thighs together to ease the ache of arousal between your legs, you pushed your mouth deeper onto his cock, tasting the precum that danced deliciously on your tongue. Remmick's toned body twitched above you from the sudden sensation, your tongue skillfully swirling the sensitive skin on the tip of his cock.

"Yes, yes...Just like that, baby." Remmick groaned, his calloused hand massaged your scalp as the other held onto your shoulder, his cold touch made your skin taunt with goosebumps. Looking down he made eye contact with you, his ruby eyes peering deep into yours as his bloodstained lips hung opened slack, you knew he was trying his best not to buck his hips into your mouth.

Long lashes blinking with each inch your bravely took into your mouth, gags reverberated from your lungs. The vibrations of them made Remmick choke out a strained moan, his hands ran through your hair, moving it out of the way as your soft tongue grazed the thick veins on his cock.

His cries of pleasure egged you to go deeper, pushing yourself pass your limits and with a gag, you pulled away from him. Catching your breath as tears streamed down your face, you continued pumping him as the slick sound of your hand working over his cock that was covered in your spit echoed through the scorching hot room. His calloused hand wiped away the tears that clung onto your warm cheeks.

"You did such a good job for me, darlin'. Don't hurt yourself, c'mere." Remmick praised, pulling you up by the arms as he planted a sloppy kiss onto your swollen lips, tasting himself on your tongue as he did so. Moaning into the kiss, you wrapped your arms around him, clinging onto the vampire as if he'd disappear at any moment. Slowly Remmick placed you onto your back on the soft bed, not breaking the passionate kiss as he hovered over you.

"My turn again." He chuckled as he laid on top of you, balancing his body weight to make sure that he didn't crush you, but even if he did - you wouldn't care. His lips kissed and sucked at your neck, focusing on the thick artery that pumped your blood through you, his tongue slowly licking the vein which earned a cry of approval from you.

A strong hand grabbed your breast through your nightgown, rolling the sensitive nipple between cold fingers. He lightly grazed his sharp teeth against the skin of your neck, teasing you as you shivered underneath the man. The scratching sensation of his teeth against your skin was quickly replaced with soft suckles.

"Baby, y-you can't leave any marks on me, he'll get upset with me." You breathlessly reminded Remmick, which earned you a disappointed sigh of defeat. Crawling down slowly, he left a trail of kisses on your clothed body, leaving behind bloodstain kisses on the gown. You know it'll be hard to wash out later, but that annoyance is for another time. Remmick paused his kisses and stopped at your dripping core.

"Why you ain't wearin' no panties?" He asked, a playful under tone laced within each word he spoke, hiking your nightgown up until your lower half was visible for him and you to see.

"I'm tired of you tearin' through them, I figured this'll be easier."

"Awe, but that's my favorite part."

"Hush up." You playfully chastised, a giggle fell from your lips as he shot you a bloody yet gorgeous smile. His rough hands held onto your thighs as he spread your legs, feeling his breath on your aching pussy made you shiver in anticipation, your hands ran though his dark brown hair, making his already messy hair even messier.

With a gentle lick Remmick ran his tongue slowly across your already soaking pussy, stopping to circle at your clit with his skilled tongue. Steadily he repeated his movements, taking in and savoring the sweet taste of your juices that replaced the delicious iron flavor of your blood. You were the sweetest girl he'd ever tasted in all his years of 'living' - and if you'd let him - he could eat your pussy until the sun came up, not caring about getting caught by your husband.

With a moan, you arched your back in pure bliss as Remmick sucked at your sensitive and swollen bud. His fingers slowly working their way inside you, he wanted to make sure you were ready for him; he wasn't the type of man to rush things like this.

"R-Remmi--Ah!" Your moans were muffled by your hand that covered your mouth, your teeth biting into your fingers as Remmick worked over your core. His mouth and tongue worked in tandem with each other which created a sensation that was slightly overbearing, but you enjoyed every last minute of it.

Remmick was a selfless lover.

Pulling away from your heat Remmick gently pushed two fingers inside of you, stopping at the middle of his fingers, just below the second joint of the thick digits. You squirmed underneath him, already feeling somewhat full by just his two fingers alone, and he hadn't even pushed them in all the way yet. Slowly, he moved his fingers in and out, the wet sound of your sex filled the bedroom which only aroused Remmick even more, but he knew to have patience.

Resting his head on your inner thigh, he looked up at you, and of course he was smiling like a fool. "Does that feel good?"

"Mhm, so good..." You moaned out a strained reply.

Remmick then pushed his fingers further until they were all the way in, his knuckles slightly grazing your swollen clit. Your legs were beginning to shake which only urge him to move his fingers faster, licking your clit between each thrust his fingers gave you. Sweaty hands were now gripping the bedsheets as your breathing quickened, the familiar feeling of a knot in your stomach began to bubble, you knew you were close.

With a heaving chest, you begged your Remmi to go faster, whimpering his nickname that you gave him through cries of pleasure. And with closed eyes and a racing heart you came.

Hard.

Your body shook as sweat clung onto your spent frame, your legs shaking as if you'd been running through thick swamp water. Remmick leaned back as he continued to rub your clit, earning a whine of pleasure from this action. Without fail that knot within your stomach quickly formed and quickly snapped, making you squirt all over the bedsheets and Remmick's heaving chest.

"Good job, pretty girl. Good job." Remmick praised, holding you steady as your body convulsed in pleasure mixed with overstimulation. Embarrassment soon then followed, never in your sheltered life have you squirted before, you didn't even know if you could do it. Crossing your legs to shield your pussy from Remmick's intense gaze - you blurted out an apology - hands covering your face as you did so.

"What're you apologizin' for?" Remmick asked, pulling your hands away from your face, licking his lips to savored the taste that danced on his tongue.

"I-I got carried away, I didn't mean to--I never--"

"Nonsense, sugar. It only means that I did somethin' right." He assured as he leaned down to kiss you on your lips, you could taste yourself as you sank deeper into the kiss, your hands holding onto Remmick's cold yet comforting body. This make-out session was more intense than the last, as you bit down on Remmick's swollen lips, this kiss felt as if it were a battle.

But both parties wouldn't mind losing.

"Fuck me, please..." You begged, your fingers playing with the golden necklace that hung across his neck. With an obedient nod he grabbed his cock at the base, lining himself towards your entrance. You looked down and watched as Remmick slowly entered you, his head resting in the crook of your neck as he did so. Shutting your eyes you grabbed onto Remmick, your nails digging into his pale skin.

He was stretching you out and the sting of pain and pleasure flooded your senses. Remmick moaned into your shoulder, his once southern drawl now melted into that of an Irish one, soft hymns from his homeland slipped pass his mouth as he rocked his hips back and forth, earning high-pitched grunts from you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, but he wouldn't dream of going anywhere. You were so wet, so soft, so warm. Your body felt like heaven, the pleasure he felt was undeniable - your pussy squeezed around him perfectly. It was as if you were made for him, or perhaps he was made for you.

Your nails scratched and dug into his back, leaving behind scars that'll quickly heal over as if nothing happened. Holding your face in his hand while the other one rubbed your thigh soothingly, easing the tense muscle as much as he can. Both of your eyes were locked onto each other, neither one of you dared to break eye contact as tears of pleasure fell from your hazy irises.

Drool crept down his chin and jaw, and without exchanging any words you open your mouth wide, just like last time. Holding your jaw firmly in his hand he let the trail of drool seep out of his mouth and into yours, earning a whimper of gratitude from you.

You loved the taste of his spit, it was like taking a sip of holy water, you couldn't resist begging him for a taste. Especially when he's fucking you so good like this. Wiping the tears that clung onto your face, Remmick whispered words in his native tongue that you couldn't understand. The language sounded so foreign to your untrained ear, but you knew each word he spoke was filled with adoration and love.

"F-Fuck, I'm almost there," Remmick mumbled switching back to English, although now he spoke in his thick Irish accent. He rested his cold forehead onto yours that was slick with sweat. You nodded in agreement as your words were now reduced to moans and grunts.

"Do you think you can came for me again, one more time?" He asked in between rapid thrust of his hips, his dick hitting the perfect spot within your core.

"Mhm!" You nodded, holding him flush against your body.

"Good..."

With a few more thrust of his hips Remmick sighed out a long 'fuck' as the feeling of come filled your pussy to the brim. Shaking you squeezed your legs in a vice grip, which earned a satisfied chuckle from Remmick. With heavy sighs, the high of reaching your orgasm subsided as your tired body went limp, releasing Remmick from your legs. With a kiss on the cheek and a light pat on your sore leg Remmick laid lazily next to you on the bed.

On his side of the bed.

The sound of cicadas buzzed through the midnight air as both of you stared into each others eyes, your hand reached for his, and he gladly held onto it which helped you anchor back into reality.

"I love you, Remmick." You whispered with a hushed voice, and with a squeeze of his hand he shot you a toothy bloody grin.

"I love you too."

[samerpal]

Gaza: The City of the Flour Zombies

My brother and I went out after midnight, like the rest of the starving souls in Gaza. Our first stop was at the General Security intersection, trying to figure out where the flour trucks might pass. Then we moved north, toward Al-Helou Station and Badri & Hania Company, only to find hungry people sleeping in the streets — unconscious, or so it seemed. We had to step over them, stumble among them. There was no light but that of the full moon, which occasionally vanished behind drifting clouds.

We found a somewhat safe spot near Al-Andalus Tower and sat down briefly. Then we decided to move closer to a metal shack known as “Ma’rouf’s Bricks,” across from a bombed-out building with a canopy. We stayed there for a while, talking quietly about how far we’ve fallen and the state we’re living in. We hadn’t even noticed there was someone sleeping right beside us until he stirred, mumbled a few words, and drifted back into sleep.

With no signal and barely a working phone call, someone on the other end said, “Move to the Al-Tawam intersection.” We knew this place well — or so we thought. When we reached it, we didn’t recognize it anymore. We looked east and were stunned to see lights on the border — something once impossible to see.

A sudden explosion in the eastern area, behind a thick smoke cloud, shook us. We tried to see the people around us, but their faces were covered. They were sleeping on the ground, on the ruins of demolished buildings. People were lying everywhere.

We sat on a small hill, trying to map out the path: would the aid trucks come from the west or the north? Would we even be able to get anything? Should we split or stay together? After some discussion, we made a pact — to stick together. If one of us could get something, he would go directly home. We picked a few backup meeting spots, but in the end, we agreed: head home after securing something.

Around 2 AM, we saw people suddenly moving west toward the sea, hoping the aid would enter from there. We didn’t move — nothing seemed certain yet. But five minutes later, thousands started rushing back from the west shouting, “They’ve arrived! They’ve arrived!” We realized the trucks had come from the north instead.

The once-sleeping masses rose in chaos — sprinting like zombies, possessed, desperate. It felt like a scene from an end-of-times movie. But it wasn’t a movie. We were in it.

We moved quickly — half-running, half-stumbling over the rubble, iron rods, and sharp stones left by the bombardment. You couldn’t even walk safely, let alone run. At the far end of the street, lights appeared. People raced toward them. Then, we heard someone yell, “Tank! A tank is coming!” Panic spread — those who thought it was aid now feared it was death.

We froze in place, not knowing what to believe. Then we saw two trucks from the World Food Programme… and behind them, more trucks! They were real — the aid had arrived. We sprinted faster than ever before. My brother and I got separated in the chaos. My heart whispered a prayer: “God, please protect him. Let him get his share.”

The trucks advanced toward us. People surged like a flood. And there, for a brief moment, I was lucky. I managed to grab a sack of flour, threw it on my shoulder, and ran as far as I could from the moving trucks — they didn’t stop for anyone. It wasn’t courage that drove me. It wasn’t recklessness. It was hunger, fear, humiliation, and a desperate unknown that pushed me forward.

Thousands were still arriving, begging, “Is there anything left for us?” But the trucks were emptied in seconds. People searched for scraps. I held onto the flour like it was my own child, refusing to let anything happen to it, dodging looters and thieves, desperate to get to a safe place.

By the grace of God, I made it back to my tent. We had agreed: if one of us gets something, go home — don’t wait.

Another night ended, another nightmare survived. We keep waking up, hoping this nightmare will end… but we don’t know how.

From Gaza — the city of the flour zombies

@dirhwangdaseul @b0nkcreat @tamamita @chokulit @3000s @apas-95 @pitbolshevik @ot3 @punkitt-is-here @vampiricvenus @turtletoria @paper-mario-wiki @valtsv @omegaversereloaded @i-am-a-fish-stinks @catsgifsarefun @spongebobssquarepants @postanagramgenerator @feluka @nyancrimew @90-ghost @beserkerjewel @neechees @memingursa @certifiedsexed @afro-elf @11thsense @sawasawako @spacebeyonce @skipppppy @beetledrink @fools-and-perverts @dailyquests @evillesbianvillain @wolfertinger666 @taffybuns @ankle-beez @sabertoothwalrus @meshugenist @isuggestforcefem @hotvampireadjacent @marxism-transgenderism @90-ghost @a-shade-of-blue @nublicious @zagreus @el-shabazzgifted @tamamita @rhubarbspring @heritageposts @dirhwangdaseul @neechees @butchniqabi @socalgal @finalgirlabigailhobbs @newporters @pikslasrce @vampiricvenus @danlous @loumandivorce @jackiedaytona @deepspaceboytoy @autisticmudkip @nashvillethotchicken @femmefitz @pitbolshevik @innerchildabortionclinic @omegaversereloaded @hotvampireadjacent @boobieteriat @mens-rights-activia @ot3

[caleignii]

Lemurian!Rafayel Locking You Up

mentions of: smut, dubcon, mentions of human trafficking, kidnapping, stalking, p in v, possible drowning, disenfranchise, possessive behavior, cumming, breeding, abuse (?), masturbation, rough sex, orgasm, degrading, praising kink, sexual overstimulation, minor violence, stockholm syndrome (?), yandere tendencies, blowjob, fingering, humiliation, reader rots in bed all day.

synopsis: while you enjoy the time you spend from always being alone, Rafayel uses it as an advantage to take you with him.

a/n: hey dolls~ so i was busy for a week (farming on LaDs LOL) since my baby Caleb's bday is coming soon! Gosh as his girlfriend I have to work hard 乁⁠[⁠ᓀ⁠˵⁠▾⁠˵⁠ᓂ⁠]⁠ㄏ. Idek why I came up with this fanfic of Rafayel but whateverrr. Have fun readingg!

When the God of the Tides locked his gaze upon you.

You felt everything except from happiness, joy, or even blissfulness.

What are you even supposed to feel, when he was captivated to someone like you—a mere human, too quick to burn out, a creature who hunts their species, someone like you who doesn't even have a decent job, a boring person who'd rather spend her time alone rotting in bed. How?

You have no friends, have severed ties with your family, and doesn't even try mingling with others; how is that even possible? What exactly did he see in you?

You see, Rafayel thought she was a spirit — some pale thing left behind by the living, too quiet to be a proper mortal. He watched her from the trench’s edge, veiled by the dark silk of the ocean, his eyes above the surface only when the wind fell asleep. She was always alone. Always still. There were no prayers on her lips, no grief he could taste like others, no noise. Just her breath, slow and shallow, barely stirring the air around her. She sat like a stone pressed into the shore — unmoving, as though rooted not in flesh, but in sorrow. That’s what caught him first: her silence.

Her silence gave him a thrill, the way her silence prevented her from having anyone—close friends or even a family. That means...

She was an easy target.

If she were to disappear, nobody would even dare look for her. They'll assume she's simply going about her usual unpleasant business, which is to spend her days rotting in bed.

Gods are drawn to imbalance. Rafayel was no different. He had seen centuries of hearts collapse beneath waves, witnessed kingdoms swallowed by storms, worshippers burn incense and spill blood in his name. But they had always wanted something from him. He hated that — the asking, the needing. But she? She didn’t want anything. Not even life. And somehow, that made him want her more than he’d ever wanted anything.

He began to wait for her.

Each night she returned, he lingered just below, hidden beneath the shimmer of moonlight on water. Sometimes he moved with the tide, mimicking the slow breath of the sea to match hers. He studied the curve of her shoulder beneath that threadbare sweater, the way her fingers absentmindedly curled around pebbles she never threw, how she always stared into the water like she knew it was watching her too. Her skin bore no offerings. Her heart held no song. But the ache in her — that perfect, quiet emptiness — was a vessel he longed to fill. Not with kindness. Not with love. But with something older. Something his.

What stirred in him wasn’t compassion. It was deeper. Uglier. Divine.

Obsession.

You didn’t see him coming.

That night, you were lying on the rocks again — not sitting, not watching. Just lying there like something discarded, limbs sprawled, hair wet from earlier rain, eyes fixed blankly on the sky. You didn’t even notice how still the sea had become, how the tide hovered at the shore like a breath held too long. It wasn’t natural. It was him.

Rafayel stood waist-deep in the shallows, watching you. The way your chest rose and fell — slow, listless. You looked like driftwood, like seafoam. Forgotten. Silent. Empty. His.

He had whispered to her long enough.

Now he would take you.

The moment he stepped fully onto the rocks, she turned — not out of curiosity, but instinct. Your eyes met his, and for the first time... You looked afraid. You sat up. Fast. Your body stiffened.

“Who—?” you stammered.

“Shh,” Rafayel whispered, his voice like water sliding over bones. “It’s time, little fish. Time to stop waiting. Time to come home.”

He moved towards you, each step melting the wet stone beneath his feet. You scrambled backward.

“What? Who are you?” you breathed. “I don’t— I don’t want—”

“You do,” he said, softly, lovingly. “You just don’t know it yet.”

You turned to run.

Rafayel surged forward and caught you by the ankle.

“Ouch! Stop!” You screamed — a short, high, real sound — and kicked, nails clawing at the rock. He pulled you down hard, and you hit the stone with a gasp, skin scraping raw.

“Don’t make it difficult,” he said, wrapping his arms around your body from behind. Your body writhed. You tried to scream again, louder this time, but the ocean swallowed it whole. “You’ve been waiting for me since the day you started wasting away on this shore. I heard it. I felt it.”

“Let me go!” thrashing harder, panic lacing your voice. “Please— I don’t want this!”

Fear sent something sharp and sweet through him. You're real now. Not some silent shadow, not a figment of longing — but a living, terrified girl trying to resist him.

And he loved her more than ever.

“No one wants what they need,” he said into her hair. “But you belong to the sea now. You belong to me.”

With a violent pull, he dragged her off by the ankle and into the water.

You kicked. Screamed. Fingers clung to the stone edge, nails splitting. “Stop— please— stop—!”

But he was the God of Tides. And the sea obeyed him.

The water surged upward, wrapping around them both like claws. You didn’t stand a chance. In seconds, they were under.

You fought. Fought like a creature cornered, arms flailing, legs twisting in every direction, but he held you fast. Face contorted — not just with fear, but betrayal. Like you had let yourself feel safe, and he had broken that. And he had. He meant to.

Your lungs strained, body convulsing as you held your last breath. Gaze locked with his — pleading, furious, wild. You shook her head, violently, bubbles rising from her mouth as if you were trying to scream underwater.

“Can't b-breath” you gasped.

But it was too late.

He pressed his lips to you, not in love — in dominion — and forced the sea into her. Salt and cold and magic poured from him into her lungs, suffocating her scream, claiming every inch of her from the inside out.

Your body jerked, back arching.

Then… stillness.

He cradled her as her limbs floated limp in the current, her hair drifting like seaweed, her eyes half-lidded, glazed with something between death and dreaming.

He had you.

At last.

“Mmmhh... hahhh Raf I can't no more please...” You were exhausted, it's a miracle that you're still alive and moving. It was still not enough even though you've reached your limit at this point. Satisfying the God of Tides' needs was a hell of work, mind you he's not stopping until he feels like it.

“One more cutie, maybe if you'll show obedience I'll reward you.” As he nuzzles around your shoulder blades, while he takes you from behind drilling his hard cock to your so wet pussy.

You feel like your back is going to snap into half from arching it too much caused by the intense pleasure. As you're lost in pleasure, Rafayel began to trace the lower spine of yours ending up to your nape, as he pushes you even further to bed, making his girthy cock deeper around your walls so deep you can feel him enter your cervix.

“Here's a thing, if you don't pass out for two more rounds. I'll let you out of your cage for a week, how's that sound hmm?”

Right. You almost forgot that you are held captive in Rafayel's domain for who knows how long now, has it been weeks, months? Maybe half a year now.

Getting locked in a bird cage-like room, but it looks a bit larger and fancy, golden guard rails around you with an accent of blueish corals within. Don't get me wrong, Rafayel provides you everything you'll ever need, well except for your freedom I guess.

“Gonna cumm, Raf pleaseee... I'm gonna cum againnn.” As you drooled over his bed. “Ngghh... Just finish p-please— my body is...” Your eyes rolled back along with the lewd sounds filling the air, feeling a knot building inside you eventually reaching your orgasm.

With your body convulsing, Rafayel still doesn't stop as he continues to please himself.

“I like it when you're helpless, y'know. Stay with me for a bit yeah?”

You don't know anymore, don't know where to feel safe, don't know where to seek help. What can you say? You're in his empire where he is the ruler. That one time you tried to escape and sought help from other Lemurians, you felt powerless as well as being pathetic when they turned you back in.

The smug look on Rafayel's face when the look on your face, looks like he just destroyed and crushed down every hope, power and will left on you— he just wants to see it over, and over again.

With you trying to flee from him from time to time, that's when you ended up being imprisoned in your cage.

And him only letting you out if he wants to fuck you.

Your emotional being drained by him, as you are always used as his fleshlight everyday and it affected your mental health. There's one time that you tried fake moaning because you feel like you're not in the mood to do so, from being fucked few times a day.

He still noticed. And he was not happy

“Fuckin' whore, trying to piss me off huh?” his brows furrowed, clearly upset that you even dared doing that while he thought he was showing his love to you.

He slapped your face hard, so hard that you swore you heard some ringing sounds. He went harder on you, even rougher than before, as he was busy sucking your tits with his free hand kneads the other.

You're crying mess, “'M sorry Raff... Ughhh pleasee— I-I didn't mean to.” Well at least you've learned your lesson trying not to do that again.

“Take it, you don't have a choice either. I am disappointed in you, you've been a bad girl, you deserve to be torn apart like this” feeling a sting to your breast as he bites it.

Occasionally, whenever he's busy, he says that if you give him a blowjob while he works, you will have a surprise after. You think that he will finally let you out, so you obey him.

But the surprise ended up with him fingering you.

“That's a good girl hmm.. Giving yourself up was the right decision.” while he laps your lips, with his hand triggers the bundle of your nerves inside.

Nothing was more than embarrassing when he decided to let you out, with you almost wearing nothing, chains attached unto your neck along with the choker that has a bell on it. As he grabbed the chain, him walking and you crawling to the bed of the sea, his newly fresh creampie oozing out down your hips.

Others watched, but didn't try say a thing. This was Rafayel's symbol that he claimed you— you were his, and none of them could ever change that. The victorious smile he had as we watch you feeling humiliated, being a good princess for him for not being defiant.

Just so you know, he'll grant you an eternal life.

Until you let yourself drowned in the depths of his affection.