#tag: wine drunk shadow

[askthehedgehogs]

oh he is getting progressively more drunk oh geez-

Sonic you’ve got him right?

Heh. Don’t worry, I got him.

He’ll sleep this off with a catnap and won’t even get a hangover.

[fushiguro-megloomy]

strawberry wine

[part 2] pairing: modern au!viktor x artist!reader prompt: “if somebody were to kiss me, i’d want that person to be you” tags: you're jayces childhood bff, no use of y/n, alcohol, heavy kissing, drunk kissing, basically just a bunch of buildup towards a smutty fwb part two???, viktor being a menace wc: 4k notes: AU where nobody is sick or dying yay! also i think i managed to keep this pretty gn!reader but any future parts will be afab/fem art is from pinterest, dividers from chachachannah & webc00re

You never meant for things to get this far. You told yourself it was just a little fun, harmless and fleeting—nothing more. You had a career to focus on, friendships in the balance. But now, here you are, pacing the living room carpet thin, your cuticles raw from nervous chewing, and your thoughts spiraling into places you swore they’d never go.

It feels juvenile, almost laughable, like some smitten teenager waiting by the phone and sneaking kisses in shadowed corners. You were supposed to be above this, weren’t you? I mean, as a grown adult you should know how to keep it casual, uncomplicated. 

But nothing about this is simple anymore. Not the friendship. Not the secrets. And certainly not the way your heart betrays you every time his name crosses your mind.

It definitely wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Moving back to the city hadn’t been on the bingo card for this year, but here you were. Your life had been tucked away in the quiet of rural landscapes, where your art had room to breathe—endless skies, rolling hills, and the kind of solitude that made inspiration flow without any distractions. But your career had expanded, and with that expansion came the relentless pressure of galleries, art buyers, and a future that demanded more from you than that peaceful escape ever could. 

So, the city had called you back. Concrete towers, crowded streets, the city offered more. Shows. Opportunities. Jayce. The only thing about this cold, steel jungle that still felt like home. Jayce—your childhood friend, your constant in a world that had never stopped changing. Thrown together since you were practically in diapers, he was the one piece of your old life that had somehow survived the years and distance between you two. And now, after what felt like an eternity, here he was, sprawled across your tiny couch, looking too comfortable for someone who was just supposed to be a guest. The apartment was a bit small, as city apartments tended to be—packed between towering neighbors—but Jayce’s presence was the only thing about it that felt remotely like home.

"You know," he said, half-lounging. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

You didn’t look up from your canvas, your brush already dipping into the paints like second nature. “Who?”

“Viktor” 

You paused, only long enough for your brush to hover midair before you flicked your gaze in his direction. “Ah, yes. The famous business partner.”

Jayce’s grin didn’t falter, but there was something softer behind it now. “Yeah, something like that. But seriously, he’s a good guy. Brilliant, actually. You two would get along.”

You didn’t reply at first. Instead, you let the brush finish its arc, eyes back on your work, moving with the rhythm of a familiar task. “mhm” you murmured, distracted by the way the strokes of paint were bleeding together. “If he’s anything like you, how bad can it be?”

But Jayce, of course, wasn’t done. His voice took on that soft  tone he reserved for moments when he really wanted to get his point across. “I’m serious, okay? I want you two to meet. You both mean a lot to me, and I think you’ll really hit it off.”

You didn’t look up, but you felt a weight behind his words, pushing against you with silent pressure. “Yeah? I’m sure it’ll happen, then.”

Jayce’s eyes lit up, a flash of triumph in them, like he’d just won some small but important battle. “You’ll see. I’m telling you—when you meet him, you’ll click. I know it.”

You leaned back in your chair, releasing a slow exhale, the kind that said everything without saying anything at all. A nonchalant nod was all you offered, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of saying more. “Fine. Fine. I’ll meet him. But don’t make a whole thing out of it.”

Jayce chuckled, and there was an odd note of relief in the sound, like he’d just been granted some unspoken permission. “No big deal, I swear. But you’ll see. You two are more alike than you think.”

-

When you finally did meet Viktor, Jayce was practically vibrating, his energy as unsubtle as ever. It had been after one of your gallery openings, a night you’d half-dragged yourself through on fumes and politeness. Your heels had barely cleared the threshold of his apartment before the faintest twinge of suspicion began to creep in—something about the way he hovered, grinning like a man with a secret.

“You deserve a good meal after tonight,” Jayce had said, ushering you in with the kind of charm that usually preceded one of his schemes. “Thought you’d want to celebrate somewhere that doesn’t reek of overpriced wine and small talk.”

You rolled your eyes but let yourself be corralled, the promise of food outweighing the odd note in his voice. His large apartment, at least, was familiar territory: warm, cluttered with bits of tech and sentimental junk from years past, the faint scent of whatever candles he refused to admit he hoarded lingering in the air.

And then you heard it—the low murmur of another voice, sharp-edged and vaguely amused, drifting from the kitchen.

Jayce froze, his grin faltering for a split second before it reappeared, brighter than ever. ��Oh, right,” he said, far too casually. “Viktor’s here.”

You blinked, narrowing your eyes at him. “You conveniently forgot to mention that part.”

“Come on,” he pushed, throwing an arm around your shoulders and steering you toward the source of the voice. “It’s no big deal. Just dinner. You’ll like him, I promise.”

And there he was, perched by the kitchen counter with a faintly perplexed look on his face. He was slimmer than you’d expected, pale and sharp-featured, with hair that looked like it hadn’t met a comb in days. His amber eyes flicked up to meet yours, narrowing slightly as if he were trying to solve a puzzle that had just been placed in front of him.

“Ah,” he said, his accent lilting and crisp, “so this is the infamous artist.”

You shot a glare at Jayce, who was already heading for the stove with the kind of forced cheer that made it painfully clear he’d orchestrated the whole thing. “You owe me for this,” you muttered under your breath, stepping further into the kitchen.

Viktor’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk appearing. “And here I thought I was being ambushed. Seems we’re both victims of his enthusiasm.”

Jayce turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, his expression utterly unrepentant. “You’ll thank me later.”

The dinner was simple but undeniably good—Jayce’s doing, of course. The man couldn’t let anyone step into his apartment without insisting they be properly fed, and tonight was no exception. Roast chicken, buttery vegetables with rice, warm bread that filled the space with its yeasty aroma—it was the kind of meal that made you feel at home even when you weren’t.

Conversation flowed easily around the table, mostly carried by Jayce, but Viktor wasn’t exactly quiet, either. He had a way of chiming in at just the right moment, his dry humor landing squarely between Jayce’s more exuberant anecdotes and your own occasional contributions.

“You mean to tell me,” Viktor said at one point, leaning back slightly in his chair, “that Jayce still hasn’t learned to cook rice without burning it? After all these years?”

Jayce, halfway through explaining some disastrous culinary attempt from his youth, turned to glare at him. “Excuse me, this rice was cooked perfectly.”

“It was fine,” you agreed, though the memory of a slightly crunchy bite or two made your lips twitch in amusement.

Viktor’s amber eyes sparkled as he gestured broadly. “Oh, fine! A glowing review, truly. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jayce groaned, but there was no real bite to it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Viktor said, raising his glass in a mock toast, “here I am. Invited to dinner. Again.”

Jayce just rolled his eyes and went back to his story, leaving you to glance at Viktor with a small smile. He caught it, of course, and gave a little shrug as if to say, what can you do? For all his sharp humor, he was easy to talk to, his wit balanced by an underlying warmth that kept him from coming off as too cutting.

Which was why you were only mildly surprised when the spoon incident happened.

Dinner was winding down, Jayce had disappeared into the kitchen to fuss over coffee, leaving you and Viktor to handle the cleanup.

He moved with a surprising ease, balancing a stack of plates in one hand, his cane steady in the other. It was a casual sort of competence, as though he’d long since adapted to whatever limitations life had handed him. You hadn’t thought much of it, impressed by how naturally he maneuvered, until the soft clatter of a spoon hitting the floor broke the quiet rhythm of tidying.

“Ah,” Viktor said, glancing down at the rogue utensil with a faint frown as he set down the plate stack. “Of course.”

You paused mid-step, glancing between him and the spoon. “Need a hand?”

He tilted his head, his expression a little too innocent. “If it’s not too much trouble. You know, the leg and all...”

“Oh, for—” Jayce’s voice floated from the kitchen, half-annoyed but not quite committed to intervening.

You sighed, setting down the napkins you’d been folding. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got it.”

But just as you crouched down, Viktor shifted. A casual tap of his cane sent the spoon skittering across the floor, its metallic clink faintly echoing as it landed farther away.

You froze, staring at the spoon in disbelief, then turned your gaze to him slowly. “You’re kidding.”

Viktor’s lips twitched, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering across his face. “What?”

“You just—”

“What?” he repeated, wider-eyed this time, his free hand gesturing vaguely toward his cane. “I’m handicapped.”

Jayce reappeared in the doorway, a coffee pot in hand and a look of pure exasperation on his face. “Viktor.”

“What?” Viktor said again, his voice laced with mock indignation. “I am!”

Jayce muttered something unintelligible as he poured coffee, his focus shifting between you and Viktor like he couldn’t decide which one of you deserved his scolding more. Meanwhile, you straightened, crossing your arms as a grin tugged at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” you said, stepping across the room to retrieve the spoon—again.

“Very generous,” Viktor agreed, his tone breezy. “Honestly, it’s quite inspiring. Jayce, you should take notes.”

Jayce groaned, setting the coffee pot down with a little too much force. “You’re both ridiculous.”

But you were already laughing, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. As you returned the spoon to the table with a pointed look, Viktor gave you a small, almost triumphant smile. And maybe, you could see what Jayce meant when he’d said you’d get along.

-

The first time you realized you might feel more than just friendship for Viktor was when you noticed the way your sketches had started to change.

It had been weeks—maybe even a couple of months—since that dinner with Jayce, when you had awkwardly danced around each other, getting to know one another. The initial weirdness had faded into easy companionship, and you found yourself spending more time with Viktor than you expected. You hadn’t quite noticed it happening, but somewhere along the line, you’d become an unintentional trio. Jayce had been bursting with barely-contained glee at how easily the two of you seemed to get along, and it made your chest warm, knowing how much that mattered to him. It felt... right, this newfound ease between the three of you, a quiet sort of harmony that made you smile more than you expected.

But as the days passed, something shifted without you realizing it. You were at home one evening, flipping through your sketchbook, the soft pastel dust smudging the edges of the pages as your fingers moved. The forms you’d drawn were abstract models, capturing shapes and shadows in a fluid, organic way. It wasn’t anything new—nothing that stood out. But then, you stopped.

There, in the shadows of the page, you saw it.

The subtle arch of a jawline. The curve of lips that you knew too well. Even the moles, small and almost unremarkable, but there they were—on the page, right beneath your fingertips. You blinked and flipped to another sketch, only to see it again. A line here, a shadow there. It wasn’t him exactly, but it was.

To the untrained eye, maybe it wouldn’t have been obvious. Hell, maybe even to you on any other day, it might’ve gone unnoticed. But now, in the quiet of your studio, the shapes were almost unmistakable. The soft angle of his nose, the way his eyes looked when he was thinking too hard, the way his smile would pull up on one side when he was being particularly smug.

You frowned, setting the sketchbook down, your hands hovering above it as if it had betrayed you. Was this some kind of coincidence? Or was it something more, something you had been avoiding realizing? You’d never consciously set out to draw him, but there he was, tucked into the lines and curves of your art like an uninvited guest you hadn’t known you were entertaining.

It was ridiculous, you told yourself. Of course it was just... coincidence. But even as you tried to convince yourself, there was a small, unspoken truth sitting in your chest, heavy and undeniable, and the first time you realized Viktor might see you as more than just a friend was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it hit you all the same.

He mentioned a piece you’d shown him, his tone thoughtful. “You’ve been doing something different lately. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s a change. It’s...” His gaze flickered to yours, then dropped back to the floor, but the brief flash in his eyes sent an unexpected flutter through your chest. “...more. More than what you usually show.”

The words themselves were harmless, even complimentary, but it was the way they hung between you that made something inside you stir—something you couldn’t name, not yet. You didn’t think much of it at first, but the way his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary made your breath catch. The way the corners of his mouth lifted into a half-smile, not teasing, but... fond.

It was a simple thing. A fleeting moment. And yet, it lingered in your mind as you retreated to your apartment, your thoughts whirling with the possibility that Viktor—your friend, the one you had so casually laughed and bantered with for months—might be seeing you differently, too.

The shift was subtle, but it was there. And it unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

-

Everything came to a boiling point one night at your apartment. You’d ventured into town earlier that day, mostly for a change of scenery, and happened upon a small farmers market. You couldn’t resist grabbing a few bottles of strawberry wine, its sweetness and fruity undertones practically calling your name. Jayce had scoffed at it when you got back, claiming it was too sugary to have any real punch. “There’s no way I’ll even get drunk off this,” he’d muttered with a dismissive wave.

An hour later, he was sprawled out on your pullout, snoring softly with a stupid grin plastered across his face. You and Viktor stood nearby, both trying—and failing—to suppress your amusement at how quickly Jayce had succumbed to the wine’s effects. For all his size, Jayce was a surprising lightweight.

“I swear, every time,” you said, laughing quietly.

Viktor, leaning against the doorway, gave a soft chuckle. “Some people just don’t know when to stop.”

You rolled your eyes, glancing over at the slumbering man. “Guess we let him sleep it off.”

“Let him have his beauty rest,” Viktor teased, his voice light as he nodded toward the bottles. “We can always finish it ourselves.”

So you did, winding up on the roof with the cold night air around you. The worn-out couch up there had seen better days, but it was still enough to settle into and talk, a simple quiet comfort settling over you both. The soft glow of string lights and the silvered moonlight made the world feel like it was wrapped in a quiet hush despite the never ending sounds of the city. You both settled into the couch, the cushions sinking in the middle, which pushed you just a little closer to Viktor than you'd anticipated.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence was easy, like you had spent years in it. You noticed how close you were sitting now—your thighs pressed together, and when you passed the bottle of wine, your fingers brushed his. A small spark of awareness ran through you each time, and you tried to ignore it, feeling your face warm despite the cool air.

The wine was sweet, fruity, and a little stronger than you expected, especially when you found yourself reaching for another sip and another, the soft buzz in your head gradually growing stronger.

By the time the bottle was halfway gone, you were both leaning more heavily into the couch, and you couldn’t help but giggle at how little wine was apparently needed to bring Jayce to the brink of passing out. You felt... lighter. Almost giddy, as if the laughter that came so easily was spilling out along with the alcohol. And Viktor, sitting just beside you, didn’t seem to be immune to it either. His face was flushed in the soft light, his lips curling into an easy smile.

“You know,” you said, leaning back and feeling the warmth of the couch soak into your bones, “I don’t do this enough. I’m so... wrapped up in work and life and... I just forget to relax.”

Viktor tilted his head, eyes slightly narrowed as he watched you. “Relaxing can be overrated,” he said with a smirk, the words a little slower than they’d been earlier. He took another drink from the bottle, his thumb brushing against the glass in an unconscious rhythm. When he passed it to you, your fingers brushed once again, and you lingered just a bit longer than necessary.

“Well, maybe for you,” you chuckled. “But, for me, it’s like... it's like a luxury, I guess. You know? I don’t remember the last time I just sat with someone and... and didn’t feel like I had to be somewhere or do something.”

“You eh–... don’t have to worry about that here,” Viktor said quietly, his voice light, with that usual teasing edge. But something was different in his tone, something that made the words feel heavier than they should have been. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but the air seemed to shift, the quiet between you stretching into something almost… charged.

You took another sip, your hand a little unsteady now. The whole situation felt absurd—awkward, even, yet strangely intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Your gaze drifted toward his lips without thinking. It was brief, but enough to send a flutter through your stomach, and suddenly, your mind couldn’t focus on anything but that soft, confident curve of his mouth. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was something else entirely, but you couldn’t seem to think straight anymore.

Viktor shifted closer again, and the couch beneath you groaned as it sank with the weight of it. The space between you closed, and you could feel the warmth of his body pressing against yours shoulder to shoulder, like the alcohol spreading through you, making your pulse quicken.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His presence was a solid thing beside you. His eyes were locked on yours, studying, but still so calm. You could feel the punch of his gaze on you, like it was seeping through your skin, sending heat rushing to your cheeks. It wasn’t just the wine now—you could feel it all over, heat blooming beneath your skin, making you fidget slightly.

“Sometimes… you get caught up in what you’re doing, and you forget about everything else,” you mumbled, trying to ignore the way your nerves were tightening your chest. “I’ve been focused on my career and—god, I’ve probably been a little… I don’t know, closed off.” You laughed lightly, but it was nervous, unsure of where this was even coming from. But suddenly all your senses were barraged by him, his smell, his eyes.

“I just—I haven’t thought about it. Relationships, I mean. Not in a long time. I don’t know if I’m even ready for anything like that. Not now, not with everything I’m doing.” You trailed off, self-conscious, suddenly feeling like you were saying too much, rambling without stopping. The words seemed to just slip out of you, tumbling over each other.

You took another shaky breath, your heart thudding in your chest as you tried to make yourself stop, but you couldn’t. It was like you were helpless.

“And, I mean, if anybody were to kiss me…” You faltered, realizing too late just how much you were giving away. Your pulse quickened, your thoughts jumbled as your mouth just kept moving. “I would want that person to be you.”

The air between you thickened, the silence stretching long and heavy. Your heart pounded in your chest, a nervous rhythm that drowned out everything else. You waited for him to say something, to break the tension that was suffocating you. But there was nothing. Just the weight of his gaze on you, steady and searching.

When you finally dared to glance at him Viktor's expression was unreadable. One thick eyebrow was cocked slightly, and his mouth hung open just enough to suggest he was about to say something, but didn't. He was so close but somehow the distance between you felt infinite.

You opened your mouth to say something, to fill the silence, but before you could speak, his hand moved, his fingers brushing against your jaw in the gentlest touch. The sudden warmth of his palm made your breath catch, and before you could even fully process it, he was pulling you in. His lips met yours, soft at first, as though testing the waters, as if the moment itself was delicate. But that softness didn't last, between the buzz of alcohol, the closeness, the heat between you—it all blurred together. The kiss deepened, quickly turning urgent, hungry. His hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the bottle slipped from your grasp, its clang against the concrete floor echoing in the quiet of the rooftop

You didn't care. You were too lost in the feeling of him against you, his lips moving against yours with a desperate kind of need. The kiss grew messier– clumsy, teeth scraping, tongues tangling. You could taste the faint sweetness of wine on him, the mix of flavors making everything feel dizzying overwhelming.

You found yourself gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, as if trying to merge your bodies together, desperate for the contact, for whatever it was that had been building between you two for so long. 

-

The next day was a harsh slap of hangover reality. Your head pounded, your mouth was dry, and every time you glanced at Viktor across the room, your stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with the booze.

Jayce, of course, was none the wiser. He chatted away over breakfast like nothing had changed, blissfully unaware of the shift that had unraveled everything you thought you’d had under control. And you? You were wholly committed to keeping it that way. It was a one-time thing, you told yourself. Just a fleeting, drunken thing—something you could both quietly bury and move on from.

At least, that was the plan.

Until it happened again. And then again.

Now it feels like a thread being pulled tighter and tighter, until you’re not sure if you’re going to unravel completely or snap under the weight.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. But here you are. And you don’t know how to stop.

©lilsworks 2024

[aventurineswife]

Can I geeeeeeet reader getting absolutely wasted and crying over a pic of them with their s/o (Kaeya, Aventurine, Kaveh, or Ratio), who then walk in on them like that. When asked what’s wrong, reader just sobs “I love him so much! He’s so beautiful!” (Cuz they don’t even recognize who they’re talking to cuz they’re so drunk)

Drunk on Love

Tags: Kaeya x Reader, Kaveh x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Fluff, Humor, Drunken Confessions, Slight Angst, Established Relationship, Emotional Vulnerability, Soft Comfort, Light Teasing, Gentle Affection.

Warnings: Alcohol Use, Crying, Mild Language, Overwhelming Emotions, Characters Taking Care of a Drunk Reader, Excessive Sappiness.

The tavern air is thick with the scent of wine and the warmth of too many bodies pressed close together. Your head spins, the rim of your glass tilting precariously in your unsteady grip. You've had… how many drinks now? You lost count somewhere after the third.

But it doesn’t matter. Not when you’re clutching your most prized possession—a slightly crumpled photograph of you and Kaeya, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, his usual smirk softened into something more genuine. The sight of him, even in a mere image, has your throat tightening with emotion.

“I love him so much,” you murmur to no one in particular, fingers stroking the picture like it’s some sacred relic.

A shadow falls over you, and a familiar voice—silken, teasing—cuts through the fog of your inebriation.

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

You blink sluggishly, barely registering the man now standing before you. He’s tall, elegant, with striking blue hair and an eye that twinkles with mischief even in the dim light. If you were even a fraction more sober, you’d recognize him in an instant.

But right now, all you see is a stranger.

He crouches down to meet your gaze, concern flickering behind his usual amusement. “Care to tell me why you’re drowning in wine and tears?”

You hiccup, pressing the photo against your chest as if to protect it. “I just—hic—I love him so much!” Your voice wavers, and fresh tears spill down your cheeks. “He’s so beautiful. He’s—he’s perfect.”

Kaeya blinks, and then, much to his own surprise, laughter bubbles from his lips. “Oh? He must be quite the catch, then.”

“He is!” you insist, completely missing the smirk tugging at his lips. “His stupid hair—so soft—his voice—ugh, it makes my heart melt!” You dramatically thump your fist against your chest for emphasis, eyes shining with a lovesick haze. “And his smile—his smile! I’d die for it.”

Kaeya exhales, shaking his head in amusement. He’s flattered—more than flattered—but he also can’t let this moment pass without a little mischief. “You must really adore this man.”

“I do!” You clutch the picture tighter, brows furrowing in determination. “If I saw him right now, I’d—I’d—”

He leans in, voice dropping into a velvety whisper. “You’d what?”

You squint at him, your drunken brain struggling to process the sudden proximity. And then, like a grand revelation, it finally clicks.

Your gasp is so dramatic it could belong in a stage play. “KA—”

Before you can finish, Kaeya’s hand is already over your mouth, his laughter barely contained. “Shhh, love. No need to wake the entire city.”

Your eyes widen, then water all over again. “K-Kaeya!” you wail against his palm. “You’re here!”

He sighs, shaking his head before pulling you into his arms. “Yes, yes, I’m here. Now let’s get you home before you profess your love to the entire Knights of Favonius.”

You sniffle into his shoulder, still clutching the picture. “You’re so beautiful.”

Kaeya chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’ll never get tired of hearing that.”

The world around you is a blur—spinning, tilting, swaying with every sluggish blink of your eyes. The dimly lit lounge, the luxurious drapes, the faint hum of music—it all fades into the background as you stare at the picture in your hands.

Aventurine’s signature smirk stares back at you from the glossy surface, his arm draped lazily around your shoulder. The way he looked at you in that moment, the amusement laced with something softer, something real—it has you sniffling pathetically into your drink.

“I love him,” you slur, swiping at your eyes with the sleeve of your ridiculously expensive coat—one that he bought for you, because “no partner of mine should be seen in anything less than luxury.” “He’s so beautiful.”

A low chuckle, rich and teasing, cuts through your daze. “Well, darling, I can’t say I’ve ever heard a more glowing review.”

You lift your head, vision swimming. A figure leans against the bar beside you, decked out in the finest attire—dark green, gold accents, gambling motifs woven into every detail. A hat tilted just enough to cast a shadow over his sharp, enchanting eyes.

Your breath catches. “You look like him.”

Aventurine’s smirk widens. “Oh? And who, pray tell, am I impersonating?”

You clutch the photo dramatically, thrusting it towards him. “This man,” you declare, nearly toppling off your seat. “He’s perfect.”

Aventurine’s laughter is genuine now, the kind that shakes his shoulders. “Now that’s a compliment worth savoring.”

You grab his wrist, peering up at him with wide, watery eyes. “I’d bet my soul on him.”

He pauses at that, his playful demeanor faltering just slightly. Then, with a smirk softer than before, he leans in, brushing a thumb over your damp cheek. “Careful, sweetheart. I might just take you up on that wager.”

Sumeru’s night air is warm, but the alcohol burning in your veins is warmer. You’re slumped over a table in the tavern, a picture of you and Kaveh clutched in your trembling fingers. His golden hair, his crimson eyes—his smile.

Tears slip down your cheeks as you trace the outline of his face. “I love him so much,” you whisper, barely coherent. “He’s so… so beautiful.”

A chair scrapes beside you, but you’re too lost in your misery to notice. A familiar voice, gentle yet exasperated, reaches you.

“[Name]…?”

You sniff, barely glancing up. “Go away.”

Kaveh sighs, but there’s fondness in his voice. “Now why would I do that when my beloved is busy drunkenly serenading my photograph?”

Your lips wobble. “Kaveh?”

“Yes, my dear?”

You blink at him, then hold up the picture. “You look just like him.”

Kaveh stares at you. Then, with a soft chuckle, he cups your face, brushing away your tears. “That’s because it’s me, love.”

Your heart swells, and with a dramatic sob, you throw yourself into his arms. “You’re so beautiful.”

Kaveh lets out a breathless laugh, catching you effortlessly. “I know, love. I know.”

Ratio wasn’t expecting to find you in this state—slumped over your desk, eyes glossy with unshed tears, a picture gripped in your trembling hands.

“Love?”

You lift your head, eyes unfocused. “Ratio…?”

He folds his arms, raising an amused brow. “Care to explain why you’re weeping over my image like a tragic protagonist?”

Your lower lip trembles. “You’re just… so beautiful.”

Ratio stares at you, then lets out an exasperated sigh. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

And yet, as he wipes your tears away, a small smile tugs at his lips.

[leighsartworks216]

Kiss Me

Sylus x fem!Reader

I need to go back to bed ough

Warnings: fluff, light angst, drunkenness, drinking, crying, cuddling, self-esteem issues, self-worth issues

Word Count: 975

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Sylus holds a wine glass in one hand, holding it to the side as you climb onto his lap. Legs on either side of his, body arched to align with his, face ducked down to stay close to his; you truly are a sight to behold.

"Kiss me," you demand. Your hands trace his jaw, feeling his skin, the warmth underneath it.

He grins softly. It's not quite a smirk, though it holds that same smug amusement. His hand holds your hip respectfully. Fingers tug down the hem of your dress to keep you decent.

"I don't think that's a good idea, sweetie."

You frown. "Why not?"

Oh, you sweet thing. Your eyes keep flickering about his face, lingering on his lips, his eyes, his lips again. He takes his sweet time sipping from his glass. A slight tint of red stains his lips, licked away by his tongue. He can see the way your eyes glaze over as you stare.

"You're drunk," he reminds you. "You almost polished off my nice, expensive wine. Did you forget?"

The wine wasn't important. It was expensive, aged to perfection, sitting on the rack waiting for the best occasion - and you had him refill your glass before he even finished his.

He doesn't envy the headache you'll have come morning.

Your thumbs run along the flat of his cheeks, stroking back to his sideburns, before you slip your hands around his neck and into his hair. You scratch so sweetly at his scalp. He should stop it, stop you from so effortlessly turning him into putty under your attention. But he doesn't.

You brush your nose against his. Your breath carries the subtle notes of the wine with it. "'M not that drunk. And you're pretty... Kiss me, please."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Something dark flashes across his eyes. A fleeting shadow. If it were not his lap you were in right now, how quickly would anyone else give in to you, with you so demanding and beautiful? "Because you're drunk," he insists again, softly.

You huff in annoyance. "Is that the only reason you're gonna give me? Told you already, I'm not that drunk."

"It's the fact you've been drinking at all, sweetie." You roll your eyes, turning your head away at the rejection. He grabs your chin between his thumb and index finger, drawing your attention back to him. "I want you to be completely sober for our first kiss. Is that such a bad thing?"

You blink at him dumbly for a moment. "First kiss?"

"Mhm."

A beat, and then those gorgeous lips are curling into a wicked little grin. "'First' implies that there'd be more."

He releases your chin to brush loose strands of hair from your face. "And I want you to be sober enough to remember every single one."

"But if we kissed now..." You lean into his touch like a cat, rubbing your cheek against his hand before he can pull it away. "... we could have another first kiss later."

He chuckles. "You really want this, don't you, kitten?"

You whine with a nod. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you draw yourself into him, resting your head on his shoulder and nuzzling into the fabric of his shirt.

"Sometimes it feels hard to love you," you admit in a whisper. "You have everything. And I have nothing. Nothing to give you to- to make it worthwhile. Cuz that's what you deserve."

His heart aches. He sets his glass aside to hug you in return. Your words become slurred as you continue speaking, slow and messy. But genuine. He wishes he had the will to silence you now, to hear it all when you're of sound mind. But he's weak to this truth and the desire to hear it at your most vulnerable.

"But I want to... I want to love you so bad. And I do. So much... But I have nothing. The only thing I can give you is..." You wave a hand limply at your body. "This mess."

You sigh, hiding your face in his warm neck. He leans his head on yours. You sniffle quietly.

"Would kissing me make you happy?"

He squeezes his arms tighter around you. Readjusts so you're sitting more comfortably across his lap instead of straddling him. He even grabs a blanket with his Evol to wrap it around your shoulders, tucking the corners in so you're protected from the cold in your little black dress that drives him wild.

"Being near you makes me happy," he answers. "Seeing you, hearing you, talking with you - everything about you makes me happy. I don't need your body to be happy. You don't need to throw yourself at me to love me."

You sniffle again. Hot droplets of water fall to his skin. Your voice shakes. "But would kissing me make you happy?"

"When you're sober," he begins slowly, carefully, "and I kiss you for the first time, I'll be the happiest man in the universe."

"Really?"

He gently pulls you from his neck. You've got tears already staining your cheeks. Makeup running, lip trembling. You're so beautiful.

He leans in. Your breath hitches in your throat, though he can't tell if it's from excitement or to fight back another sob. His lips brush your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut, squeezing out tears that gather on his lips. They linger there for several seconds, before he finally pulls away. His hand comes up to hold your other cheek, wiping away the evidence of your overwhelming emotions.

"If you can remember that, you can cash it in for the real deal," he says, teasing and light, but with the weight of genuine care and concern. "Alright?"

You nod. "Alright."

He draws you back into him. "Now get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

---

Tag List:

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Doing Time 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

Note: hump day, girlies.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You feel as bubbly as the champagne. There’s a looseness in your muscles that has you a bit clumsy as you poke at the last floret of broccoli on your plate. You giggle as it rolls away from your fork. You can’t remember the last time you lost control. You’re not sure you ever have. 

You tense as a warmth settles over your lower back, reminding you of the shadow you can’t shake. You set your fork down and reach for your glass once more. Steve catches your wrist and you look at him with round eyes. 

“Sweetheart, you like the wine?” He purrs as he rubs the top of your ass. 

With your other hand, you touch his, stilling it. 

“Ah, what’s that about?” He keeps his fingers swirling. 

“You... you...” you swallow a hiccup and blink. His chiseled features are fuzzy in your drunken vision. “You are touchy.” 

“I’m admiring you, sweetheart. I can’t help it. You’re just so gorgeous.” He growls. 

“No,” you try to push his hand off. 

He guides the glass back to the table and makes you let go. He drags his hand off your ass and holds yours in both of his. He toys with your fingers. 

“You don’t think you are?” He wonders. 

“I’m... I got extra,” you murmur and curl your shoulders. 

“Extra? More to love, baby,” he brings your knuckles to your lips and kisses each one. “Every single part of you is perfect.” 

“Stoooooop,” you giggle. “No...” 

You try to snatch your hand away but he’s too strong. Your heart knots and you whimper. You look him in the eye, head bobbling. You swallow tightly as a ripple flows through your guts. 

“What’s wrong? Why’re you looking at me like that?” He drawls. 

“You...” you look at your hand and wiggle your fingers. 

“I’m what?” He prompts. 

Your mouth turns downward, “so scary.” You whisper. 

His brows draw together and he tilts his head, “scary? Sweetheart, what’ve I done to you that’s scary?” 

You look away, “Steve...” 

“Sweetheart,” he leans in and kisses the back of your hand. “I’m not doing this to you, I'm doing it for you.” You wince and flutter your fingers. He gently lays your hand in your lap and wraps his arm around you, drawing even closer. “Look at it this way, sweetheart,” he pets your chin as you stare at the table. “I kept your brother safe, right? But you, you kept me safe. You got me through. Gave me something to be good for. To get out for.” 

Your lip trembles and your bat your lashes. You’re drunk. That's the only reason his touch is making you tingle. The only reason he feels so warm. 

“I... I... I drank too much,” you pout. 

“Baby, you enjoyed yourself. You treated yourself like you deserve,” he brushes your throat and hums. “I know you. You don’t think I do but I saw it all. You take care of everyone else, but who’s taking care of you?” 

“No, no, no,” you babble. “No, Steve,” you latch onto his hand and look at him. He's so close. “No, it’s not... no.” 

You can’t make sense of anything. Your words bounce like your thoughts. None of it is in order. It's all a mess. 

“I see it. You never been treated right, have you?” he slips free of your grasp and plays with the collar of your dress. “I hate to think of another man touching you, but the thought of him leaving you so jaded, now that’s a greater tragedy.” 

He follows the buttons along the front of the dress, walking down with his fingertips. You shiver and look around. He’s shameless in the midst of the dining room. You’re too weak to stop him. 

You squeak, “Steve.” 

“Tell me, baby,” he caresses your stomach. “Tell me there’s been another like me.” 

You shake your head. You cover your mouth before the words can bubble up with the carbonation. He chuckles and pecks your cheek. He pulls your hand down. 

“Go on,” he urges. 

You shake your head again, furiously as your cheeks burn. “I’m so drunk.” 

“No, baby, you’re free. I’m free. It’s all as it should be.” 

“I can’t...” you giggle again. He chuckles. 

“That’s the best sound I’ve ever heard, sweetheart,” he cooes. “I won’t judge you. What’re you thinking?” 

“I can’t tell you. You—you—you're---” 

“Get this, sweetheart, you tell me everything. Always,” he grits. “So tell me.” 

You put your head down and chew your lip. “I... I never... not with a guy.” 

“You’re... a virgin.” 

“No, I have... I’ve done that,” you murmur. “But they never...” 

He clucks, “they never gave you what you deserve. Don’t I know it. Baby,” he cups your chin and lifts your head, forcing you to look at him, “I’m going to give you so many orgasms, you’ll forget about all those other boys.” 

“Steve,” you whine. 

“You don’t gotta be afraid,” he says. “I’m gonna give you everything you never had and more.” 

You stare into his eyes. You could melt beneath him. He’s terrifying and dangerous and he’s lied to you over and over but you believe him. In that moment, you see the truth in his gaze. You feel the hunger radiating off of him. You’ve never felt that before. Never wanted, only what’s there. 

He kisses you on the lips. He groans and shifts in the seat. He taps your thigh as he pulls away. 

“Let’s get that check,” he reaches under his jacket. “Any longer and I won’t even make it to the car.” 

⛓️‍💥

The world around you is hazy and bright, but not obscured. Despite the glaze in your vision, it all feels so much realer. You have goosebumps as the walls move past you as you’re still. You squirm against Steve as he carries you, so easily you feel as if you’re floating on a cloud. 

He gets to your door and your keys jingle in his grasp, his hand moves against your leg. He angles you inside and sighs as he kicks the door shut. He turns with you. 

“Lock the door, sweetheart. We don’t need anyone disturbing us,” he growls. 

You reach out and flip the lock. He doesn’t linger as he quickly struts further into your apartment. This place is as familiar as your own face and yet it’s all so strange in that moment. You reach out to brush the wall as he takes you into the bedroom. 

Heat washes over you as he nears the bed. You squeak, “Steve!” 

“Sweetheart,” he lays you down gently on the mattress. He slips his arms out from beneath you as you lay drunkenly with your head on the pillow. You giggle as he gazes down at you and peels off his jacket. “You are...” he inhales and his jaw ticks. 

He folds his jacket and lays it over the end of the dress. You watch how his shoulders strain the white shirt. He’s so big. You always notice that but he’s humongous! He’s so powerful. All powerful. Whatever he wants, is his. You have no choice. 

He loosens his tie as he faces you. He slips it over his head and starts on his shirt, his fingers trailing down the front as he frees the buttons. He reveals his torso as he untucks the tails from his shirt and pushes the fabric down his arms. You stare at him dumbly. 

His chest is broad and muscles, his arms just as corded and thick, and his stomach is lined, the vee of his pelvis visible above his waistband. He must have had lots of time in prison. Lots. 

Your lips fall open as you roll onto your side and bend your legs, hugging yourself as you shrink down. He tuts as he removes his shoes one at a time. He squints at you.  

“You’re hiding,” he accuses, “why?” 

You shrug, “you... I don’t look like you...” 

“Baby, you look better,” he unbuckles his belt and flinches. He chuckles and looks down. You follow his eyes. He’s bulging in his pants. He grabs himself through the fabric. “Can’t you tell?” 

You giggle and hide your face. He laughs and his buckle clinks. The fabric rustles then his footfalls approach. You can’t look. 

He strokes your shoulder then grips it firmly. He pushes you onto your back. You unfold and he sidles you over as he sits on the edge. You stare at him face, all too aware of his body. 

He traces along your forehead and your cheek, drawing across your lips. He bends to kiss you, his tongue cloying as it dips into your mouth. He pulls away with a rumble. He runs his knuckles along your throat and pinches your top button. 

He undoes the first, then the second, and the next and the next. You quiver as he unsheaths your body. He moves down the bed as he does. He helps you untangle your arms. The dress splays beneath you as your breath hitch in your chest. 

He turns and gets up on his knees. You gasp as his dick stand shamelessly. You quickly flick your eyes to the ceiling. He’s very big. At least, compared to the few guys you’ve seen. More often, you keep the lights off. 

He wiggles your shoes off your feet and drops them onto the floor. He drags his touch back up your leg and stops at the trim of your panties. He tickles along your thigh and you giggle at the bubbly sensation. 

“Mm, sweetheart, now I made you a promise, didn’t I?” His fingers brush across your pants and he pushes them down along your slit. “So you sit back and relax.” 

“Steve,” you squawk and reach for him. 

He tisks and bats your hand away. 

“You let me take care of you, huh?” 

He rubs you through your panties. Heat gathers from the friction as he finds your clit, rolling it until the fabric slickens. You wriggle and reach to latch onto the pillow. Your legs fall open and your back arches. He plucks so easily at your nerves. It helps that you’re too drunk to resist. 

“That’s it, baby, relax,” he coaxes as he rubs you. “How’s that?” 

“St--eve,” you croak. 

“Mm, that good?” 

You want to screech at him to stop. You feel that willowy wind blowing inside. That little storm brewing that often only rises with the buzz of your hidden toy. The one you use when you’re bored and lonely. 

You huff and puff as you point your toes and close your eyes. He bends over you as he keeps his fingers moving and he presses his mouth to yours. He groans into you as he invades your mouth and strums at your clit. 

You hips buck violently as the first wave crashes. You grasp onto the back of his neck and his thick bicep as you whine through the climax. It’s so much more intense than anything you’ve felt before. 

He purrs and parts from your mouth, hovering just above as he guides you through your orgasm, slowly as the aftermath ripples from your core. When he stills his fingers, you shiver and let him go. 

“That’s the first warmup,” he smirks and drags his hand back to your thigh. “I still haven’t had dessert.” 

He raises himself up on his knees and scoops his hand under your ass. He flips you onto your stomach and you gasp. He tugs at your panties impatiently and strips them down your legs. You tremble and whine as you kick your feet weakly. He frees them and your body seizes. 

He moves behind you and lifts our ass, putting you on your knees. You try to push your chest up and taps your ass. “No, stay,” he demands. You obey and your thighs quivers. 

He purrs as the mattress shifts. You feel his hot breath on your cheeks and you pucker. What is he doing? 

“This ass,” he spreads his hands across your cheeks. “It’s fucking perfect. I dreamt of you, baby, but I could never imagine anything so beautiful.” 

He pulls your cheeks apart and you twitch as you sense him getting closer. He swipes his tongue across your ring and you squeal. You reach back blindly and swat at him. He nips your cheek and snarls. 

“Hands to yourself, baby,” he warns. “I’m the one taking care of you.” 

You recoil and drop your hand back to the bed. You splay your fingers as he licks your hole again. You squeak and squirm. He repeats the motion, lapping up and down, around and around, stirring in you a new tide. Something deep and fiery. 

“Oh, oh, oh,” the noises tumble out as he kneads your cheeks. “Oh, my, what--- oh, oh.” 

He growls and it flows through as his tongue keeps going. He’s like a man starved as he dives in, drinking you up, devouring you. No man’s ever done that to you. No man ever did more but left you hollow on the mattress. 

Steve has shown you already that he is not just any man. 

[tinyinkblots]

Sleepless Nights

Warnings/Tags: MDNI!!, oral (m receiving), p-in-v, overstimulated Hotch, fluff, happy Hotch, f!OC (but no description)

Aaron Hotchner didn’t sleep anymore. Not really.

It wasn’t just the nightmares – though they still lurked, always ready to bloom in the shadowed hours – it was the pressure, the gnawing need to stay ahead of the next failure. Every open case was a loaded chamber. Every victim he didn’t save was a ghost that followed him home. So he brought the work with him, filled the bedroom with paperwork, case files, crime scene photos, post-its and his neatly scribbled notes in red ink.

And Amelia didn’t mind. She’d said so, more than once. She said it just like that, without sighing or softening her voice to mask frustration.

“I’d rather have you here, working, than not at all. And the light doesn’t bother me. Really. I like the sound of you thinking.”

So he stayed. Sat up against the headboard in a soft black t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, glasses low on his nose, manila folder propped on one knee. His back would ache by 3 a.m., but at least he was home. At least her warm thigh would brush his every now and then, an unspoken reminder. 

You don’t have to leave to do good.

Still, the body keeps score.

The glass slipped from his hand the next morning, crashing into pieces across the tile floor like a warning shot. He stared down at it like it had betrayed him, utterly still, water pooling between his bare feet.

Amelia appeared from around the corner a breath later, quiet in a t-shirt that used to be his and no pants at all. “Aaron?”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t have it in him. Instead, he rubbed a hand down his face, then crouched to pick up the largest shard before she caught his wrist gently.

“I’ve got it. You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

She didn’t argue beyond that, just pulled his hand under the faucet and gently wiped the blood away with a clean towel. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, but he felt something inside him give – maybe not break, but definitely shift.

Amelia was thinking. She always was.

–

Amelia heard the front door close with a soft click, the kind that only happened when Aaron was trying not to wake her – even though she was still awake. She never slept until he came home.

He’d missed dinner again. The pasta had dried out, the wine bottle stood half-drunk on the counter. She didn’t say anything as he padded quietly into the bedroom, briefcase in hand, shirt wrinkled at the elbows, top button undone, dark brows drawn low in thought.

"You're late," she said softly, not accusing. Just stating fact.

“I know,” Aaron murmured. “I’m sorry. I needed to finish a report before morning.”

Amelia gave a slow nod and didn’t move. She just sat against the headboard, legs folded under the covers, watching him as he started to pull off his tie.

“You don’t have to say sorry,” she said after a beat. “But you do have to let me help.”

He gave her a look – soft, tired, unreadable. “You already help.”

But what he didn’t say – what lived in the quiet between his breaths – was that without her, he would’ve crashed long ago. She held him together not with force, but with quiet grace – the kind of love that stitched him closed with silk thread and whispered promises. Where grief had left fissures, she poured warmth. Where the world had hollowed him, she filled the space with gentleness.

Amelia was gravity when he drifted, the calm in the storm he could never quite escape. When it was his week with Jack, and the guilt pressed like a weight behind his ribs – the missed calls, the late nights, the haunted silences – she filled in the cracks. She packed lunches without being asked, soothed bad dreams with hands far gentler than his own, and smiled like she didn’t notice the shadows clinging to him.

She made breathing feel possible again.

And maybe that was the problem. He needed her more than he had ever dared to need anything – more than sleep, more than safety, more than air – and if he ever said that out loud, if he ever let it slip how completely she’d become his lifeline, he wasn’t sure she’d stay.

So he stayed silent. Let her care for him like he was something worth saving.

And prayed she never stopped.

“You don’t sleep. You bring your cases home and still stay up ‘til 3 a.m. You're running on fumes, Aaron. You dropped a glass this morning. Your hands were shaking.”

His mouth opened, then closed again.

She sounded almost like him – clipped, precise, too perceptive for comfort. For a second, he wondered if he was rubbing off on her. If all those nights lying beside him while he sifted through patterns and details had made her sharper. Or maybe she'd always been this observant, and he was only just now realizing how closely she watched him when he thought no one was looking.

“I’m not asking you to stop,” she continued gently, sliding off the bed and padding towards him. “I’m just asking you to come to bed. And let me help you rest. Properly.”

His gaze followed her movements, cautious, like he hadn’t quite figured out her angle yet.

She took his briefcase from his hand and set it quietly on the desk, then stepped close and started unbuttoning his shirt. Her fingers were slow and deliberate, not sexual – not at first – just patient. Focused. She brushed her knuckles down his chest as each button came undone.

Aaron stood still, hands at his sides, watching her closely now.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, running her palms over his shoulders, down his arms. “Always holding everything in.”

“I have to.”

“I know,” she said, her voice soft, steady. Her fingers slipped beneath the fabric at his chest, gliding over skin made warm by exhaustion. She eased the shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall away like a sigh, revealing the lean strength beneath – all hard lines and quiet tension, drawn tight from too many sleepless nights. She touched him like she already knew every part of him that ached.

“But just for tonight,” she whispered, “you don’t have to.”

He looked like he was about to argue, but stopped when she stepped close and kissed just under his collarbone – soft and slow. Her hands roamed downward, fingertips brushing the thin line of hair down his stomach to his belt.

That was when realization dawned in his eyes.

“Amelia–” His voice was low, hoarse, warning.

She met his gaze, unbuckling his belt. “Let me take care of you.”

He inhaled through his nose, jaw tense, but didn’t stop her.

His slacks fell to the floor with a soft rustle. She knelt and eased his boxers down slowly, reverently, her cheek grazing the inside of his thigh as she rose. His cock was already half-hard, heavy against his stomach, twitching slightly under her gaze.

She touched him with the same patience she’d used undressing him – not urgent, not teasing. Just sure. A slow stroke, her palm warm and her fingers curved just right, tightening at the tip.

Aaron let out a breath, steadying himself against the edge of the dresser with one hand.

“You don’t have to do this.” His voice was hoarse, barely more than breath, like he was trying to give her an out even as his hand trembled against her shoulder.

She looked up at him, still on her knees, her hands resting lightly on his hips. Her eyes met his – wide, steady, full of something he didn’t dare name. And she smiled, small and devastating.

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I want to.”

There it was. Not the words themselves, but the shape of them. The weight. The way she looked at him – like he was something precious in her hands, not in spite of the wear, but because of it. As if every quiet crack in him only made her hold on tighter.

That undid him more than her hands ever could.

He groaned softly when she leaned forward and took him into her mouth. Warm, wet, slow – she worked him with her lips and tongue, using her hands to keep him from thrusting too deep. His fingers curled into her hair, light at first, then tightening when she flattened her tongue along the underside of his cock and sucked.

“God, Amelia…”

She pulled back slowly, saliva glistening on her lips, and gave him one more stroke before standing again. “Not yet.”

Aaron’s eyes were dark now – not just with arousal but something else. Relief. A flick of surrender.

She kissed him as she backed him toward the bed, lips parted, hungry but careful, coaxing him down until he sat on the edge of the mattress. His hands found her hips instinctively.

But when he tried to take control – to pull her onto his lap – she stopped him.

“No,” she whispered. “I call the shots tonight.”

Her words made his cock twitch.

Amelia sank to her knees again, lips ghosting over his abdomen, tongue flicking over his skin. She took him into her mouth again, deeper this time, letting her throat tighten around him. Aaron hissed, his head falling back, a whisper of her name escaping his lips like a sinful prayer.

She pulled back right as his hips tensed, as his breath quickened – and stopped.

“Amelia–” His voice broke with frustration.

“Not yet,” she repeated, licking the tip of his cock slowly.

He growled, a low sound from his chest, his hands clutching the sheets behind him.

She repeated it. Twice more. Took him to the edge, watched him grip the bedding like he was in a hostage situation. Her name became a litany of gasped syllables. His thighs trembled. His stomach clenched.

Only when he begged, “I can’t– fuck, please,” did she climb into his lap and slide down onto him in one smooth motion. He gasped like he’d come up for air.

Aaron never cursed. Not in frustration. Not in anger. Not even when his world unraveled at the seams. Words like that didn’t belong in his mouth –  not the way he was raised, not the man he forced himself to become.

But she made him human.

Not the figure in the suit, not the profiler carved from bone-deep restraint – just a man, undone beneath her touch. Her name on his lips, the slick heat of her wrapped around him, and the word tore free like a confession.

And God, she reveled in it – in the way he arched beneath her, the way his hands clutched her hips like he didn’t know where she ended and he began.

She didn’t move at first. Just sat there, full and pulsing around him, her hands braced on his chest.

“You feel that?” she whispered.

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut, fingers digging into the fleshy curve of her hips – not rough, but deep, like he was grounding himself in her softness

“That’s what letting go feels like.”

Then she moved.

Slow and deep, dragging herself up and down on his cock, every motion unhurried but devastating. His breath was ragged, his muscles trembling under her. She leaned forward, letting her breasts brush his chest, kissing him as she rode him harder.

“Fuck– Amelia– ” He was unraveling beneath her, every edge of composure stripped away.

She clenched around him deliberately, rhythm building, pace quickening. Her moans tangled with his – soft gasps and stuttering breaths, drawn from someplace deep and wordless.

And when he came, it was with a groan so raw she felt it vibrate through her spine. He spilled inside her in hard, pulsing waves, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her tight to him like he couldn’t stand not being connected.

She kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

And she didn’t stop.

Even when he tried to shift away, to breathe through the overstimulation, she kissed him again and rocked her hips, slow and deep.

“You can give me another.”

He shook his head weakly. “Amelia…”

She clenched around him again. He groaned.

His cock thickened again inside her, filling her, slowly swelling back to full. She kissed him until he surrendered.

The second time was messier. Desperate. She fucked him in earnest now – riding him hard, grinding into the base of his cock, gasping against his mouth. His hands clutched at her ass, trying to slow her, but she wouldn’t stop.

Not until he came undone – not until he collapsed.

Aaron came with a ragged moan, hips bucking as he spilled into her again. His body jerked once, then stilled. Amelia held him as he sagged backward, fully spent, chest heaving. His eyes fluttered closed as she stroked his face, tracing the line of his jaw, brushing damp hair back from his forehead.

"Sleep," she whispered.

She leaned in and kissed his forehead, slow and lingering, like she could press her care straight into his skin. 

He was already gone – pulled under like a tide, slipping into the kind of dreamless quiet he hadn’t known in years. Just warmth, and stillness, and her.

“I wish I could make it easier,” she whispered. "I wish I could carry the weight for you – just for a while.

Her fingers brushed through his slightly damp hair, smoothing it back as if taming the chaos would give him peace. She covered him with a blanket, pulling it up over his bare shoulders as he was laying right on top of the duvet, careful not to disturb the steady rhythm of his breath, and let her hand rest lightly on his chest – right over the heart he guarded so fiercely.

It was the smallest kind of devotion. The kind no one else would ever see. But it was hers.

And for tonight, that was enough.

–

The morning light filtered in soft and gold through the bedroom curtains, warm against his bare skin. For a moment, Aaron didn’t move. He lay still beneath the blanket, his breath steady, the quiet wrapping around him like something sacred.

No dreams. No blood. No gunshots. Just quiet.

And her.

Amelia was curled against his side, still asleep, one leg draped lazily over his, her hand resting over his heart like it belonged there. Like she’d never considered placing it anywhere else.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. Not really. Just the feel of her mouth on his skin, the rhythm of her body against his, and the slow, inevitable unraveling that had taken him under like a wave he didn’t have the strength to fight. He’d drowned in her, and somehow come up breathing.

His hand drifted to her back, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against the soft cotton of her t-shirt – his t-shirt. The one she always stole when she didn’t want to wear anything else.

He should’ve gotten up. Should’ve been reviewing case files, checking the team’s travel schedules. But he didn’t move. He just watched her sleep, lips parted, hair fanned over his chest like a soft veil, her breath warm against his ribs.

She’d tucked him in last night. Not just with sheets, but with kindness. With hands that didn’t ask him to explain. With a kiss to his forehead that he hadn’t been too far gone to feel.

And the terrifying thing was – he’d needed it.

More than rest, more than sex, more than sleep. He’d needed to be cared for. Not out of obligation or sympathy, not in the way the team looked at him when the days ran too long and his eyes were hollow. No well-meaning glances or silent questions he didn’t know how to answer.

Amelia hadn’t asked. She hadn’t made him speak it into existence. She’d simply seen it – in the weight of his shoulders, in the hours he spent staring at his case files like they might bite. And then she acted, quiet and sure, like loving him was instinct and not choice. Like tending to him wasn’t a task, but the only thing that made sense.

He didn’t know how to ask for that. Never had.

He was built from restraint and responsibility, shaped by a life where vulnerability meant weakness and weakness could get someone killed. Even when it didn’t, it left marks – like Haley’s voice still echoing through years of silence, accusing him of always choosing the job. Maybe she’d been right. Maybe, back then, he didn’t know how to handle it differently.

But Amelia hadn’t run. She hadn’t flinched from the haunted parts of him or tried to scrub the blood from his hands. She stayed. She touched him gently, kissed his scars like they were sacred, and never once asked him to be softer – only showed him how.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because it was working.

Not because he didn’t want it – God, he did – but because vulnerability had never felt safe. Not in the Bureau. Not in marriage. Not even with himself. He’d spent so long locking everything behind duty and discipline that the idea of someone seeing all of him – the fatigue, the fear, the longing – felt like a wound waiting to split open. If he let himself fall into her fully, if he let her keep seeing the man beneath the armor, what if she changed her mind? What if she stayed long enough to know him, and then decided it was too much?

He could survive exhaustion. He wasn’t sure he could survive hope.

Beside him, she stirred – a slow, sleepy shift beneath the blankets, followed by a quiet hum and the brush of her lips against his skin. She didn’t speak. Just pressed a kiss to his sternum. Then another. And another. Tiny, wandering things, like she was tracing the rhythm of his heart with her mouth.

She burrowed into his side like she was trying to fold herself into him. Aaron didn’t hesitate. He drew her closer, wrapping one arm around her back and pressing a kiss to the top of her head – a silent stay, or maybe thank you, or maybe just mine, an unspoken proclamation.

Amelia sighed, content and warm, her fingertips drifting across his ribs in slow, absent circles. He let out a quiet laugh, lips brushing the crown of her head. “You smell like me.”

She smiled against his chest – slow, satisfied – and pressed a kiss just below his collarbone. “Good.”

They stayed like that for a while, suspended in the hush that only morning seemed to allow – no case files, no alarms, no phone calls. Just the cadence of her breath against his skin and the slow bloom of something gentle unfolding in his chest.

He hadn’t thought this kind of peace was possible for him. But she had crawled into the wreckage, unafraid of soot or scars, and made a home there anyway.

And for once, he didn’t want to move.

They stayed like that, tangled in warmth, until the light from the window grew stronger – until the world outside started waking up, and neither of them felt like letting it in.

Aaron shifted slightly, one hand brushing along her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine beneath the fabric of his t-shirt she still wore. She’d barely spoken, only kissed his skin now and then like she couldn’t quite stop.

But something in his chest had started to ache. Not from pain – not exactly. From the weight of everything unsaid.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured. Amelia stilled, then leaned back just enough to look up at him, hair messy, eyes still soft from sleep. He hesitated. “I could retire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

“I could stay home,” he said, more clearly this time. “With you. With Jack. Be there for school drop-offs and dinner. Mornings. Nights. All of it.”

She blinked at him, surprised. Not because the offer wasn’t tempting – it was. But because he’d said it. Out loud.

“Aaron…”

“I mean it,” he added, eyes on her now. “I’ve done this job long enough. I’ve lost enough to it.”

Her fingers curled lightly into his side, grounding him. “You’ve also saved people. So many.”

He swallowed hard, the words catching just behind his tongue. “Maybe I’ve done enough.”

There was a pause – not angry, not cold, just long enough for doubt to slip in. Long enough for Aaron to wonder if he’d said too much. If this was the moment everything shifted, and not in the way he’d hoped.

Then she spoke, quiet but steady. “I didn’t fall in love with a man who sits still.”

He stilled.

“I didn’t fall in love with SSA Hotchner, either,” she continued. “But I know that man is a part of you. You don’t just step out of that skin. And I would never ask you to.”

His breath caught, but she went on, her voice sure now.

“I love all of you. The man who leaves too early and forgets to text. The man who comes home with shadows under his eyes. The man who works through dinner but shows up at 2 a.m. and holds me like he never wants to let go.” She smiled then – a soft, knowing thing. “I’ll wait. Every time. I don’t need you to change for me, Aaron. I just need you to come home.”

He looked at her like she’d just handed him something sacred. And maybe she had.

He pressed his forehead to hers, closed his eyes, and breathed her in like she was the first thing he’d truly let himself need in years.

[foxlorests]

𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒

CHAPTER ONE: PRELUDE, IN THE RAIN

♫⋆｡♪ PAIR: Harry Castillo x Younger!Original Female Character

♫⋆｡♪ WC: 4k

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER TAGS: Age Difference, Slow Burn, Yearning, Fluff, Smut (in later chapters), Soulmates, romcom propaganda

♫⋆｡♪ CHAPTER SUMMARY: Before the mess of Lucy, before the heartbreak and the embarrassment, Harry met a young cellist on the outskirts of Cold Spring, New York.

Ao3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | Youtube Music Playlist | Poster/Masterlist

The story starts before the storm. The storm of Lucy and John and Harry, and all the messy things in between. Funny enough, another kind of storm, a literal storm, was brewing outside the gala. 

Harry was unaware of it.

He didn’t pay attention to the weather. He rarely did. Weather was for people who planned picnics or took walks without purpose. Weather was for people with time. With softness. With someone waiting for them at home to say, “You’ll need a coat.” Harry didn’t have that. He had a driver who knew his calendar, made by a private assistant who knew his whole being better than he did, and a closet of coats that still somehow made him feel cold.

But tonight, for some reason he couldn’t name, he left the gala on foot.

It was stupid, maybe. The car had been idling by the curb. The doorman had opened the door like muscle memory. But Harry kept walking. Past the pillars, down the steps, away from the light and chatter and clink of glasses. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked as if he had somewhere to be. He didn’t.

Maybe the reason for poor judgement was the wine. He felt drunk, which made him lonelier, which could be cured by walking. Or at least, that’s what the article he read this morning said to him. The New York Times had a way of convincing him he needs more out of life. Maybe he should consider that matchmaker nonsense too. His brother certainly did.

By the time he reached the end of the block, it started raining.

Not politely. Not a drizzle. The kind of rain that meant it. So hard it pricked his skin. The kind that soaked you fast, punished your shoulders, ran into your eyes, asked if you still wanted to be here. He kept walking.

It was almost laughable—him, in a suit worth more than some people’s rent, wandering the city like he’d lost something. Maybe he had. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, his life had become one long executive summary. PowerPoints. Projections. Value. Worth. He liked it, but he needed more in his life. Such is the way of a rich person. They always want more.

It was after a minute of walking that he regretted his decision. It was very cold, and he hated wet clothes.

He stopped under a dim streetlamp, pulling his collar up, trying to keep the worst of it off his neck. His mind spun with things he’d rather not think about—board meetings, fractured deals, the ache of feeling empty despite everything.

Then, out of nowhere, she ran past him—a flash of movement against the gray wash of rain. Her coat flared behind her, damp hair plastered to her face, and strapped across her back was a cello case, seeming impossibly delicate for this storm.

She didn’t hesitate. No words, no pause. Just a quick glance, sharp and bright, before she reached for his wrist and tugged.

He barely had time to blink before she was pulling him forward—splashing through puddles, weaving through empty sidewalks. His suit soaked through, his expensive shoes squelching, but he followed without question. There was something in the way she moved, urgent but light, like she belonged to the rain, not the other way around.

They ran until the city noise faded behind them and they slipped into the shadow of a weathered bookstore, its awning stretched wide like an old friend offering refuge.

They stood side by side, catching their breath in the sudden stillness. Thunder rolled distantly, rain pounding the streets beyond their shelter.

She turned to him then, and for the first time, her eyes met his fully—unflinching, alive.

Her lashes held tiny droplets. Her smile was soft.

“Expensive things shouldn’t be wet,” she said quietly. “Like this.” She reached back to the cello case, fingers tracing the leather strap. “Or your suit.”

He laughed, surprised by the sound—short and dry but real. She watched him, clearly pleased by the reaction.

“You looked like you were having a moment out there,” she said, voice calm but curious. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He shook his head, still smiling a little. “You interrupted it anyway.”

“True,” she said, completely unbothered. “But now you’re marginally less soaked. You’re welcome.”

He glanced down at himself, dark fabric clinging to him like second skin. “Did you really drag me in here just because of the suit?”

“Partially.”

“It’s already ruined.”

“I figured. But I thought I’d spare it the final blow. There’s something tragic about wet suits.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Tragic?”

She nodded, peeling damp curls off her cheek. “Custom tailored suits aren’t supposed to be caught in storms. Like cellos. Or tailored men.”

He huffed out a small laugh. “Right.”

“Plus,” she added, with a shrug, “I have a soft spot for sad-looking old men standing in the rain like they’re in a French film.”

He looked at her, then out the window, where the storm still blurred the city in streaks of silver. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

A beat passed.

“We’re the same, you know,” she said, voice softer now. “Alone in the rain. It's a bit pathetic, really.”

“Depressing’s generous,” Harry said, leaning back. “I’m more of a walking tax bracket.”

That made her laugh. “Let me guess. Finance?”

“Private equity,” he admitted, bracing for the usual judgment.

But she just nodded like it confirmed something. “Nice.”

He smiled—just slightly.

“You from New York City, kid?” Harry asked, glancing between them. “I just figured since you have the cello. Artists don’t really thrive here, not like the city anyway—”

“Yeah, I’m from the city. Well, I moved there a while ago, at least,” Catherine said. “Just past Morningside Park.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. He hesitated, then added, “Tribeca.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin playing at her mouth. “That fits you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

“So,” she asked, folding her arms loosely, “you live there with your family?”

“Uh, no. Never married. No kids.” He said it all dryly, like a checklist he was tired of hearing about himself.

She didn’t respond with pity or interest. Just nodded, like that too made sense. Then she gave a thoughtful little hum. “That explains the suit. And the watch. And the slightly tragic look in your eyes.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle.”

She smiled at him, something softer now. “You’re not. But that’s fine. A lot more in life than just that.”

“What are you doing in Cold Spring?”

She was about to speak again when a noise behind them made both their heads turn—a soft creak of hinges and the clatter of something metallic hitting wood.

An old man stood at the doorway just behind them, peering out from the shadows of the dimly lit store. He looked like he belonged to the shelves themselves—stooped, with a long cardigan that nearly brushed his knees and spectacles that magnified kind eyes.

He glanced between the two of them, then to the puddle they were unintentionally forming on his porch. His face twitched—something between surprise and amusement—and he said, in a thick, lilting accent Harry couldn’t quite place, “Well, you two planning to swim out here all night, or shall I put on the kettle?”

She blinked, then grinned. “Sorry, we didn’t mean to—”

“Ah, nonsense,” the man waved her off, already turning back into the store with the slow assurance of someone who’d been around a very long time. “Come on in before you catch a fever. Storm like this isn’t one you wait out on porches.”

Harry and the girl exchanged a look. The kind that asked, do we? The kind that didn’t really need an answer.

They stepped inside. It smelled of paper and dust and something herbal—maybe dried mint, maybe age itself. The lights were dim, yellowish and uneven, casting the place in the kind of glow that made you whisper without meaning to.

Books filled every crevice—stacked on tables, leaning against chairs, crammed into crooked shelves. There was a coat rack by the door with only one item on it: a faded scarf that might’ve once been red.

“Take your time,” the man called from somewhere in the back. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t touch the Emersons, they’re organized by resentment.”

The girl gave Harry a side glance. “Organized by what?”

Harry smiled and shrugged.

She wandered a few steps ahead of Harry, her eyes skimming the shelves as if trying to read every spine at once. She turned toward the voice calling from deeper inside the shop.

“Your accent,” she called lightly, voice echoing off books and beams, “Liverpool?”

There was a pause—then the sound of something clattering, like a teacup being set down too hard in surprise.

“Scouse, aye,” came the reply, tinged with a kind of pleased defensiveness. “Sharp ear on you.”

“I had a roommate from Wavertree,” she said, smiling toward the dark hallway at the back. “She used to curse me out with words I didn’t know existed.”

A bark of laughter echoed back.

“You poor thing,” he said. “She teach you how to survive, at least?”

“She taught me how to argue over washing up. That’s close enough.”

Harry watched as something seemed to shift in the air. The old man emerged again, this time with a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a plate of buttered toast in one hand. His guard was down now, cracked open like a familiar book.

“Well,” he said, offering the plate with a nod, “if you had to survive Scousers, might as well come warm up with one. I’ve got soup on and too much of it.”

She took the toast with a soft laugh. “Thank you. We really didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t,” he waved a hand again. “I saw you two on the porch. Looked like one of those old records, y’know? Lonely man in a suit, beautiful girl in a worse mood than the weather. But no, you looked pretty happy to me,” He chuckled, then looked at Harry. “You looked a bit... ruined.”

Harry didn’t answer. He wasn’t quite ready to yet.

“Come on then,” the man said, already turning. “Place is falling apart, but the kettle still works. You can sit by the heater.”

They followed him into the narrow back kitchen—old, mismatched tile underfoot, stacks of books even here lining the corners, as if the shelves had spilled and nobody bothered to stop them. There was a small table set for one. The man reached for two more mismatched bowls from a cupboard above the sink.

“Name’s Jim,” he said.

“Catherine,” she answered easily.

The girl nudged his side.

“Harry,” he finally said.

The soup was hot and surprisingly good—potato, leek, maybe something else neither of them could place. They sat around the small table, bowls in hand, steam rising between them like soft fog.

Catherine did most of the talking. Jim had taken a clear liking to her, leaning in over his mug of tea, asking questions like an old friend, utterly delighted by her presence. Harry watched it unfold quietly, spoon paused in midair as he listened.

“So what’s a girl like you doing out in this god awful weather with a big violin?” Jim asked, eyes twinkling with suspicion and curiosity.

“Cello,” Catherine corrected with a grin. “Came from a gathering. Friends, sort of. Mostly strangers. I was trying something new.” She stirred her soup absentmindedly, then glanced toward the cello resting safely by the wall. “I’ve been thinking about putting together a small studio. Back in the city. A place for artists, musicians— Anyway, they seemed interested. And I came with my cello to prove that I am one of them.”

Jim sat back, visibly impressed. “A bold girl with a plan. Now that’s rare.” He looked around the room, as if picturing the ghosts of old songs and stories.

Jim pointed at Harry with his spoon, finally acknowledging him. “And your fella didn’t bring a car? Och. What kind of knight are you, eh? An American, in America, without a car.”

Harry wanted to say he not only had a car, but a driver too. He didn’t though. He sensed that he had to explain why he was in the rain in the first place if he brought that up.

Catherine almost choked on her soup, laughing. “Oh—he’s not my fella. We just met, actually.”

Jim blinked, then nodded slowly, like something had clicked into place. “Ah, now that makes more sense. You’re just too young and lovely. Couldn’t imagine you settled yet. Not with that old man.”

Harry gave him a look. He didn’t like this Jim person very much, to be honest.

Catherine tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, what? And what’s wrong with an older man?”

Jim raised a brow, bemused.

She gestured across the table. “Harry is a handsome man. Not as handsome as you, obviously, Jim, but close enough.”

That made Harry laugh—actually laugh, sudden and genuine. He shook his head and looked down, hiding the grin tugging at his mouth. For the first time that night, the chill of the storm seemed far away.

Time passed unnoticed, like warmth slowly spreading through chilled limbs. The bowls were scraped clean, mugs refilled, and the room thick with the soft hum of conversation and scotch. Harry, who was so often surrounded by people that talked too much and said too little—gallery girls, men with names you had to Google, women who called his car “cute” like it was a pet—now found himself flanked by two strangers whose personalities filled the room to its edges and back. Jim and Catherine were wildly, effortlessly themselves, and somehow that made everyone else from the past decade seem like background extras. Forgettable silhouettes. These two? They were vivid. Full.

The storm still howled outside like a drunk looking for a fight, rattling the glass with every gust. Catherine stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her damp dress—some delicate black thing that clung to her like melted ink—and pulled her soaked hair into a makeshift knot with a pencil she found on the windowsill. She looked like someone from a photograph you’d find in an old bookshop: timeless, a little ruined, but unforgettable.

“I’ll pay for the soup,” she said, gently tightening her cello’s bow. “With a song.”

Jim laughed, already pouring another round of scotch. “That’s the best currency I’ve heard all week.”

Harry didn’t say much. He never did, not in places like this. He felt oddly like a child again—watching magic unfold from the edges, unsure whether to be part of it or protect it from himself. Because this wasn’t his world. Not really. He was used to neat conversations and quiet transactions. Art as decor. Music as background. People as curated choices. But this? This felt real in the way storms were real—loud, inconvenient, alive.

“I’m not gonna play my original yet. This one is by Piero Piccioni, and it’s called ‘amore mio aiutami’. I adjusted the arrangements because it’s–”

“Hurry up, lass. We don’t care what you’re playing as long as it’s pretty.”

“Don’t mind him, kid. Go on,” said Harry. 

Catherine giggled and continued.

She settled into Jim’s old wooden chair, the one that wobbled with every shift, and rested her cello between her knees. Her fingers, pale and long, curled around the strings like she was holding something sacred. Then she played.

The room stilled—two men, decades apart, leaning in as if listening to a language only she spoke. And maybe she was. Something old and aching and gentle filled the air. Even Harry, whose thoughts never stopped moving, forgot them entirely.

Catherine played the cello like it was an extension of herself—too free, too effortless, too perfect for some local artist just starting out. Every note breathed as if it had been living inside her all along, waiting to be spoken. Her fingers moved with a quiet grace, delicate but sure, each shift and stroke precise yet fluid, like she was telling a story only her cello and she understood. It was intimate, personal, and completely unstudied—an organic dance between soul and instrument.

Harry, still tipsy from the gala and the long night before, suddenly sobered as the music pulled him in. He stopped chasing thoughts and distractions, letting the melody sink into every corner of him. He savored it—this memory, this moment—as if engraving it into his mind forever. Because Catherine wasn’t some polished act or curated performance. She was real. So real it hurt, a sharp ache behind his teeth he couldn’t ignore.

She looked like she belonged in the music: her green eyes—bright but shadowed—held a secret light, flickering gently beneath the soft pull of her small, almost shy smile. A dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, like a tiny signature she forgot to hide. Freckles scattered lightly across the pale skin of her neck, subtle as dust motes in a shaft of afternoon light. Her dark blonde hair, more honeyed, caught the flicker of the low lamp, falling loose in soft waves that framed her face. And then there were her hands—dainty fingers curved around the cello’s neck with such tender familiarity, it was as if the instrument had grown from her very bones.

In that room, with the storm raging outside, Catherine’s music wrapped around them like a spell—intoxicating, unyielding, and utterly hers.

When the music stopped, the silence that followed felt like a velvet curtain falling. None of them spoke right away. Even Jim sat unusually still, the usual sparkle in his eye subdued, mellowed into something softer. Catherine smiled, a little shy now that the song was over, brushing a stray hair behind her ear as if the applause she received—two stunned men and a creaking floorboard—were too much.

After that, time didn’t quite return to normal. It lingered in that strange, slowed haze—the kind that settles after a heavy rain or a dream you don’t want to wake from. They stayed at the little table longer than expected, the cheap scotch softening the edges of their words. Catherine curled into the couch, barefoot now, long legs tucked under her, her hair loose and still damp at the ends. Jim had returned from the back with a wool blanket for her shoulders and a second bottle of something stronger. They talked like old friends who’d only just met.

She asked Harry about the gala—what it was for, who it was honoring, if he actually cared.

“Not really,” Harry had said, swirling the scotch in his glass. “The music wasn’t even good. Not a fraction close to what you played.”

“Well that’s because artists who perform at galas usually have a strict set list. They can’t play anything too distracting, or else it would cover the important conversations being held, isn’t that right? I’m sure you didn’t pay attention.”

He shrugged, trying not to smile. “True.”

“I know it’s true.”

And that’s how it went. Catherine poked at things like she was pulling threads—his likes, his family, what it meant to be surrounded by people but still felt unbearably alone. The conversation became too smooth and she seemed so interested that Harry couldn't help but open up.

He told her about his annual trip to Zurich, a funny story about his friend who wanted to retire early and begged him to do it too. He didn’t mind that it made him feel old, because she looked like she enjoyed his stories. 

She talked about the kind of studio she wanted to build, “somewhere warm, and loud,” where artists and musicians could just be without having to sell pieces of themselves to survive.

Jim, in the middle of it all, refilled glasses and told stories from the war, about a woman he once loved in Marseille, and how the rain back then didn’t feel so different. “Except now,” he muttered, “I’m slower, and my knees hate me.”

“We still love you,” Catherine told him, squeezing his hand.

Harry just watched, half-drunk and completely sober at once, folded into this odd scene. It was quiet and human and so unlike the nights he usually had.

Eventually, the storm outside softened into a steady drizzle. A faint hush blanketed the city beyond the fogged windows, and Harry knew he had to leave. He had a flight tomorrow. Back to the hotel, back to his driver, back to the cold marble world he was supposed to live in.

When he stood to go, he hesitated, then pulled a card from his pocket. It was damp around the edges, smudged, but he carefully pressed it into Catherine’s hand, making sure his number was still there. He didn’t know why he gave it to her. She was younger—probably still a student—but something tugged quietly at his heart. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or a hope that this unexpected night wasn’t the last.

Catherine looked at it for a moment. Her expression unreadable, but not unkind. There was a tug at the corner of her lips.

“You’re probably a brilliant prodigy slumming it for fun. But, uh—there’s my number. In case you… ever need it. Maybe you need an investor for your studio?”

Catherine giggled. “I got that covered, thanks. But I’ll take this card. Because you’re my friend.”

He started toward the door. The air had a bite to it now, the scent of wet asphalt rising.

Then, as if the scene was written by fate themselves, her voice said the words he’d long to hear since he started this damned journey into the storm in the first place:

“You’ll need a coat.”

He turned, struck. His heart was beating. His breath hitched. He could remember praying for that just moments ago. Of not having anyone to say those exact words to him. That was funny, he thought.

She was holding her coat out for him to take, a faded olive green trench with worn buttons and sleeves too long for her arms.

“Here, have mine,” she said.

Harry stared at it, at her. He wanted to laugh it off, say it wasn’t necessary, say the drizzle didn’t matter. His suit was already ruined anyway. But instead, he took it. Quietly. Gently. Because something in him wanted to.

He slipped it on. It smelled like rain and cello rosin and something sweet he couldn’t name.

Catherine gave him a look, one part smile, one part mystery.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

He stood in the doorway for a second longer than he should’ve. The rain fell around him like applause.

That was years ago.

He had waited for her call—maybe not right away, but someday, when she was older, when she had built the studio she talked about. Maybe he’d hear from her with an invitation to a classical concert, a small private gathering, something fitting for the girl with green eyes and a cello. But it never came. And over time, that night became a sweet memory, wrapped in nostalgia, folded carefully into the back pocket of his life. He had thought, more than once, about looking for her. But he didn’t. Some memories were too perfect to touch.

So he lived his life as if nothing had changed. As if that stormy night had only been shelter and soup. As if the freckled girl with the honeyed hair hadn’t quietly shaken something loose in him. He returned to his world—of business suits and curated smiles, of gallery openings and glass-walled meetings. He played his part. Well. Efficiently. But something had shifted, even if he didn’t let it show. There was now a quiet ache where something new had once flickered to life.

Then came Lucy.

The matchmaker. The woman with ambition in her eyes and a plan for everything, including love. He had liked her. Truly. She was intelligent and quick, and he admired how much she wanted to be right—for herself, for him. She had a list of things she wanted in a partner, and Harry ticked enough boxes to make her try. And maybe he had wanted to be the man on someone’s list, just once.

He had told Lucy about the storm once. Briefly. Skimming the surface. He mentioned the bookstore and the cello and the odd magic of it all, calling it “the realest moment” he’d had in years. But he didn’t say how it made him feel. That part he kept for himself. He knew Lucy wouldn't care anyway. Not for an odd story about strange people and drenched thousand-dollar suits. He couldn’t explain that it wasn’t even about romance—that it was something quieter, more sacred. Something that had made him feel seen.

And then came that storm. The one he didn’t like.

The one Lucy brought with her, and the one he brought himself. The whirlwind of trying to make two puzzle pieces fit when the edges had already worn down. The one where it made sense in the head, but not so much the heart. It had started fine, even pleasant—until it’s not. Lucy’s ex-boyfriend showed up. Looming, present in every silent pause between them. Harry had felt it the moment he met him—that sense of unfinished business. And from there, the storm only grew. The love triangle turned into a typhoon of messy truths and repressed wants. He could laugh at it now, in the way people laugh at their worst decisions, but at the time, it was excruciating. Embarrassing. He had stayed too long, said too little, and ignored too much.

It was a well-needed lesson, in life and in love.

But it was, thankfully, a finished story.

STORY WILL BE UPDATED EVERY WEEK

[dailynnt]

ONE NIGHT AS THE PRICE OF A REQUEST

⋆˙⟡ Summary: You hate your neighbor Jungkook, but you have to ask him to pretend to be your boyfriend at a party to get rid of your annoying boss. He agrees, but you don't even imagine what you'll have to pay him with. Everything goes according to plan until Jungkook reveals his true price during the dance: one night with him or your life in the neighborhood will be hell.

⋆˙⟡ Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

⋆˙⟡ Age restrictions: 18+

⋆˙⟡ Index of chapters: ≣

⋆˙⟡ Number of chapter: 13/?

⋆˙⟡ Tags: enemies-to-neighbors-to-lover, fake relationship, hate to desire, dom!Jungkook, heated blackmail, one bed trope (later more than one bed), undeniable chemistry, forced deal, mutual obsession, dangerous game, unexpected feelings, passion on edge, impossible to resist, tension and desire, unprotected sex, sexual tension, slow burning

⋆˙⟡ From author: Hello my dear Army, I'm here with a new chapter. Can you believe I was able to write this so quickly? More and more drama is unfolding and new details are being revealed in this chapter. What do you think, my dear? Is it interesting? This chapter contains light BDSM (well, I don’t know if the blindfold, can call it like that), but I'll warn you. In short, let me know how you like this chapter 🥺 Thank so so much to everyone who reads, likes, comments, you can't even imagine how valuable it is to me 🥹🥰

⋆˙⟡ Dedication: to my biggest love @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @kooko009, @smokinghotstargirl, @myjungkookthighs, @mskookie, @minimoninini, @medstudentlifestyle for loving me for nothing. I love you girls twice as much 🥺🤭💜🫶🏻

⋆˙⟡ Tag list: @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @kooko009, @smokinghotstargirl, @myjungkookthighs, @mskookie, @minimoninini, @medstudentlifestyle, @bhonbhon, @ottergirl, @vantelover1306, @deepikhaprakash, @mar-lo-pap, @zeytiable, @lallataegi, @vintagemoonsstuff, @indigomoonchild09, @diame93, @bts-ruu, @asyr97, @taeloversblog, @songbyeonkim, @miniruuu, @hubbytaehyung, @queen1599, @goldenboysmuse , @nikkinikj, @kookiesncreamri, @guwol, @unholyforjk, @hisdecalcomania17 (If you want to be on the tag list, let me know)

⋆˙⟡ Warning: English is not my native language, so please be lenient with mistakes in the text 🥹

Chapter 13. Who are we?

A cool breeze touched your bare legs, making your skin tingle. The evening temperature isn't as warm as the daytime, and you didn't think about it when you agreed to walk with Jungkook along the Hangang embankment.

You arrived in his car, but since he had drunk wine with dinner, he called the manager Lee, whom you saw for the first time today. He was as silent as a shadow - he didn't even look back when Jungkook leaned into you in the car to kiss you. But you stopped him, saying it was rude.

Jungkook mockingly whispered in your ear, reminding you that under the table at the restaurant, his fingers were inside you-and there were a lot more people around then.

You hit him on the arm, muttering irritably that he still shouldn't kiss you in front of Lee. He snorted, but listened.

The car was approaching the river, and stopped not far from the entrance to Jamwon Hangang Park. You got out of the car and hurried to Jungkook, who got out first. The manager stayed waiting.

In Gangnam, this part of Hangang is not so crowded in the late afternoon - mostly couples, a few cyclists, and relaxed residents of luxury high-rises walking their dogs. It smelled like summer water, grass, and the city at night.

Goosebumps ran down your legs, but you tried to ignore the evening chill. Your cheeks were rosy from the alcohol you had drunk, and you felt relaxed.

Your dinner was delicious and interesting. Most of the time you talked about you, and Jungkook was curious to hear how you ended up in Seoul and how you came to work at 'EON Creativeʼ. You were also interested in learning more about he.

He told you a little bit about his parents. From his conversation, you realized that their relationship is complicated, especially with his father. His father is a strict, overbearing man, the type of person who believes that a son is a successor, a project, the personification of continuity. And his mother, although she loved Jungkook more, never went against his father's will. They forced him to study and fully devote himself to the family business. And since Jungkook had a strong-willed character and wanted to become something more, he began to resist them.

Tattoos, piercings, and all the things he did to spite his parents never allowed him to get rid of the role of the "heir" At the age of twenty-four, he was already part of the corporate mechanism.

You were surprised that Jungkook didn't want to be the heir to such a successful company. When you asked him why, he just brushed it off, saying that it was a long story and that he would tell you about it someday.

You looked at the night view of the Han River and were mesmerized. The lights of the bridges over the Hangang flickered in the distance, the lanterns running with the rhythm of your heart.

Jungkook put his hands in his pants pockets and slowly walked forward, but he looked over his shoulder.

"Coming?" he asked. You nodded, catching up with him. The breeze picked up a strand of your hair, and he easily, almost unconsciously, brushed it behind your ear.

When you caught up with Jungkook, he immediately intertwined your fingers together, pulling you closer to him. You squeezed his fingers, feeling the warmth of his palm, and couldn't help but think how good you felt at that moment. But the nagging thought that Jungkook wasn't your real boyfriend made you tense.

"Do we need to hold hands?" you asked in a steady tone. You didn't really want him to let go of you, but you had to ask to calm your pride. Jungkook looked at you sideways.

"As long as we are in a public place, we have to be a couple. So touching, hugging, and kissing is a must," he said, with a slight smile.

"But there are hardly any people here, do you think anyone can see us?"

"There are eyes everywhere. So just relax and enjoy the walk," Jungkook said decisively. He suddenly stopped, and you had to do the same. A cold wind blew from the river and you shivered. Without saying anything, Jungkook took off his jacket and threw it over you. He was wearing a black suit when you saw him in his office, before your date. But when he brought you to Seoul, he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He probably changed at the company.

You closed your eyes for a second, smelling his perfume. You liked his scent, and every time you had contact with him, you secretly enjoyed it. It's something with a citrus that is pleasantly refreshing and you want to inhale this scent continuously.

"Oh, you're being a gentleman?" you asked with a little sarcasm and a big smile.

"It's cold in here, do I have to watch you freeze?" Jungkook caught on to your words and hummed, pulling you into a hug by the edge of his jacket. His arms went around your waist, and you put yours on his warm chest. "Besides, I don't want my 'fake girlfriend' to get sick," he said in a low voice, deliberately emphasizing the 'fake'.

His voice made your skin crawl with goosebumps once again, but you kept your playful mask on, holding back a smile. You noticed how his eyes were watching your lips.

"You're so thoughtful," you said, keeping your voice sarcastic. You gently slipped out of his arms and walked forward. Jungkook followed, and you walked along the lighted path. The air smelled like freshly cut grass, and there was faint music playing somewhere nearby-someone had turned on a speaker.

You approached the railing that separated the paths from the water.

"It's very beautiful here," you said quietly, looking into the water. "I've never been here at night before."

"I'm glad you're here for the first time with me," Jungkook said, standing close to you. His voice sounded almost gentle, and something in it made you look at him again-not as someone who had imposed himself on your life as part of a deal, but as... someone who really cared. Jungkook met your gaze and tilted his head slightly to the side:

"What? What's that look of love?"

You raised your eyebrows and looked away in embarrassment. As if he had caught you red-handed.

"Are you crazy?" you were indignant. "What do you mean, look of love? I'll never fall in love with you, Jeon."

Jungkook laughed, and his low laugh echoed in every part of your body. You felt his warm breath on your cheek.

"Never say never, kitten. And I'm not the worst option for you."

You turned sharply, unhappy with his words, forgetting him to be close. You froze, looking at his lips. You forced yourself to look away, but Jungkook wasn't even going to look away. He was looking at your lips with an undisguised desire to kiss them.

You turned your head away, and only then did Jungkook raise his eyes.

"You're the worst option for me," you said, and you really meant it. It would be a disaster if you fell in love with Jungkook. And there were many reasons why. "We're not a match for each other. Besides, we have rules, remember?" you reminded him of the rules you two hadn't followed in a long time. Jungkook turned away from you and leaned on his elbows, staring into the water for a few seconds, and then he glared at you again.

"Why am I the worst option for you?" he asked sincerely, ignoring the words about the rules. You endured only a moment of his interested gaze and turned your eyes to the water, watching the light from the lanterns run across the dark water.

"I think you understand," you said.

"No, I don't, that's why I'm asking," Jungkook said. You rolled your eyes, but he didn't see.

"Do I really have to explain it to you? I'm not a girl on your level, Jungkook. And you know it," you said, your voice hushed but firm. "You have everything: a name, money, connections, influence... You have the life of dreams. And I'm just a worker with a troubled past, and... a mother who doesn't even remember my birthday."

Your voice broke a little on the last sentence, but you quickly swallowed the weakness, took a deep breath, and faked an indifferent smile.

"You have no idea what it means to survive," you added more quietly, almost in a whisper.

Jungkook was silent for a few seconds. His eyes were serious, attentive, as if he were looking at you for the first time. Then he turned his whole body toward you, and his voice became very soft.

"You are mistaken. Do you think I don't know what it's like to be alone, when you have everything and nothing?" You wanted to say something, but Jungkook was already speaking, "I grew up in a house where every action was controlled, every step was part of a plan. Do you think my parents asked me what I wanted? Or who I like? They only care about titles and alliances. And you know what's ironic?" he smiled bitterly. "I don't feel like I'm up to 'my level' either". Because I've always been just a product, a tool. Not a person."

You looked at Jungkook. For the first time, you saw him throw off the mask of a self-confident heir. And instead, he was a real guy who, like you, was hurting inside. And your heart skipped a beat.

"Don't do that..." you said in a trembling voice, feeling the lump in your throat squeezing it.

"Do what…?" Jungkook asked quietly, turning you around and putting his arms around your waist.

"Don't act like we're alike, we're not..." you said, just as quietly. Your face was down, and your eyes were studying the fabric of his shirt. Jungkook took your face with both hands, and you looked up.

"We look alike, Y/N, maybe that's why you've always attracted my attention." He leaned in and his lips touched yours. He kissed you gently and almost lovingly. He didn't try to put his tongue in your mouth, he just kissed you, slowly, gently, just enjoying it. When he released you, you didn't know what to do. Your heart was beating like crazy, and you were afraid that this was the first sign of falling in love. You had to do something about it immediately.

"Can we continue walking?" you asked, trying to free yourself from his arms.

Jungkook didn't answer right away. He held you close for a moment, as if he didn't want to let go. His big arms closed slightly around your waist, and you felt him exhale slowly. Then he stepped back a step and nodded, allowing you to step out of the hug.

"Whatever you say," he said calmly, and smiled. You walked on. You walked in silence for a few minutes, each in his own thoughts. The lanterns cast a soft light on your figures, and the soft rustle of the water was soothing.

"Can I ask you a question?" you suddenly broke the silence.

"Of course, go ahead," Jungkook agreed immediately. He looked at you with undisguised interest. You exhaled silently, daring to ask the question that had been bothering you since the day you found out he was the heir to the ‘Jeon Group’.

"Why do you live in the apartment next door to me? I'm sure you have a nice apartment somewhere in Gangnam, maybe more than one... so how come you're living in a regular apartment building?"

Jungkook looked up in surprise and smiled. He clearly hadn't expected this question.

"I think I already told you..." he said.

"Do you expect me to believe that you live there because you love it, and then I came along and you didn't want to sell it?" you asked sarcastically. Jungkook pressed his lips together. He looked straight ahead, unwilling to look you in the eye.

"But it's true," he insisted.

"You lived in this apartment long before I moved in next door. And you wanted to sell it!" you summarized.

"I lived there for only six months before you," Jungkook clarified.

"That's not important..." you said quickly, "my question is: why a regular neighborhood?"

Jungkook shrugged his shoulders.

"I bought this apartment so I don't have to live in Gangnam," he said casually. You raised your eyebrows, wondering. Exist a person who doesn't want to live in Gangnam?

"Why didn't you want to live there?" you asked.

"Because I was tired of this secular life. I was tired of my mother, who came and ate my brains out so that I could find a bride, and constantly hinted at Sukhi. I was tired of my father, who bored me with talks about the responsibility of being an heir, so I ran away from them. I bought this apartment with my own money and moved here so that no one could find me," he was silent for a moment and then continued, his voice a little softer than usual. "I wanted to have some place where I was just Jungkook. Not 'Jeon Group's Jungkook,' not an heir, not a tool to achieve my parents' plans... just me."

You were genuinely surprised by this answer. Jungkook looked at you and your surprised face, and he was amused.

"I liked living there, but after six months I got bored, but you came along just in time. At first you were so nice, and then you showed your character, you were always unhappy with something-you were the most real person I've ever met. And, yes, at first I really wanted to move out. But then I realized that with you... I was interested and it added color to my gray life."

You froze. His words touched something deep inside you. It was hard to believe that he, so confident and impregnable, could speak so openly about himself. About running away. About the need for something real.

"You're weird..." you said quietly and fell silent for a second, "but how can I judge you if you've never known what it's like to fight with a neighbor over loud music...?" you wondered. Jungkook smiled broadly.

"When you started to make comments to me, I was acting out of spite. It was so much fun when you were angry," Jungkook admitted with a sly smile. You stared at him in displeasure.

"I had no doubt that you you did it out of spite me, you're a terrible neighbor," you admitted, "But how did you manage to hide this apartment? I'm sure it's no problem for your parents to find out about it?"

Jungkook laughed softly, leaning slightly toward you, and a familiar mischievous light appeared in his eyes.

"You underestimate me, Y/N. I am very good at hiding what I want to keep for myself. I bought this apartment through a straw man. The papers don't have my name on them. My father doesn't care where I live, and my mother... my mother is more focused on getting me married than tracking my movements."

He said this with such an indifferent tone, as if he were talking about the weather. But you saw his jaw clench for a moment. This topic, though seemingly mundane, hurt.

"So you still have an apartment in Gangnam?" you said curiously, "Do you ever go there?"

Jungkook smiled slyly, and you were embarrassed.

"I have a penthouse in the center of Gangnam, but I'm not there very often. But I never stay there for long," he grimaced, as if he was talking about something incredibly unpleasant. "Everything is too artificial in that place. You know, even the air there smells fake. There's no point in me being there." You could barely contain your smile. It was strange to see Jungkook not as an all-powerful heir, but as a man who so genuinely shunned the world he grew up in. Although before you knew who he was, he seemed like an ordinary guy. "Did you think I'd sometimes spend my evenings there drinking expensive wine in a Gucci robe?" he asked, looking back at you with a playful expression.

You burst out laughing, rolling your eyes:

"I was almost sure that you were like that, sometimes you didn't spend three days in your apartment and I thought you were somewhere in your luxurious mansion... but now I'm even a little bit offended. It turns out my horrible neighbor is a rebel."

"A rebel who buys cheap noodles and watches trashy dramas in the evenings," Jungkook added with a smile.

"What?" you exclaimed. "I don't believe it!"

"But you heard once, I was blasting 'Kim Family Secret' on the whole floor."

"I thought you were kidding!" you laughed, shaking your head. "I even complained to the lady downstairs about you!"

"And what did she say?"

"That you are beautiful and entitled to everything!" you sighed sarcastically.

"I knew I could rely on her!" Jungkook hummed.

Now you were both laughing, and the silence that had been a bit tense before became surprisingly light. You walked slowly, side by side, and you caught yourself thinking that you didn't want this walk to end at all. But at one point, when you returned to the path that ran along the water, Jungkook stopped you, grabbing your fingers.

"Did you have a good time, kitten?" he asked, wrapping his arms around your waist. You smiled, catching yourself thinking that you had indeed had a good time, and right now Jungkook's hug was too nice.

"Yeah, despite your stunt before at office, I enjoyed our 'fake date'."

Jungkook smiled triumphantly. He pulled you even closer, leaning down to your lips.

"Do you want to see my penthouse? I noticed you were curious."

"I was just curious where you really live..." you mumbled. You realized that Jungkook didn't just want to show you his penthouse, but that there was more to his offer.

"Then why don't you see it for yourself?" he persisted. His lips touched your lobe, and he gave you a few weightless kisses on your neck. You grabbed onto his hands, feeling your legs feel like cotton wool. You felt a light wave of excitement as he kissed you. He knows how to make you want him.

Jungkook looked into your eyes, and you saw the spark that lit up in his eyes at the thought of you having sex. Because his offer to "show you the penthouse" was nothing more than to bring you to a place where he could enjoy you.

Jungkook kissed you, not as gently as he had fifteen minutes earlier. This time, he openly showed you what he really wanted. His tongue filled your mouth, and his hands on your waist slid down.

His kiss became deeper, more insistent, and you couldn't help but respond. Something about his touch made your heart race and your body tremble with anticipation. Jungkook slowly pulled back, keeping his arms around your waist,

You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to, but because it seemed dangerously sweet. Too pleasant, too wrong... for something that was supposed to be a simple agreement. But his unrestrained eyes, in front of you, his warmth and closeness clouded your consciousness. All you wanted today and now was him.

"Let's go," you gave in. Jungkook's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and he didn't hide his smile. He kissed you passionately once more, cementing your acceptance, and then he took your fingers intertwining with their own and led you to the car where Manager Lee was waiting.

After twenty minutes of driving, Manager Lee pulled up in front of an impressive skyscraper with a glass and metal facade that shimmered in the Seoul evening lights. You got out of the Mercedes and Jungkook wished Manager Lee a good night.

The concierge immediately bowed to Jungkook as he pressed the elevator button. He just nodded, not defiantly, but calmly, like a person who is used to the world around him functioning without a hitch.

In the elevator, he pressed the button with the letter "P"-Penthouse. The same sparkle that he used to look at you with when he was trying to surprise you sparkled in his eyes again.

When the elevator doors opened, you stepped into a completely different world.

The space of the penthouse unfolded before you as if it were a scene from some absurdly beautiful movie. The panoramic windows offered a view of Seoul at night, with the city lights scattering like stars under your feet. The ceiling was high, and the light was warm and diffused. The beige and gray shades of the interior were combined with black marble, brushed gold and dark oak wood.

You slowly walked past a huge sofa, a wine bar, designer lamps, a giant TV that looked like a movie screen. Paintings, you were sure, not copies, but real ones, hung on the walls. One of them even looked like the work of one of the famous Korean modernists.

Jungkook stood to the side and watched you silently as you looked at everything.

"And you call this 'too artificial'?" you whispered, looking around in amazement.

"Beauty is not always about comfort," he replied. "Everything here to me is... too showy. I feel like a guest in my own home."

You slowly walked to the window, touched the cold glass, and Seoul seemed far away, as if from another planet. Then you turned back to Jungkook.

"But it's beautiful. It's incredibly beautiful." You turned back, looking at the flickering lights of the night city, and your breath was taken away by the beauty. You felt a warmth spread through your chest. As if your dream had come true.

While you were delighted with the view from the panoramic window, you did not hear the quiet footsteps approaching you. Jungkook couldn't hold back any longer. He wanted you, here and now.

He quietly stood behind you, at first just enjoying your scent. His hands went around your waist, sliding down to your stomach. A kiss on the neck was necessary. Jungkook heard your breath hitched.

"You're right," he whispered, holding you closer to him, "It's incredibly beautiful," he said, meaning you.

His hands deftly stripped you of your jacket, and you were left in nothing but your dress. Jungkook turned you around and pressed you against the window. He kissed you deeply, hotly, unrestrainedly, so that you could feel how much he wanted you.

The cold glass on your back only intensified the sensations - your body was on fire from his touch. His kisses had everything - passion, hunger, tenderness, and something else... something that made your fingers squeeze his shoulders again and again, wanting this moment to last as long as possible.

He touched you confidently, but at the same time cautiously. His lips descended to your collarbone, and his arms wrapped around you like a defense.

Your breath mingled with his, and when you said his name softly, with a hint of pleading, he stopped for a moment. He looked into your eyes, and there was no more acting - just him and you, real, without roles.

"Fuck, kitten, I'm going a little crazy for you..." he whispered, "I want to fuck you so bad."

His words sent butterflies up in your stomach and you kissed him, the first time you'd ever done it first. Jungkook deepened your kiss, making you dizzy.

That's what it does to you. He makes you forget reality and shows how addictive desire can be.

Jungkook picked you up as lightly as if you weighed no more than a feather and carried you to the bedroom. It was as impressive as everything around it: the dim lighting, the perfect lines of the interior, but you hardly noticed any of it. Only him.

He laid you down on the bed, and easily positioned himself between your legs. He kissed you, first on the lips, then played with your tongue, sucking it, biting your lips.

He went down to your neck, sucking on your delicate skin, leaving barely visible crimson marks. It made you more and more wet, more needy.

His hand touched your thong, and he pulled it off without delay. He went lower, pulled up your skirt, which barely covered your hips.

When he saw your wet pussy, he spread your legs, looking at you with his dark, lustful gaze.

Jungkook smiled at your heavy, aroused gaze. You bit your lip as he ran his tongue lightly, barely perceptibly, along your swollen clit. Your hips trembled unconsciously. Jungkook grabbed your buttocks, and you gave him the best position to your center, bent your knees halfway apart, spreading your legs wider.

His fingers squeezed your flesh, he licked the folds, skillfully building up the blissful sensations between your legs. Moans escaped your lips one after another, and the harder Jungkook's tongue worked, the louder your moans became.

Your palms clutched the sheets, and you could feel your orgasm coming. Jungkook could feel you getting closer to the pleasure you wanted, so he put his mouth completely on your pussy, lapping at your velvety clit with his tongue.

It was almost impossible to control the sensations he was causing, you let out a near scream and came on his tongue. Jungkook could feel your clit twitching. Your taste mixed with his saliva, he couldn't stop thinking how sweet you were on his tongue.

His cock was excited to the max, it even hurt a little. He could feel his own semen leaking onto the boxers. Jungkook wanted to fuck you, to shove his cock inside you right now and feel the euphoria he felt every time he was inside you. But he wanted to try something else.

Jungkook pulled away from you, and in a matter of seconds he was on top of you, pressing his horny cock against your naked pussy. His elbows were on the side of your face. He leaned down to you, leaving almost no distance between you.

You were breathing fast, still under the influence of your orgasm. Jungkook pushed you, knocking all the air out of your lungs. He looked at your face and couldn't get enough. How happy he was that he could see the expression on your face when you were satisfied, that he could hear your moans that were only for him, that he had full access to you, even though you pretended to be untouchable.

"Look at me, kitten," he said softly, against your lips. You opened your eyes, meeting his black ones, which were not lit by the light from his paws, but by the real fire of passion. "I want to try something," he says, when your eyes don't leave each other's.

"What?" you barely said. Jungkook thrust again, but not as hard as the first. This movement eased the frantic throbbing between your legs.

"Something about trust," he said, kissing your jawline. You closed your eyes for a second when his lips touched your face. Then you opened them again.

"Trust?" you asked again, not understanding what he meant.

"Yes," he breathed, running his nose along your jaw, and then leaning down to your ear, his breath hot, burning on your skin. "I want you to let me blindfold you, kitten," he whispered low, "I want you to feel everything... but not know what will happen next."

Your insides trembled at his words. Something compressed like a spring there. He didn't sound like someone who wanted to hurt you - on the contrary. His voice was so caring, so intimate, so tender, that you were filled with admiration... and trepidation.

"I don't..." you started, but stopped talking because his fingers were gently touching your neck.

"If you don't want to, I won't do it. But if you trust me, I promise it will be unforgettable." His fingers touched your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his eyes.

There was no playfulness or trickery in his gaze. Only a desire to make you feel good. Only passion wrapped in care. Only trust, which he offered - and asked for in return.

You nodded. Slowly but surely.

"Good..."

Jungkook smiled and leaned down to kiss you. His lips were warm, and his heart was pounding. He straightened up over you and untied his black tie. You watched his actions with a frantic heartbeat and nervous anticipation.

Jungkook took off his tie and placed it next to you. He sat you down on the bed and found the zipper of your dress and unzipped it. A minute later, you were completely naked in front of him. Jungkook took off his shirt to feel more free and then turned to you.

"Close your eyes," he whispered.

You did as he said. And you felt the darkness envelop you, depriving you of your vision but sharpening all your other senses.

He gently laid you on your back. Every touch was like a flash. Every breath is like a touch of flame.

Your chest rose and fell quickly. His palms slid gently over your arms, over your waist, over your chest. You trembled - not from fear, but from anticipation.

He took your breasts in his hands and squeezed them lightly. You felt a wave of excitement run through your walls . Jungkook squeezed your nipple between his fingers, and you felt a slight pain. You opened your mouth slightly to breathe through him. A shaky breath escaped your lips.

Because you were blindfolded, Jungkook's touch felt twice as sensitive. Suddenly, you felt his wet tongue on one of your nipples. He licked it several times and then bit it.

The moisture between your legs began to stand out abundantly. You tried to move your hips, but he didn't let you.

"Shhh, kitten, don't move," you heard his voice from somewhere below. Your other nipple suffered the same fate, and you did your best to keep yourself from screaming. His lips suddenly found your neck, trailing down to your collarbones — even your shoulders bore the mark of his mouth.

A moment later, you feel him pull away from you. His fingers touched your knees and he spread your legs, carefully, concentrated, as if he were opening a book he had wanted to read for a long time.

And then... you felt his lips. Where you could feel the most. His tongue dipped between your folds again, but this time it was much more intense. Because you didn't know where he would touch next. Because you couldn't see. Because you trusted him.

And this trust became the most intimate form of intimacy between you. You didn't want him to stop for a second. On the contrary, you wanted to know what he would do to you next.

Jungkook stopped kissing your pussy. His two fingers plunged into your passage. Slowly, deeply. He moved them back and forth as if teasing you, but he was actually preparing you for himself.

"Kook..." his name came out of your mouth, begging. "Please...come in."

Jungkook felt his cock harden, the head twitching at your plea. Your wetness slipped through his fingers and dripped down his palm.

"Deamn..." he cursed, drunk on lust by your voice and your plea, "I'll come in...just wait a little," he said. You moved your hips to meet his fingers, wanting to get the friction you needed.

Jungkook pulled his fingers out sharply. And then he kissed you. On the inside of your thighs. He went lower and lower, you could feel his lips on both thighs, knees, even on your ankles. He literally left no place on you where he didn't kiss you.

You felt the mattress bend, and you were left lying there alone, with a blindfold over your eyes.

Your ears heard Jungkook taking off his pants, his boxers falling to the floor. You could just imagine his big, aroused cock standing up, the thick vein running down its length.

The mattress sagged again, and you felt his legs against yours. The thought of him entering you made you even wetter. Jungkook's warm fingers touched your pussy and smeared the moisture on your sweet spot. He took his cock in his hand and ran it over your excited clit. You literally couldn't help yourself. You moaned, biting your lips until it hurt. A little more and you would go crazy...

And now the head of his cock is pressing against your entrance. You hold your breath as he slowly stretches your walls. He's halfway in, and then he leans in, his breath burning your lips.

"Ready to take me, kitten?" he asked, his voice husky with lust.

"Yes," you finally breathed out. And he entered you, forcing your back to arch to meet him.

He entered you, slowly, all the way in, pressing into every millimeter of your insides. Jungkook froze, breathing just as hard in unison with you. He let out a low moan that could only mean that he was enjoying your closeness as much as you were. He stayed still inside you for no more than a few seconds, and then he started to move.

Jungkook moved just as slowly, deeply, as if trying not just to connect with your body, but to merge with you completely.

Every thrust, every sensual movement of his hips made your body shudder in sweet convulsions. And although your eyes were blindfolded, you seemed to see more - with your senses.

"You're so tender... you take me so well," he whispered, sliding his palms over your breasts, squeezing lightly, making you moan louder. "I'm going to take it slow, I don't want to rush it. I want to feel you for a long time... completely..."

His tongue touched your nipples for the second time, one, then the other, while his body continued to slowly enter you, without rushing, with awareness of every touch.

He lingered inside you, licked your nipple, pinched it with his teeth, and moved slowly again, and you moaned as you felt filled to the brim-physically and emotionally.

His hands slipped under your hips, lifting them a little higher, changing the angle of penetration, and your whole body trembled with a new wave of pleasure.

"Take off... the blindfold... please..." you whispered breathlessly.

"Not yet, kitten..." his voice became deeper, more husky. "Let me show you what it's like to give yourself over uncontrollably."

He grabbed you tighter, and suddenly the rhythm changed. The thrusts became deeper, more powerful, but still controlled - it wasn't wildness, but a frantic, trembling passion.

You gasped for breath, your body bent, feeling how comes by a wave of orgasm that was about to happen. It must be even stronger than the last.

"Kook... I'm... I'm coming...!"

"No," he forbade, "wait a little longer," he came out of you and you were ready to almost cry. A few seconds later, he entered you again, sharper, faster. You felt a slight stab of pain, but it disappeared under the influence of the pleasure you felt from being filled with his cock.

Jungkook continued to fuck you slowly so you couldn't come quickly. He changed positions a few times to make it feel crazy good. He lay down next to you, lifting one of your legs to penetrate you deeper, his one hand squeezing your breast, and you knew there would be bruises. He leaned in and left a short kiss on your shoulder.

Jungkook changed his position again, standing upright, your legs on either side of his hips. Jungkook plunged into you, made several circular motions as if penetrating deeper than he could, reaching the head of his penis into your uterus. It's a crazy feeling. He pressed you down with his strong, beautiful body and started a frantic rhythm to bring you to orgasm.

"Now you can cum for me kitten. Let it all go. Let me be your last touch today..."

And you couldn't resist. Your body shuddered in his arms, your chest heaved with a moan, your arms dug into his back as a wave of bliss covered you to the tips of your fingers.

He followed you almost immediately. A few deep thrusts and you felt him release on your stomach and pussy. His hot sperm was spilling all over you. He was lying on top of you with his head leaning against your shoulder, his breathing heavy, just like yours.

He didn't take off the blindfold right away. He just lay there, pressing his body against yours, kissing you gently on the cheek, then on the lips.

Your mind was working at a frantic pace. His last kiss and the blindfold flew off your eyes. You opened your eyes and saw his face. He was smiling happily, and for some reason, at that moment, he seemed even more beautiful than all the times before.

"You're gorgeous," he said, still smiling.

"I didn't do anything," you said, embarrassed. Jungkook had done all the work, and you didn't understand why he was complimenting you now. You should be the one praising him for his unrivaled sensations.

"You're wrong," his voice was soft, "The way you give yourself up, the way you look at me... the way you moan... That's all I need." he ran his finger along your cheek and then said something that almost made you choke, "I want it all to be mine forever..."

You didn't know how to respond, you froze, feeling goosebumps cover your body. No one has ever made you feel as desirable as Jungkook. But his words are dangerous. You might be tempted to give in, because you want him to be yours too, but it's not possible. He will never be yours.

Maybe only for the duration of your agreement. You'd like to ignore everything around you and close your eyes to everything until the deal is over, but you know it will hurt, really hurt when you have to end it.

His words hung in the air like the silence before a storm. You didn't answer. You just lay there, looking into his eyes, feeling your heart pounding somewhere in your throat. His fingers were still on your cheek, warm, steady, and your lips trembled from how close he was-not just in body, but in soul.

"Jungkook..." you breathed out his name in a tone as if you were asking him not saying it never again. Because every word he said broke your inner barriers. And behind them was chaos.

He seemed to feel your inner resistance. His eyes became more serious, and he pulled away a little.

"Don't say anything, because I know what you're going to say," he got off you and smiled as he sat down next to you. You can’t look at him right now.

Jungkook got out of bed, went to get a towel, and wordlessly wiped the marks between your thighs and on your stomach, keeping his eyes on you. You still couldn't look at him.

"You look like the best scene I've ever seen..." he muttered, breaking the tense silence and smiled.

You smiled a grateful smile, knowing that he was trying to ease the tension. You covered your face with your hand, and Jungkook lightly slapped your thigh.

"Go take a shower, kitten. Or I’m going to lose it again."

You headed for the bathroom, thinking you were playing dangerous games. And the more you get to know each other, the more you become addicted to Jungkook.

The morning sun was gently sliding through the windows of the black Maybach GLS that Jungkook was driving you home in. Yesterday, after Jungkook's manager dropped you off at his penthouse, he left his car in the parking lot.

The car was humming softly, creating a cozy atmosphere of calm after a hectic night. Jungkook had one hand on the wheel and the other checking his phone.

You were sitting in a half-asleep state, wrapped in his jacket, and your eyes were sliding across the phone screen to keep from falling asleep. But the peaceful slide of your finger stopped as soon as you saw the headline:

Is this love? Jeon Jungkook and mystery girl are back together - romantic dinner, a walk in the park and kissing in public!

You opened the article and started reading:

Jeon Jungkook, the heir to the ‘Jeon Group’ empire, has once again become the #1 media topic after he was spotted out on the town with the same mystery girl who was already on camera a few weeks ago. Is it really love, or is it just a piqued interest in the new couple?

In the evening, the couple was spotted near one of the most exclusive restaurants in Gangnam. Eyewitnesses say that the young people looked very close. They stood with their arms around each other and did not hesitate to kiss right in front of the entrance. In the restaurant itself, according to the staff, there was a lightness and warmth between them - they laughed a lot, and it was clear that they were having a good time together.

Later, Jungkook and his companion were spotted in a city park. They walked holding hands, sometimes stopping to hug or catch another tender moment. The cameras captured the moment when the girl laughs at something Jungkook said, and he looks at her with the kind of smile that could only be seen on advertising posters before.

While some are discussing a possible romance, others have drawn attention to the implications that this story could have in the business world. The rumors of an engagement between Jeon Jungkook and Kang Sukhi, the daughter of the owner of ‘Kang Technologies’, seem to have finally disappeared. This means that the long-awaited merger of the two business giants may be delayed for years.

Now it becomes clear when Namjoon was hinting that Jungkook could not escape this marriage. Why his parents and Sukhi herself want it so badly. It will help unite the two giant companies into one without any red tape.

You'll look at the photos that were attached to the article. Your kiss on the street. The photo in the park, the moment when Jungkook tells you that eyes are everywhere, and he was right. Your kiss by the water and your laughter when he said that watches trashy dramas.

You nervously opened the comments to the article and read them while holding your breath.

@koreagirl92: "Did you see the way he looks at her? It's not an act... he's really in love!"

@soojin_heart: "She's so cute...not like the typical socialites. Looks like he finally found some real warmth."

@boredwithrichboys: "Typical story: a rich heir and a 'mysterious' girl from nowhere. It's all been done before."

@team_sukhi: "It's been known for a long time that Sukhi has been with him since childhood, and this one showed up for one corporate event and one date in a restaurant - and already love? Don't make me laugh."

The netizen were divided into two camps: some supported you, others were against you as usual. Your heart was beating fast, you felt something tighten in your chest. You shouldn't react to these people's words, because it's all a game for the public.

You suppressed your bitterness at the comments and forced a smile. Jungkook had just stopped at a traffic light and was checking something important on his phone. You turned the screen with the article to him.

"Look, your idea worked, just look at the article," you said, holding up the phone. Jungkook looked up sharply and took the phone from your hand with interest. His eyes quickly scanned the screen, reading the text.

"Great, I knew this would be spectacular," he smiled playfully and handed the phone back to you. "You see, they think we're in love," he continued as he moving the car further.

"Uh-huh," you just said, scrolling through the feed and coming across new headlines: "Love over Legacy? Jeon Jungkook chooses heart over business", "Who is she? The real face of the girl who made the heir to ‘Jeon Group’ forget about Kang Sukhi", "From engagement to walks in the park: how one date blew up the business world". You felt that this move of yours would not go unnoticed by his parents and Suhy. But if Jungkook did it, then he knows how to proceed.

"Are we that good at playing lovers?" Jungkook pulled you out of your thoughts. You looked up at him, staring at his profile for a few seconds.

"It's all thanks to you, because you're a first-rate liar," you couldn't help but sarcastically say. You knew he meant something else entirely, but you decided to shift the emphasis to the other side. Jungkook looked at you, his eyebrows slightly raised.

"You're also a first-rate liar, that’s why they believe us," he said calmly. You gave him an angry look. In fact, you were being a liar right now, but you're not like Jungkook.

"I may be a liar, but I'm definitely not on your level," you snapped back. Jungkook drove smoothly into your yard and parked in front of the front door. He leaned over the elbow, smiling slyly.

"Definitely not my level, you're much higher," he said in a low, playful voice. You choked on your protest. How could he say you were a bigger liar than him?

"You're wrong, Jeon, not even the best con artist in the world can lie like you," you said in annoyed. Jungkook laughed softly, he touched his palm to your face as he approached and froze a few centimetres away.

"But only you can lie better than me. You're so good at saying you don't want me, denying our great sex, and saying you hate me, even I couldn't do it. At least I admitted that I was attracted to you," he accused you. And you froze, not knowing what to say.

Jungkook touched your lips. He kissed them lightly, pulling you closer. He had to do it, he had to kiss you so that his day would go well until he saw you again.

When Jungkook parted your lips, you stared at him in silence, completely losing all sense of reality.

"Have a nice day, kitten," he said, sitting back in his seat upright.

"Thank you, have a nice day too, Jungkook," you said confused. You grabbed the door handle and wanted to leave, but stopped. "Thank you for last night. I..." you closed your mouth for a moment, afraid to admit how the evening would affected at you.

Jungkook raised one eyebrow as he waited for your words, that to catch in your throat. He felt his heart pounding.

"I really had a good time, I liked...everything," your cheeks flushed and a wave of heat ran down your back. Jungkook smiled wider, hiding his emotions that were overwhelming him inside. A warmth spread in his chest, the same warmth he felt yesterday when he brought you back from Busan. Jungkook touched your hand, stroking the outside of your palm with his finger.

"I'm glad to know that you are satisfied," he said. You gave him a quick glance, gently took his hand away and said "see you later" and quickly walked away, feeling his gaze on your figure.

You went to your apartment, for a long time feeling his lips on yours. Your high spirits held you like a warm blanket, and you began to undress, smiling to yourself, deciding not to think now that this was just a game.

You changed into your home clothes, put your hair up, turned on some music, and plunged into small household chores: cleaning a little, wiping the shelves, checking the mail.

There was a message in the mail from the director about the payment of your salary for the two Sundays you worked and from Jisu, asking for materials about your latest project, she was instructed to see it through.

You opened your files and started to send it to Jisu when you heard an incoming call. You picked up the phone and saw an unfamiliar number. You hesitated to answer the phone, thinking it might be one of the journalists. But your curiosity got the better of you and you picked up the phone.

"Hello?" you said confidently.

"Hello, dear, do you recognize my voice?"

You tensed up, recognizing that sweetly unpleasant voice at once.

"Sukhi," you stated.

"Yes, you guessed." You felt her smile.

"What do you want?" you asked, putting on a voice of indifference.

"We need to meet with you. Without Jungkook of course. I need to talk to you."

You were silent. Thinking about the topic of this conversation. Most likely, she will be trying to convince you to leave Jungkook, because you are already a big nuisance.

"Why can't we talk on the phone?" you asked. Sukhi huffed.

"Oh dear, it's a long conversation. And definitely not a phone talk. We really have a lot to discuss face to face." she paused, waiting for you to respond, and when you didn't, she continued. "Tonight at 5:00 pm. At the ‘Vela’ coffee shop near the Han River. I'll be waiting for you there, and if you don't come, it will have unpleasant consequences, so I recommend you accept my invitation." Her goodwill and friendliness disappeared. Sukhi didn't wait for your consent anymore, she just hung up.

The sun was beginning to set, but the heat was still intense when you left the house and hailed a taxi. You decided it was better to go to this meeting with Sukhi. You didn't go because you were afraid of her threats, no, you were curious about what she would say to you. You didn't tell Jungkook that Sukhi wanted to talk to you, you would find out what she wanted first and then tell him. Otherwise, he could have interrupted the meeting.

Twenty minutes later, the ‘Vela’ coffee shop appeared in front of you - a place overlooking the river, a large terrace with white umbrellas and fresh flowers in clay vases. A good a place for quiet conversations. But will the two of you have a conversation like that?

A faint wind blew, blowing your dress and loose hair. You're wearing a light ivory summer dress, just below the knee, with thin straps and a light fitted silhouette. You left your hair loose, in soft waves, and wore minimal makeup on your face - a little lip gloss, mascara, and a thin liner.

You went inside with determination. Sukhi was already sitting at a table. She chose a seat by the window with a picturesque view of the evening Hangan. She was sitting with a glass of iced latte, looking at something on her phone, and of course, she looked perfect.

She was wearing a light lavender silk blouse, perfectly ironed, and white wide-leg high-waisted pants. Her ears were adorned with pearl earrings, and a Cartier watch flickered on her wrist. Her hair was in a low bun, and her makeup was perfect, as if for a glossy magazine cover shoot. Even in summer, she looked as if she had come to a social gathering.

When she looked up at you, her gaze slowly ran over your outfit. Her appraising gaze made your heart beat fast.

"A good girl. You came." she said without greeting you.

"I was curious to know what you wanted," you replied, smiling. Sukhi slowly stretched her lips into a smile that was not friendly, more cruel.

"Oh, I do want something," she said in her typical fake friendliness.

"Let me guess," you interrupted her, "you want me to leave Jungkook? Because it's obvious that he's not dumping me like all the girls he's had before me. Did you see the articles from this morning? Have you read them yet?" you asked. At this time, the waiter came to the table. He apologized for interrupting your conversation and asked if you wanted something to drink. You chose a cold cappuccino with almond milk.

When the waiter left, you met Sukhi's attentive gaze, he was angry, but she held herself with dignity.

"I did," she nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around her ice latte glass. "You must be really good in bed if he hasn't gotten you out of his head yet."

You frowned, but didn't let anything betray your true emotions. Your insides throbbed with resentment, but also with something akin to triumph. Sukhi was the kind of woman who was used to being the one others got jealous over — not the other way around.

"You can ask him yourself why we're still together, I'm sure he'll be happy to tell you," you said. Sukhi took a sip of coffee, staring into the cup.

"You're in the way." she finally said openly, and you felt a twinge inside. "You have to disappear Y/N. Because you are a mistake. You're a temporary crush, not his love, those stupid journalists wrote. You are not from his circle, his world. And if you think that your fairy tale will end with a wedding, you are very naive."

Her voice was calm, almost silky, but there was a needle in every word. She didn't raise her tone - she didn't have to. She knew how to wound more accurately than any scream or curse. And her confidence in her own rightness sounded offensively loud, even in silence.

You were interrupted again by the arrival of the waiter, who brought your order.

"If I'm just a temporary fling, why are you so nervous? Why do you call me here to have this conversation?" you asked.

Sukhi took a deep breath, her gaze turning hard and cold again. She tilted her head slightly, piercing you with her gaze.

"Am I nervous?" her voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made you hold your gaze. "I think you're the one who's going to be nervous when everyone finds out who you really are. And why do you need Jungkook," she put her elbows on the table and leaned forward lowering her tone, "For example, that your mother is a former Busan model who became an entertainment for a businessman who dumped her because she got knocked up. She became an alcoholic because of it."

You calmly took a sip of your cappuccino, forcing yourself to keep from throwing it in her face. An icy wave ran down your spine as Sukhi got personal information about you. You slowly set the cup down on the saucer.

"Or maybe tell everyone that you're sleeping with Jungkook, that he promised you a good position in the parent company, and that you're selling yourself for more than your mother did? Do you want a headline like that?" she said the last words as if she had snapped scissors through the air.

Your fingers clenched the napkin in your lap. This was no longer just an attempt to humiliate you. It was a direct threat. But what was even worse was how much she was enjoying it.

You stood up straight, your back straight, your chin high.

"How well you've prepared," you said, smiling mysteriously, "maybe I should resort to your methods too? I wonder what I'll find out if I make inquiries about you? That you're Jungkook's white and fluffy bride, dreaming of being his wife, but while you're fucking his best friend? Yoongi…did he good in a bed?" you stretched your lips into a bigger smile.

You couldn't help but see Sukhi's eyes darting around. She was clearly tense, her fingers tightening around the glass.

"I don't have anything with Yoongi. We're just good friends," she defended herself. You hummed. It was funny that she was doing this.

"Really? I want to believe it, but it doesn't sound truthfully. Does Yoongi was the only one you fucked? Huh? Maybe it was Taehyung? Or Namjoon?" you gasped theatrically, "Or maybe you slept with all of them? Looking for comfort among his friends because Jungkook wouldn't pay attention to you no matter how hard you tried?" your heart was pounding, you saw her eyes growing angrier.

"Shut up!" she said quietly, her teeth clenched, "You don't know anything about me and you won't! The only thing you need to know is that I was only with Jungkook . And he was the only one who fucked me out of all of them. And we'll be together again."

You felt like you were doused in ice water. You couldn't believe it. You didn't know if she was telling the truth, but you could see by the look on her face that it was true. Your chest ached. Why? Why did her words make you feel like you were cut to pieces?

Sukhi stood up, grabbed her phone and bag. She took out a few bills and threw them on the table.

"My advice to you is to pretend you were never in his life, otherwise you will get hurt. You are not the one who can play such games..." she took a step towards the exit, she turned around and threw in a final note, "Have a nice evening Cinderella."

⇠ Previous ⟡ Index ➩ ⟡ Next ⇢

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Caught Under the Mistletoe

♡ featuring: nanami kento x reader

♡ synopsis: alone on christmas, you spend the night with your equally lonely coworkers. of course, your office crush nanami kento wants to party, too. he's a mystery, yet you can't help wanting to be around him. with a little help, can you beat the odds and finally confess?

♡ wc: 8.0k

♡ tags: fem! reader, jjk au, office au, misunderstood nanami, friends to lovers, corny gojo (as usual), praise, switch nanami, whiny whipped needy nanami, lots of overstim, manhand|ing, öral (f!receiving), mäting press, nanami cums quick, multiple órgasms, basically vanilla

notes: im almost a month late for my christmas fic i am sooo sorry! hope everyone had a happy holidays. did i finish this fic or did this fic finish me? who knows :P comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

“Hey, watch your step!”  

Gojo barely catches your calf before you trip off the chair you’re dancing on. You fail to realize your heels are sinking into the fabric. Fortunate for him to be there—the tipsy girl isn’t doing herself any favors twirling on a spinning office chair, but liquid courage has its perks. You’re narrowly balancing a drink in your hand—plain whiskey—while Gojo attempts to keep his swishing in the short glass. His efforts must’ve looked like a game to you, because you’re giggling and patting his arm as if he were an exaggerating child.  

The rest of the office is in an uproar, loose paper scattered about and documents gone unfinished. Some dancing, others chat over burgundy wine or dark liquor. There’s an awful Christmas song playing in the background, but most are too drunk to hear it. You can almost listen to jingle bells above your belligerent assistant manager addressing his qualms about the boss in a haughty manner; ivory shirt unbuttoned, gut spilling out of his too-tight pants as he raises his glass in protest for a pay raise. The two usual troublemakers you seldom speak to are having a concerning amount of fun with the copy machine and their bare rear.  

You’re not without fun though, pencil skirt straining on your thighs while you jump and sing an unrelated song bouncing around in your head. If your boss were here, heaven only knows the trouble you’d be in. Luckily, he isn’t here. Every year, your boss took paid time off to spend time with family during the holidays.  

The other losers with nothing to do spent their Christmas at the office.  

Sometimes you spent so much time at the office you began to consider it home. And so you’d bring a little piece of home with you, holding a high spirit for the holidays. Red and green festivities kept the joy alive, regardless of the depressed groans and sighs you became accustomed to during shifts. You’re still young, still somewhat hopeful about your future career. You put your heart into decorating the department.  

Well, you and Nanami, of course.  

“Santa’s little helper” is what you called him, to which he adjusted his glasses and begrudgingly agreed. He agrees to most of your plans, unless they involve outrageous pranks or a possible HR violation.  

When he first arrived to the building, he exuded such a quiet energy you sometimes didn’t notice him on the clock. When the lights dimmed for the day, and you strolled past his cubicle, a bright blue light casted long shadows. His silence was almost intimidating, and though most people made it a point to avoid contact with him, it felt unfair to you. You made it a point to get to know him, even if it were sometimes overwhelming or tedious—popping your head in during crunch time or offering him a snack. He eventually responded in kind. Not the kind that spoke out of obligation, but genuine respect. You haven’t learned much about him since you met him, and he won’t openly indulge, but you make attempts anyway.  

You’ve been messing with him the entirety of December. More ‘elf-on-a-shelf’ like, leaving mysterious Christmas trinkets for him to find in his cubicle. A tiny Santa here, a gnome there, gag gifts hidden in his metal drawers. You still remember him opening his briefcase to find a small porcelain reindeer standing up on his folders. And let’s not forget when he sat down after a water break and instead of a whoopie cushion, a traditional Christmas song reverberated across the hallway.  

You’ve both done well, spending too much time after hours putting a tree up, blossoming with multicolored ornaments and shapes in no particular theme. Garlands with waxy red berries hang from the fluorescent ceiling lights and removable winter decals are stuck on every wall, next to the inconvenient rainbow bulbs. 

Nanami denied the addition of a mistletoe, to your utter dismay. He truly embodied the little helper role, tending to your every request with an accompanied sly comment or concern. Unfortunately, it didn’t subdue the increasing feelings you already have for him. Within your delusion, you’re even starting to believe he might be flirting with you—ridiculous, right?  

If stone-cold Nanami were flirting with you, you’d probably die on the spot. There’s no chance though, and you’re fine with crushing from a distance. At least that’s what you’ll tell yourself to maintain a friendship.  

He makes it hard, though—incredibly hard. It’s difficult right now, as he leans against a wall away from the crowd, teal button-up taut against his torso, wearing a Santa hat at your request. Nanami, who regularly keeps up with his appearance, looks somewhat disheveled from the alcohol.  

You’ve finally learned something about him; he can’t handle his liquor.  

He won’t show it, but while he maintains the same stoic expression, strands of hair hang over his somber eyes, and his glasses aren’t perfectly perched on his face. The buttons pull at the fabric, and he heaves heavy with his sturdy arms folded underneath the chest, bunching his spotted tie. The light makes it worse, catching on the veins peaking from his skin. You could trace every tendon corded around his forearms, thick hands swirling a shot glass. It’s smaller in comparison to his palm, and you watch his fingers trace the rim of the glass. They look delicate and manicured, but equally rough. How they’d study the curves of a body, snake around a lovers head as he pulled them close. Wrapping his fingers around-  

“You’re drooling” Gojo blurts. You snap your head to him, and he laughs heartily before smacking your back. “Shhh-tt!” You wave a hand over his mouth, but the wide grin he’s sporting goes beyond your reach. He gets in close, not bothering to cover his mouth for the gossip.  

“Go tell him.”  

“Wha- hell no” you shake your head, stepping down from the chair nursing your dwindling drink. You refuse to hear the absurdity he’s proposing. “Why not? Perfect night, ain’t it?”  

You throw back what little is left in the cup and set it on a random coworkers desk. “How so?”  

“Christmas Eve. Lots can happen, y’know?” He presses his hand to the sides of your head and turns your attention back to Nanami.  

“Lotsss.” You swat him—luckily Nanami was engrossed in the contents of his glass. “Fuck you” you whisper, semi joking. He laughs. “Cmon, me and the guy are cool. Let me wingman.”  

“No.”  

“Why not?”  

“Why would I ever let you wingman when you can’t even get a date yourself?” He clutches his chest, feigning pain, “Ouch!”  

“I’m fine with us just being friends, okay?”  

“Pfft, clearly not. I just caught you eye-fucking him.” You roll your eyes, shooing him off mid-conversation. Gojo may be right, but it couldn’t happen today. It wasn’t worth confessing, especially with his gift tucked away in your bag. Life would become too complicated too fast.  

You’ve sobered up some from the harsh reality of your situation. Being sober sucks. However, you’ve neglected to check on Nanami since the party started, and now might be a great time. You walk in his direction, steering your eyes from Gojo’s smug expression.  

Nanami catches you approaching and nods, sleeves busting against his bicep. His brown sugar eyes are half lidded, and a light glow dusts feverishly over his ears and neck. His chiseled bone structure appears gentle with a pinkish blush. You hold your breath, afraid you might divulge the thoughts searing your tongue with sin.  

“How’s my little helper doing?” you ask, leaning against the wall beside him. Your bodies ghosts against each other, never fully touching, always in two separate worlds. You don’t expect his gaze to follow you, and you’re slightly surprised when you turn to him and he’s staring.  

“Pretty good,” his voice permeates like fine bourbon, deep and intoxicating to your hazy ears. He speaks in his usual rigid manner despite the drink. You could listen to him talk forever—embarrassingly so, as you got written up for talking frequently in his cubicle. “All thanks to Santa.”  

“I’m glad. Did he get you everything you wanted for Christmas?” you smile.  

“Yea. She did.” She. You brush it off—a slip of the tongue. It’s hard to trust what a tipsy person says, anyway. You press your nails to the corners of your mouth and pull upwards.  

“Then be happy!”  

“I am” he responds. Blunt. You sigh dramatically.  

“Hmph. But you never smile.” He watches you close, and your nerves cause you to fiddle with the paneled pattern on the glass. So much for wanting his attention.  

“Would you like me to?” There’s no humor in his tone. Did you want him to smile? Of course. But you desire the genuine satisfaction of a pure, unfiltered smile. It means nothing if you have to force it out of him.  

You turn your head from him with a pointed nose. “Nope. I want it to be genuine when you do.”  

Facing him again, you accept the challenge, “I’ll get you to smile!”  

There’s a subtle perk in his brow, and faint creases form at the corners of his drooping lids.  

“Oh yeah?” he drawls, an octave lower. It spurs a feeling within you that crumples your resolve too fast. Breath catching in your throat, the air is suddenly stuffier than before. You grip the glass for dear life, attempting to compose yourself, but you can’t when he’s staring at you like you’re the only person in existence. You watch the way his eyes flick across your face; your eyes, then your nose, down to the curve of your lips, moving quicker as they travel down. You swallow thick, unable to avert your gaze, unable to stop the heavy rise and fall of your chest. You must be imagining it. Or maybe Gojo’s right, what’s the harm in-  

“(Y/N)! Get over here and drink with us!” your assistant manager yells from another section.  

It breaks you out of your trance, and you turn on your heels towards the sound, just enough to hide the blush pooling over your cheeks. “Comin’!”  

•••  

The night has simmered into occasional chatter, with most of your coworkers leaving to go barhopping or get a head start on their hangover. The stragglers—a few employees, you, Gojo, and Nanami—packing up to leave.  

You’re throwing your coat over your shoulders, running to your cubicle to hopefully catch the last bus. Before you can grab your briefcase, a flicker of something shiny draws your eye. You pull your drawer open; a miniature snow globe with two fluffy penguins inside wearing festive hats and scarves, flippers stretched as they gather snow. You shake it up and watch the artificial flakes spin in the liquid. A smile unconsciously beams on your face, even more when you notice a yellow note tucked on the underside. You peel off the tape and unfold the post-it note.  

“Your turn  

-Nanami”  

A bland note from a serious man. Even so, your heart feels full to the brink of bursting. You reread the note over and over. You wish you could’ve witnessed big, intimidating Nanami buying the minature from a toy store. Unintentional poker face pointing at tiny penguins. The image sends you into hysterics. Once you’ve had enough of gushing over the same two words, you tuck it in your wallet, a place you won’t forget, and gently put the gift in a safe compartment in your bag.  

You can already hear Gojo from the elevator; he gets loud when he’s drunk, and unfortunately he’s a lightweight.  

“Cmon, you’re taking too long!” he drones, holding the elevator.  

“Okay, okay!” You shuffle inside. You’re a bit sad that Nanami left before you could say goodbye, but you still have the opportunity to give him his present on the next shift. Gojo leans on handrail, button up popped to his stomach.  

“So, no one’s gonna make a move, huh?” He pity’s you in his smug, know-it-all attitude, “it’s so embarrassing watching you two.”  

You have half the mind to refrain from reminding him about when he broke down midday in front of Geto’s house, begging him to take him back. He gets emotional about it. “It’s not as easy as just saying ‘hey, I’ve liked you since I’ve met you. Please don’t think I’m weird’.”  

“Whatever. Guess this must be the life of people with no game. I feel sorry for you, y’know?” You scoff. If anyone has game, it isn’t Gojo.  

“I don’t see you getting laid tonight.”  

“Spoke too soon, sweetheart. I’m fucking a pretty girl after this. And you’re going home,” he peers under his glasses, “dickless.”  

“You’re such a little-“ The elevator dings, opening into the company lobby. Some people are mingling by the sofa. Nanami’s at the front door, putting his beige trench coat on with his briefcase at his side.  

You’re about to step out when Gojo intercepts you, walking ahead first.  

“Na-Na-Mi!”  

“Satoru.” you angry-whisper, trying to grab him. But he dodges your attack effortlessly and glances behind, mouthing ‘shut up’.  

Nanami turns to Gojo, not exactly peeved but surely not happy to see him. They’re two opposites, and you could tell that Gojo quickly got on his nerves. “Hello.”  

Gojo puts an arm around him, and you watch him visibly clam up. “So formal! The boss isn’t here, you can speak normally.”  

“This is how I speak. Also, happy holidays.”  

“Mhm, mhm. By the way, my friend (Y/N) here wants to-“  

“Also wish you a happy holiday!” you chime in, speaking through your teeth. More like screaming, as you try to grab the attention of Gojo’s massive ego, to no avail.  

“Riiight. Anyway, Nanami-“  

“Shouldn’t we all start heading home?” you add, itching to run from the situation. You zip your coat, but Gojo won’t let you go that easily.  

“We should! In fact, Nanami, (Y/N) doesn’t have anyone to walk her home. She lives far, and you know how dangerous it is for a woman to walk alone at night.”  

You feel your eye twitch. You might actually kill him tonight.  

“I’ve got a date tonight so I can’t do it. And I know you have nothing to do so-“ Nanami side-eyes him, then turns to you. For a second, his gaze seems to soften. You smile, mostly as a silent apology for Gojo’s rambling.  

“Would you like me to walk with you?” he asks kindly.  

“…If you don’t mind.”  

“I don’t mind at all” he’s quick to retort.  

“Great! No time to waste then!” Gojo proclaims. He brings his other arm around you, guiding both of you out the sliding doors and into the cold darkness dotted by frosted streetlamps. He steps back from the throuple and brings Nanami close, practically smushing you together by the arm.  

“See ya!” he waves.  

Nanami surveys the path, giving you ample opportunity to glare at Gojo. He never cared, dopey grin on his face as he mimics a sexual act with his hands. Then he walks in the other direction, leaving you to deal with the situation he created. The bus is long gone.  

“Are you ready?” Nanami says, directing you to the inside of the sidewalk.  

“Yea, let’s go.”  

Snowfall cascades in blooming white sparkles amongst the icy sky. It drapes the parked cars in sheets of powder, and the tips of your shoes in frost. The solid breeze through your pantyhose creeps into your bare legs. Cold, but not uncomfortable. You luckily brought earmuffs, but Nanami isn’t as fortunate. Checkered scarf draped around his coat, you can’t tell if his ears are red because of the chill or tipsy after effects. He looks at you, unaware of the red patch on his nose.  

“Sorry about Gojo” he says.  

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”  

“If you’re too cold, I can call you a taxi, instead.”  

“No worries, I’m fine. Are you cold, Rudolph?” you snicker.  

He unconsciously touches his nose with pinkish fingers. “Is my nose red?”  

You stop in your tracks, “Come, I can fix it for you.”  

Nanami obeys and kneels down to your height, eyes fixed to the concrete gradually collecting more snow. Flakes dance around you, towering amongst his hair and sinking in the woolen scarf. You gently bring your hands around the fabric and loop once around his neck. Your knuckles graze his winded jaw in the process—soft and cool, a bit of stubble you barely noticed. You tuck the fringed end pieces into the loop, close to his nose where hot breaths warm your hand. The back shimmies over his head in a balaclava style to hopefully shield him from the icy onslaught.  

“Done. You should get warmer now.” He stands straight with a soft mien. Nanami always shared an easy stare. Yet the same easygoing stare now causes your face to burgeon unimaginable colors.  

“Thank you.” The ghost of a smile sweeps his lips, so quick you can’t decide if it’s a fluke or not.  

You continue treading through the snow, hands stuffed in coat pockets, legs stiffly shuffling together to preserve any heat. It’s quiet for some time—you’re afraid you’ll overstep. In-depth conversations weren’t often had, and you’re unsure of how to proceed without being pushy.  

“Is work getting easier for you?”  

“Yes. The workload is manageable and I’m making good progress with reports this month. I can get ahead of next month’s fiscal documentation.” Refined and straightforward. A natural born salaryman.  

“You’re always talking about work” you glance at him, “I’m curious, what are your hobbies?”  

When he doesn’t speak, you immediately go into damage control. “You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”  

“I bake…” he mutters, a discovery that persists in the space. Nanami is the last person you’d expect to enjoy baking. You half expected him to reply with something mundane like filing taxes. It warms your heart to imagine him in an apron pressing cookie dough through gingerbread molds. He had that endearing quality about him.  

“Really? What’s your favorite thing to make?”  

“Double chocolate chip cookies.”  

Your mouth gapes, “Wait…remember when I stole those cookies from you on your break? You made those?” You recall the confectionary treat and the way it melted in your mouth. You practically stalked his lunchbox for days hoping he’d bring more.  

“Yes.”  

“Oh my god, they were so good!” you chirp, “why didn’t you say you made them?”  

“…I’m not too confident in my abilities yet.”  

“They were amazing, you should be proud” you say, gazing up at him. You’re suddenly hyper aware of the lack of space between you two—arms brushing, shoulder leaning on him a bit. You’ll tell yourself it’s because of the cold. Just this once.  

“If you enjoy them so much, I’ll bring some next time.”  

“I’ll hold you to it.”  

He gives you a faint nudge, calling your attention. He doesn’t seem bothered by the extra weight on his body. “And what do you like to do outside of work?”  

“I read a lot. I write occasionally.”  

“Any specific genre?”  

“No, not really. I’ll read anything if it interests me.”  

“I’d like to see what you write sometime. You have a creative spirit.”  

You recognize it clear as day. The upturned curve of his dry lips, wrinkled eyes sweet and gentle in the dim amber lighting of a street lamp. Freckled by the reflection of steady snow, they appear sparkling as they bore into you.  

“Thanks” is all you manage to choke out.  

“I didn’t know you walk this way.”  

“‘Cause you’re always doing overtime”, you hesitate before you add, “you should give yourself a break once in a while. Take care of your health more.”  

“It’s nothing to worry about.” But I’m worried. It’s meant to be reassurance, but reassurance can only go so far when there’s noticeable eye bags. You step in front of him, spinning to make eye contact.  

“Before we split, don’t go. I want to give you a present.”  

“You don’t have to do that.”  

“Of course I do! We’re friends, aren’t we?”  

Nanami sighs a laugh. “Yes, we are.” He holds the sides of your earmuffs, pressing them tight to your head. Almost as if he’s ensuring you don’t get too cold. “I feel bad now. I haven’t gotten you anything.”  

“That’s okay. Walking with me is enough.”  

“Then could I walk you all the way home?”  

The answer leaves your mouth before you can think, “Sure!”  

You pause, deliberating on your urge to extend the invitation. Nanami regards you closely, watching the minute muscles in your lips twitch as your words come to fruition. You avert your eyes. If only he knew the effect it had on you.  

“It’s p-pretty cold out here. Maybe if you want, you could come inside. Just to like, get warm, y’know?”  

Something flashes in Nanami’s gaze. Brief like other times, yet this one feels darker—full of incomplete emotions you’re not ready to decipher yet. He’s generous with smiles tonight.  

“If you’ll have me.”  

Back at your apartment, you’re fishing for the key in your never-ending purse. You’re somewhat thankful for its disappearance since it gives you time to compose yourself. You’re hoping the state of your home is acceptable to his standard. You hook the key ring under your pinky and pull it out.  

The door, embellished with a Christmas pinecone wreath, creaks open into the narrow entryway. 

“Please come in.” He obliges, following after you as you drop your bag on the cluttered hall tree. You’re too distracted tucking your shoes properly in the rack, aligning them meticulously where it doesn’t count. Then you notice his footsteps came to a halt.  

Unlucky for you, you forgot about the shiny object you’ve had dangling at your entryway since December arrived. It slips your mind sometimes when it’s so out of reach, inches above you. But for Nanami’s height, it draws his attention instantly.  

A pine and cedar mistletoe sprouting red berries hangs from the ceiling by a red ribbon. Meant to be a joke for Shoko when you smother her in excessive love. Meant to complete the other holiday decorations littering your apartment.  

What it wasn’t meant for, was the impulsive invitation to your crush. You stare at it, to which your eyes wander to Nanami, also staring at it. He’s lingering, then he looks at you, amused grin tugging at his lips.  

“Uh, ignore that!” you stammer, a nervous tick in your tone.  

“Were you expecting someone?” He’s already removing his hat and scarf.  

“No, it’s just a silly joke between me and Shoko.” He watches you intently. You have to get used to the laidback version of Nanami, for the sake of avoiding a heart attack.  

“I can take your coat!” you divert, but he dodges your grasp. “No need. You’ve had a long day.” He places it on one of the pegs.  

“Well, make yourself comfortable. Do you want anything to drink?”  

“I’m fine for now, thanks.”  

You quickly scuffle to the kitchen. A tall glass of water to subdue your pounding heart. It’s the fault of your own body, psyching you up to believe that for a second, Nanami might be reciprocating your interest. In a way, conversing with him was easier when you had no expectations, no indication of “like” on his end. You aren’t even sure what like means from his perspective.  

When you leave the kitchen, he’s sitting on the couch, legs spread with an arm resting on the back of it. He shifts in his seat, beige slacks taut on the fat of his thighs. You run to grab the cyan felt gift box from your bag and return to the living room.  

Plopping down, it’s pretty cramped for the span of two people. It's not this crowded when Shoko comes over, but what did you expect when Nanami’s wingspan is twice the size of yours. With your back on the armrest, your knees are inches from his.  

You hold out the box towards him. “Here you go, I hope you like it.”  

He grabs it, feeling the material. Then he glances at your giddy face before opening it. It displays a polished gold chronograph watch with brown leather trim. The ivory velvet interior contrasts against the gold-toned dials, and he marvels it with shock.  

“This was expensive” he says, examining the sub dials like fragile glass. It definitely was, and you did a few overtimes for it, but you won’t tell him that. “I hope you didn’t go through any trouble to get this.”  

“You deserve it. You do a lot for everyone. And you’ve tolerated my nonsense all month.”  

“Thank you isn’t enough for something like this. I’ll do what I can to repay you.”  

You splay your palm. “Aht aht, don’t even think about repaying me.”  

“I’m covering your lunch for the rest of the year” he states, matter-of-fact. You don't correct your touching knees. 

“I won’t let you.” A chuckle escapes through his nose, features softening along the edges of his chiseled cheeks. 

“Then how about those cookies?”  

“…I’ll take that” you beam, “and, I want to be your test subject for any desserts you make in the future.”  

“Whatever you want.”  He slides the watch out of the display and gives it to you. “Would you like to put it on?”  

You unlatch the gold buckle and align the brown straps on his wrist. Fine blonde hair covers his forearm and you couldn’t fit your hand around his wrist if you tried, but you manage with two. “It fits perfect.” 

“How’d you figure out my wrist size?”  

“Remember when I asked for your help with a friend’s surprise gift?”  

“Ah, so that was a lie?” he grins. 

“Just a little one.”  

“Lying's bad for company morale.”  

“Then it’s a good thing we’re not at work right now, huh?”  

“Mhm.” Nanami reaches for his tie, drawing it loose with a finger. “Very good.” 

You slide your shoes off, perching your foot on the other one before sliding that one off, as well. There’s a numbing pressure eating at your heels. You rub the balls of your ankles, persistent aches from the nonstop dancing you’ll sooner feel tomorrow.  

“Does it hurt?”  

“I should’ve taken my shoes off when I danced” you sigh. 

He pats his thigh. “Let me help.”  

You blink. Once. Twice. Does he want me to...? You don’t have the heart to question it. Not when it’s working in your favor. 

“If...that’s okay.” You’re startled a bit when he immediately scoops your leg and hikes it over his thigh in a single motion. You stare at his solid, vein-woven hands encompassing the surface of your ankle.  

“By the way, I don’t ‘tolerate’ you. I had fun when we were decorating.”  

“Oh, really? It didn’t seem like it, haha.” You’re nervous laughing. Between the small confession and the affectionate thumb swaying back and forth, you’re flustered beyond belief. 

“I look forward to our conversations. I’ve never thought of you as a bother.”  

You’re sure he’s talking at this point. You know he is. Yet, the series of firm, delicate touches along your ankle dull your ears to everything besides the sound of rough pads moving rhythmically along nylon.  

“…Do you give massages often?” Nanami doesn’t look at you, transfixed on catering to your calf. He’s passed your point of soreness, traversing up your leg for the massage. His kneading sends your skin aflame. It’s a fervent intensity that starts at your trembling voice and ends in an embarrassing mess between your thighs. You can’t bear to meet his face. A pinkish tint to his knuckles, brushing the back of your thighs and scaling higher. 

“No. I’m practicing for you” he says, breathy and caught in a sharp wind. That’s when you notice his wrinkled collar, buttonholes straining from his tight breathing, and a burning glow poured over his ears and neck. His touches grow impatient, out of sync as if he’s trying to dig under the material to palm raw skin. “I’ll owe you more in the future.” 

The watch reflects bright in the headlights of your Christmas tree. Like you’ve laid claim to him. He’s wearing you on his arm.  

“You look great.” He pauses, finally turning to gaze at you. His glasses are off center, and his eyes—blooming and almost black—crave a certain unsatiable hunger, gnawing at his stomach with a feast just out of reach. He wouldn’t dare eat without permission. 

“It looks great…on you.”  

“You look great too” he whispers through a clenched jaw. Your breaths mingle in the space, thoughts going unsaid while somehow tainting the air with insistent need. You can't stand it. Can’t stand the way your thighs clench, searching to stave off desire. 

Nanami parts his chapped lips, then closes them. He swallows nothing, Adam’s apple bobbing. Restless. 

Every little action he performs elicits a sense of longing once buried in an unattainable sector of your heart. 

“Hah…please don’t look at me like that” he says, tense and on the verge of begging. 

“Like what?”  

“Like you want me.” It leaves his mouth. Another confession, syrupy and coated in a deep desire, pulsing in the very core of you. He relieves a shaky breath, a ticked jaw struggling to relax.  

“I do.”  

Nanami’s restless demeanor shifts fast, and the air he’d been saving escapes him entirely. He smoothly tucks his grip under your knees and pulls you close. You settle on his lap, chest to chest, hovering over him. Noses ghosting, threatening to concede. Boiling heat coils in waves in your gut, and your heart skips across your ribcage. He’s equally flustered, if not more. You feel the heavy bulge prodding your tights, enough to earn a muffled sigh. 

“You’re giving me false hope.” 

“I want you.” He places a hand behind your neck, another trailing up your curves. 

“Say it again” he mouths into you. They’re soft, languid with your own. You caress his face, enduring the way he tests your lips, nudging just to pull back. 

“I want-”  

Before you can finish your sentence, he crashes onto you. The well-mannered Nanami you knew stalks your tender lips with unbridled yearning. Chasing your mouth as if you’d vanish if he released. His lips turn slick from a succession of sloppy, uncoordinated kisses and you’re nearly suffocating. He doesn’t falter, though, choosing to devour your moans, your body, anything relating to the idea of you. He attempts to be gentle with the pace of a lover—but judging by the way he hurriedly hunts your mouth when you part for air, he’s missing the mark.  

His hands snake over your waist to the fat of your ass. Fondling through your clothes, you feel the true nature of his grip as pillowy indents fill the space between his fingers. You’ve found purchase in his golden locks, carding through his hair to pull him impossibly close. You’re light-headed, drunk off the pressure of his kiss, his touch refusing to leave your body. The only thing separating your embrace are the tiny moans and whimpers that follow them. Your body betrays you, clenching around nothing like a virgin having her first kiss.  

You’re both huffing once you break. Nanami licks his lips, savoring the taste, a crude groan beneath it.  

“You give me mixed signals” you pant.  

“Then allow me to make it clearer.” He throws his glasses to the side, skittering somewhere on the floor.  

Nanami dives back into your mouth, gliding his whiskey-singed tongue against yours. Unrefined, messily exploring your mouth in a manner of wet smacks. The sound goes straight to your sticky underwear, and you’re shifting uncomfortably in his grasp, to which he holds you sturdy on his lap.  

“Don’t go” he whimpers, drawing a fleeting breath. Blown-wide pupils bore into you, “I need you.” He licks a stripe up your tongue, allowing a trace of drool to slip amid you as he smothers you in French kisses. His mouth is hot, laden with a dizzying mix of alcohol and zeal, yet he cups your cheek lovingly. You’re slinking under his shirt, fumbling with the fasteners until they pop. Your one-minded focus ignores the buttons scurrying across the rug to enamor his ample pecs, flushed and plump in tandem with his husky build. 

You’re alternating against each other’s tongues, neither one of you willing to depart. Gorged on the whimpers you evoke as you cradle his plump chest. 

“Darling, please” he whines. 

He guides your ass along his aching bulge, stealing a satisfied moan from the depths of your mouths. You’d mistake it for a thermal water bottle if it didn’t twitch. Back and forth on his slacks, the seam bumps your clit each time you roll your hips, smearing the dribbling mess from your pantyhose. He leaves you to oscillate on the tensing fabric, pursuing a semblance of relief, jolts of frisson enveloping you.  

You withdraw from him to occupy the space on his neck. Splotching rough, spit-soaked kisses in blurs of red to match his tumid lips. He has a pretty, desperate voice, cracking when you suck on his pulse point. “Uhn, just like that—god.” He lets his head fall a little further, steering you in cycles. “Want more of you.” 

When he pulls you up, an evident gloopy trail follows the score of your tights, and you shy away from the scene. He kneads your plush thighs as he spreads them apart, pecks dotted on your cheeks. “Don’t be shy. You’re gorgeous.” 

Nanami supports your lower back while picking the buttons from your blouse. Or at least he’s trying to—his desperate limbs can’t latch on properly, and he inevitably snaps it down the middle. You discard it and he’s instantly on your breasts, licking and biting as he reaches for the bra clasp. You take it off yourself in fear of him breaking that too. 

His kisses linger on the swell, even when he talks through it. “You don’t know how long”, he gradually raises your skirt to your waist, “I’ve been waiting to touch you like this.” 

Nanami takes a nipple in his mouth, circling it recklessly. He indulges in the parts he’s desired for months, indecent with the tug of his teeth on your bud. A lewd stare, misted and still greedy for seconds. And it’s overwhelming; the constant pounding in your cunt, slobber coating your mound with him groping the other. It’s like he has multiple ravenous hands surrounding you, dancing over every crevice he can manage. Consuming you.  

And when the soft moans begin to leave you again, it’s driving him crazy. He picks you up and flips you to lay on the couch. He doesn’t back off for long, only to shimmy his shirt off and rend the belt from its loops. You forget to remove your own clothes, too busy gawking at the remaining attire—a loose tie, sock suspenders, and black briefs drenched in milky precome. He drops to his knees in a heartbeat, sharing a warm smile. Nanami really is adorable, and you’re facing a whirlwind of emotions from the contrast of his brimming underwear, and the hold that manhandles your legs on either side of his shoulders. 

His brows furrow, agitated with the nylon clinging to what he's lusting after. He grabs the front of them and easily tears it into elastic shreds. He doesn’t apologize this time. You aren’t bothered by it—if anything, it removes some of the pressure from your throbbing muscles. He promptly soothes it, wrapping around your inner thighs to feed his hands into the rips. 

“You’re so soft” he moans against the surface just as he paws it. A sigh and he’s immersing his face in the groove of your pussy, smudging open-mouthed kisses over your sensitive clit. The unfiltered contact sends a thrum through your body, though clamping your legs proves futile. 

“Ah, be patient” you joke, playing with his hair. He doesn’t spare a glance, webbed mess coating his lips, a thread from him to you.  

“Can I eat you? Please?” It comes off more like a formality than an actual question as he nuzzles into you, breathing in with a guttural groan. He slides the soaked cotton halfway, full range to admire your dribbling slit. You can tell he strives to pamper it slow, but Nanami doesn't possess the strength to tease or be composed. 

He treats your pussy as if it’s a separate entity from you, indulging and dragging his tongue in long, flat stripes. Nanami eats you for his own enjoyment, eager like a man starved. Slurping and swilling in loud, gratifying squelches. Low mmf’s vibrate against your arousal, but it’s hard to hear when you’re anchored to his face and he refuses to let go. A desperate tongue drinking your heady scent, oblivious to the honeyed fluids sluicing down his chin. He repeats small, calculated licks and continues to treat your squishy flesh like a pliable stress ball.  

“Fuck, it’s s'good—so, so good.” You learned something new about Nanami today: he can curse. 

Nanami embeds his fingerprints in your skin. Toying with the taste of you, stopping to swirl the relentless appendage around your swollen clit. The tip of his nose does part of the job for him. Your utmost efforts rely on the yank of his scalp, knot after knot collecting in a burning surge through your quivering abdomen. Cries croak in your throat, unable to emerge while he’s having a personal, filthy make-out session with your pussy. He fits perfect sandwiched between your juicy folds and he’ll make sure you know it. 

“’M so close” you moan. That’s something he does hear, because he instantly holds tighter, all attention directed to the trembling bundle of nerves. Pleasure builds quick, and when your legs start to shake, he takes that as a sign to delve deeper, sucking aggressively through the shudder. Your body caves and you’re reduced to ecstasy, rutting against his mouth with no control. He gladly accepts in kind. “Nanami.” You’re calling for him, and he hums inside, satisfied as he laps at the spasms. 

He comes up for well-deserved air, sweat sheen from his matted hair to the blonde tufts sitting below his bellybutton. Dopey, glossy grin on his face, he shirks out of the tights and places a kiss on the lips he missed so much. You taste yourself on his tongue. Then you feel a finger glide against your syrupy entrance. 

“Nanami, wait.” He peppers kisses down your torso where he returns to his knees.  

“I have to make sure you can take me, baby.” Another grazes, soaking in your essence with a few languid drags. One dips inside, quickly finding a home in your gooey walls. Tiny aftershocks mimic the slow drawl of a curling finger and you’re keening.  

“Mm, too much.” 

“I’m sorry.” He pumps a tolerable, sopping stretch. Adding a finger, “Be a good girl, okay?” 

You’re clinging to him, sucking him in hopes for more. Your pussy greedily eats it up despite the overstimulated smolder, a melting thump thump that contracts around him. He’s twisting his fingers in a c-shape, looking for little hints that he’s in the right direction, and you’re giving him everything he needs.  

His tender, loving stare settles on you. Lapping at your clit and pumping your g-spot while you succumb to the hazy pressure thawing your head. You’re melting in a frenzy of cries, simultaneously reeling and pleading for him. Nanami’s determined; imbibing the juices gushing from your vulva and tailing the frenetic buck of your hips. 

“Uh, oh shit, right there” you moan, and he speeds up.  

“Yeah? Right here?” You’re nodding nonsensically, whine peaking. Your back arches and he moves to your breast. “Let it out, darling. I got you. Come on my fingers baby.”  

The second he latches onto the nub you’re rendered silent, mouth shaped in an ‘O’ as you come hard around his fingers. He slows, milking your orgasm for all it has, careless of your shaking legs and tears gathering on your lashes. He pecks the corner of your eye, and you’re too caught up in your own sobs to see him lick his lips. 

“Such a good girl for me.” You’re showered in kisses and he rubs circles on your waist. You blink back the tears, meeting tongue and teeth in a carnal exchange. But you’re craving more, him and nothing else. You palm his erection and he groans. You can see the painful print of his entire cock through his briefs, angry tip peeking out ever-so-slightly. 

“Take it off” you whisper. You watch his eyes flicker, a moment of hesitation—you won’t let him. “Stand up.” 

Nanami obeys your command and quickly stands. You hook under his waistband and yank them off. His thick cock stands at attention, nearly smacking you across the face. It’s a bashful red to base, glazed fat head dribbling precome down his heavy balls. He looks like he’ll unravel at any second. You bring a digit to his balls and it twitches. Dragging it up the veiny shaft, gathering his salty mess to spread it over your held out tongue. He stifles a faint shudder. 

“Baby, let me put the condom on.” At least you didn’t have to worry about bringing your own. You wrap your hand around his head, enough tension to be sure he doesn’t find comfort. You rub a thumb over it and his breaths yield shallow. 

“Hm? Why?” you ask, batting your eyelashes as you deliver a small lick. He hitches. 

“D-don’t.”  

“You don’t wanna feel my mouth?” He bites his lip, probably thinking about your pretty face gagging with a mouthful of him. You know the real reason why he won’t, and it’s rather cute that he’d save his release. 

“I-I do. God, I really do. But I-” 

“But what...?” You swirl it once, and he can’t even handle that.  

“C-condom” he whimpers, almost pleading. “Condom...what?” 

“Condom please. Please.” 

“Go get it.” He makes sheepish haste to his coat, returning with a gold wrapper. He’s about to rip it but you stop him. 

“Give it to me.” You tear it open with your teeth and position it over the head. Rolling it over, pursuing it with tantalizing, soft kisses. You feel him pulsing against your lips until you’ve secured the condom at the base. He swallows dry and his stomach recoils on nothing. You enjoy his needier display. 

“C’mere sweetheart” you tempt, luring his body to loom over you. He pushes your legs back and spreads you wide. “I’ll take it slow.” 

His brows crumble, jaw wedged, angled at your pussy. It’s already soaking him and he hasn’t put it in yet. You do your best to make him ease up, a hand placed over his. But as it dips into you, Nanami’s chewing his lip, going haggard before it ever started. He stops completely, an effort to compose himself even when he’s growing stiff and melty at merely the tip.  

“Just g-give me a second” he stammers, and you stay still while he slides the first inch into your creamy, chubby cunt. Stretching and clenching around him in a sappy sluice, he has to pause again, quivering in place. “Fuck-“  

Nanami moves a few inches and his hearts beating out of his chest. Foggy, sensual weight sticks to the edges of his brain and coils in his leaden sack.  

“I-I don’t know if…” A mouthwatering, snug fit, pulling him deeper. He’s grinding the rest in, but every time he gets a little further his throat bobs and he tenses. You’re molding to his length, encapsulating him in squelching fire, and he’s never felt anything like it in his life. Once he’s flush with you, he sighs, beating a fraction of the battle. 

He starts at an agonizing pace. It’s not doing him any favors—now he has to suffer through every sloppy drag, walls committing his veins to memory in a tight, addictive grip. He caresses your face.  

“I’m sorry. Bear w-with me” he whines, and you hold your hand over his. You’re not doing it intentionally, but watching him fall apart is truly a sight to behold—strands glued to his forehead, pussy-whipped fawn eyes lost in your warmth. You guide his fingers to your mouth and deliberately suck on them. Cruel of you, but it’s worth it for his wobbly whimpers, his delirious, thrumming cock. You know he won’t last.  

“No- Haaah, I can’t yet.” His hips lurch, and he holds back yet again. You lock your ankles around his back, giving him no room to fight it. He’s buried deep. “It’s okay, Ken. You can come.”  

Ken. Nanami loses it on the spot, coming instantly in a string of curses and delicate moans.  

“Shit- oh my god. Baby- oh, haa-ah-“ he cries, but his other thoughts spill out of him in soupy babbles. His movements stutter and you still milk him dry. He’s throwing his head back shaking and you gently massage his waist until he comes down. It takes some time.  

“You okay?” You feel him half-flaccid inside, and he’s panting on the shell of your ear.  

“I’m sorry” You brush the hair from his face.  

“Don’t be sorry about anything.” You kiss his forehead when suddenly your legs are being forced back.  

“Wanna keep going” he says, a hint of drool at the corner of his mouth.  

“Take a breather first.” He’s stuck in the irrational corners of his thoughts—every waking idea engulfed in the thought of you. He’s mumbling to himself, beginning to swing his discordant hips again. His voice cracks, body pushed past overexertion.  

“Call me Ken” he whimpers, sticky squelches meeting your bodies in a tangled, milky net.  

“Ken” you whisper, a flirtatious tint in your tone. He’s entranced by you. You’re touching foreheads, and he shamelessly mewls like a slut in your ear through every gooey plap.  

“How long have you liked me?”  

“Since we’ve m-met” he drones, finding a sopping rhythm. “I was scared. I thought- ah- you might not like me.”  

“So, you’ve been waiting for this?”  

“F-fuck, yeah. Ah- feels so good. Even better than my dreams” he prattles.  

You cup his face. “You dream of me?”  

“Uh-huh. Makin’ a mess of this pretty pussy. It’s so much better. So, so fucking good.”  

“Hold on.” He leans on the couch, legs bent on either side of you as he positions you like a pretzel.  

“Need it” he moans, slathered in your cuddly embrace. He’s hardening again, quick, and already skirting an addictive torture.  

He pulls out and drives his sack flush. It knocks the wind out of you, and you claw his back as he fucks with reckless abandon.  

Slurring a plethora of unhinged ‘more’s, he pistons inside, base to head, ass rippling against his savage thrusts. Every vast, violent stroke sends an intoxicating burn to your sweltering cervix. A while film bubbles at his sack where he’s pummeling, jaw slack and doe-eyed.  

Your toes curl, hypersensitive nerves teased and flipped, ruined by his adamant cockhead kissing your g-spot. You’re stretched past your limits, fluttering helplessly around him. His corrupted smile curves against your neck bursting with need.  

“Taking me so well, darling. I might come. C-can-hah-can I baby? Can I come for you?” He’s impossibly fast, funneling whines and nasty slaps. The rabid force bangs the couch against the wall and you’re at his mercy.  

“Mhm, g-go ahead Ken.” Waves of white-hot pleasure fizzle and spark on your skin, and you’re putty with the weight of him bouncing you.  

“Thank you, t-thank you-you’re so good t-to me.” He’s ragged, plummeting to the hilt. Your spasms sap him as he trembles, succumbing to your own orgasm. He grapples heavy, mean strokes, sticky laces bonding his tightening balls. Then he sobs, quaking until he comes.  

He doesn’t pull out. You’re both quiet for a while. On a descent, simply delighting in the comfortable silence. You join in another smooch.  

“(Y/N).”  

“Hm?”  

“Merry Christmas.” You glance at the time; way past midnight. He meets your gaze. After everything you did, you’re worried over one question.  

“Can we get to know each other?”  

He smiles, a kiss to your neck.  

“I would love to.” 

© mooishbeam - please don't steal, copy, or post my work to other platforms :)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 8: Magma and Sky]

A/N: Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), grief and torment, a fun field trip to a volcanic rock, Red and Aemond have a very honest conversation, enjoy our special guest stars!!! 😉🔮🐍

Word count: 5.1k

❤️ All my writing can be found HERE! 💙

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

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“I was with somebody else.”

You startle and look up to see Aemond standing under the arch of the arbor grown over with a quilt of red roses, twisted and thorny and thick enough to drape you in shadows. You are sitting cross-legged on the stone bench and reading a book about all the known varieties of bats; Helaena found it for you in some dusty, ill-lit corner of the library when she was searching for texts concerning insects. It is still the waning days of summer in King’s Landing, and Viserys is the king, and thin threads of sunlight like golden strands of a spider’s web fall down through gaps in the arbor. Last night was the first time Aemond touched you like more than a brother, claimed you, transfixed you, and you are already alight with the lust-red craving to do it again.

Here, now, in the garden of the Red Keep, Aemond won’t meet your eyes. Instead, he stares fixedly into the contorted nest of roses, wild green punctuated with blooms of crimson like blood or rubies or glowing embers. You have no idea what he means. You reply after a moment, closing your book: “With somebody…?”

“Before,” Aemond says, like it takes great effort. He is still not looking at you. “Years ago. It wasn’t my intention for that to happen, I didn’t plan it, I didn’t ask for it…but I didn’t stop it either.” His reticent blue gaze drops to the cobblestones. His voice is very soft, barely audible. “In a brothel…there was…”

Now you understand. “I know, Aemond.”

His attention jolts back to you, a fracture set, a lightning strike. “You do?”

“Aegon told me. He felt badly about it afterwards, he thought he shouldn’t have done it, but he…” You gesture as if you holding a goblet of wine, and Aemond nods. He was drunk, he was reckless, he mistook it for a favor. But he was wrong.

“You will benefit from what I’ve learned,” Aemond says, as if still trying to convince you not to be appalled or angry. In truth, you are neither. “I hope that is some comfort to you.”

“I don’t find comfort in anything that causes you pain,” you reply honestly, tenderly. A warm breeze blows in off the sea, tasting like salt and rustling the roses and the leaves. This morning you tucked a single flower into your braid, a blue forget-me-not. Now you touch it self-consciously. “Do you mind that I’m so unpracticed?”

Aemond seems to find the notion ludicrous. “No. No, of course not.”

“But you’ll have to teach me everything.”

“That’s how I want it to be. I’m of the belief that if two people wish to be together, there should be no other parties involved. I had meant to be pure for you. I’m sorry I’m not. It is a regret of mine that I carry always. It is a failing.”

You shake your head, sensing his distress as if it is your own: a gnawing anxiety, a sickening drop in your belly. “It wasn’t your fault, Aemond.”

“So I am forgiven?”

“I never considered it to be a transgression.”

“Oh. Good.” His mood lifts; there is a phantom of a smile on his lips and a lightness in his stride as he takes a taunting step towards the stone bench where you sit. “And how do you feel? After what happened last night before dinner?”

And you grin with glinting eyes as you answer, setting your book aside: “Still hungry.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Seven days on a ship, and you don’t speak to Aemond once.

The weather is bad, grey and windy, sometimes snow, sometimes sleet, sometimes hail that pelts the wooden deck, and the vessel rocks in bleak violent waves. Aemond had arranged for the ship to meet him near Heart’s Home, where the glacial mountain river flows into the Narrow Sea, where you used to collect seashells to shatter and rearrange into the faces of the people you left in your old life. He had known you would not be able to travel by dragon. And so now Vhagar flies somewhere out there in the cold iron-colored sky and Aemond stalks below deck, haunting your doorway, painting the walls with his shadow.

A maester prods your ribs and says some are fractured but they will heal with rest and time. He gives you tastes of milk of the poppy—just enough to sand the edges off the pain so you can sleep—and compliments the cleanness of your scar. Two maids bring you meals and help you dress, wash the soot and blood from your skin, comb your hair. But Aemond does not touch you. He tries once as the maester is examining you, and you look at him with hatred that is primal and infernal and black like volcanic glass, and he snatches his hands away and makes no further attempts. But he watches you, and he waits, and he tries to piece the truth together. You can feel the bewildered turmoil in him. The ricochets of it echo in the mausoleum of your skull.

When you are awake, you stare at the ceiling or at the floor. When you are asleep, you dream of Jace and Luca. They turn to torrents of blood in your arms, or crumble into ash, or are buried in the earth and you are digging for them with your bare hands. You dream that you are locked in a closet or a trunk and no one ever comes to let you out. You dream that you are at the bottom of the ocean in cages of leviathan skeletons, dragons that lived and died before Vermax or Dreamfyre, before Meraxes, before Balerion the Black Dread, before any of the beasts that perished in the Doom of Valyria. You dream that Helaena is falling from the sky and you cannot catch her, cannot save her. You dream that Mother is telling you that you’ve failed.

Then you wake one dreary morning and hear the sailors shouting that land is in sight, and you climb up out of the depths of the ship and stagger to the bow, hooking your fingers into the rigging to steady yourself as the ship pitches and reels in rough surf. Aemond is standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, his black coat drenched with rain and sea spray, his scarred face far away, miles away, years away. Out of the mist rise the dark jagged walls of the castle that sits atop the island of Dragonstone, where Aegon the Conqueror once plotted his invasion of Westeros.

You ask: “What did you do with him?”

Aemond whirls, stunned that you have spoken at last. His silver hair, half-tied back, hangs in long dripping waves. Your own blows wildly around you. “What did you say?”

“The baby. His body. You took him away from me. What did you do with him?”

“He was burned as a Targaryen.” Aemond’s voice goes quiet, gentle. “Not because Jace was one, but because you are. His ashes were cast into the sea.”

Aemond waits for you to respond. You don’t, you can’t. You close your eyes and see Luca swaddled in one of his blankets; you feel Jace’s dark curls threading through your fingers.

Aemond reaches tentatively for your arm. “Red, I…I didn’t…I never would have…”

You turn away from him and walk from the bow to the stern—your cracked ribs aching, the maids fluttering around you and chastising your sodden ink-colored dress, saying you will catch a chill and die, and if you did you wouldn’t care—and you wait there for the ship to dock.

When you step onto Dragonstone, it’s the first time you’ve returned to the island since you were a child and you tried to claim Vermithor. You don’t understand why Aemond has brought you here, and you don’t ask. You follow the pathway up towards the castle as Aemond trails silently after you like a shadow. Behind him, the maester and your new maids trudge begrudgingly up the countless stone steps and shudder when they hear the distant snarls of the beasts that have lairs here. Cold frothing waves thrash against the shoreline. Gulls circle high overhead, squawking mournfully. Magma flows beneath the black-glass rock; you can feel the radiating heat of it, scorching blood in the arteries of the earth.

Just inside the castle, someone is waiting for you. And it is the first time you’ve truly been roused since Aemond and Vhagar descended upon Heart’s Home.

“Aegon!” you shout, and he rushes to you as swiftly as he can, his walking stick tapping against the floor, his muscles straining beneath knots of scar tissue, his chipped teeth flashing white when he beams. He embraces you like a drowning man grappling for a piece of driftwood in the currents, almost knocking you off-balance. He is laughing, he is smacking graceless kisses onto your cheeks, he is marveling at your face to make sure you’re real.

“You’re alive!” he says, cackling triumphantly. “All this time we had no idea where they’d hidden you, we thought we’d never see you again, but here you are and you’re alive—”

“She’s hurt,” Aemond tells him severely. “Stop yanking her around.”

Aegon furrows his scarred forehead as he checks you for injuries. “Are you really?”

“A few broken ribs. They’ll heal.” Your fingertips go to his mangled cheeks and scalp, to what you can see of his chest. You’ve never witnessed wounds this bad on someone who lived. “Your burns…”

“They felt even worse than they look, if you can believe it. But I’m still here.”

Not all of us are. “Helaena…”

“We heard,” he says, tears glistening in his large ocean-blue eyes. He holds you one more time, more gingerly now. “And those butchers will die for it. All of them. The Bitch Queen and her aged uncle-husband and her idiot children too.” He steps back from you and looks to Aemond. “Our spies have brought word from the mainland. The people of King’s Landing are in open rebellion, they blame Rhaenyra for Helaena’s death. If they can get into the Red Keep, they’ll murder her and free Mother. The Hightower army will soon cross the Blackwater Rush.”

“Daeron knows to wait?” Aemond replies.

“A raven has been sent. I can’t say if he’ll listen.”

“He’d better. Tessarion may have proven herself quick and ferocious, but she is small. She must not fly against Silverwing and Syrax alone.”

“I told him!” Aegon says, exasperated. He means: What else can I do about it? He is still clutching his stick and leaning heavily upon it. He can’t fight as a soldier; he can barely even walk. “So what happened at Heart’s Home? Were the bastard and Vermax there? Did you kill him? Did he beg for you to spare his life, did he weep for the memory of poor pathetic little Luke Strong?”

Aemond doesn’t respond. He winces instead, then shakes his head like he’s telling Aegon to stop talking. You look down at the stone floor, and in the relentless grey gloom of the castle, the island, you feel the white-hot searing of grief and fury in your throat, and if you were a dragon it would not be invisible but a fire that consumes flesh all the way down to its bones.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon asks Aemond, alarmed. “What did you do?”

There are echoing footsteps on the stone staircase, and you are startled to see a woman descending. You’ve never met her before, and you would know if you had; her skin is like moonlight and her pale eyes wide and staring. Black hair hangs to her waist, and it makes you think of swaying branches of a willow tree, or strands of seaweed washing up on the beach outside the Red Keep, or feathers of ravens. She wears a velvet gown the color of moss. Her belly is rounded, just beginning to show. She rests a little white paw of a hand on it and studies you curiously, tilting her head. She is four or five months pregnant.

You gape at her, then turn to Aemond and Aegon, both of whom have averted their eyes. “Whose child is that?”

No one answers you. Instead, Aemond says to the woman briskly: “Your insights were accurate. You will be rewarded accordingly. At the conclusion of the war, you will take up residence at Harrenhal. Until then, you will make yourself scarce here.”

She curtseys; it is a strange, awkward motion, angles in all the wrong places. “Yes, my prince.” But she hesitates before leaving, still watching you. As she strokes the arc of her belly, things kindle in her coin-silver eyes like embers exposed to air: fascination, envy, a vague vicarious fondness. You stare back, thunderstruck. Her long fingernails are filthy with soil or ash.

Whose child? Aemond’s?

You cannot ignore a sharp, nauseous lurch in your own belly, a place where no life grows. Beside you, Aemond is palpably uneasy. You can feel it sweating out of his pores, you can hear it in the sick thudding pulse of his bloodstream. You are reminded of a confession he once brought to you in the garden of the Red Keep as you sat under the shadow of an arbor of scarlet roses.

“Back to the kitchen, witch,” Aegon flings at the woman. “Or the garden, or the cliffsides, or wherever you were haunting before your intrusion.”

She points a talon-like fingernail at you as she begins to ascend the steps. “She is here, but is she yours again?”

“Out!” Aegon barks, and when she has vanished he sighs wearily, as if this is a recurring inconvenience.

You look at Aemond, repulsed, bewildered, betrayed. He says: “Come with me and I’ll explain.”

For a moment, you do not acquiesce. You only glare savagely at him, and if this was before he left King’s Landing a year ago—before Rook’s Rest, before Rhaenyra seized the city and imprisoned you, before Heart’s Home, before your marriage to Jace, before Luca—Aemond would grab you and drag you to wherever he wanted you to be, and he would know that when you fought him you didn’t mean it. But he doesn’t touch you now.

Instead he implores you in a hushed voice: “Please.” And you follow him out of the grey and into the flickering amber light of the Chamber of the Painted Table, where a sweltering hearth crackles and candles burn down into pools of white wax. Westeros is illuminated by fire, like all the places Aemond has burned over the past year. There are chairs positioned around the table. You sit by the Vale; Aemond takes his place across from you near the Reach, where the Hightowers hail from, where your youngest brother Daeron has spent the war waging his battles and torching his enemies. A maid brings two goblets of red wine. You can’t drink it, just like Helaena couldn’t eat blackberry jam after Jaehaerys was beheaded in front of her. Aemond watches you push the cup away and then tells the maid to bring cider instead. You wait without speaking, the only sounds the splitting of wood in the fire and the rumble of the ocean outside and the distant growls of dragons. When the maid reappears with cider, it is a cloudy goldish color and hot and tastes of fermented apples. You sip it listlessly. The maid departs and closes the door behind her.

“It was an exchange,” Aemond says.

“An exchange?”

“Her name is Alys Rivers, she is a bastard of House Strong. I found her working in the kitchen when I took Harrenhal. She is an enchantress, she has some magic to her, just like we do. She said she might be able to help me find you. But she needed something in return. A son, a child built of our ancient Valyrian blood. An heir, a castle, a future. And since Aegon has been rendered impotent by his injuries, and Daeron is far away in the Reach and still a boy himself…”

“You lied with her?”

“Well, I’ve done it before,” Aemond says. And then, when you don’t immediately grasp what he means: “Been with a woman who wasn’t of my choosing.” He draws invisible paths on the Painted Table with his fingerprints. Firelight ripples across his face: a downcast eye, a scar to match the one that cuts down from your left collarbone. “She scoured the woods surrounding the Gods Eye for herbs, and feathers and bones, and all manner of strange talismans. She tried for months to conjure a vision. Then one day she saw it in the flames of the hearth: three black ravens, three red hearts. The sigil of House Corbray of Heart’s Home.”

“And for her services you promised her Harrenhal.”

Aemond nods. “She and her descendants will rule it as House Whent.”

“A new noble house?” you mock bitterly. “And what will its banners be? A burning castle? The charred skeletons of its murdered inhabitants?”

“No,” Aemond says quietly. “Bats.”

You look at him. His blue eye flicks up to your face again, to your black mourning gown—you will wear no other colors—and your unbraided silver hair that drips with rain and seawater.

Aemond asks after a while: “Do you like wearing your hair that way now?”

Distractedly, you touch the damp silver tresses that are unbound, soft and feminine and weak. “Jace told me I wasn’t a warrior. He wanted me to look like a lady.”

“You were wed to him,” Aemond says as if he still cannot comprehend it.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon after Rhaenyra took King’s Landing. It was Mother’s proposal. She convinced Rhaenyra to agree to it.”

Aemond is lost. “Why? He was a bastard, a traitor.”

You flinch. “Mother thought it would encourage the Blacks to spare us if they won the war. Rhaenyra thought it would give her heir legitimacy. Neither Jace nor I wanted the match.”

“But now you…you miss him? You mourn for him?”

“We grew accustomed to each other. There was true affection, there was warmth.”

“Did he…were you…?” Aemond cannot decide how to say it, or perhaps he just can’t bring himself to. You can tell—from the way his gaze drops from your face to your body, a mystery cloaked in soaked black velvet—that he is thinking of your wedding night, something you were supposed to share, something you spoke of often with desperate, willful, blazing yearning. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not purposefully.”

There is a flare of wrath. “It needn’t have hurt at all.”

“Why did you come after me?” you ask, and your voice breaks and tears spill down your cheeks, and your ribs throb and your throat is full of fire like a dragon’s. “Why did you kill all those people in the Riverlands, why did you burn Heart’s Home, why couldn’t you just…just…just leave me there?” Luca and Jace would still be alive. Lady Caro would still be alive. Tens of thousands of people wouldn’t have burned or starved.

Aemond is incredulous. His voice grows louder; firelight engulfs him like he is drowning in a lake of it. “I swore I would find you if you were ever taken away.”

“I waited for you. I wondered where you were. I stood in the rookery and stared out into the Mountains of the Moon and agonized over why you couldn’t hear me or see me, why you didn’t arrive on Vhagar to save me, but you never came, and so I tried to forget the promises we made to each other because I believed you’d forgotten me—”

“I never forgot you.”

“But I was different!” you sob, bolting to your feet, pressing a palm to the glow of the Painted Table. “With Jace, I was different! I learned to be his wife, I learned to be a mother, and I was fine there, I was safe and I was happy and you destroyed my life!”

“I could feel that you were in pain,” Aemond is saying as he stands and rounds the table to meet you. “It was months ago, it must have been when you…when you were in labor…physically, I could feel it, I thought they were torturing you, I thought you were dying, and how would I know anything else if all I’d been told was that you were stolen by the enemy? You think Daemon is above depravity? You think it’s so unreasonable that I believed you to be in peril?!”

“You were reckless and cruel,” you seethe, shoving him away. “You always are. You’re always killing people.”

“When I flew over Heart’s Home, I knew you were in the forest. I saw the trees through your eyes. I thought I was freeing you, I never anticipated that you would return to the castle. I didn’t know you cared for the lives of anyone inside.”

“You should have left me there,” you choke out through tears.

Aemond tries to take your hands, and again you strike him hard, meaning it, hating him. “I would never have abandoned you,” he says.

“Why not?!” you scream at him. “Because you believe you possess me like a sword or a jewel, because it is sacrilege to let another man touch me?!”

Aemond is shaking his head. “It’s more than that. You know it is.”

You scoff at him, vengeful cynical disbelief. “In eighteen years, you never once told me you loved me—”

He seizes your wrist, drags you to him, cradles your face with his left hand and skates his thumbprint over the crest of your cheekbone. “I have loved you forever,” he says. “And if I didn’t express that in a way you understood then it was my mistake, and I’m sorry, and I’d do anything to change it. I thought you knew. I thought we both knew that…that…” Aemond’s lone eye gleams desperately; he is pleading for you to hear him. “Do you have any idea what this past year has been like for me? It was hell. Aegon almost died at Rook’s Rest and I brought him back but I was alone, I had Criston and maesters and soldiers but I was still alone because Aegon was unconscious and you weren’t there, and neither were Helaena or Daeron. Then King’s Landing fell to Rhaenyra and there was nothing I could do about it until I was sure Aegon would live, and when I learned you’d been taken away…I set the realm ablaze, I waded through an ocean of blood, and I did it because I swore that I would find you and bring you home. And now I have but you…you…you don’t even recognize me. It’s like you don’t remember what we were. Only I carry it now, I’m cursed by it, I’m consumed by it.”

You break away from him and Aemond lets you go, but he follows you around the Painted Table, shadowing you, chasing you. You pitch at him: “You were always so rough with me.”

“Because you wanted it that way and I did too, we craved it, we needed it, we’re the same.”

“You liked that I didn’t have a dragon of my own, you aspired for me to be helpless—”

“No I didn’t,” Aemond insists. “I tried to help you claim Vermithor, right here on this fucking island I risked my life when we were children to pursue him with you. And he did not yield but I wasn’t to blame for it. I cannot give you a dragon. You have to bond with one yourself.”

You glower at him, swiping tears from your streaming eyes. “You hardly ever spoke of dragons to me.”

“Because I knew it pained you! Because I have felt the agony of being a Targaryen without a dragon and I didn’t want to remind you of it!”

“You should have left me with Jace at Heart’s Home,” you moan, collapsing into a chair and weeping into your open palms. “I would still have my son. I would still have my family.”

Across the table, Aemond slams his fists against the wood. “Jace could never fathom who you really are. It’s impossible. He wasn’t like us, he’s wasn’t one of us. We are Aegon and Visenya, we are Baelon and Alyssa. Jace wasn’t a Valyrian. He was a Strong, and part of you would have needed to die to live with him.”

You stare desolately down at the Painted Table, glowing golden lines in the shape of the Vale. “Jace hated that I loved you. You hate that I loved him. I’m always at fault, and yet my crimes are so harmless.”

Aemond is staggered; he is heartbroken. “You loved him?”

I told him I did. “I felt something for him. I grew to miss him in his absence. I desired him when he returned.”

Aemond goes to the hearth, rests one hand on the stone mantle, and gazes into the flames. You can feel it like an echo, like a reverberating tremor in the earth: he is broken. You cannot summon compassion for him. Each time you begin to, you feel the still lifeless weight of Luca in your arms. After a long time, Aemond speaks. “I have to return to the Riverlands. I can’t leave Criston unprotected. Daemon and the Northmen will meet our armies in battle soon. Vhagar and I have to be there. If I can kill Caraxes, I think this will be over.”

You turn to him, dimly startled. “You’re going now?”

“I have to make the world safe for us and our family. Even if I’m not here anymore.” Aemond studies you, afraid to ask the question that burns in his throat. “Do you…” He breathes deeply, salt and misery and smoke from the fire. “Do you still want our side to win?”

“I hate what we’ve done to each other. All of us.” The dead innocents, the destruction of our house, the extinction of our dragons. “And you murdering Luke started it.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees softly. He crosses the room and stalls in the doorway, looking back at you. He waits for you to say that you will miss him, or that if he returns there might yet be a future for the two of you, or that you will be distraught if he is killed in combat, or that you love him.

As the fire pops and crackles, you shrink into your wet black mourning clothes and say nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sprawled across the volcanic-rock throne in the nightscape gloom of the Great Hall of Dragonstone, Aegon gulps cider until his pain vanishes and his mind is a dull sloshing sea. You are slumped on the steps beside the throne and drinking with him. Neither of you speak it aloud, but it stands in the room like a ghost: you have both held a dead son in your arms, you have both lost a husband or a wife to this war. Torches burn along the walls. Outside, rain pours and the dragons creep and snarl. Sunfyre is here too, Aegon has told you. He can’t fly yet—perhaps he never will again—but he is alive and hostilely defends the cave where he dwells from the other creatures of the island: Grey Ghost, Vermithor, the Cannibal.

The Blacks believe Dragonstone to be abandoned, and in any event they are too preoccupied with their myriad of troubles in the Riverlands and King’s Landing to take it upon themselves to investigate, and so you are safe for the time being. You get drunk in the home of your ancestors, the Valyrians who carved out a stark, grim existence here, who dreamed of greatness, who despite all their magic failed to foretell their ruin.

“Do you know what he asked Sylvi?” Aegon slurs. “The woman from the brothel. Not the very first time, the first time…” Aegon smiles nostalgically. “Well, it’s like your first time riding a dragon. It takes you away and you’re just…” His hand flows in the shape of a wave. “Holding on. Mesmerized by it.”

“Sure,” you say, remembering not your wedding night with Jace but the evening when Aemond dragged you halfway out of the chair by your vanity and licked you, swallowed you, devoured you until you could not help but cry out, and you sank to the floor with your heartbeat thudding in your ears and Aemond lying beside you, smoothing back your hair from your burning face.

“Aemond only went to Sylvi a few more times after that. But she told me what his requests were when I inquired.” Aegon looks at you meaningfully. “He wanted to know how to make it good for a maiden. And who do you imagine he was thinking of?”

You don’t reply. You guzzle your cider instead. You want all of your bones to stop aching: your ribs, your skull, every place that Aemond ever touched you. You feel a strange smoldering inside, like all your bone marrow has been quarried and replaced with embers, pulsing, glowing. You feel something dangerous and primordial drawing closer.

“He never would have hurt you intentionally,” Aegon says gently, clumsily petting your loose silver hair as if you are one of the hundred cats Grandsire brought to the Red Keep after Jaehaerys was slain. “He worships you. He always has.”

“I can’t forget what he did.”

“Can you forgive yourself for letting him leave that way? If he dies thinking that you hate him?”

You swallow a mouthful of cider, hot and intoxicating. The room spins. Lightning flashes outside. “Maybe I do.”

“No, you don’t hate him,” Aegon says rather wistfully, with the solemn surety of drunks.

Alys Rivers wanders into the Great Hall, the train of her dark green gown whispering over the stone floor. Aegon scowls at her. She stops at one of the misted glass windows and gazes out into the storm.

“He flies to his death,” Alys murmurs sorrowfully, as if she wishes she could change it.

Aegon groans. “Shut up, witch.”

“Above the Gods Eye, the red and the blue, tangled threads cut by fate—”

“Be gone!” Aegon shouts and hurls his goblet of cider at her. It misses, strikes the wall, clatters to the floor and spills its contents in a puddle. Alys does not seem to notice. You sit upright on the steps by Aegon’s throne, watching her.

“He flies to his death,” she repeats, melodically like a chant or a spell. “Unless, unless…”

Alys looks at you, then turns to peer through the window again. Outside in the darkness, a monstrous beast growls, not Sunfyre or Grey Ghost or Vermithor.

[fuckyeahfraxus]

Fraxus Week 2025

is in course of preparation! There have been two mod changes on this blog and we are still on a tight schedule in our private lives but this Fraxus Week is the one time of the year that we will not miss out on in fandom life. We will also be catching up on all the wonderful fanarts and fics and content that has been posted in the regular fraxus and character tags - you may have noticed us in the shadows, already liking lots of the stuff haha.

ANYWAY- like last year, Fraxus Week will take place from August 31st till September 8th. One Week plus two bonus days.

For the first step, we want to ask YOU guys to send in ideas for possible prompts that can be picked from. So, feel free to comment on this post with your ideas or send a message or an ask. Below we will put a list of all the prompts that have already been used in previous years.

Secondly, we want to ask if anyone would be interested in drawing and providing a banner for the official Fraxus Week post. So if you wanna, feel free to message us as well!

That is all for now. We will keep you updated! Message us if anything is unclear, if you have questions or just wanna say hello!

Your Fraxus Mod Team

Prompts from previous Fraxus Weeks:

Two bros chilling in a hot tub

Wine and Blood / Scars and Flowers

Breaking Stereotypes / Going against type

Proximity / Reunion

Art/Musical/Rockband

Fighting each other/Fighting side by side/Force of nature

Guilty Pleasures/Indulgences

Court/Council/Jail

Face the past/Imagine the future

Busted! or Secretly being a couple already and coincidentally encountering another secret couple during vacation

Dancing in the Rain

Height of Summer

Learn how to love

Transformation

Sports & Competition

Hidden moments

Dusk/Dawn

Moonlight/Shooting Star

Solace

Haunted

Mischief and Debauchery

Guildmates / Family

Mythology Au/Crossover

Videogame/Movie Au/Crossover

Soulmates

Demon possessions/Dragon hoards or Demon in disguise x Angel undercover

Early mornings/Late nights or Sunrise/Sunset

Deadly/Savage

Fruity

AU rivals team up or Canon verse first Unison Raid

Master(s)

Lightning struck

First Meeting/Growing old together

He likes guys

Enemies to friends to lovers/Friends to lovers

Casual (e.g. clothes/conversation/etc.)

Drunk on kisses/alcohol/power/life/etc.

Losing control

Weird Habits

Proposal/Wedding/Engagement

Tarot/Legends and Mythology

BDE Couple (Big dick energy? Big dork energy? Big dumbass energy? You decide, these nerds can be anything)

Unstoppable/Freed the Dark and the Thunder God

Night in/Night out

Mischief

Spa/Vacation/Hot springs

Hope/Despair/Complicated/Easy

Sweet treats

Seasons

Next generation/Adoption/Two Dads are better than one/The guild kids’ cool embarrassing Uncles

Pride

First kiss or Mutual Pining

Power couple or Competing/Competitive

Makarov

Patching each other up/Taking care of each other

Modelling/Weekly Sorcerer/Interview

Mythical creatures/Zodiac/Gods/Four horsemen of the Apocalypse

Post war

Crossover

Sharing

Morning/Night routine

Reverse

Training/Sparring

Quirks/Habits

Gaming

Spoiling each other

Playful shenanigans

Motion sickness

Beach

Music

Comfort

Fantasia

Camping

AU

Unison Raid

Blue Pegasus

Cooking & Baking

Thunderstorms

Clumsiness

Interfering friends

Flirting/Flirting gone wrong

Night

Confession

Anniversary

Dance into summer and/or Dancing in the rain

About damn time and/or Platonic flirting turns not so platonic

Library and/or History and Myth

Go to hell

Matchmaker(s)

The beauty and the beast/The beauty and the demon/The beauty and the dragon/etc.

Pretend relationship and/or Rumors

Dirty fight/Sweet love and/or Cruel/Tender

Reimagine a canon scene/Possible alterations and/or additions

[askthehedgehogs]

I was literally going to ask a question along the lines of "can the two of you purr?" but, it seems my question was answered.

Anyways, since that happened, to the both of you,

What's one thing you do that can make the other purr and/or what was your reaction to hearing them do that for the first time?

Sonic, this is sorta directed at you because I feel like hearing Shadow purr would be a shocker to you.

-🧡 anon

Well, Sonic’s already answered his side of things in the last post and I’m a little wine drunk, so I’ll take this one…

It took me a long time to figure out how to make Sonic purr. It’s not really something he does, so it felt like quite an achievement when I heard it for the first time. I thought maybe Mobians couldn’t purr and I was odd for it—although I doubted it came from the Doom DNA. But…

If I rest my head on Sonic’s chest and purr, he’ll purr as well. That’s the only time he does. It’s wonderful.

[sh4nksslvt]

Perfect pair

Y/n lands on the forsaken island of Kuraigana, crossing paths with the world’s greatest swordsman, Dracule Mihawk.

PART 1 OF READER WHO CAN USE THE INFINITY STONES

dracule mihawk x reader ౨ৎ💗 ONE SHOT

main characters: mihawk

tags: fluff, sfw, soft, lots of v!ol3nce

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ff cringe and oc

words count: 968

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

Kuraigana Island was a corpse of a land.

Fog hung like a wet cloth. Gnarled trees clawed at a grey sky. Castles lay in ruin. Crows perched on broken battlements, staring like tiny, judgmental gods. The humandrills lurked in the shadows, half-watching, half-measuring you with the unsettling intelligence of creatures that knew too much and bowed to nothing.

You arrived with no fanfare — a split in space, a ripple in air, and there you stood.

The swordsman was already waiting.

Golden eyes sharp as his blade, Dracule Mihawk took you in without surprise. Just a flick of his gaze, the briefest narrowing of lids.

“You’re not from here.”

“...”

A beat. Then a faint smirk.

“State your business.”

You glanced around. The entire island radiated don’t bother, but you liked the silence.

“Needed a place to land.”

Mihawk regarded you a moment longer, then turned away.

“Don’t get in my way.”

You didn’t answer. You never did.

There he stood, placing the wine aside. Up close, he was taller than you expected, broad-shouldered and impossibly composed, moving like liquid death. The sort of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.

“I don’t know where you came from,” he said, approaching with unhurried grace, “but I can tell you this island is no place for a traveler. It devours the weak.”

“I’m not weak.”

Something in his eyes sharpened. “Prove it.”

A sword materialized in his hand—a black-bladed cross almost as tall as you were.

You didn’t blink.

He smirked, and in a blur of movement, brought the blade down.

You raised a hand.

The world stuttered. Time hiccupped.

His strike slowed to a crawl, the blade inches from your face.

“Cute,” you murmured, tilting your head. You could feel the hum of cosmic power rising within you.

With a flick of your wrist, you stepped out of sync with the moment. Time resumed, his blade cleaving harmlessly through empty air.

You were leaning against a column now.

“Done?” you asked, voice flat.

Mihawk turned, eye narrowing. A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth.

“Well, Aren’t you interesting.”

Days bled together.

Mihawk didn’t ask you to leave, and you didn’t offer. He trained in the ruins. You wandered. A routine of unspoken tolerance.

Occasionally, the hum of his blade slicing the mist would pause as you flexed space to pluck fruit from high branches, reversed time to catch a falling stone before it shattered, or made entire sections of the crumbling wall rebuild themselves just for fun.

Once, a particularly bold baboon lunged at you. Mihawk turned just in time to see it dissolve into stardust.

You held its still-beating heart in your palm for a moment, then let it fall.

The humandrills kept their distance after that.

He said nothing, but his eyes followed you longer after that.

He asked about your powers one evening, rare curiosity threading his tone.

You sat by a fire you didn’t need, lazily manipulating the flame into twisting shapes.

“Are you a god?”

You considered it. “Complicated.”

He hummed. “Good. I hate gods.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Noted.”

Tension hung between you like fine wire. Neither speaking it. Neither breaking it.

When pirates landed, drunk on courage and legends of Mihawk’s title, you watched from a stone wall.

Twenty men.

They charged.

Mihawk moved like death made flesh, blade a dark glimmer. He cut through them like wind through leaves.

One survivor crawled toward you, gasping, reaching.

You tilted your head.

The man froze. His body peeled apart into strings of light, unraveling like an old tapestry.

Mihawk watched, bloodied and silent.

You met his gaze. “Messy work.”

He smirked. “Efficient.”

Weeks later, a storm hit.

Lightning split the sky. Waves devoured the shore.

A galleon, unfamiliar flag, shattered against the cliffs.

Mihawk and you stood at the shore. Bodies in the water. Survivors clinging to wreckage.

“Yours?” you asked.

He shook his head.

A captain, foolish and loud, cursed and called Mihawk out by name.

Mihawk’s blade lifted — but you stepped past him.

A simple gesture. A ripple in reality.

The ocean bent, swallowing the survivors. The ship’s remains vanished, leaving only empty, perfect water.

Silence.

“You stole my kill,” Mihawk said.

You shrugged. “They bored me.”

He stared at you a long moment, then laughed. Low, rare.

“Stay,” he said.

You did.

Because for once, you weren’t bored.

One dusky evening, Mihawk invited you on a hunt.

“A nuisance on a nearby island,” he said. “A former Warlord pretending to hold dominion.”

You quirked a brow. “And you need me?”

“I don’t need anyone,” he replied smoothly. “But you might amuse me.”

You smirked and stepped through a portal, Mihawk following.

The island was a lush jungle, overrun with hostile fauna and even more hostile men.

They expected Mihawk. They didn’t expect you.

One tried to cleave your head from behind.

You stopped time.

Walked around the frozen scene, plucking the man’s weapon away, rewinding his attempted strike into a trip and face-first fall into mud.

When time resumed, Mihawk didn’t flinch, but you caught the slight twitch of his lip.

“You enjoy showing off.”

“I enjoy being alive.”

You flicked a finger. Space warped around a group of enemies, their bodies crushed into a single, compacted orb of air before disappearing.

Mihawk cut down the rest, his precise strikes a sharp contrast to your cosmic chaos.

Afterward, the island was silent save for the wind and the cawing of carrion birds.

Mihawk sheathed his sword.

“You might be dangerous company.”

“You might be boring,” you countered.

Another smirk. “Then we’ll keep testing that.”

You stepped back into Kuraigana’s misty air together.

The humandrills stared harder than usual.

And you, for the first time in centuries, considered the notion of staying.

[k-marzolf]

—The Wolf.

—slightly canon!Billy, alluding to oral (f receiving), implied poly, alcohol, drunk reader.

—526 words.

—I haven’t written in a long time. I felt a little inspired, so I wrote. :) I’ll tag a few who might be interested. If you don’t see yourself tagged, it’s because I can’t remember my taglist, lol.

— @e-dubbc11 @kayhi808 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @snowkestrel @aoi-targaryen @terry2227 @firexfate @danzer8705

You drowsily watched him work at his desk, leaning your chin down on your arms, feeling jittery. You probably shouldn’t have drank that wine with your antidepressants. “Sometimes I think Anvil is what you love the most. More’n me and Frankie.” You slurred, drunk from the wine he’d given you, and feeling like you’d stepped into a hot bath. The fire cracked in the background, light flickering in the dark room.

Billy leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen, dark eyes watching you. He reached across the desk, a finger curling around your hair. “It’s proof of how far I’ve come.” He said, voice low, making a fire burn deep in your belly. God, you wanted him. In every way, you wanted to devour him like the wolf in the woods.

“But Billy, we love you. Is it really worth everything?” You asked, taking another sip, sinking deeper into the chair, his answer wrapping around you;

“I loved my ma. Where did it get me?” His voice was sharp, as bared his teeth. A pin drop could be heard, and the wind blew outside, making you cold somehow despite the warmth of the fire.

“I could love you.” It was quiet, but he heard you as he pulled back, dark eyes like chips of onyx.

“It doesn’t matter if you love me. You’re mine.” The clock chimed midnight.

“And you’re mine and Frankie’s.” You said, shifting, the chair creaking underneath you. You remembered recently sharing a bed with Frank and Billy, nestled between them while they smoked. You felt an ache between your thighs even now, the smell of Billy’s cologne and nicotine.

Billy fidgeted with the pen, a frown between his eyes, and his lashes fanning over his cheekbones.

The room was dim, casting harsh shadows across his face. He dropped the pen and it rolled across the desk. He grabbed his glass of whiskey, Tennessee Honey, and finished it off. He looked at you over the glass. “There’s no such thing as fairytales. That shit is for the storybooks.”

“But maybe in the fairytale Red Riding Hood gets eaten, and she’s happy for it.” You said, wide eyed, and eager.

“And I’m the wolf, right?” He set the glass down, admiring how you pressed your thighs together under his hot gaze.

“Billy, who says you’re the wolf?” You said giggling, and he couldn’t tell if it was the wine. “I can eat you when you visit your mother in that home you keep her in. When you keep her—“

Billy clicked his tongue. “Careful. You’re clever and I like you, but my ma is off limits.” He said through his teeth.

“Oh, Mister Russo, won’t you keep me and Frankie locked up, too?” You continued, unruffled.

He closed his laptop, and stood up moving around the desk. He fisted your hair, “Alright, little bird. Let’s go to bed. Maybe if you’re good, I’ll eat that pussy.”

You laughed, standing up, running for the stairs, looking over your shoulder, beckoning him. Your hips swayed, taking the first step, and then laughed again racing up the stairs, Billy hot on your heels.

And hell on his.

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XI - Bona Noctem

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 31k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: a smooch to everyone who commented on the last chapter and an extra big smooch to my lovely @alwayslurkinginthebackground for beta-ing the last few chapters and always being here to talk about our roman husband ♡

thermopolium - a snack bar (but ancient) thermae - public bath caldarium - room with hot water bona noctem - good night

Chapter XI - Bona Noctem

The sounds of the cicadas follow him all the way through the deserted streets. Acacius can still feel the adrenaline in his body, having stayed in his study and the atrium for the remainder of the evening, silently hoping that Lucilla would simply go to sleep before he came to join her. He’ll be back beside her when the sun comes up. Like he was never gone.

A few people rush past him on the streets, one or two drunks stumbling in the shadows when he passes one of the thermopolium, where cold and hot food are served–preferably with wine or beer. No one pays him much attention, partly because he has dressed down, ditching the red cloak that usually flaunts his wealth and standing, and partly because he keeps his head low. He would do well not to be seen with you, at least not at this hour of the night.

“Stupid. It was a stupid idea.” Acacius mutters to himself as he passes below the high walls of the colosseum and turns onto the street that leads to the public baths. It’s a cloudless night and it almost feels like the moon is taunting him, threatening to expose his secrets. The entrance is abandoned, large columns framing either side of the heavy door.

As soon as he steps inside, a light steam hangs in the air, the scent of honey and herbals reaching his nose. Acacius treads lightly, heading to the right. He finds the small changing room empty. Carefully, he rids himself of his cloak and his shoes, leaving him barefeet and only in his toga.

The steady sounds of water dripping and fire cackling below drift to his ears, the otherwise ruling silence only broken by the taps of his feet on the stone floor. He pauses for a moment, trying to figure out where he is supposed to find you. He cannot go into the women’s section, even though that’s where you’ll most likely be. Has he misunderstood your message? Did you mean to meet somewhere else? Or maybe outside the baths?

He is still trying to answer his own questions when he steps into the largest of the rooms the thermae holds. The caldarium, offering hot water to relax aching muscles in, the large pool lined with columns all around. And on the steps that descend into the water is a familiar figure.

Your head is bowed, your gaze focused on the almost completely still water, your feet arched into it just up to your ankles. Steam drifts over the surface, disturbed only by your miniscule movements and the occasional gust of wind blowing through the room. It’s much darker in here now than it is during the day, the columns and statues throwing long shadows onto the walls around you, flames burning low in the braziers.

He wishes he wouldn’t have to speak. He allows himself a few moments of just watching you, imagining that you are merely a painting on canvas, the same way he did when you were framed by his door and the moonlight behind you on the night of Bona Dea. He briefly entertains a fantasy where, if he did not speak, you would always continue to sit, always continue to wait for him. That he could come back here every night and just stare and it would be enough.

But you wouldn't. And he wouldn't. And he has to say the things that are waiting in his throat. He knows they're there because he feels how hard it is to breathe.

“Dulcissima.” His voice is low and he casts an anxious look over his shoulder, still worried that the two of you may not be entirely alone. When he turns back to you, he finds that you’ve raised your head and are looking up at him, a small smile decorating your face.

Acacius slowly walks around the room, making his way to join you. The stone steps are comfortably warm below his bare feet as he stands next to you, a small sigh leaving his lips as his hand hovers above your head. You have not taken off your veil, only lifted your stola enough to avoid it getting wet.

“So you understood my message?” You hum, your eyes trailing up his body until they find his.

Acacius nods quietly. “We are lucky no one else did.” He pauses for a moment, not wanting to sound too harsh. “It was too dangerous.”

Your smile drops as soon as the words are out of his mouth and his throat only becomes tighter. He doesn’t want you to look at him like that. He wants a smile on your face. And he wants to be the one to put it there.

He wants to say what he came here to say. But you are making it so impossibly hard for him.

Acacius doesn’t move as you stand up, already way too close. “How did you even get into the men’s thermae?”

“I walked through the door?” You ask quietly, stepping into his embrace, allowing your stola to fall freely around your feet.

He sighs but it sounds more like a growl and he feels you pressing yourself further into his space in response. The smells of the baths are replaced by those of you and he gathers you into his arms without further thought, tucking your head below his, the fabric of your veil scratching against his nose. “Dulcissima.” He whispers again. “We cannot continue this.”

“I came during the day. It would have been fine, everyone knows I am coming along to the south so–”

“That is not what I meant.” He can feel you tense up in his arms, your muscles going rigid at his revelation. 

“Acacius.” You whisper, your voice muffled against his toga. “Nothing has changed. We can keep it secret–”

“It does not matter.” He thought getting the words out would allow his throat to relax. But somehow they do the opposite. “If anyone finds out, if we are caught–” He shakes his head. “If any man was to walk into this thermae right now, you would be condemned by morning. And they–”

“I will not feel the touch of another man for a decade. Until I finish my services and are allowed to be rid of my veil.” He can hear your voice shaking slightly. “At least allow me your touch one last time.”

He should say no. But when you raise your head, soft eyes looking up at him, begging him to give in–He finds that he has no say in the matter.

“Come here,” he whispers and then finds that you don’t need him to tell you what to do anymore. Instead, you carefully begin to push his toga up and he bows obediently, allowing you to undress him. Before he has a chance to return the favor, you have wrapped your hand around his and are guiding him down the stairs and into the steaming water. Merely feeling your fingers curled around his has his cock twitching and he suddenly feels so exposed next to you. The fine dark curls that trail down from his naval and frame his length are not nearly enough to hide his excitement and he inwardly lets out a sigh of relief when the water finally allows him an illusion of cover.

His eyes fly to the way your stola trails behind you, the fabric gently gliding over the surface, sending small ripples through the entire pool. The warm color of the flames dancing in the braziers around the room reflect in the water, making it look like the two of you are bathing in gold rather than water.

The statues look on from their alcoves, stone eyes watching your dance. His hands smooth over your sides, eventually settling on your hips, gathering the fabric in his fists. “You look like a goddess.” He whispers and watches with satisfaction as a faint blush appears on your cheeks.

Your shoulders drop ever so slightly under the growing weight of the soaked fabric and Acacius doesn’t even think, he simply pulls you into him, nudging your legs until you willingly spread them and wrap them around his middle. “Have you ever … done this in the water?” You whisper and he chuckles.

“I have, actually. Though it was not nearly as comfortable and sanitary as the thermae.” At your raised brows, he continues, understanding the silent inquiry. He brushes his thumb through the fabric floating below the surface. “It was in the Tiber. I was to leave for my first campaign with the army. And she was kind enough to give me a going-away present.”

He feels you hum in response, shifting against him. It should feel wrong to speak about his past lovers with your middle so close to his but it doesn’t. He longs to be known by you. To be something different than the glorious General that he knows people see when they look at him. They don’t see the dead or the failures. They see a golden wreath of leaves that feels far too heavy on his head.

“You’re not here.” Your voice is only a whisper. But it still penetrates the thoughts swirling around his head and he watches as your face comes into focus again, a smile on your lips that almost seems sad. “Be here with me. Please.” He nods solemnly. “Be inside of me.”

His length twitches against your thigh and he has to stifle a moan at the feel. It seems like his body knows its place, craving to feel your walls around him again. “Your stola is too heavy. Let me help you.” 

It takes a few moments until he manages to rid you of the thick layers of fabric and one hand leaves your body to heave the stola over to the side of the pool and onto the lowest stair. One of your hands is wrapped around his arm to keep yourself up, the other already undoing the white pieces of cloth that cover your most intimate areas.

Acacius lets out a soft groan at the sight, his hands coming to rest on your back as he steps into slightly deeper water again, the surface right below your breasts. “So beautiful,” he whispers and for the first time in days, his lips find your skin.

His mouth fits perfectly around your areola and he swirls his tongue around it in circular motions, occasionally adding some pressure by sucking on the sensitive skin. Small sounds begin to rise from your throat and he practically laps them up. “Acacius, please.” Your whimpers fill the steamy room, your voice weaving its way in between columns and statues. “Please come inside.”

And gods, it sounds like you’re inviting him into your home, like this is a sweet conversation at your front door rather than an illicit meeting in the middle of the night.

“Alright, of course. Of course.” He mumbles back as he withdraws his lips from your nipples, instead nudging your elbows. “Put your hands on my shoulders. Hold on, yeah? You can squeeze, you won’t hurt me.”

Acacius can see your eyes trace the scars there, receipts of his battles fought. Your touch is gentle, like you're afraid he'll crack open along the faded lines. “But–”

“Anaticula. Hey.” He squeezes down on you, making you look at him. “You could never hurt me. You just hold on and let me do the rest. Tell me if anything hurts. Yes?”

“Yes,” you whisper back and he nods reassuringly before reaching down to line himself up with your heat. Ripples travel over the golden surface of the water as you shudder at the feeling and Acacius can feel your hands tightening on his shoulders. Then, he follows your invitation.

Sinking into you feels out of this world. Your muscles clench around him, welcoming him in, pulling him deeper like your body knows what it craves. “Gods–” He curses quietly, listening closely for any sign of pain in your soft moans. “Take a breath,” Acacius whispers, peppering small kisses all over your jaw and cheek, the tip of his nose pressing into your skin. “It can be more difficult in the water.”

“It feels good. So good.” You whimper in between inaudible noises and Acacius is dimly aware of the strained feeling in his throat finally lessening as he watches you losing yourself in your pleasure. He moves very gently at first, making sure not to push you too hard. But before long, you're squeezing down on his shoulders, demanding for more and more and more.

And again, he has no choice but to give you what you want when you ask so prettily. The room is filled with the noises of the water sloshing around you, giving way to his movements as he buries himself inside of you again and again. One of your hands finds his hairs, pulling on his curls as your mouth chases his, swallowing the moans he draws from your body. His own grip tightens as well and you throw your head back, your movements becoming more erratic. Several strands of hair frame your face, the put-together look you usually carry slowly melting away.

“Dulcissima, I am close, I should–”

“Stay inside,” you whimper, now fully abandoning the concept of being quiet. “Please–” It's hard to tell which one of you is more surprised by your orgasm arriving as fast and hard as it does. Your words turn to a choked sob as your body trembles around him and he cradles you in his arms, giving a few more thrusts as you fall apart between his fingers.

He curses under his breath, only barely managing to pull you off him in time to not spill his seed inside of you. Acacius maneuvers you onto his hip instead, emptying himself into the water. He grunts as he feels his length twitch a few more times, scraping his teeth over your collarbone and placing a few kisses there blindly, his eyes squeezed shut.

When he opens them again, a large piece of white is floating away behind you. You don’t even seem to be aware, still all soft and wrung-out in his embrace. But over your shoulder, he sees the future unfold. Your veil drifting away across the water.

***

It feels like youre waking up from a dream that's too good to be true. One that you may have had earlier today, when you were in Aquila’s shop. Of a future with Acacius, who would always do as asked. Or so you thought.

You begged him to stay inside and he didn’t. You felt his release, felt a part of it brushing your thigh and disappearing into the water. An odd sort of jealousy is set alight in your chest. The idea that come morning, others will get to swim in this water and unknowingly be with a part of Acacius that should be only yours.

He moves below you, keeping one strong arm wrapped around your back as he leads you back toward the stone steps, shifting you onto them. “Are you alright?”

In the span of half an hour, he has gone from being mad over your note to worried. You can feel his eyes on you and you shiver slightly, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Fine.” You won’t give him the satisfaction of disappointment on your face. Not if you can help it. Because you know what is about to happen, merely by the way he holds himself.

“We should not linger.” He mutters, turning his head to each side to survey the quiet room. “And we should not take any other risks.”

You only look at him for a split moment. But it's enough to see the pain in his eyes.

“I'm sorry I ever put you into this position,” he whispers, brushing his palm over his beard. “I knew it was a mistake to talk to you in the temple–”

“I was a mistake?” You breathe out, feeling your body begin to tremble with something that is not the cold.

“No. Gods, no. You are wonderful and talented and–” He sucks in a small breath. “And you feel incredible around me.” You nod even though you barely register his words.

“But?”

“But it was a mistake to talk to you.” He says quietly, driving his point home and you feel like you wanna sink into the depths of the pool and never resurface again. He may be able to forget, to move on. But you know that Vesta won’t. And you have no doubt that you will be punished for laying with him. Your goddess is not one of forgiveness.

“I will pray for your safety.” You say quietly, forcing yourself to stand despite your legs feeling like they are not there. “Bona noctem, Acacius.”

You hear his footsteps behind you, water dripping from his still naked body and you have to force yourself not to look. “Dulcissima, please. Your clothes are all wet.”

Gods. He has a point. You just assumed that your illicit meeting would last longer, that you’d have time to wait for them to dry. You wonder if the girl he did it in the Tiber with had time to.

“Wait.” Acacius commands with a voice that reminds you why he is a General and you listen to his bare feet tap away–and back. You can hear him wring out your clothes, placing them beside you and then you feel a comfortably warm fabric settling on your shoulders and wrapping around your form.

His dark cloak is too big on you but it is in no way less comfortable. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you wonder if he knows, despite not seeing your face.

“Be safe,” he whispers and you think you hear his voice crack slightly before you finally force your body to move, grabbing your shoes from the spot where you left them, your wet clothes tucked under your arm as you step out into the city of stone. The moon shines brightly all the way back home.

[novaursa]

Hi! I'm so sorry to bother you. This is my first time ever asking a request. I was hoping you could do an Oswell Whent x reader who matches his dark humor. They meet in King's landing when he's newly joined the King's guard and she's just a lady at court. They have flirty banter that seems not so flirty and more so creepy/scary to those who don't get their humor. You can go crazy and add whatever you'd like. Just having you write my request would be enough to make me happy. But it's totally understandable if you cannot write it for any reason at all. Take care ❤️

The Eulogy You Deserve

Requests are closed

- Summary:  A story where you meet a man that matches your heart.

- Pairing: female!reader/Oswell Whent

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: Due to lack of information this short story only has around 810 words.

The throne room is always too loud. Courtiers buzzing like wasps drunk on arbor wine, velvet and silk brushing against marble floors like whispers conspiring in the dark. You move through it like a ghost among the gaudy, skirts of deep indigo trailing behind you like a pool of shadow. Your expression betrays nothing, lips set in a careful smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, which have seen too many fools bow too low and rise too proud. King’s Landing is a nest of peacocks and rats, and you learned early on how to be both.

He stands near the Iron Throne when you first see him—close enough to bleed on its blades should he fall, but composed like he’s carved from cold stone. Ser Oswell Whent. The newest addition to the Kingsguard, they say, sworn and shorn and sanctified in white. He does not glow with noble arrogance the way the others do. No. He watches. Not just the king, or the hall, but everyone. His gaze flickers to you like a knife sliding beneath ribs—quiet, curious, and a little too keen.

You’re aware of his eyes before he speaks. A woman can always feel when she’s being weighed, dissected, tasted without ever being touched. You don’t stop walking until you’re close enough for propriety to creak like a strained floorboard. Your fan dangles at your wrist, unopened.

“You stare like a man who’s trying to decide if he wants to kiss me or kill me,” you murmur without looking directly at him.

Oswell’s mouth curls, just barely. “The two are not always mutually exclusive, my lady.”

You tilt your head, finally turning toward him. He’s handsome in that strange way only men of death sometimes are—focused and shadowed, with a stillness that speaks of violence held at bay. His hair is dark and tousled, his eyes even darker. He does not look like a knight in songs. He looks like a secret kept too long.

“How fortunate,” you say, “that I like a little danger before dinner.”

A nearby septa gasps, dropping her prayer beads. Someone coughs awkwardly. Your smile grows like ivy—slow and creeping. You step closer still, until your perfume curls into the air between you both like smoke from a burning offering.

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches you with that same unsettling calm. “Do you always speak in riddles and threats, or have I earned special favor today?”

You glance at his white cloak. “Only for men who wear shrouds before they’re dead.”

Oswell chuckles, a low thing, rich and sardonic. “If you intend to bury me, my lady, I hope you at least stay for the eulogy.”

“I’d give you a better one than most,” you say, raising a brow. “Something short, cruel, and terribly poetic. Perhaps even a touch obscene, if you’re lucky.”

“Sounds like the sort of verse I’d die for.”

You almost laugh then, but it comes out more like a sigh. There is a strange comfort in the way he speaks, matching you word for word, darkness for darkness, never recoiling. It’s rare to find someone who doesn’t flinch at your barbs, rarer still to find one who sharpens them.

“I think,” you say softly, “you may be the first person here who understands how boring it is to play the game as they do.”

“Endless masks and pretty lies,” he agrees. “All polished smiles and daggers made of honey. I find steel more honest.”

“And I,” you say, “find honesty most dangerous of all.”

The court shifts around you, oblivious to the thread being spun between you both, thin and taut and glinting. You see the glances. Hear the mutters. “She’s too familiar with the knight.” “He’s too quiet to be trusted.” “Did you hear what she said?” Let them talk. Let them choke on it.

“Walk with me, Ser Whent,” you say, turning toward the arched hallway lined with golden sconces and brocade. You do not look back to see if he follows, but you know he does. His silence is a weight behind you—measured, watchful, deliberate.

“I should warn you,” he says once you are out of sight and sound of the throne room, his tone more amused than chiding, “I’m not very good at being charming.”

You stop. Look over your shoulder. “That’s all right. I’m not very good at being good.”

He smiles then—truly smiles—for the first time. It doesn’t soften him. It makes him worse. It makes you want to kiss him or kill him. Maybe both. Maybe later.

“Gods,” he mutters, as if to himself. “I think I rather like you.”

You shrug, continuing down the corridor. “Plenty of men say that before I ruin them.”

You don’t see his expression, but you hear his voice, low and dry: “I do hope you’ll try.”

And just like that, something dangerous begins.