#without relief or respite

[craftdemonkaid]

[acid-ixx]

a loving family, an unpalatable desire

— masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: would anyone hear me out if i ever wrote romantic yan! bruce (ft. platonic yan! batfam AND romantic yan clark kent alongside the superfam ofc) with a neglected spouse reader... because uhm, i've been thinking about it lately just yk... so anyways PLSPLSPLS send in asks about this, ive been thinking about it so much lately.

imagine wanting to raise a family so badly with a man who adopts problem children as a side hustle. you're not some invasive spouse, you've always been good, always been loving, so... so accepting, never questioned where or how he picked them up from the side of the streets, never once complaining about the hickeys on his neck or the once neat tussles of his hair now tangled accompanying lipstick stains on his white suit.

you love your children, you tell yourself all the time. you love them, you love bruce— even if he doesn't love you. you said it in your vows, despite it being scripted, despite your family finally sighing in relief in the sidelines at finally being able to sell you off to one of the wealthiest man in the world, rather than being wasting off under their care— your vows are real.

you wanted someone to love you, unconditionally, so viscerally eternal that it eats you up.

really, all you wanted was to play that fantasy life of trophy house spouses. all you wished for was a loving, healthy relationship. the american dream: the picture perfect family frames, your husband kissing you on the cheek as he leaves for work, your children bickering at the dining room, with the scent of homemade meals wafting about the vicinity. all you wanted was the warmth in your chest to flicker like candlelights. all you dreamed about was that domestic life, an escape from the abusive household you were raised in.

yet the manor is too cold, too unforgiving for a soul such as yours.

the longer you stay inside claustrophobic, yet oh-so large hallways, the quicker you drown in a neverending pool of self-hatred.

but you're not allowed to show them your sufferings. they've been through much worse, you tell yourself. they've suffered more, and as what good spouses do, as what you're taught, you stay silent, enabling them to turn you into their own emotional punching bag.

you only allow yourself to cry at the dead of the night, under the sheets of your too-cold blanket and your too-hot pillows. when the manor is filled with deathly silence and a looming sense of dread and ill fitting thoughts of ifs and when they'll come back in one piece, will you grant yourself temporary respite; worry for a family who never even called you their parent.

yet you've always been so considerate. despite the pang in your chest every time bruce flirts with anymore potential love interest at a gala, you chose to instead monitor your chaotic children, who have always never bat an eye on you despite you always gazing lovingly at them.

you know of their interests, they don't know yours, yet you still give them extravagant gifts on their birthdays, with tired, yet glinting eyes, and a silent excuse to return to your room; one separate from bruce.

you know of bruce's hardships, but you don't push too hard, don't force him to talk, only provide him your silence and an offer to serve him dinner; all the time he refuses without looking at you. you give him comfort only if he ever allows you, only if he allows his walls to crumble— but not even his spouse can amount to a warm, crackling fireplace. to him, you're probably only a matchstick under the deadbeat glaze of the snow in a winter night.

maybe that's why you're such a ghost in the manor, stalking through the hallways, looking out for any of your children in case they come across you with any injuries. maybe that's why eventually your resolve weakened.

and maybe the absence of familial love led you to find comfort in another man's arm.

''til death do us part,' is such a tragic saying in your case, because you know it in your fragile heart that bruce's love for you was never alive in the first place. and yet you allow him to play you like a fiddle, allow him to slowly allow you to slip away from his nonexistent grasp.

and now, you're a stand-in parent for clark's son, jon, after the tragic loss of his wife. now, your world seems a lot less bleaker, as you play the fantasy of a loving house spouse, fully abandoning the life you left behind, a life you've never been gifted with until now. you want to feel guilty, you want to feel absolutely terrible but the heartache of neglect has become too much and all you do was allow clark to warm you up each night, kissing away your tears and spooning your deep-seated anxieties away.

you don't let the past eat you up, not when the present is too perfect, too freeing, too delusionally beautiful.

your son, jon provides you every joy a parent could have. parent's day gifts, heartfelt letters at every nook and cranny of your shared bedroom with clark— even reading him bedtime stories, allowing him to sleep in your lap after he slowly nods off, with clark knocking softly on polished wooden doors, greeting you with a loving kiss on the lips and a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand—

it's everything a parent wants, needs even.

and you're everything clark, and especially jon wants, needs in their life.

so it's such a stupid mistake, really. a slip of the tongue, a too-enthusiastic smile, incredibly bright, shining eyes. it's not jon's fault, you still love him either way. but it's an error still— one a complicated matter at hand, so dreadful for you, that jon accidentally, all-too-suddenly, mentions you as his parent to damian.

a loving, wonderful parent, he says, with a picture of you in his wallet shoved right in front of his friend's face.

[shotmrmiller]

just porn. and a comparison of cocks:>

finally deciding to sleep with ghoap after dating them for a couple of months, but because they're overwhelming together— you'd like to breathe, not drown— you decide to be with them separately for now to experience their gravity one at a time without getting completely swept away.

(you don't know whether to be insulted that they're playing rock-paper-scissors on who gets to go first or flattered that they both desperately want to be first. simon wins and johnny pouts.)

with simon, you'd been outright terrified. that thing between his legs didn't spring up when you made him lose the pants, didn't bob with each step he took toward the bed, toward you; gravity pulled it downward, each step he took made it sway heavily. if he hadn't taken the time to work you open, his thick fingers curling as his tongue focused on the apex of your pussy until your slick traced a sinuous path down his wrist, coming to stickily drip from his elbow onto the sheets, it would've ached a lot more than it did.

because it did. ache, that is. there was no staving off the discomfort of the stretch, the sting only spreading its sharp tendrils further when you took him to the root, the orgasms simon had wrenched from you only a thin barrier against the full brunt of it. but fortunately, your generous lover gave you as much time as you'd needed to accommodate, to give in, to surrender, and the pain bloomed into warm, rich pleasure when his hand slithered down to your hips, the pads of his fingers brushing over your oh so tender pearl and when you'd keened out a sigh, he'd begun to fuck you in earnest and anything after that is one big blur.

simon is a big guy. massive, really, built like he belonged on the battlefield. he did not take up space; he was space, so you hadn't been surprised that he'd been as egregiously endowed as he was. painfully fitting, you reckon.

so, when it's johnny that's pressing hot, wet kisses against the smooth column of your throat, you're gulping down a sigh of sharp relief when he breathes that while he's not as blessed as simon, he'll treat you better than him, he promises.

(still sore from having lost that silly game, you notice.)

johnny's thickly built but compact— all muscle and tightly coiled energy, like a fire burning too close, so you're expecting him to be proportionate the same way simon was.

oh, how grievously wrong you were.

what he lacked in length, barely an inch or two, who cares, was insignificant compared to his sheer, staggering girth. you'd thought simon was overwhelming, but johnny was something else entirely. it hung ominously, the thin, groomed skin above it seemingly stretched taut, strained with its density. what's worse, it didn't sway with his movements; it just hung there, rigid, a deadweight.

you'd survived simon just to die at the hands— and cock— of johnny.

figures.

(time had seemingly slowed when johnny had begun to sink into you, every second stretching as painfully as your poor cunt, fire licking at your nerves, spreading through your limbs in waves, one more intense than the last. your breath is shallow and uneven as your body resists, stubborn against the intrusion and johnny hooks his arm under your leg, just at the crook of his elbow— easy does it, hen, breathe f'r me— and he cants your hips to that sweet angle that allows him to slip in, like a stone sinking into a pond. The flood of relief you feel is euphoric in contrast to the raw feel of you being stretched to your absolute limit, and while the tension isn't completely gone, the fragile respite perched right on the edge of discomfort, it is a victory.)

[cookierunoutofideas]

Just Make More Dragons (Longan Dragon Cookie/Fem! Reader) [SMUT]

“I mean, if you want the age of dragons to return, shouldn’t you just... I dunno, make more dragons or something?”

“Are you volunteering?”

Warnings: no beta we die like elder faerie, smut, PWP, probably out of character, probably not all that well written, neutral pronouns for Longan Dragon Cookie, oviposition, breeding, mating, double dicks, Longan Dragon has some sort of aphrodisiac pheromones that I honestly don't care to explain I just wanted to use the fact that longan fruit apparently smells sweet and is used for relaxation–

Read at your own risk!

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“I mean, if you want the age of dragons to return, shouldn’t you just... I dunno, make more dragons or something?”

“Are you volunteering?”

Maybe you didn’t think it through before opening your mouth, but, then again, it’s hard to think when Longan Dragon Cookie is looming over you, eyes piercing yours for daring to direct your pathetic cookie voice their direction.

Honestly, not a single part of your current situation makes thinking an easy task. Out of all cookies and out of all places, it shouldn’t be you standing in the lair of the Ivory Dragon. Even if it was originally your idea to do something to distract the guy so the others could regroup and plan the next step to prevent the extinction of all cookie kind, you didn’t mean it had to be leaving you behind! It’s all Pitaya’s fault for throwing you at the pissed white dragon and leaving to lick their wounds somewhere, when you get your hands on that damn lizard-

“You haven’t answered, weak one.”

“I... I mean...” you stammer, taking a shaky step back, but they follow without much effort because, again, Longan Dragon is so damn tall.

You repeat that clumsy dance a few more times, quickly, eyes anywhere but the dragon. While you’re thankful they haven’t killed you yet, you’d rather not test your luck by sticking too close. Though it seems they don’t get the memo, meeting every step with one of their own, an oppressive waltz that ends with you against a hard wall.

“I wouldn’t dare suggest that! I’m just a lowly cookie!” you frantically wave your hands, fear running through your dough. Maybe if you act humble enough, they won’t crumble you for another few hours.

Damn it, Ginger Brave and gang, come faster!

Longan Dragon shortens the distance between you two, forcing you to lean your head back as much as you can to avoid touching their chest with your forehead.

Oh, they smell oddly sweet.

What a rich scent.

And their hands are so big, sharing their warmth—so far, all dragons you’ve met are pretty warm, must be a dragon thing—with your cheeks as they lift your face.

The sweet smell of fruit envelops you, relaxing your muscles without your permission. Not that you’re trying to fight the sudden wave of calm that hits you, no, you’re greedily breathing in all sensations, even the sensation of a much larger body pressing you against the wall, the difference in temperatures on your front and back making your breath hitch. It’s been so long since you’ve felt anything but tension pressing down your back that the small respite brings too much relief to your body and soul.

Then a thumb presses on your lower lip and you remember just where you are. And with who.

You open your eyes with a loud gasp, trying to free your body—and fuzzy mind—from the Ivory Dragon’s claws, but they don’t budge. No, they seem pleased.

“What...” you swallow saliva you hadn’t even noticed filling your mouth. “... are you doing?”

“A mate presents so willingly to be bred,” the dragon purrs—literally, you can feel the vibrations, “and responds to me so eagerly, what is this one to do other than claim them?”

Whatever happens between that low growl and your back meeting soft silken sheets simply doesn’t register in your memory. After all, the sweet scent filling your nose and the maddening kiss stealing your breath make remembering anything else difficult.

Longan Dragon Cookie’s body is hot and heavy on yours, their tongue insistent and their hands adventurous. Gone is the quiet intensity that made the Ivory Dragon a suffocating yet majestic presence, in its place is fervour you simply can’t comprehend, urgency and hunger and desire and want and need—oh, you can’t help but tug at their ivory strands, making them as messy as the kisses you two share. They growl, animalistic, finally acting like one would expect a dragon, instinct guiding them into manhandling you until your clothes are ripped off, exposed—offered to them.

You don’t bother to muffle your voice as sharp teeth finds the soft dough around your nipples. The dragon seems to like that, too, making sure to bite and suck and lick whatever place gives them the louder, needier noises. They move down your body, giving special attention to your navel, to where your womb rests, marking you with claws and fangs. Your vagina pulsates when they look up at you, locking eyes as they lick, long and slow, up the valley of your breasts. It’s so hypnotizing that you barely notice the sharp claws rubbing against your clit and folds, the danger making your toes tingle.

“This-” you gasp, pulling at their long hair—beautiful, like all of the dragon. “Keep... keep them outta me...”

“Do you think me foolish to risk hurt the one who’ll carry my eggs?”

“Eggs?!”

And the bastard only chuckles! A deep, rich sound that comes from the depths of their lungs, a sound no one ever thought the Ivory Dragon capable of. Feeling annoyed, you quickly hoist yourself up and do the unthinkable: you sink your teeth on the Ivory Dragon’s neck, completely forgetting that a dragon’s dough is much more resistant than a normal cookie’s. You can barely move your jaw, your tongue touching the smooth scales curiously.

Longan Dragon Cookie pulls you away from their neck with one harsh tug to the back of your neck, and for a second you fear that you’ve finally crossed the line and won’t see the next sunrise... but then they purr—or growl? Hard to tell—and oh.

They smile, predatory and pleased.

“A weak little cookie won’t be able to mark my scales, little mate,” they rumble, shuffling a bit until their robes fall off their shoulders. “But go ahead and try still.”

They bring you to another kiss with the hand on your neck, thrusting their hips on your unclothed pussy, allowing you to feel what awaits.

There’s two of them, your brain figures, there’s no way that bulge is only one dick.

There absolutely is two of them.

You watch as the rest of their robes fall off their body. It is like watching the most wondrous sculpture be revealed, like the ultimate piece of art finally leaves its artist’s studio to grace the world with its existence. Here is a being no one could ever dare deny their beauty, doing so would be to boldly lie to an omniscient god’s face.

And there are two dicks standing proudly, already leaking at the anticipation of  tearing you apart.

Because that’s what going to happen, you’re sure. The one on the top is thicker while the one bellow is thinner, but they’re both far too much for a little normal cookie such as you. Longan Dragon Cookie, however, seems to care not—in fact, they seem to simply believe you can take it, take all they give you... which may or may not include eggs. Eggs.

“Wait!” you yelp, pulling at their hair, undoing whatever held it up and out of their way. To your surprise, Longan Dragon does listen, halting their clawed attack at your hips. “You- this- won’t fit!”

“They shall,” they simply answer, pressing another kiss to your navel before finally giving your wet folds—when did you get so wet?—their attention. “I shall make them.”

One long lick to your folds stops whatever protests you still have, instead freeing a long moan. Oh, their tongue is forked. Of course it is, they are a dragon, dragons have forked tongues, why wouldn’t the Ivory Dragon have a forked tongue—and why wouldn’t the Ivory Dragon be so good at using it?

Keeping their words, the claws stay away from you sensitive genitalia, instead drawing scratch lines one your thighs, some even painted blood red. The pain stings just enough to add to the pleasure the tongue stretching and exploring you gives. Giving up any sort of hesitance, you give in to your odd situation, enjoying with abandon the dragon’s ministrations until the knot built inside your tummy snaps and you cum the hardest you’ve ever done, pulling at ivory hair and squeezing a beautiful face between your legs.

Though despite that incredible orgasm, you still don’t feel satiated.

No, part of you still feels empty, craving more of the sweetness coming from your... your lover? No, what was it the dragon called you earlier—mate. Your mate.

As if feeling your desire, Longan Dragon Cookie crawls over your body, still licking their lips and chin to savour every drop of your juices, resting on top of you like a giant, warm cover. Strong arms hold you against a hard chest, prompting you to brace your arms around their neck and sink your nails on their back—thankfully, the scales don’t cover their cookie form completely, so you actually have a chance of scratching them, marking them.

If you could purr at that thought, you would.

Instead, you gasp as a fat cockhead pokes your entrance. Longan Dragon Cookie isn’t exactly gentle—the many bleeding marks all over your body show that pretty well—but they’re considerate enough to stop and wait every time you show signs of pain. Once the thicker cock is inside, they start moving in slow, deliberate circles, still holding you to their chest, giving you no chance to escape the addicting scent of their dough.

Not that you want to.

No, you want to drown in it. You want to be covered in that scent, suffocated in it, buried within it.

The stretch of the second penis entering you makes you whimper, but you can’t tell if it is from pain or pleasure—nor do you care, really. Not when your mate rocks the both of you steadily, thrusts slow but hard, resolute, hitting every spot that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back, kissing the entrance of your womb. It’s so hot, it’s too hot and you want more more more more!

“As you wish, little mate” the dragon growls in your ear, the breathlessness of their voice causing shivers to run down your back. “I will breed you round.”

Let no one ever say the Ivory Dragon doesn’t keep their word.

You whine your agreement, pleading for whatever they will give you. Something inside you had snapped into place earlier; suddenly, you are exactly where you should be, exactly with who you should be. Nothing else comes to mind but the one making you feel so good, taking you as theirs, giving you themselves. You turn your head in hopes to get a kiss and, much to your pleasure, you get exactly what you wanted. Longan Dragon Cookie is such a good mate, providing everything their mate wants without delay or confusion.

A good mate who’ll take care of your hatchlings—

Hatchligns.

Eggs!

Holy shit, Longan Dragon Cookie, the Ivory Dragon, is going to fuck eggs into you!

“Please...!” you beg, not sure what for.

Now, would carrying the eggs of your mate be so bad?

No, you figure as another orgasm washes over you, it wouldn’t.

An ever louder growl-purr answers your begging, claws mimicking the scratches left on a ivory back. Your mate starts thrusting faster, harder, deeper, as if trying to force your uterus to open to their cocks—no, not “as if”, that is what they will do. For the sake of your first clutch.

Your first clutch.

The thought alone triggers another orgasm and you repeat the earlier bite to Longan’s neck, not caring that your cookie teeth won’t pierce a mighty dragon’s scales. No, you must mark your mate however you can, no matter how difficult.

That is the limit for the dragon as they roar, shoving their cockhead into your womb with one last hard thrust.

You feel so damn full.

It is amazing.

There is nothing left in the world but you, your mate and where you two connect to become two. You scream to match their roaring, wild harmony ending in a passionate kiss.

Then you feel it. Something round travelling down their thicker cock, stretching you even more. A weak moan slips past your lips only to be greedily devoured by the dragon. The round thing must be about the side of your closed fist, maybe a bit smaller. The journey is slow, a sweet torture you endure in between the arms of your mate. When you dare open your eyes to look at them, your breath gets stolen by the sight of their pupils blown wide, eating away everything else. A forked tongue licks away your tears and sweat, the purring intensifying when you give their face your own, much shyer, licks.

Finally, the eggs pops inside your womb, getting comfortable in the empty space. The second cock gushes out a warm liquid; to fertilize the eggs, no doubt. Then another egg starts the journey. And another. And another. The first one arriving safely seems to have opened the gates as the others now rush to join their sibling. Another world shattering orgasm hits you when a particularly big egg presses your inner walls.

Ten eggs. You now carry ten eggs from the Ivory Dragon. Your belly looks round like a normal pregnancy. The cum inside you keeps you warm. So does the arms wrapped around you and the chest you nuzzle. You fall asleep, content and full, not a care in the world. Nothing can bother this serene moment with your mate.

A loud noise wakes you up hours later, and you recognize the voices of GingerBrave and the other cookies.

Ah.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Jason isn’t fond of being touched. Not anymore and not by most people tied to his past at least.

He could count how many times he brushed the hands of Dick, Tim, Bruce off of him on both fingers and toes on countless occasions, grunting in distain whenever they did and giving them a side glare to that reminded them that they weren’t allowed such privileges that they would used to have.

He flinches, he moves away when he sees their hands as though in slow motion going to touch him in any way, brows furrowed and his glare set it motion as to make them rethink their decision. He refuses to let them touch him, their touches were like burns against his skin, forcing a myriad of less then pleasant memories to erupt from the corners of his mind.

Yet when you touch him, it’s completely different. This is what Dick, Tim, Damian and Bruce noticed almost immediately. The difference between them and you were so stark.

Jason didn’t look at your hand as though he wanted you to remove it before he did, instead he seemed to relax under your touch as his jaw unclenched and his shoulders dropped, releasing the tension within his body and heaving out a sigh of relief as though he had been awaiting this moment for a very long time. He wasn’t drawn away from your touch, he was drawn towards it like a stray cat or dog on the street finally being given affection for the first time after being discarded by others, falling happily within your hands and letting you caress his cheeks and run your fingers through his hair has a groan escaped his throat.

His eyes would close and wholeheartedly trust you and your hands as they skimmed over his scarred skin with featherlight touches, loving caresses and gentle consideration that made Jason want to cry. His breath wasn’t withheld within his chest with you, he was allowed to be within a state without fear and paranoia that something could be lurking behind him, his face was free of stress lines and anything that could indicate that his mind was anything but a peaceful place.

Dick, Tim, Damian and Bruce could tell that you were the only way through to Jason, the one person who didn’t care for the amount of blood on his busted up knuckles because you were fussing over him, sitting him down while you got what you needed to heal and put him back together again. You didn’t care about his vigilantism at night, it wasn’t your place to dictate who he could and couldn’t go after for Gotham was poison in the form of a city anyways, you only cared about him coming home to you when it’s all over.

Dick, Tim, Damian and Bruce have come to see that Jason would put himself in harms way to keep you safe, practically destroying himself in hopes that he could keep the one thing that had only ever saw him and smiled warmly. They could clearly see Jason’s desperation and his need to keep you far away from it all, away from them and away from the vigilante business entirely for your own good. They could tell that you meant more to Jason then words could ever describe, your influence went beyond skin deep and beyond his soul, so much that there wasn’t apart of you that Jason kept close to his being to kiss and hold close to his chest for reassurance or guidance.

Dick: *seeing you hold Jason in your arms as he’s describing the annotations with his book to you* I’m glad he’s in safe hands. He needs this.

Tim: he’s actually looks normal, no permanent frown, no sneer, nothing. Just a man.

Damian: he looks at peace, like his restless soul has found it’s long awaited respite within them.

Bruce: *watches as jason moves in your arms to blow raspberries into your neck and shoulder as you laugh, trying to tickle his sides in revenge* and we’d do best not to disturb that peace and take it from him. He’s been through enough, like we all have.

Dick: I just wish that I can thank them for holding onto Jason when the rest of us had already let go.

Bruce: and we will, in due time. For now we must respect that that time is not now.

[ak-vintage]

Work of Art

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prompt: Marcus Acacius & Nose

Summary: Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him.  

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, established relationship, arranged marriage, POSSIBLE DUBCON (sex in an arranged marriage with a patriarchal power structure), hefty age gap, pregnant reader, inexperienced reader, insecurity, body worship, nose worship, face-sitting, oral (f! receiving), discovering that you’re in love with your spouse, SO MUCH FLUFF, high likelihood of historical inaccuracy (aiming for vibes, not perfection)

Written for @joelmillerisapunk PPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3

It is barely sunrise when the messenger arrives at your door.

Coated in a layer of dust from the road, mounted on the back of a well-lathered horse, and bearing the colors of the empire, the young man demands your staff wake you to receive him – that he is under orders to accept no intermediary, that his message is intended for the lady of the house and no one else. The news of his arrival sends ice into your veins the moment you open your eyes; even as the wife of a general, you do not often receive messages from the front lines, and you could not resist fearing the worst. Curls loose and mussed with sleep, tunica tied almost haphazardly in your haste, you rush to the atrium as quickly as propriety will allow and take the messenger’s sealed scroll with trembling hands.

My dearest wife, it reads. The skirmish on the southern border has been quelled for the time being. In recognition of our efforts, and out of respect for our recent union, I have been granted leave to return to Rome for a period of respite. If the sea is calm and the road is easy, you can look to the horizon for my return in one month’s time. Prepare the household for my arrival. Faithfully yours, Marcus Acacius

The relief you feel at those words is so powerful that you sink into the nearest chair, weak-kneed. Thankfully, your staff are more than competent enough to manage offering food, a bath, and a fresh horse to the harried messenger without your guidance, for you have not the capacity to play hostess. It had been your greatest fear, you realize as you sit there reading and re-reading the general’s letter until your eyes begin to burn with fatigue. You had had such little time as husband and wife before Marcus had been shipped out to the border, and you dread nothing more than the prospect of joining the ranks of the widows of Rome before you even have the opportunity to fully know the man you had married. It would have been such a waste, you think, like a flower cut from the vine when it was barely a bud, cursed never to bloom for the rest of time.

The truth is that although yours had been an arranged marriage, one of convenience, you feel (perhaps naively) that it held great promise. The general had never married, choosing to prioritize his military ambitions over his personal life. However, now that he was getting older, he had determined that it would be wise to seek a wife who might give him an heir to the prestigious station he had earned for himself over the years. Your father, a wealthy, prominent senator, had brokered the match, and a mere fortnight after you had been introduced for the first time, you had been wed.

Marcus had proven to be a gentle husband, a great contrast to what you had believed based on the tales of his ferocity in battle. He had spoken kindly to you and listened patiently, giving weight to your words, treating you like a partner right from the start. He had given you free reign over the household and encouraged you to mold his domus and his staff to suit your tastes. You had had very little time in each other’s presence, but he nevertheless struck you as a man of honor, a man of principle. As a woman in your position, there was little else you could ask for in a match, and the thought had comforted you as you stood side-by-side with this near-stranger and signed your marriage contract.

On your wedding night, he had been as tender with you as he could. You had been able to tell that he was holding himself back, restraining himself from taking you as savagely as he might have wished, but for that, you thought him compassionate. Of course, there had been some pain to start; this you had anticipated. However, toward the end of your coupling, as the general had begun to growl muffled curses into the soft skin of your neck and thrust himself so deeply inside you, you swore you could feel his manhood in your belly, you thought perhaps that it might have begun to feel…good?

He had spilled his seed within you shortly thereafter, bringing your union to a sudden and dramatic end and leaving your tentative, blooming pleasure to fizzle and die in your veins.

You glance down at the swell of your belly at the recollection, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. The fruits of your union that night – and the nights that followed for the brief month he had been permitted to remain by your side – had made themselves apparent shortly after his departure. That had been five months ago now, and it had been an incredible relief to know that you had managed to fulfill your duty to the general so quickly. You had fully expected to give birth on your own, to share the joyous news with him via special messenger like so many other soldier’s wives. Now, to know that he is set to return so soon, that relief is compounded. Barring any emergencies on the front, he likely would be home long enough to be present for the birth.

Birthing was a woman’s business, of course. You knew there was little Marcus could truly do to aid you in your labors. But a part of you, perhaps a very foolish, girlish part of you, could not help but feel safer when he was near. You would sleep better at night knowing he was once again within the walls of your domus.

Easing yourself back onto your feet, you get the attention of the nearest member of your staff.

“Once our guest has been seen to, gather the others in the courtyard,” you command. “We have much to prepare. The general is coming home.”

General Marcus Acacius rides into Rome on a sunny afternoon astride a handsome black stallion. Escorted only by a small retinue of guards and vassals, he travels light, with the economy and efficiency of a man who has spent the majority of his adult life in an army camp. The servant boy you have stationed at the city walls every day for the last week eagerly tells you that he looks well, that he has been asked to report first to the emperors’ palace but that he expects to be home by nightfall.

The news of your husband’s imminent arrival has a riot of butterflies rising in your chest, and you feel the child you carry respond almost instantly, fluttering and twitching against the walls of your womb at your excitement. A smile pulls at your lips, and you smooth your palms over the rounded surface of your belly as if to say, “I understand. I feel it, too.”

You send a message to the kitchen staff with orders to ensure that the general’s favorite meal is prepared for this evening, as well as for his preferred wine to be brought up from the cellar. Perhaps it is a bit silly – this is his home even moreso than it is yours – but you have an odd desire to make him feel welcomed. You want him to know that you have given thought to his needs and his preferences, that you have managed and looked after his home with proficiency in his absence, that you have anticipated his return.

You want to make the general happy, you realize with a flush.  Not only for him to be happy, but you wish to be the cause of that happiness. Does that make you proud, you wonder? Or selfish? Perhaps. All you know for certain is that in the brief time spent by his side, all those months ago, you had begun to associate Marcus Acacius with feelings of comfort, of safety, of acceptance. Even perhaps…affection. You like him. Was it so wrong to wish for him to like you, too?

You are in the ostium waiting for him when the general arrives. The sun sets behind him as he approaches on horseback, still in full armor from his travels, and your first thought is that he is even larger than you remember. Blotting out the golden light with the incredible breadth of his shoulders, you think he looks almost otherworldly, like some mythical hero of old returned from a harrowing quest. You can feel your heart speed up behind your ribs, galloping like the hooves of his horse on the cobblestones, and you are thankful no one can hear it but you. You are a woman grown, wedded and bedded and carrying a child, the head of your own household, the wife of a prominent, respected officer of the grand army of Rome. The idea that you should become so flighty, so unmoored at the sight of your own husband is absurd.

When his gaze falls on you, your trembling hands find your stomach, a gesture that has become more and more instinctual as the bump has become more and more visible, and before he can even greet you, his eyes drop to where they rest.

Marcus pulls his horse up short, the soft expression in his dark irises sharpening, intensifying. You watch as his prominent brow draws up, something between shock and awe and hope washing over his face, and then he is swinging his leg up and over his mount, dropping to the ground, closing the distance between you in a handful of long, powerful strides. His eyes do not leave your stomach until he is a mere handful of inches from your body, and you catch sight of his broad, thick-fingered hands clenching at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

“Dearest wife,” he rasps, his throat dry as he finally, finally flicks his eyes back up to meet yours. “Have you something to tell me?”

You swallow thickly, suddenly overcome with the intensity, the intimacy of his attention. “Welcome home…husband.” Your voice sounds tremulous to your own ears, but you do not allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you wrap both of your hands around one of his and bring his dry, scarred knuckles to your lips. Dropping a kiss onto the center ridge, you add, “It is a blessing from the gods to see you well after so many months apart.”

Your name is a sigh on his lips. “It is a blessing to be permitted to return home after so short a time,” he counters. “Now, if my eyes deceive me, I will beg your forgiveness and claim fatigue from the long journey as my excuse. But are you…”

He trails off, as though hesitant to speak the words aloud, and you could swear that someone had reached into your chest and taken hold of your heart for how tight it squeezes at the thread of hope woven into his words. Unable to bear it anymore, you finish his incomplete thought on your own.

“Yes…General Acacius – ”

“Marcus,” he interjects immediately, and you feel yourself flush at the familiarity.

“Marcus,” you echo. “I-I am with child. You are to be a father.”

The breath he releases is long and slow, his dark eyes shining in the setting sun, and if you did not know better, you might think that your revelation had rendered him speechless. However, it takes him only a moment to collect himself, and then he is reaching for your belly with both hands, palms outstretched almost pleadingly. “May I – ?”

You nod readily, feeling a grin split your face, and then his hands are on you, cupping your swelling bump with his sword-calloused touch. His skin catches on the fine material of your tunica, but you are unbothered. He is warm and vital against you, his touch more than welcome after so many months on your own, and as though the precious thing had been waiting for their cue, the child in your womb kicks against their father’s hands.

The general’s brows shoot up at that, his forehead crinkling beneath his dark, gray-streaked curls, and he lets out a rough, strained laugh. “By the gods. It’s true.” Keeping one hand on your bump, he brings the other to the side of your face, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, stroking your jaw with his thumb. It’s the most tender, intimate gesture he has ever shown you, and the heat of his palm has your knees weakening beneath you.

“You honor me, amica. Thank you,” he says, husky voice thick with emotion. He presses a brief, dry kiss to your forehead, and you cannot help but wish it had been to your lips instead.

Dinner passes in a blur of sumptuous foods and peppered questions, both from you about his time at the border and from him about how you are settling into your new home, your new role. This is one thing about your relationship that has been easy from the moment you met – it is clear to you that Marcus cares deeply about your perspective on the world. He never rushes you, never cuts in when you are speaking, never attempts to correct you in some demonstration of superiority. It’s a unique experience for you coming from a man, particularly one of his age and rank, and it makes you feel cherished in a way you never would have expected in a marriage like yours. You are under no illusions that yours was a love match, after all, but something about the intent way that Marcus holds your gaze, the way he nods along as you speak, the way he asks such thoughtful questions – it has you all but convinced that he cares for you as you are coming to care for him.

The two of you linger over dinner long past nightfall, but eventually, he stands from his chair at the head of the table, offers his hand to you, and leads you to the privacy of your shared chambers. He beds you that night, as you had expected he would after so long without the touch of a woman, and you go to him willingly. His touch burns with barely-restrained fervor, the expression on his handsome face twisted almost as if in pain, and just as you had on that first night, you feel something building within you as he takes you.

You have no name for it, and yet it feels altering in its magnitude. You feel like lightning, like lava, like some elemental thing ablaze with fire and light, and just when you are certain that the feeling is about to consume you, just as you know in your bones that you cannot take any more or you will surely die –

Marcus spills himself inside you, withdraws, and collapses onto the bed next to you.

The feeling recedes. You catch your breath. Your husband plants a kiss on your hairline, and under his lips, he finds the sweat of your exertion, of your truncated pleasure. He whispers “good night, amica” against your curls, and then he rolls away.

Moments later, soft snores fill the room. The general is fast asleep, but you…

You are going mad.

It is many days later before this madness finally comes to a head.

Every night since his return, Marcus has sought his pleasure in your body. He never forces himself upon you or hurts you in any way; he asks before touching you, always. But as you approach a full week of night after night of thwarted pleasure, you cannot help but begin to find ways to…delay the inevitable question. You have taken to engaging him in conversation as you lay in bed, asking him about the many visitors he has received over the last several days, or about his journey home from the border, or about his favorite horse, Tempestas. He takes this in stride, seemingly happy to indulge you, and the two of you spend long minutes talking softly by candlelight, warm and close under soft, shared sheets.

This night, you decide to ask him about the baby and how he feels knowing that you carry his heir, that his legacy is secured.

You anticipate the smile he gives you, the fond look in his eyes as he reaches out to feel the curve of your belly, as he has done now hundreds of times over the last week. What you do not expect is the earnestness of his words as he tells you, “I have never been a father before. At my age, I did not expect that I would ever have the privilege. Now that you have made it possible, I find that I care much less for legacy or inheritance than I do for…safety. Stability. Peace.”

You soften at that, and on instinct, your hand goes to his hair, brushing his graying curls back from his forehead with gentle, soothing strokes. You have found that this is something he likes, and he leans into your touch like a barn cat in a sunbeam. He seems pensive, and you allow the silence between you to linger while he gathers his thoughts.

“I mourn that this child should have a general for a father,” he admits after a moment. “I will be absent for much of his life. I will disappear for stretches of time that could number in years, and when I return, I will be like a stranger to him. Were it in my control, I would be more present. I wish to know my child. And for him to know me.”

“Him?” you echo, a bit impishly, and Marcus smirks.

“Or her, of course. I cannot claim to know whom you carry in your womb. I shall leave that mystery for the gods.”

You grin back him, enjoying the good humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “I am sure that however much time you are permitted to spend with our child – be it months or weeks or days – it will be enough.”

Lifting himself up on one elbow, the general fixes you with a skeptical frown. “How can you be so certain?” he asks.

“Because it does not take long to see who you are, Marcus,” you reply earnestly. “To see your nobility, your strength, your power. Your kindness. These are all things I learned about you in the mere fortnight before we were wed. Your child shall know these things about you, as well.”  

Tucking your hands beneath your cheek, you stare up at him from your pillow. The warmth of the candlelight casts shadows across his golden skin, highlighting the soft crinkles around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Besides, even when you are away, I shall be around to teach them,” you add with a shrug.

“Amica…” He seems a bit overcome at your sincerity, and his low voice rasps like a sword on a whetstone in the darkness. “You are very generous.”

That riot of butterflies returns to your belly as the intimacy of the moment stretches on. Gods, but he is so beautiful like this. No one has ever looked at you the way he does – not with base lust for your body, not with envy for your wealth, not with dismissal for your sex. Marcus looks at you like something precious, like something to be valued. That look makes you foolish, makes your cheeks hot and your tongue loose.

When you speak again, it is without thought.

“When I think about our child…I hope that they look like you, so that even when we are apart, I might have some comfort in seeing your face every day.”

At that, the general lets out a full-bodied laugh and rolls his eyes. Flipping over onto his back, he shakes his head fondly at you like one might a mischievous child. “Now I know for certain that you are flattering me, wife.”

Your brows nearly reach your hairline as a flush of embarrassment races up the back of your neck, darkening your cheeks in an instant. “Wh – No, sir, I would never!” you insist. “I am being entirely earnest.”

“My face? My face upon an innocent babe?” He says this with a scoffing laugh, sounding amused, but when you catch sight of the tightness in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows, you think that there might be something…authentic beneath his jesting words. “No, my dear wife. It would be far better if the child were to share your visage. Then they might truly be comely to look upon.”

Is it possible…have you stumbled upon a true insecurity, you wonder? It seems unlikely. This is General Marcus Acacius, commander of the emperors’ armies, a man two decades your senior who fought wars on behalf of Rome before you could even walk on two feet. He exudes power and strength and intelligence, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence and self-assurance that comes along with experience. He is a skilled strategist, an indomitable warrior.

Does he truly not see…

Scooting closer to him on the bed, you allow yourself to cup his bearded jaw, to turn his face toward yours. “There would be no greater gift than a child with your eyes, Marcus,” you say softly. “Or perhaps your smile.”

“But not this nose, surely,” he replies, tapping the end of his prominent, hooked nose with one calloused finger. He shakes his head with a wry smile, as though the idea is too preposterous to consider. “I would not willingly inflict such an eyesore upon a child.”

By the gods. He means it, you realize. He has truly surprised you. To your knowledge, the general is not a vain or self-conscious man. You have never known him to care overmuch about how he looks; it was quite a contrast to the pampered upper-class boys you grew up alongside, something you had found refreshing when you had first met. Had you misunderstood? Misinterpreted his lack of self-regard as a lack of care?

You decide it does not matter. All you know for certain is that your husband appears to be under the impression that his appearance leaves something to be desired, and as his wife, you feel it is your duty to demonstrate to him just how wrong he is.

The thought has your heartrate picking up again.

“Do you know…what I thought,” you begin haltingly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “the first day I met you, at my father’s villa?”

His dark brows knit together in a small frown, as though your words have surprised him. “Tell me.”

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you confess, “I thought you the most striking man I had ever seen.”

“You flatter me, dear heart.” His words are soft, as is his answering smile, but you can hear the platitude in his voice. He does not believe you.

“No, no, it is not flattery.” With some effort, you push yourself up off of the bed, too emphatic to remain lying down for this discussion. You haul your pregnant body up to kneel at his side, tucking your knees into the warmth of his thick waist, and your long hair dangles over his broad chest as you look into his eyes. “I know that…the circumstances of our union were not exactly romantic, and I know that we do not yet know each other well, but I hope you will heed my words when I tell you that…I count myself extremely fortunate to have been married to so handsome a man.” Glancing down at your hands, you fiddle with one of the many thin, gold rings on your fingers in self-consciousness. “My father could have selected anyone he liked. The fact that it is you who shares my bed, you whose child I carry… It is a blessing.”

It is silent between you for a time, your words hanging in the air like a declaration, but then Marcus’s body shifts against you. Curling up to sit at your side, one of his thick, broad hands comes into your line of vision and wraps itself around both of yours, stilling your fidgeting.

You risk a look up, meeting his gaze through the length of your lashes, and you feel your breath leave your body as you take in the softest, warmest, most tender expression you have ever seen on his handsome face.

“It pleases me to hear that you are happy,” he murmurs, running one of his thumbs along the back of your hand. “And that your affection for my look is genuine. It would not do for you to say such things in an attempt to…endear yourself to me. There is no need. I am already quite fond of you.”

You are quick to shake your head. “Not at all! If I have ever given you such an impression, you have my deepest apologies.”

Now that your true feelings for your husband have been revealed, you feel as though you can no longer contain them. Under the affectionate weight of his dark eyes, more comes spilling forth, unbidden. “The truth is that even in the short time that we have known one another, I have spent many hours at my easel attempting to recall your likeness in detail so that I might recreate it. Your nose in particular, I find to be most…attractive.”

Your hand moves of its own accord then, slipping from his grip to float across the narrow space between you as though possessed by some covetous spirit. The very tip of your middle finger lands in the space between his eyebrows, and although you make no conscious decision to do so, you trace down the steep curve of the bridge of his nose with a touch so delicate it might as well have been a breeze.

Your own voice sounds breathless and far away to your ears as you whisper, “You look like a sculpture, Marcus. Like the great marble warriors along the garden path. It makes you look stately and…masculine and…commanding.” Between your thighs, you feel your most intimate muscles clench. You have grown swollen and sensitive there, a feeling you have become increasingly familiar with since your husband’s return home. It’s sweet and delicious and utterly torturous, making you want to squirm in your seat, but you resist.

At least…until Marcus traps your hand in his and brings your wandering fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes snap to his, and you watch as he presses slow, lingering kisses across each of your fingertips. The sensation of his hot, moist breath on your sensitive skin has you trembling, and gods, but his lips are so soft. Turning your palm up to the heavens, the general places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tender center of your palm, and you feel yourself swaying toward him as though under a spell.

The plush of his lips dances gently across the thin skin of the inside of your wrist, and your pulse thrums beneath his touch as he growls, “There is perhaps…one advantage of such a face.”

“Tell me.” Your echo of his earlier words comes out like a whine, like you are pleading with him, though what you are pleading for, you cannot say.

Marcus appears to consider your request for a moment, his eyes going sharp and calculating, and then he says, “Perhaps it might be better if I showed you. Do you trust me, dear heart?”

You are quick to nod. “Yes. I trust you.”

Inclining his head at you in acknowledgment, he releases his grip on your hand and pulls away entirely. He lays back on the bed then, scooting down so that his head is flat on the padded surface rather than on his pillow. He adjusts himself a bit, shifting back and forth, but once he is comfortable, he looks back at you and pats his chest with both hands. The sound is muffled by his soft linen sleep tunic but nonetheless audible in the silence of your bedchamber.

“Mount me,” he says without preamble, and you swear you can hear the whirring gears in your brain grind to a halt.

“W-What?”

“I want you to sit astride my face, as you would a horse.” No matter how intensely your face burns at the wicked suggestion, you cannot seem to look away. His deep brown eyes are bottomless in the dark, the depths of them reflecting the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well. You can feel yourself falling into them, can feel something at the very core of you tugging toward him, answering his call. If you were to glance down at the rest of his body, you would see the evidence of the general’s own arousal tenting his tunic, but your gaze is trapped, held fast by the magnetism of him.

“Come, amica,” he says after a moment of your silent, scandalized staring. “You may rest your ass upon my chest, but I would have that sweet cunt on my mouth.”

You swallow audibly, still making no move to obey. Wetness begins to pool between your thighs, slicking your skin and staining the fabric of your sleep clothes, and you lose the battle against your urge to squirm. Your thighs clench together, and you shift upon your calves in search of friction, but you find none. You need his touch…but what he is suggesting is –

“M-Marcus, I couldn’t possibly – I shall smother you, how will you – ”

He cuts off your protests with a growl of your name, and in that moment, you see not your noble husband staring up at you. Instead, you see the Roman General Acacius – sharp jaw clenched, nostrils flared, dark eyes blazing.

“I shall not ask again, wife. No harm will come to you or to me. Now do as you’re told and sit on my face.”

You hesitate for another beat, then two, and then you shuffle forward on wobbly knees to obey. Your husband’s eyes burn a path across your body as you approach him, tracing from your parted, panting lips, to your heaving breasts, to your swollen, pregnant belly. You feel the look like a physical touch, and the sensation has your skin flushing, has sweat breaking out at the small of your back and the nape of your neck. With shaking, uncertain hands, you reach out and brace your palms against the gold-filigreed headboard for stability.

“That’s it, nearly there now,” Marcus sighs as you clumsily, awkwardly swing one of your legs over his body. Your knee lands on the other side of his shoulder, and you feel the heat of his touch on your naked thighs almost immediately. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the hem of your sleep tunic up to your hips, revealing your bare ass and cunt to the cool air of the bedroom.

You draw your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a whine, and gooseflesh breaks out across your skin. You’ve started to shake, though whether in fear or arousal, you couldn’t say. Gods, you’re so exposed now. The wetness between your thighs is fully on display, mere inches from your husband’s face. It’s mortifying; if you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, you know you would.

Marcus, however, clearly has no such compunctions. His thick fingers knead the soft, lush flesh of your hips and thighs, using his grip to draw your forward, to draw you down. The groan that oozes from his lips into the hot slip of atmosphere between you sounds exactly like the one he makes when he first slides inside you, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily at the tremor of it now sounding between your legs. He must catch sight of this, your body’s own betrayal happening right under that stately nose that started this whole ordeal, for one moment he appears to be watching you settle in with rapt attention, and the next, he is releasing a dark, sinister chuckle and yanking you closer.

You give a thought for resistance then, consider pulling yourself from his hold, but –

Oh, you can feel his breath on your cunt, can feel your dripping curls shift beneath the current of air as he laughs.  

You shift a bit on your knees, settling so that your weight rests just above each of his shoulders with his hands gripping your hips from behind you. The lower curve of your ass brushes the fine fabric of his tunic, and you are certain that if you could see his face, you would find his chin mere inches from the part of you that pulses and throbs for his attention. As it is, the roundness of your bump nearly eclipses his head, leaving only wisps of the thick, graying curls on the top of his head to peak out around the edges.

“Marcus?” Your voice trembles with nerves around his name, and beneath you, he sighs.

“Well done, amica, you are right where I want you,” he assures you with a groan. You feel the well-trimmed stubble of his silvered beard brush your lower lips; the feeling startles a gasp out of you, and on instinct, one of your hands flies from the headboard to the top of his head. “Mmm, yes, that’s it – sink your fingers into my hair. Hold yourself steady on me.”

You hardly recognize the sound of your own voice as you whimper, “Marcus – Marcus, please.”

“I know what you need.” His touch on your hips is warm, gentle, soothing. “Don’t be afraid. Now rest your weight on me and let me taste you.”

The joints in your limbs feel like water at the general’s words, at the hot wash of his breath across your swollen center. The embarrassment at your precarious position above his face still fizzes in your veins, making you lightheaded, but molten desire has begun to drown it out. Your mind doesn’t fully understand what is about to happen or what he is asking of you, but it seems that on some level, your body does, because it is absolutely thrumming for it.

There is nothing for it anymore. You cannot refuse him. You do not want to refuse him. Whatever he is about to do to you, your body needs it, craves it in the same way it does air or water or food. When you sink your cunt down onto your husband’s waiting mouth, it feels both like a surrender and like a victory.

“Oh – gods, Marcus – ”

Marcus groans deep in his chest the moment you touch his tongue, and then he is bracketing his arms around your thighs and forcibly seating you even more firmly against him. Dragging the slick, pink muscle of his tongue through your folds in one long, languorous stroke, it doesn’t take long before your thighs begin to tremble around his ears. He is focused, meticulous, thorough in his exploration of your most intimate flesh – sucking delicately at your lips, dipping the gentle tip of his tongue into your soft, quivering hole, using the flat of it to dance around that swollen nub at your apex that pulses with the thunderous beat of your heart. The thick arms locked around your thighs angle you this way and that, and through the sound of your own gasps and whines, you can hear the way your wetness drips at his touch.

Every lick, every suck, every swirl of his tongue serves to drive you higher, and you find yourself mindlessly running your hands over your body to ground yourself – stroking your belly, gripping your hips, cupping your breasts. The latter has you accidentally brushing your hardened nipples with your thumbs, and even muted as it is through your tunic, the sensation has you crying out into the dark room.

And that tongue never stops. Marcus is relentless – inexorable and yet unhurried. You can feel all of the tension in your hips and thighs melting away under the heat of his touch, and yet deep within you, something has begun to twist, to pulse, to squeeze. It feels like it does when Marcus beds you – pleasure stirring, burning, building within you as he grows more and more intent, more and more hungry, oh, gods…

It is miraculous. It is unbearable. It is tantamount to torture.

“Marcus,” you gasp helplessly, your fingers knotting in his hair, gripping the headboard. “I – I need – ”

The general pulls away from your cunt with a growl like an animal, and the sound rumbles through your body as he rasps, “That’s it, beautiful girl. Ride my face. Grind those hips into me and ride my face.”

You understand each of his words individually, but they do not coalesce in your mind. How does one “ride” a face? For a moment, you feel self-consciousness and shame begin to creep in at the edges of your thoughts. There are others who would understand the general’s instructions, surely. Others who would know what he wanted and would do it for him in an instant. For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the women that follow the army camps, the women whose services you were certain your husband had partaken of throughout his extensive career. They would know, certainly. Was there truly anything you could offer him that they could not?

Just as you begin to lose that delicious curl of pleasure in your core, as the fog of desire begins to clear from your brain, Marcus flexes those thick, strong arms around your legs and encourages your hips to thrust, dragging your tender flesh across the stubble of his beard, the plush of his lips, the slick of his tongue. That tongue, suddenly firm and pointed, thrusts into your sex, lapping at your wetness, filling the place that clenches for his cock. With the hitch of your hips, that swollen bundle of nerves just at the top glances across the bridge of your husband’s nose.

“Ah! Marcus!”

Beneath your cunt on his face, beneath your hand in his hair, you feel him nod emphatically, and understanding crashes over you like a wave. “Riding” his face. “Mounting” him, like a horse. This is what he wants. He wants you to thrust your hips against his face, as if in the saddle of a warhorse. To rub yourself against his nose and his tongue.

He wants you to find your pleasure with his body.

As though all your joints and muscles had been waiting on this realization, your hips begin to move of their own accord almost immediately, thrusting against that relentless, ever-present tongue, driving it deeper into the hot clutch of your cunt, and fuck…that nose, that big, strong, curved, perfect nose, glancing off of that most sensitive spot with every thrust. Head thrown back, hands on your breasts, fingers twisting and pulling your tender nipples through your tunic, you experiment with different speeds, different pressures, different depths, but if you are honest with yourself, you are so far gone that it has all begun to feel equally intense, equally delicious.

And so you move with abandon – leaning heavily on the headboard for balance, gripping his hair, you grind your swollen, dripping cunt across your husband’s handsome face, fucking his tongue deep into your body, riding the hard curve of his perfect Roman nose. You feel yourself pulse and twitch and tremble with every thrust, feel him lap and slurp and suck at you with new fervor, feel his thick fingers dig into your hips so deeply you know you will bear his bruises in the morning. You had not known pleasure like this existed, had not known it was possible for you to achieve it. You feel drunk with it, the way it seeps into your veins like one too many glasses of wine, and Marcus drinks you down like the finest vintage.

Your clitoris drags across his nose once again, and you cannot smother your moan at the feeling. “Gods, Marcus, your nose – ”

Against your wetness, the general’s face vibrates with something like a chuckle. “I know, dear heart, I know – I told you, this face has one advantage.”

You shake your head fervently, feeling your long curls brush your back as you grind. “It’s perfect. Perfect, Marcus, I – oh, gods, I feel – ”

Another animalistic growl ripples through your husband’s chest, and you feel him nod beneath you. “Jus’ let it happen, amica. Take your pleasure,” he slurs, mouth full of you.

And you do. You take and take and take, clit grinding, hips thrusting, thighs shaking, lungs gasping, and with every pass, that bright, hot, vicious spiral in your abdomen winds tighter, tighter, tighter. Gods, it feels as though it is going to consume you – to swallow you whole and drag you under, to drown you in your own dripping sweetness, your own savage pleasure.

And then it plateaus, the sensations holding, holding, staying at precisely the same level, dangling you over the edge, and in a far away voice, you hear yourself whimper, “Marcus, please!”

Releasing his grip on one of your hips, the man beneath you lands a single, sharp smack to the meat of your ass, and over the edge you fall.

It’s everything you thought it could be – lightning in your veins, lava in your lungs, something primal and elemental and raw that rips through your body like a tidal wave that leaves you hiccuping whines and shaking like a leaf atop the general’s face. You spill your pleasure down his chin, into his mouth, along his jaw. It slips down his neck and dampens the embroidered collar of his tunic, and the way he groans into your twitching cunt, you would think that it had caused him pain. But no – he feels your ecstasy as though it is his own. You have left your body to soar among the clouds, and he joins you, overcome with the particular joy of being responsible for making his wife – the mother of his child – reach such heights.

When you come back to yourself, you are utterly spent – limp and boneless and sweating as though you had just run at top speed from here to the city gates. You start to collapse, and Marcus’s strong hands are there to catch you, to slide you down from his face to his lap. Gathering you into his arms, he brings you back down onto the mattress and tucks you into his side. His broad shoulder cushions your flushed cheek, and his fingers brush your disheveled hair back from your face as you catch your breath. Through bleary eyes, you catch the way his face shines in the candlelight. He’s covered in your slick.

For a few moments, you simply gaze at each other as the silence stretches between you. It is only punctuated by the sound of your labored breaths as each of you settle, but somehow it isn’t awkward, and you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. He’s so perfect like this, your Marcus. Hair mussed, face pink, everything from his chin to his nose glowing with your pleasure.

There’s a softness around his eyes you’ve never seen before, an earnest warmth that burrows its way into your chest and makes a nest there dangerously close to your heart. It’s an emotion you have a name for, if you are brave enough to say it, and the thought has you gripping tight to his tunic.

You are in awe of him.

You…you love him.

“And what is your verdict, my wife?” he asks after a beat. His voice is a low rumble that travels through his chest and into your body, warming you inside. “Does this Roman nose still please you?”

A tired grin tugs at the corners of your lips, pulling you out of the seriousness of your thoughts, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can manage. “Indeed, I am not certain I have ever been quite so…pleased before, husband.”

“Hmm. Good.” Marcus tucks the arm around your body into your waist, pulling you even deeper into his embrace. “Then perhaps the thing may serve a purpose after all.”

You reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, feeling the stickiness of your spend in his beard on your skin. “The purpose it serves is that it is my husband’s nose, and as such, is a part of the dearest face in the world to me.” His dark eyes soften at that, and he turns to place a warm kiss on the heel of your hand.

“Though…should you find yourself forgetting,” you add with an impish grin, “I would not object to a…repeat demonstration of its value. If it would be of any help to you, of course.”

This startles a laugh from his chest, his dark eyes crinkling with mirth, and you cannot help but join in. Gods, he is gorgeous, you think to yourself as you chuckle together in the dark. Both in his soul and in his body, your husband is gorgeous.

A hand drops to the place where your child rests, safe and protected inside your womb, and you feel a little flutter against your palm.

You decide then that you care not whether your child bears your face or Marcus’s. Either way, they will be beautiful, for how could they not be, when they have come from this?

Latin Translation:

amica - darling, sweetheart

[eu-nicola]

Morocco part 1

summary: Rafe says goodbye to Sofia and leaves her in outer banks while he goes to Morocco, where you are also and the danger that happens there rekindles the spark both of you thought had lost

warnings: mention of death, weapons, cheating, pregnancy, etc. only things of s4

word counter: 9000

author's note: spoilers of s4, many things have been changed but there are still spoilers, english is not my first language, this is long so get ready to read

There was a warm breeze blowing in from the ocean, bringing with it the smell of salt and adventure. You stood on the shore, watching the waves crash against the sharp, black rocks of the Outer Banks coastline. The sunset dyed the sky deep oranges and reds, painting long, brooding shadows across the sand. In the distance, the lighthouse flickered with its intermittent light, marking time. Your thoughts were filled with questions now that you were going to Morocco, and Rafe’s silhouette approaching along the wooden walkway only intensified that unease. 

Rafe had that look in his eyes that you had always found difficult to read, a mix of defiance and nonchalance that gave him an almost untouchable air. He walked with a confident gait, hands in his pockets, white shirt fluttering lightly in the wind. When he was close enough, you stopped, feeling tension take hold of your muscles. He noticed your expression and, without a word, stood beside you, staring out at the ocean as if you shared a secret that only he understood.

“How are you?” you asked, breaking the silence with a voice that sounded shakier than you had planned. It wasn’t a casual question; you both knew he was carrying a heavier weight. His eyes narrowed just a little, and after a moment that seemed like an eternity, he let out a sigh.

“Sofia is going to stay here,” he said suddenly, as if he had been waiting for you to ask. His words fell like stones to the bottom of your stomach, sinking you into a feeling of emptiness. “I didn’t want to risk taking my future wife to Morocco.”

It took your mind a while to process what he had just said, as if your brain had hit an unexpected wall. Future wife? The icy surprise ran across your skin, leaving you feeling cold in the stifling summer heat. You forced yourself to keep your composure, to not let the confusion become visible, but it was too late: Rafe was already watching you with that look that knew too much.

“Are you engaged?” you finally asked, trying to make your voice sound natural, but feeling the lump in your throat tighten a little more with each word. He gave you a slight smile, which barely curved his lips, but was reflected more intensely in his eyes.

“Yes,” he answered, and the weight of that simple statement crushed your chest. You looked back at the horizon, looking for a respite in the immensity of the sea. The waves continued to break, indifferent to human emotions, while you struggled to maintain the balance between surprise and the pain that you did not dare to let out.

Rafe nodded, his smile wider and more sincere than yours. “Thank you,” he said in a tone that revealed a kind of relief, as if he had been waiting for your reaction with hidden caution. There was a moment of silence, awkward and dense, in which neither of you moved or looked away from the ocean. The waves continued their eternal back and forth, and for a moment you wondered what it would be like to be anywhere else in the world, a place where Rafe’s words couldn’t reach you and where the echo of “future wife” didn’t resonate in your mind like a persistent hammering. 

The breeze blew harder, carrying with it the echo of distant laughter and the voices of seagulls, and as Rafe looked back out to sea, you felt everything moving around you, except you. 

You fell silent, allowing the sound of the sea and the wind to carry away the unspoken words. You didn't want to talk about Rafe's engagement anymore, or about Sofia, or what it meant to you. You had learned to swallow your emotions, to let them burn inside you until they became something more bearable, like ashes after a fire. So you didn't say anything. You just nodded almost imperceptibly and took a step back, as if you were walking away from a conversation that had already ended. 

Rafe watched you with fleeting curiosity, but he didn't insist. He, too, knew when it was best to leave things as they were. Without another word, he turned around and walked back along the same wooden path he had come by, his footsteps echoing in the increasingly dark afternoon. You stayed a few seconds longer, trying to let the cold in your chest dissipate and your breathing return to a normal rhythm. 

When you finally turned around, your thoughts were already far away from there, beyond the ocean, in the dunes of Morocco, in the legends surrounding the Blue Crown. That relic had been the center of stories and rumors among treasure-hunting circles, a lost jewel whose importance went beyond wealth: it was said to have the power to change the fate of whoever possessed it. And now, it was sought not only by you and Rafe, but also by the Pogues, and others. 

You had no time to be distracted, and you couldn't let your emotions prevent you from acting with the coolness that the situation required. You returned to your home where on the worn wooden table, the map of Morocco was spread out, with handwritten notes and markings indicating the places you had investigated before. You sat down, letting the weight of determination replace the pang of jealousy and disappointment you still felt. 

You looked through your things: an old compass that had belonged to your grandfather, oil lanterns, a sharp knife, and a copy of a manuscript with cryptic clues about the location of the Blue Crown, clothes, and a lot of money. 

As night fell over the Outer Banks and the stars began to twinkle in the sky, you promised yourself that you would find the Crown, no matter how many obstacles stood in your way. You weren’t interested in having it, but in what it took to have it, the deals you could make, and how proud your father would be if you did. It would be your victory, your vindication with your father after he nearly “killed” you when he found out you weren’t with Rafe anymore and you ruined his perfect life by not marrying a Cameron. You pushed those memories from your mind, focusing your eyes on the map and letting the adrenaline and obsession with the search take over. 

Tomorrow, everything would change.

The Moroccan sun was merciless, a golden blaze that seemed hell-bent on burning your skin and sapping every ounce of energy you had. The air was dry, with a hint of sand that seeped into your mouth and stuck to your skin. You walked through a bustling market, where the aromas of spices, leather, and sweat mingled in a heady, chaotic mix. Vendors shouted in Arabic and French, selling everything from hand-woven rugs to intricately detailed gold jewelry. Despite the fascination you could feel for the place, the heat made every step a struggle. 

“Damn heat,” you mutter as you wipe the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. Your clothes, light but already soaked, clung to your skin uncomfortably. You were tired, overwhelmed, and everything seemed even more complicated in the middle of that maze of narrow streets. 

Behind you, you hear a low, familiar laugh. “Are you really complaining about the heat?” Rafe’s voice comes with a hint of sarcasm you know well. He’d joined the expedition at the last minute. He wore dark sunglasses and a smile that made him seem completely unfazed, even under the relentless desert sun. 

“It’s not that different from home,” he adds, raising an eyebrow and giving you a look that mixes defiance and complicity. His words hit you with an unexpected truth, and although you hate to admit it, you agree with a slight nod. 

“You’re right,” you acknowledge, trying not to show the irritation you felt. Outer Banks might be stifling, humid, and wild, but this dry, scorching heat had its own way of imposing itself. Still, the comparison was still valid. 

Rafe stops next to a stall where an old man sells copper and silver amulets. He takes one between his fingers, examining it with that calm attention he used to display before making a major move. His presence is as familiar as it is exasperating, a constant that forced you to stay alert.

“Don’t forget what we’re here for,” he murmurs without looking at you, as he returns the amulet to the old man with a polite smile. His words bring you back to the present, to the mission.

You take a deep breath, letting the warm air fill your lungs and force you to focus. “I never forget,” you reply, and although your words sound firm, you both knew that heat, distractions, and personal tensions were silent enemies.

Rafe smirks, a gesture that could be either respect or mockery. Then, without further ado, he walks into the crowd, motioning for you to follow him.

Hours later, night fell over Morocco with the speed of a closing curtain, leaving the air still warm and charged with the promise of new intrigue. The market streets, which during the day were a hive of life, were transformed into a labyrinth of shadows and flashing lights, where low-voiced conversations and distant laughter mingled with the hum of oil lamps. You found yourself in one of these streets, walking briskly alongside Rafe, whose eyes seemed to scan every corner, alert for any sign of movement.

You knew the Pogues were in town. They’d been following the treasure trail for almost as long as you had, and though your paths had crossed in the past, you’d never considered joining them. Until now.

“Are you sure about this?” you asked Rafe, feeling the weight of doubt like a stone in your stomach. It was an idea that had seemed absurd to you when it first came up, but the more you thought about it, the more logical it made. Two opposing forces joining forces for a common goal. But with Rafe, you could never be completely sure of anything.

Rafe cast a glance over his shoulder, his lips twisting into a smile that was more of a warning than a friendly gesture. “Relax. It suits them as much as it suits us.” You stopped at the edge of a crossroads, the yellowish light of a streetlamp illuminating half of his face and leaving the other half plunged into darkness. “Don’t worry so much, if there’s one thing I know about them it’s that they can’t resist an opportunity,” she added, lowering her voice and moving closer. 

The meeting was scheduled in an old warehouse near the port, a place where stacked wooden boxes and hanging ropes created a scene that seemed straight out of a pirate tale. The place smelled of salt and damp wood, and the echoes of the waves crashing against the docks filled the space with a constant murmur. When you arrived, the Pogues were already there, standing in a tense semicircle, exchanging glances and whispers. John B, with his disheveled hair and alert expression, was the first to spot you. Beside him, Sarah tensed her jaw at the sight of Rafe, and you couldn’t blame her. The wounds between them ran deep, scars that would take a while to heal, if they ever did. 

“What are you doing here?” JJ’s voice was the first to break the silence. His eyes, normally full of spark and humor, were now hard as steel. Kie stood beside him, arms crossed and an expression that clearly said he didn’t trust what was happening.

Rafe raised his hands, as if to show he had no ill intentions. “Relax. We’re not here to fight. We’re here to help.”

“Help?” John B repeated the word as if it were a joke, and a bitter laugh escaped his throat. “Why the hell should we trust you?”

“You shouldn’t,” you intervened, taking a step forward. All eyes fell on you, and you felt the weight of uncertainty in each gaze. “But if we want to find the Crown before others do, we have no choice. Rafe and I know things, we have clues that can lead us to it. And you also have information that we need.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Eyes met, searching for answers that neither was willing to give. Pope was the first to move, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes as if he were assessing the situation. “What kind of information?” he finally asked, his tone calculating and full of caution.

Rafe smiled, and you knew he’d been waiting for that question. “We know the last clue leads to a site in the Atlas Mountains. But it’s not a place you can get to with maps and courage alone. You need someone who knows the terrain, and we just happen to have people who do.”

Kie let out a sigh, lowering her arms and casting a quick glance at her friends. “It’s crazy,” she muttered, though there was a glint in her eyes that suggested the idea, as dangerous as it was, intrigued her.

John B gritted his teeth, his gaze shifting from you to Rafe, then to his friends. There was a decision to be made, and you both knew it. Finally, he nodded, though not willingly. “Okay, but if this is a trap…”

“It’s not,” you interrupted. And though your words were firm, you knew that everyone there had reasons to doubt. The alliance was not perfect, and past scars still hurt. But in the search, distrust would be a luxury they could not afford.

Rafe crossed his arms, pleased, and looked at John B with a flash of defiance. “Then we better get started. The mountains aren’t going to wait for us.”

The group exchanged glances, a tacit agreement that felt like a leap into the dark.

Dawn in Morocco came with unexpected warmth, as if the sun had risen early with the sole purpose of testing everyone’s patience. The souk, which had just awakened with the first light, was filled with life in a matter of minutes: merchants displayed their wares, children ran through the alleys, and the air was filled with the aroma of spices and freshly baked bread. The relative calm of the morning didn’t last long.

It had been barely two days since you formed that precarious alliance with the Pogues and, as you feared, things quickly went awry. You weren’t sure what exactly had caused the chaos – whether it was Rafe trying to “get information” the way he usually did, or whether it was an unfortunate run-in with another group of treasure hunters who had gotten wind of the treasure. The truth was that you now found yourself running at full speed between clay buildings and narrow alleys, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the walls as the screams and curses of your pursuers filled the air behind you. 

“Rafe! This is madness!” you shouted as you dodged a fruit stand that you nearly knocked over in your wake. Oranges rolled across the ground, and the merchant let out an enraged scream that was lost in the melee. Rafe, running beside you with a grin that bordered on reckless, barely turned to look at you. 

“Calm down, I’ve got it under control!” he replied in a tone that made you want to punch him in the midst of all the confusion. The shadow of a smile remained on his face, as if this was all just a game and not a race to keep his skin intact.

“You better fix it, Rafe!” you roared, feeling the burn in your legs and the metallic taste of effort in your mouth. “I wanted at least a couple of good days in Morocco!” You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a moment of true tranquility, and in that instant, the desire for everything to be different mixed with the adrenaline that drove you to keep running. 

Rafe let out a laugh, one you didn’t know whether to admire or detest. “Good days? That’s not part of the deal, friend.” His words seemed laden with irony, but also with a truth that stuck in you like a thorn. 

You turned a corner and felt the sunlight hit you directly in the face, blinding you for a crucial second. You staggered and almost fell when you tripped on a small step, but Rafe grabbed your arm and pushed you forward without stopping. The footsteps behind you were getting closer, and you could hear shouts in Arabic that, although you didn’t fully understand, made it clear that the intentions were anything but friendly.

“To the right!” Rafe shouted, letting go of you and pointing down a side street that seemed narrower than the one before. Without thinking, you turned, your heart pounding in your chest like a crazed drum. The alley narrowed even further, and the terracotta-colored walls seemed to close in around you. You could feel the adrenaline bubbling through your veins, sweat soaking through your shirt, and the sound of the chase ringing in your ears as a constant reminder of how close they were.

Suddenly, a thud to your left caught your attention: John B and JJ had emerged from a hidden passage, expressions mixing surprise and relief at seeing you. “What the hell did they do now?!” JJ shouted, a spark of reproach in his eyes.

“This isn’t the time for details,” you replied between gasps, and without stopping, you walked past them, followed by Rafe, who still had that impassive smile.

“We have to split up,” John B said, taking the lead and pointing with a sharp gesture. “We’ll meet at the meeting point! Go that way!” And before you could answer, he and JJ disappeared into another narrow passage, like moving shadows.

You and Rafe kept running, the chase now divided and the sound of footsteps diminishing. The alley opened up into a small square, where the midday shadows were deeper. There, you leaned against a wall, trying to catch your breath and process what had just happened.

Rafe glanced at you, his breathing ragged but a spark of excitement in his eyes. “You see,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with a quick gesture, “this is what makes everything more interesting.”

You looked at him, feeling a mixture of exasperation and a strange camaraderie wash over you. Maybe he was crazy, or maybe you were crazy for keeping up with him.

After the chase, everything had calmed down, they continued doing their thing during the day and at night when they went to rest at a place where they were staying while you slept you were startled by a thud in the next room. You barely had time to stand up when the door was flung open and a tall man, with scars on his face and eyes as dark as night, pointed a gun at you. “Not a single move, girl,” he hissed in broken English, the threat in his voice as clear as the gun in his hand.

Rafe, who was in the other room, burst in without a second thought. The fight was quick, a clash of bodies and blows that echoed in the small room like war drums. With your heart racing, you searched for something, anything to defend yourself, and your fingers found an old metal lamp. You didn’t think about it. With all the strength you could muster, you threw it at the intruder’s head, the metallic sound echoing as it hit him and sent him reeling.

“Get out!” Rafe shouted, his voice a roar that snapped you out of your trance. You moved toward the door as he finished subduing the intruder. Outside, the streets were deserted, a blanket of silence that was almost as dangerous as the bustle of the crowd. You knew they couldn’t stay there. They had to move.

The next day, things only got worse. Despite having agreed on a meeting point with the Pogues, the pressure of being under constant surveillance and dodging suspicious glances became unbearable. Pope had managed to decipher an ancient map that seemed to lead to a cave in the Atlas Mountains, but they hadn’t counted on the other hunters who caught wind of the advance.

The chase began in the market, with the clatter of falling pots and screams from confused vendors who barely understood what was happening. You leapt up a stone staircase that led up to the rooftops, Rafe hot on your heels and JJ and Kie a few feet behind, bringing up the rear. From above, the flat roofs of the souk stretched out like a makeshift battlefield, dotted with hanging clothes and rusty antennas. The air was thick with heat and dust, making every breath a challenge. 

Gunshots rang out in the distance, the echo spreading through the streets like a wave. You threw yourself to the ground just in time to avoid a second shot, feeling adrenaline turn your fear into a searing drive. Rafe held out a hand and helped you up, the urgency in his eyes clearer than ever. “We have to get down from here now!” he shouted over the din, pointing to an old staircase that led to a narrow alley. 

They managed to climb down and into the tangle of streets, but the sense of impending danger never left. The group briefly took refuge in a cellar, where John B pulled out the map and spread it out on a splintered wooden table. “The cave is close, but we need to make a detour. We’re being followed closely,” he said, his gaze fixed on the markings that indicated a winding path into the mountains.

The tension in the air was palpable. No one fully trusted Rafe, and Kie kept giving you worried glances, as if trying to gauge how much more you could take. You were tired, exhausted, but at the moment the idea of ​​stopping seemed as far away as peace itself. 

That night, when the group decided to split up, you found yourself alone with Rafe in a dark passage, the echo of screams and gunshots still haunting you. The shadows on the stone walls seemed to lengthen and twist as if they were alive, too, watching you. You walked in silence, your breathing still ragged and your body on high alert. Rafe, ever alert, stopped suddenly and put a hand on your arm. The touch was cold, but it also had a hint of urgency that made you still. 

“Listen,” he whispered. You barely noticed the sound of footsteps coming toward you, slow and calculated. Before you could process it, someone grabbed you from behind and dragged you into the darkness of an alley. You kicked and punched, fighting with all your might as Rafe tried to reach you. 

You knew you had been missing for no more than a couple of hours, you had learned to count time without a watch and without getting lost and you knew that you had been exactly two hours with your head covered, except for your mouth. 

In an unexpected twist, it was John B who appeared out of nowhere, pulling your captor and slamming him against the wall with a force that seemed impossible for his build. Once free, you breathed heavily, feeling the world around you blur. You were tired, but John B’s gaze, full of concern and determination, reminded you that you were not alone. 

“We have to move. Now,” he said and you quickly followed. 

The streets began to calm down as John B led you through a maze of passages further and further away from the bustle of the souk.

Finally, John B stopped in front of an old wooden door, dark with age and dust. He knocked three times in a rhythmic manner, and the door creaked open. You entered behind him, feeling tiredness creeping through your body like an unbearable weight. The small room you entered was lit by an oil lamp in one corner, casting a dim light that made the shadows lengthen and distort.

There, sitting in a chair with an expression somewhere between worry and relief, was Rafe. When he saw you, his eyes lit up with a flash of excitement that he quickly tried to hide under a facade of serenity. You had no time for words; you threw yourself at him, hugging him tightly, feeling the warmth of his body and the accelerated beat of his heart under your arms. For a moment, nothing else mattered.

Rafe hugged you back, his grip firm, almost desperate. For an instant, he wasn’t the troubled, arrogant man you’d shared so many moments of uncertainty with, but someone who shared the weight of the same struggle, the same fear, and the same need to find respite amidst the chaos.

“I thought I’d have to kill someone to find you,” he murmured, his voice husky near your ear, heavy with a feeling he couldn’t or wouldn’t admit. You felt his hands tighten around you, as if he feared that if he loosened his grip, you might disappear into the dimness of the room.

“I almost did,” you admitted, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes.

John B coughed softly, breaking the tension in the air and reminding you that you weren’t alone. You looked over at him, and behind him, JJ and Kie had gathered, each with expressions ranging from relief to distrust. Kie smiled briefly, but JJ kept his stance alert, always the first to suspect Rafe. 

“We need to decide our next move,” John B said, crossing his arms and glancing around at everyone in the room. “Those following us aren’t going to stop, and the cave in the mountains isn’t going to sit around waiting for us.”

Rafe let out a low, almost inaudible laugh and looked away, as if he was considering John B’s words. You felt the knot in your chest slowly unravel, replaced by the determination they all shared: to find what they were looking for. 

After the conversation, the small room fell into a heavy silence, interrupted only by tired sighs and the occasional creaking of chairs. The tired looks, the few words. The adrenaline of the day was finally beginning to fade, and exhaustion took its place with relentless force. John B and the others found corners in the room to rest, spreading threadbare blankets on the floor and chairs.

Rafe looked at you and nodded silently, both of you knowing you wouldn't stay there. Without exchanging another word, you walked out the back door, into the shadows of the streets of Marrakech. You walked in silence, unhurried but not stopping, following the paths you already knew by heart. The house you shared was a few streets away, a replica of the many modest buildings in the neighborhood, but set back enough to offer you a semblance of privacy and safety.

Upon arriving, Rafe opened the door and let you in first. The interior was dark and cool, a welcome welcome after the scorching heat of the day and the tension that seemed to have been tied to your back like a weight. You closed your eyes for a moment, allowing yourself to feel the ephemeral peace of the place, before letting out a deep sigh and moving towards the small room in the back, where a low, simple bed awaited you. 

Rafe stood in the doorway, watching you with a mix of tiredness and something else you couldn’t quite make out. “Do you want me to make you something to drink?” he asked, his voice soft and husky. 

You shook your head as you kicked off your shoes and dropped onto the bed. “No, I just… need to sleep. It’s been too much for today.” You laid down on your side, hugging one of the pillows and feeling your eyelids begin to droop. You didn’t expect Rafe to do the same, but suddenly you heard him move. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, and the lamplight flickered for a moment before he blew out the last spark and everything went dark. 

You flinched slightly as you felt the weight of the bed dip beside you. You turned your head, and though you could barely see his features in the darkness, you could feel his proximity, the heat radiating from his body. “I’m not staying in that house with them,” he murmured, like an explanation, though you didn’t need one. You didn’t respond, just closed your eyes, too exhausted to think about what it meant.

The silence stretched between you, only broken by the slow, deep breaths that began to come together. Without realizing it, as tiredness dragged you to sleep, you turned a little, looking for a more comfortable position. Your hands brushed Rafe's arm, and he moved barely, as if responding to your touch was a reflex. Before you could think about what was happening, you felt his arm slide around your waist, pulling you towards him. It was a protective, warm gesture, and although at another time you would have said something, in that instant you only sighed, feeling your body relax completely. 

With his breath close to your ear and the safety of his arms around you, the tension that had accompanied you for days finally dissolved. 

The next morning the sun began to filter through the cracks in the window, filling the room with a soft light that contrasted with the darkness you had fallen into the night before. You woke up slowly, eyelids heavy, body still marked by the tiredness of the day before. Without moving, you felt the warmth of Rafe’s body beside you, his arm still around your waist, and for a moment you couldn’t help but smile quietly.

You tried to turn around to get out of his embrace without making a sound, hoping you wouldn’t wake him, but when you tried to move, something pulled at you. Rafe, still asleep, pulled you closer to him, a gesture so automatic that it made you sigh silently. Your body tensed at first, but then you realized it couldn’t be that bad, at least for a moment longer.

“Don’t go,” he murmured quietly, his tone rough with sleep. The softness of his words made your chest tighten unintentionally.

You stayed still for a second, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of his embrace envelop you, as if the entire world had disappeared, leaving only that small corner of peace between the two of you. But reality, as always, quickly took over. You didn’t want to be that person, you didn’t want to confuse yourself or complicate things further. It was a hug, nothing more.

“Rafe...” you began quietly, almost afraid to interrupt the peace that had formed between you. “I’m not Sofia.”

The sound of his breathing changed, and then, with a calmness that surprised you, he replied, “I know,” as he held you even tighter against his chest. His words were soft, as if there was nothing to clarify, nothing to change. “I just… want to keep sleeping.”

Despite his relaxed tone, you couldn’t stay there all day. You already knew that time was pressing, and things were still moving outside of that little bubble of calm you’d shared with him. “There are things to do, Rafe,” you said, your tone firmer this time. “And we need to eat.”

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips at that moment, but eventually he relented. His body tensed a little as, with a grimace, he began to pull away from you, his arm finally releasing you, though his gaze was still a little clouded by sleep.

“It’s okay,” he said, sitting up with a hand on his head, as if trying to clear his head a little before getting up. “But only because you have to eat.”

The smile that escaped you upon hearing his tired, yet resigned tone was almost inevitable. You got up first, stretching and looking for clean clothes. As you watched him prepare his way to get up.

After a simple but necessary breakfast, with the morning warmth streaming in through the windows, the pace of the day continued. The conversations about the map and the cave in the mountains were quickly forgotten as each of you went about your own business. The chaos and paranoia of the day before had subsided, but danger was still present in every corner of Morocco, lurking in the darkness, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

Rafe, as always lately, had decided to act without thinking too much about it. There was something in his nature that pushed him to throw himself into risky situations without measuring the consequences. And, as always, it ended in trouble.

That trouble came in the form of an old acquaintance who appeared in the square, with clear intentions of collecting old debts. Rafe tried to negotiate, to talk to him in terms he clearly didn’t understand, while you watched from afar, feeling a growing unease in your stomach. There was something about the man’s posture, his cold gaze, that told you that they weren’t going to get out of this well.

The exchange of words escalated quickly, the tone of the conversation going from tense to aggressive in seconds. You knew it wasn’t going to end well, but what you didn’t expect was what happened next.

The man moved quickly, his hand searching for something in his jacket. You didn’t need to be told, it all happened in the blink of an eye. Rafe had backed away, but the man already had a gun in his hands, and his intention was clear. Rafe’s gaze hardened, and in that moment you understood that he couldn’t escape.

The man raised the gun towards him, and the world seemed to slow down for an instant. You knew there was no time to think about it. Fear transformed into action without your brain being able to fully process it. Without thinking, you pulled out the gun you had taken from the cellar the night before. In one swift movement, you aimed and fired. 

The sound of the gunshot rang through the air, the echo repeating in your ears as the man fell to the ground, with a grunt of pain, the gun slipping from his hand. Quickly, you turned to Rafe, who was only a few feet away from you, watching what had happened with a mix of surprise and gratitude, but also with the awareness of what had just happened. 

“Are you...?” you began, but the words got caught in your throat. Adrenaline was still flowing through your veins, making your hands shake slightly, but there was no time to reflect. 

Rafe, after a moment of silence, finally spoke. “Well done,” he said in a tone you couldn’t quite read. But there was something in his gaze, a deep gratitude, and also a concern that he didn’t want to admit.

“It’s nothing,” you lied, quickly putting the gun away, though your heart was still racing. “Be careful, I need you to be the Rafe who makes deals with the worst people possible and comes out on top.”

Rafe didn’t say anything. He looked at the fallen man, then turned to you, and without another word, he nodded. “Let’s move on.”

The two of you walked quickly, away from the scene, the shadows of the streets covering you. Rafe walked a few steps ahead of you.

Your breathing was still irregular, the adrenaline already starting to wear off. The question that had formed in your head escaped your mouth, more out of impulse than out of need to know the answer.

“Isn’t there a minute where we have peace? Where I don’t have to get your ass out of some trouble?” you blurted out, the irony in your voice evident. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or scream, but something about the situation made you blurt out that question as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Rafe, without turning around, let out a dry laugh, the one you already knew was the only way he had to deal with the situation, a defense against the chaos that surrounded him. “Like with Sheriff Peterkin,” he said, and although his words seemed light, there was something in his tone that he couldn’t hide: the heaviness of that memory.

The mention of the policewoman made you pause for a second. You knew exactly what he meant. That time, long before they got to this point, you remembered the local police who had almost caught Rafe and his family, so he took it upon himself only for reasons that were never fully understood, your father intervened, paying whatever it took to cover it all up. 

You knew that, in some way, your father’s hand was always present, ensuring that Rafe’s problems didn’t affect him, although it had left you with a bitter feeling in your stomach. Your father never talked about these situations, but it was clear that he had ways of cleaning up messes that others couldn’t. And in some way, he included you in his world, which you were used to and liked. 

“I know,” you answered with a wry smile. You couldn’t help but think of everything you had done to protect Rafe, everything you had put aside for him, for his sake. And what did you get in return? More trouble, more chaos. But at the same time, you couldn’t deny that something about that connection dragged you down, something you couldn’t control.

Rafe glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment, his eyes softened, as if you were reading his thoughts. “Thank you,” he said quietly, though it wasn’t the kind of thanks that made you feel completely at ease.

“Don’t be,” you replied quickly, feeling the moment become more tense than it already was. “I don’t need you to thank me, Rafe. This is what always happens. But I don’t want to be your fixer all the time.”

Silence fell between you again as you walked through the streets, the sun already warming the air uncomfortably. Your dress, though light at first, now felt sticky and dirty. Sweat ran down your back and the line of your neck, and the dust of the streets stuck to your skin only made things worse. You rubbed your forehead, desperate, and muttered more to yourself than to Rafe.

“This is unbearable. I’m sweaty, dirty, and… I need a bath urgently. This is torture.”

Rafe walked a few steps ahead, but his eyes shifted to you for a moment, as if he was trying to process what you had just said. He didn’t seem worried, but he did seem a little amused to see you in this state.

“I know, but it’s not the most important thing right now,” he said, in his usual, somewhat carefree tone. “We have to stay focused.”

You frowned as you brushed off your dress. “Yeah, sure, very focused… but I could be a lot more productive if I wasn’t so uncomfortable.” You looked around, realizing how ridiculous it sounded: here you were, running away from one problem after another, and all you could think about was a bathroom.

Rafe, noticing your tone, let out a low, amused laugh, as if the idea of ​​worrying about something so mundane in the midst of all the chaos was completely absurd. “It’s not my fault you’re not going to take a bath with me,” he said, as if to joke. 

You turned to him, one eyebrow raised, and prepared to respond, but before you could say anything, he gave you a small tap on the arm, almost playfully, while smirking. The way he did it seemed so natural, as if everything else around them disappeared for a second. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he added between laughs. “You can wait a little longer before you get in the water.” 

He looked at you with that lopsided smile that, despite everything, couldn’t take away the discomfort of being drenched in sweat and dirt. But you couldn’t help but laugh, despite how upset you were. 

“Easy for you to say, right?” You said, trying to make a face, but you couldn’t help but crack a slight smile. “When you’re not the one stuck in a sticky dress with your hair stuck to your face.”

Rafe, hearing your tone, simply shrugged, still smiling. “I promise that once we get somewhere safe, you can shower all you want. In the meantime, just hold on a little longer. It’s not all that bad, right?”

You stayed silent for a moment, looking at his relaxed face as you walked. You knew he was partly right. In the end, the sweat and heat were nothing compared to what you had already faced. But, despite everything, you couldn’t help but think about how much good a nice bath would do you.

“Okay, but don’t make me wait too long,” you said in a more relaxed tone, feeling your body ease up a bit as the tension was released with those words. “Because really, Rafe, I need something more than water to cool off.”

Rafe, looking at you with that look of his, just nodded, and with a mischievous smile on his face, he replied, “I promise, just hold on a little longer.”

You pushed yourself gently against his arm, and laughed.

Although the hours had felt endless, they ended up being productive for you and Rafe. The search for clues had paid off, although not in the way you had expected. They had managed to find some things and talk to some people who would help them, and they had also made some important progress in getting an address that seemed more promising than the previous ones. Despite the discomfort of the heat, the chases they had barely dodged, and the tensions between them, you felt that the hours had been worth it. 

The streets, which had previously seemed overwhelming and chaotic, now felt more familiar. They had managed to blend in a bit with the locals, and although curious eyes continued to follow them, they managed to move more confidently, at least until it got late. Finally, after a day of intense work and a couple of altercations, night fell over Morocco, and the cool breeze that was beginning to blow made you breathe a sigh of relief. 

As the shadows lengthened, the city seemed to calm down a bit, the streets less hectic, the heat of the day slowly easing. You were tired, the sweat stuck to your skin was no longer just uncomfortable, but had left you feeling heavy. All you wanted at that moment was a bath, but you knew things couldn't be that simple.

Rafe had disappeared for a moment, perhaps to talk to someone or continue digging into some clue that had surfaced, but you couldn't wait any longer. You quickly walked to the house you had rented, the temporary shelter where you could only think about taking off everything you had endured that day.

Entering the small dwelling, you closed the door behind you with a sigh of relief. You no longer had to be on alert all the time. There was no immediate danger in sight, and at last, you had some time to yourself.

You quickly headed to the bathroom, where a large, old tub was waiting for you, filled with water that still felt somewhat warm, as if someone had prepared everything in advance. You didn't hesitate for a second and, without thinking twice, you began to undress, removing clothes soaked in sweat and dust from the day. Each piece of clothing you dropped on the floor seemed to take a little more of the weight off your shoulders.

You sank into the tub with a sigh of relief, letting the warm water envelop your tired body. You lay back with your arms outstretched on the edge, closing your eyes and letting the warmth surround you, covering you completely. Each bubble that formed on the surface seemed to soothe you more, as if you were letting go of all the stress and tension you had built up.

The sound of the water gently moving around you was the only thing you could hear, and for a moment, you felt like everything else was left behind. You only thought about yourself, and the movement of the water.

The warmth of the water was beginning to relax you completely, and every part of your body that had been tense during the day was slowly letting go. You had your eyes closed, enjoying the moment, when you finally managed to disconnect from everything else, even Rafe's presence. At last, you felt like the world could wait a little.

The soak in the tub was beyond relaxing. Without thinking, you began to completely relax, the hot, bubbling water enveloping your body as tiredness slipped away from you.

You allowed yourself to stay there for a few more minutes, enjoying the peace that so rarely came to you.

When you finally got out of the tub, you felt like new. The water had done wonders on your tired body.

You decided to replace the water in the tub before Rafe arrived. The water you had used was warm, but it wasn't as hot anymore, so you decided to fill it up again for him. You did this more out of instinct than anything else, you wanted to offer him some peace of mind after everything you had been through that day. The sound of the water flowing in the tub was the only thing you could hear as you prepared to go get some clean clothes.

You didn't notice it at first, but when you returned to the living room, you heard the door open. Rafe walked in with his tired, somewhat heavy gait, but it wasn’t until you turned to look at him again that you noticed something odd about his posture. Something about the way he walked, slightly hunched over, made you frown.

Rafe was hurt.

The sweat on his face and the blood stains on his clothes didn’t go unnoticed. There was some wound, perhaps superficial, but enough to make you worry. You hurried to approach him, but he raised his hand, stopping you before you could say anything.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice tense but firm, as if he didn’t want you to treat him like he was a child. “Just a couple of scratches. A bath will do me good, and that’s it.” His tone was so direct that it left no room for further discussion, as if the idea of ​​being helped was something he preferred to avoid.

You stared at him for a moment, feeling a lump form in your throat. You wanted to help, to do something, but you knew Rafe wasn’t going to let you do it. You knew him too well to know that he wouldn’t accept help easily, especially when it came to something as “minor” as a wound.

“I’ve already filled the tub for you,” you finally said, trying to hide how much it worried you to see him in that state. Your voice sounded calmer than you felt, but there was still a note of concern that you couldn’t hide. “It’s ready. Just… be careful, okay?”

Rafe looked at you with a crooked smile, that smile of his that used to be so trusting, but now seemed somewhat forced. “Thank you,” he said quietly, giving you a slight nod in thanks. 

You stood there for a few moments, watching him head towards the tub, where he paused for a moment before beginning to strip off his blood and dirt stained clothes. 

The tension in the air between the two of you was palpable, but in the end, you knew you couldn’t just leave him like that. If he wasn’t going to accept it, you would take the lead. No matter what was between you, you couldn’t leave him hurt and alone. 

You approached the tub with a clear decision in your mind. Without thinking too much, you grabbed a clean rag and dipped it into the hot water. The sound of the water sliding down his skin, the warmth emitted by the steam, turned it all into a kind of calm that at first seemed disconcerting. Rafe stayed silent, watching you as you moved the cloth gently across his torso, careful not to touch his wounds, cleaning away the dirt that had accumulated on his body.

You didn’t think about his nakedness. You knew that, at this point, it was just a practical matter.

Rafe, despite the awkwardness of the situation, kept looking at you, and with a crooked smile, decided to break the silence. “Are you really doing this?” he said in a sarcastic tone, raising an eyebrow, as if he were in the middle of an awkward joke. “Aren’t you afraid of getting wet?”

You laughed despite yourself, almost unable to help it. The laughter came out of you spontaneously, lightening the heavy atmosphere that had formed a little. “If I get wet, I get wet. It’s not like I haven’t gotten wet before.” You replied, cleaning the part of his shoulder more carefully, always aware of the wounds.

Rafe’s sarcastic tone never faded, though at the moment it seemed more like a way to cope than anything else. He stared at you, but this time, something in his gaze changed. 

“You’re beautiful,” he said casually, as if it were just a comment. But there was something in his eyes that left you speechless. 

Your heart skipped a beat, and you immediately felt uncomfortable. For a second, you froze. “Please don’t say that,” you murmured, trying to look away to avoid him seeing it in your eyes. 

The atmosphere between the two of you grew tense, as if the words were floating in the air, weighing more than anything you could say. There were too many things left unsaid between you, too many intertwined feelings, and the complications of everything going on in your lives. But, in that instant, the comment seemed to change something.

Rafe didn't respond immediately. Instead, he gently took your hand, guiding it through the water as you ran it over his chest. The closeness of his body, the way he touched you, made your breathing quicken. Before you could react, he pulled you towards him, into the tub, unexpectedly. The warmth of the water surrounding both of you only intensified the feeling of closeness, of warmth. 

You stood there, not knowing what to do. Your whole body was telling you to get away, that it wasn't the time, that this shouldn't happen. But something in his gaze, something in the way he held you, made your own thoughts fade away. The doubts and voices in your head seemed to fade away when his lips met yours, in an intense but silent way, as if there was no turning back. 

Despite what your mind was telling you, what was warning you that this could be a mistake, you couldn't help it. The touch of his body, the unexpected connection, made you lose control for a moment. The pressure in your chest disappeared, and for an instant, there was only the sensation of his lips, of his closeness, of the passion you hadn't planned.

You knew that, after all this, nothing would ever be the same again. But in that moment, you surrendered to the sensation, to the connection you both shared, even though everything around you told you not to let yourself go.

You both stayed there for a long time, in silence, only the sound of the water and the ragged breaths filling the air around you. There was no rush, no urgency to move away. The warmth of the water and the closeness of your bodies enveloped you, and for a moment, you let yourself go, you let the chaos of the world be replaced by the calm that only he could offer you in that instant. The tension between you seemed to slowly fade away, as if time had stopped and everything else no longer mattered.

When you finally pulled away from him, a little dazed, it was Rafe who broke the silence with a soft, but determined voice. “Come on,” he said, taking your hand gently. 

You didn’t have time to say anything else before he led you out of the tub and into the bedroom, but you didn’t care. There was something comforting about the idea of ​​spending the night with him, of sharing a space, even if it was just for a few hours. You felt calmer than you had in days, something you didn’t even know you needed until that moment.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆. ❞

KINKTOBER WEEK TWO.

⤿ pairing(s): halbrand!sauron x fem!human!reader.

⤿ word count: 4.6K.

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), porn without plot, mild manipulation (it’s sauron), risk of getting caught, possessiveness, sex in a public location, fingering (fem!rec), heavy kissing, hair-pulling, scratching, begging, unprotected sex, p in v sex, breeding kink if you squint, sex on a table.

⤿ note: first time writing for sauron, please be gentle! mr. tolkien, so sorry for all of the despicable things I’m gonna be writing about your characters. ❤️ thank you all for reading! reblogs & comments are appreciated!

A salt-tinged breeze stirred through the forges, a welcome gust of relief amidst the heat that sought to blaze his flesh asunder.

In the silence of dusk, Halbrand found his solace with hammer and anvil, over that of indulgence of drink at some tavern.

Númenor proved to be the respite he desperately needed, running from a shadowed past. He worked tirelessly, through lengthy days and well into the night, his mind a tumultuous tempest.

The King of the Southlands — the ruler of nothing.

It was a mantle that wholly disinterested him, and despite his numerous protests to Galadriel regarding his supposed heritage, the she-elf refused to let it stay dead and buried. He was better off here, crafting works of art — blades, armor, jewelry.

There was nothing for him now, only threads of a plan that seemed to fall by the wayside. It was easy to disappear here, to fade away into the backdrop of the oceanside kingdom, allow himself to place all his efforts on smithing.

The roaring embers of the forge sizzled as he placed the partially-finished blade inside, molding metal to his skilled hand. There was no greater joy than that of creation — making something out of nothing, a tool to be used.

Halbrand’s gaze momentarily flickered toward the roll of parchment sitting along one of the many craftsmen’s tables.

You were an envoy of Númenor, the brood of a lesser House of Men, in-service to the Guild. It was you that had uncovered records of the Southlander line and brought it to Galadriel’s attention — a clever creature, you were.

In what handful of interactions he’d had with you, you were studious and well-mannered, far too intelligent for your station. You toiled in-service to lesser beings, when your potential extended far beyond their reach.

The scroll contained the very bloodline you had presumed he hailed from, as if you were dangling the proof for all to see. He cared little for it, preoccupied with the task at-hand.

If it were his choice, he preferred to stay in Númenor, learn their customs and assimilate into their culture. Galadriel’s stubbornness had the potential to win out if he weren’t careful, and Halbrand was not the subservient sort.

In the star-riddled dusk, Halbrand decided to break in his crafting, stepping toward a basin of water, letting the cool liquid wash away the perspiration dotting his brow.

It was better at twilight, offering a solace that one might not fully understand. He rarely slept, and when he did, he was often plagued by dreams of constant rage. Halbrand let the forge simmer down, opting to work on the still-hot sword.

A gentle tap of knuckles against the door did not alert him as much as you thought it would. He stood with his back to you, brows furrowed together in concentration. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He questioned.

Greeted by the stifling, ember-fueled heat of the forge, you stood in the doorway, having abandoned your Guild regalia. “Good eve,” You mustered a smile, hands twisting together. “You are a stranger to rest, it seems.”

“As are you,” Halbrand’s steely gaze flickered from the blade to you, letting the hammer swing down upon forming steel. “Is it safe for you to be wandering about at nightfall?”

His sharp inquiry brought you pause, fingers idly toying with the fabric of your dress. Númenor was perfectly safe — safer than most kingdoms of Men. “Should it not be safe?” Countering his remark, you observed the rack of newly-crafted swords.

Halbrand did not offer an answer right away, turning the blade over, striking it again with his hammer as sparks flew. “There is no such thing as true safety, my Lady. There will always be something stirring in the shadows.”

You nearly laughed at his fearmongering — he sounded akin to an old maiden, weaving her intricate tales of fright to dissuade children from wrongdoing. “That is a rather dour sentiment. Are you often paranoid?” Your tone tapered off into one of mild amusement.

A sardonic scoff escaped him, lips quirking up only slightly, yet he did not seem offended by your retort. “Merely concerned with preservation — my own, first and foremost.” He replied.

He knew why you were here, even if it was an unspoken thing that you continued to dance around. You had come as a messenger on behalf of Galadriel, to make a valiant attempt of convincing him to return to Middle-Earth.

“The Guild is impressed by your craft,” Shifting the topic, you brushed your fingers over the horse-shaped pommel, the color of ivory. “Not that I should be divulging that information.” You mused.

Perplexed, Halbrand wordlessly observed you, cerulean hues studying the creases of your dress, a shade of mauve that only seemed to enhance your beauty. There was something forlorn simmering within him, feelings not often brought to the surface.

“Is that so? It seems that they’ve finally come to their senses,” He jested, earning a pointed look from you. “It took a beating to do so.” Halbrand placed the unfinished blade beside the dying embers of the forge.

There was still mild bruising around his nose and mouth, heated transgressions that earned him the ire of Númenor. He seemed unperturbed, seizing a rag from the edge of an anvil.

“That could’ve been avoided,” You murmured, tracing a digit around the ivory head of a horse before stepping away. “You are fortunate that they did not toss you into the seas for your rancor.”

“That would be rather unfortunate, being tossed back into the ocean when I had worked tirelessly to claw my way out of it.” He quipped, moving about the forge as he hung up his tools.

A soft sigh escaped you as you shook your head, peering outside towards the night skies. “If you wish to stay in Númenor, you must cease drawing attention to yourself.”

Halbrand chuckled, the sound devoid of any mirth. It was a steely sound, more sardonic than genuine. He wiped away at the soot and grime of the forge, leaning back against the sturdy table.

“Is this amusing to you, being tossed into a cell and brawling with the locals?” The sharp bite of your inquiry could’ve been mistaken for the edge of a knife. “You are above that.”

“And if I am not?” He was equally as sharp, that of a longsword, tarnished and worn yet still able to cut with ease. Halbrand’s countenance seemed unmistakably soured by your comment.

Taken aback, you turned to face him fully, canting your head to one side. It was not mock frustration that you found in his features — it was true. “What do you mean?”

“You continue to place me upon some pedestal,” Halbrand scoffed, peering elsewhere, gazing at the hot coals of the forge. “What if I am not what you think me to be? What if I am simply a Man with not a drop of nobility to his name?”

With a furrowed brow, you folded your hands together, studying his visage. He seemed frustrated yet forlorn, as if he were remembering something — lamenting, perhaps. “Then you are a Man.”

In the time that you had gotten to know Halbrand, standing alongside Captain Elendil on the ship back to Númenor, he was something of an enigma. Charming and charismatic with a great love of disobedience, but he possessed a veiled depth.

Galadriel seemed far more preoccupied with returning to Middle-Earth and hunting Sauron, making Halbrand a ruler over considering his feelings. If he wanted to stay in Númenor, craft a new existence — you did not blame him.

“And if I am not the man that you believe I am?” Halbrand pressed, as if seeking a certain answer from you. Some sliver of his being wanted someone to tell him that they cared little about his past, what he used to be.

“Whatever you are insinuating, I care little for it. Your past does not make you — only what you do from this moment forward,” You replied, mustering a gentle smile. “You are Halbrand — that is enough for me.”

If the She-elf had it her way, she would drag him back to Middle-Earth, writhing and screaming. In his own web of schemes, it was what was necessary — but time was infinite.

There was a peculiar gleam within your eyes, one that possessed a warmth and understanding that he was vastly unaccustomed to. “Hm,” He sighed, turning the cloth over within his hand. “Thank you.”

A brief laugh tore past your lips, one that seemed to bring the tension to a momentary heel. “What, for dissuading you against further scorn by the local populace?” You mused.

Halbrand happened to chuckle at that, a warm sound that made residence within your stomach, butterflies following suit. “For understanding, for your kindness,” He replied, his tone softening. “Not many possess your tenderness.”

Growing silent, you nodded, attempting to mask the brief glimmer of surprise that fluttered across your features. You were often regarded as level-headed and sage, yet soft when it mattered most.

“I do not wish to see you thrown in a cell again, or exiled from the Guild when you clearly possess a wealth of talent,” Your motives transcended that — part of you liked Halbrand. “I would do the same for anyone in your position.”

“Would you?” Halbrand’s inquiry, whilst outwardly inquisitive, seemed tinged with something unfamiliar — something amorous. Your nerves became set ablaze, skin uncomfortably warm.

As you swallowed the growing lump within your throat, Halbrand straightened, copper-hued locks framing his rugged face. He was handsome — statuesque, clearly carved with the frame of a warrior and a smith.

“Yes,” Hoarse and pitched with the sudden swell of nervousness, you idly toyed with the sleeves of your dress. “If you are to stay in Númenor, I would hope that you only continue to thrive with your craft.”

This craft was of little interest — Halbrand knew what he wanted, starting with you. Malleable like the finest metal, as beautiful as a glittering opal socketed into that of a signet.

“Is that what you want, for me to stay in Númenor?” Seas help you — this was madness. Halbrand’s poignant question made you wonder what exactly was about to happen, gooseflesh icing your spine, prompting you to shiver.

“What I want matters little,” There was a noticeable lack of conviction within your tone, as if you were convincing yourself of that very fact. “You are free to choose your destiny.”

You were fighting against the urge, the untoward craving that began to settle within your bones. It wasn’t proper nor appropriate of you to even consider wanting Halbrand, a man whose fate seemed far more important than your own.

To ask him to stay in Númenor, abandon the Southlands — you did not have the heart. It was born of greed and desire, wanting to keep him close to your chest.

“It matters to me,” Halbrand murmured, brows creasing together as he glowered down upon you, close enough to touch. “What do you want?” The malignant force deep within him begged to bring you into his stead.

Whatever perceived darkness hungered within you, it also screamed within him, with a shadow far more powerful than your own. Greed was unbecoming of you — you were meant to serve the people of Númenor, never yourself.

Whereas Galadriel possessed a fierce heart and unending thirst for vengeance, you longed to be free — no longer under the thumb of lesser Men, to lead and to be revered.

To be loved, to be coveted.

“Do not leave,” A plea, beseeching him to stay in Númenor, to stoke whatever flame was stirring between the both of you. The intensity of his longing stare nearly made you collapse. “Stay here, in Númenor.”

A hitch formed within your throat as his calloused fingertips graced your arm, tracing over the sea of mauve gossamer that clung to your form. Halbrand took your silence as something contemplative, afraid to make your true feelings known.

Again, he pressed closer, looming above you, caging you in against the table. You could feel his heat, smell the coal and metal, taste the fantasy that swirled within your mind’s eye.

Roughened digits caressed across your throat, over your slender neck, your collarbone. His touch was like that of a fire, a burn so wonderful that you would beg for it if you had to.

“Halbrand,” Barely above a whisper, your tone seemed strained, as if fighting against all of your baser urges. A peculiar heat raked its way across your flesh before settling within the pit of your belly. “I shouldn’t.”

“Do you think that you are the only one who possesses desire?” His wanton confession made your knees buckle, lips parting just enough for a soft gasp to escape you. “When my eyes found you upon that ship, I wanted — more than I have for some time.”

Words turned to ash upon your tongue, dying then and there within your throat. There was a fire within Halbrand’s eyes, one that sought to burn you, too. You felt the small of your back dig into the table, warmth licking across your spine.

Each breath felt labored, a dizzying sensation taking hold of you, as if this were more dream than reality. Yet, Halbrand remained close to you, chest-to-chest, digits finding the swell of your hip through the sea of violet fabric.

Instead of vocalizing your festering worry, you rocked up upon your toes, pressing your lips against his own. It was disarmingly gentle, a sheepish kiss that did not waste a second in becoming heated and charged.

He reciprocated with a blinding intensity, arm hitching around your waist, calloused palm spreading out against your back. Halbrand lifted you closer, his kiss inherently greedy and covetous, as if you belonged only to him.

His mouth swirled with wildfire, tasting of smoke and a hint of Númenorian stout, stubble scratching against your soft skin. Your hands found their purchase against his chest, able to feel the taut muscle beneath.

Hardened was a good way to describe him — rugged like the uneven ridges of tanned leather, swathed in heat. He cupped your jaw with his hand, reveling in the sensation of your flesh, akin to a plane of silk.

The state of dishevelment he was in mattered little to you — the soot upon his tanned flesh, the specks of dirt, garb somewhat tattered. You could not recall the last time you had yearned for someone so terribly that it ripped your heart into two.

Each clash of your lips evoked a pang of excitement that struck at your stomach, exhilaration pumping through your veins. Halbrand was a vigorous kisser — passionate and swift, stealing the air from your very lungs.

His palm slowly caressed from the small of your back toward your derrière, strong digits melding themselves into your clothed flesh. A hitch formed within your throat, anticipation mounting as the tension began to cloud the room.

Your digits possessed a mind of their own, climbing towards the nape of his neck, threading themselves through his bronze tresses. Halbrand kissed you again — softer this time, yet not without his domineering edge.

Lips bled into one another with an outpouring of want, a long-repressed sentiment caged within both hearts. Halbrand wanted many things — yet, what he did not expect was to crawl after you like some starving beast.

Every sensible thought seemed mulled, draped in this haze that clouded your mind. As you slowly recoiled from the kiss, you keened into the rough embrace of his palm, his digits cupping your cheek.

As much as you longed to continue, the locale seemed impractical, if not somewhat reckless. If someone were to catch you, you would never hear the end of it. Even then, you did not want to let fear drive you this way.

“Must I profess my desire once more?” Halbrand murmured, warm breath fanning across your visage, tinged with smoke. There was something tantalizing and enigmatic about him, swirling with some edge of mystique.

“I wouldn’t protest,” You whispered, which earned you the beginnings of a smile. He swept your tresses aside, bearing your neck to him as he bent in to kiss the soft flesh there. “Halbrand.” A low whine escaped you.

Stubble prickled and bit at your neck, yet you reveled in it, clutching at his shoulder as he pressed heated kisses to your throat. He was not hesitant in the slightest, letting you writhe and moan, plead for him to continue.

It was then that he began to gather your dress with one hand, firmly gripping at the mauve fabric as he inched it upward. Exhilaration struck at you again, the buzz of excitement, a thrill that you hadn’t experienced before.

There was not an inkling of hesitation from you, with little sign of stopping his advances. As he guided the gossamer along your legs, one palm snaked forth, calloused digits embracing your thigh, as smooth as silk.

He held little recollection of the last time he had touched something so delicate, as if you were some splendid jewel to be cradled, coveted. Halbrand kissed his way toward the curve of your jaw, searching your visage for a reaction.

As he parted your legs with his frame alone, your breath hitched, an audible noise that he found to be delicious. You were akin to some startled rabbit, ensnared within the jaws of a predator disguised as a friend.

Whatever smallclothes you wore beneath were of little consequence, giving way to that of his possessive embrace. Your hand flew back to grip the edge of the table, nails digging into splintered wood as he sought the heat between your legs.

Anticipation swelled within you, teetering on the edge of unraveling as you felt his digits ghost across your aching cunt. It was feather-light, intended to torment you — and torment it did.

“Halbrand,” A desperate gasp tore past your lips, needing him in a way that you hadn’t desired anyone else before. “Please, please touch me.” Your breathy pleas did not go unheard as he planted a kiss against your neck.

“Is that what you want?” A sultry purr rumbled from the depths of his chest, tone adopting a rather promiscuous resonance. He watched you nod several times over, fingers pushing past your petals as he touched your core.

A hand held onto his bicep for stability, the other haplessly fisting at the wood behind you. A moan emanated from you, desperate for anything he would give you.

Much to his delight, he found that you were shamelessly wet between your thighs, a nectar that refused to cease. “You are beautiful like this.” He murmured, fingers toying with your slit, eliciting another strangled moan from your lips.

Halbrand’s forehead brushed against yours, hawkish gaze absorbing the look of pleasure upon your face. He began to find a steady rhythm, worn digits sliding along the length of your cunt, letting you hold onto him as much as you pleased.

Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand. His stare became half-lidded, drinking you in with unabashed greed, longing to consume you.

Sighs of wanton passion drifted from you in droves, legs parted as he pressed his thumb to the pearl of your cunt. It was easy to evoke a reaction from you, the constant writhing, gasps and whines, the look of complete and utter bliss.

In sluggish circles, he caressed your clit, causing you to twitch again. “Halbrand,” A moan tore past your lips again, his name becoming a melody from your mouth, to be sung over and over again. “Do not stop, I beg you!”

“As you wish.” Halbrand’s voice raked hot embers over your body, reaching a salacious octave that turned your insides to molten liquid. He continued to touch your nethers, two digits sweeping toward your entrance.

An impenetrable heat swallowed your body whole, skin feeling damp with perspiration, somewhat in-part of the forge’s dissipating warmth. He continued to circle your clit, fingers lightly prodding at your cunt in an attempt to seek entry.

Rough lips fell to your neck again, gowns having slacked enough to give way to your shoulder and collarbone. You clawed at his bicep, rolling your hips again as you rocked yourself upon his digits, much to his delight.

With a brusque tug upon the collar of his tunic, your lips clamored for his, longing to feel his mouth. His kiss left you breathless, teeth scraping against your lower lip, bringing you to heel.

Heat pooled between your legs, coalescing upon Halbrand’s fingers as he teased your core, thumb working around the pearl of your cunt. A soft gasp tore through your throat, a moan escaping you into the passion of your kiss.

Again, your hips rolled into his hand, craving him in a way that resembled that of an animal; carnal, ravenous. A fire danced within his eyes, one that seemed to reflect the sentiments that festered within you.

“Give yourself to me.” Halbrand sighed, timbre trembling against the underside of your jaw before he looked upon you, unraveling from his touch. Need stirred within him, coupled with the swell of possessiveness.

He searched your countenance for any hint of hesitation, flicking his thumb across your clit once more. “Please.” You pleaded, waves of bliss rolling across your body, bringing with it a feverish heat that made you want him all the more.

Halbrand heeded your breathy plea, reaching for the leather ties of his trousers, wanting nothing more than you be inside of you. His cock twitched with amorous intent, muscles coiled, prepared to grab you.

His hand recoiled, leaving you with an aching emptiness that caused your cunt to clench pathetically around nothing. A hitch formed within your throat, words turning to ash as he lifted you onto the table.

Calloused, careworn palms kneaded into your haunches, grasping at your pliant flesh in fistfuls as he pressed his lips to your exposed shoulder. Rucking your gown up to your hips, Halbrand appraised you with a thinly-veiled lust.

There was no flesh as soft as yours, untouched — belonging to him. Anticipation churned within the pit of your stomach, lips agape as he unraveled the front of his breeches, freeing himself from its confines.

Flushed with a rush of ecstasy, Halbrand dragged you closer, hands traveling to cup your hips. He guided his length to your cunt, letting the tip of his cock linger there until he pushed forward.

“Halbrand!” You moaned, hand reaching to grasp at the nape of his neck, nails raking across his coppery tresses. The other seized his bicep, digging inward as he slowly rocked into you.

Nearly chest-to-chest, there was little room for discomfort, letting lust and urgency guide his hand. He huffed, steadying his ironclad hold upon your hips, fingers pressing hard enough to leave behind bruises.

His pace was agonizingly sluggish at first, drawing out each thrust in an effort to let you grow accustomed. Hot sighs of passion fluttered between the both of you, lips brushing over one another as he rolled his hips forward.

There was something exhilarating about coupling with you, the warmth of being alive, savoring the guise of mortality. Halbrand could see the attachment brewing within your stare, the glint of affection intermingled with desire.

The still-burning coals of the forge provided enough illumination for him to see you bathed in fire — and you were breathtaking.

Your heart pounded within your ribcage, so powerful that you thought it might burst through. His stubble scratched against your cheek, providing a pleasant burn that let you know that this was reality. “Move,” You moaned. “Please.”

Inclined to obey, Halbrand let his yearning for you show, as plain as a summer’s day. He began to thrust into you, hunching in and over, stabilizing himself with one palm flat atop the table.

The other squeezed incessantly at your hips, cock rocking in and out of you at a steady pace, yet the fervor was steadily increasing. Your head spun, clouded by lust as your paramour ravished you in the way that you deserved.

His countenance echoed your sentiments, shadowed with the haze of lust, a carnality that clawed at your very soul. You let your forehead press to his, brows screwed together in a state of bliss, grasping at his tresses.

Halbrand grunted, the low noise rippling through his chest as he held your thigh, digits clamping down to keep you firmly in-place. His cock throbbed with an ache of urgency, hips snapping forward as he filled you completely.

A moan erupted from your lips yet again, nails forming crimson crescents against his bicep, occasionally lurching forward to meet his thrusts halfway. His pace became somewhat erratic as he coaxed you to lay back.

Your back hit the wooden surface of the table, the uncomfortable bite of it all softened by parts of your dress. Halbrand hunched in over you like a wolf towering above prey, palm flat beside your head.

The groan of sturdy wood beneath your entangled bodies resonated throughout the forge, the heat beginning to dissipate. The warmth between breath and body kept you feeling feverish, and you hitched one leg around his hips.

It evoked another growl from his lips as the smith pounded away at you, keeping a firm and steady pace. Halbrand was rougher than some, but never enough to cause you discomfort or harm. He was invigorated, driven to madness by the sight of you.

He kissed you again, feeling your desperation through joined lips alone, your hand grasping at his toned forearm. Arousal mounted within you, as thick as honey oozing between your thighs.

Passion bled into need, the two tangling together into some fervent amalgamation. It showed in his movements, continuing to thrust into you, feeling your cunt clench around him. You were made for him, with a heart that he found as malleable as metal.

The arch of your back signaled that your release was swiftly approaching, keening into his embrace instead as you moaned. You did little to temper your volume, mouth agape, head rolled back — you were the picture of grace, now tarnished.

His name escaped your tongue like a wayward prayer, over and over again until it was the only word you knew. As his cock hit you again, sending shockwaves throughout your body, you came undone.

Your leg squeezed at his hips, feeling his own resolve crumble at the sight of you, disheveled because of his doing. Halbrand let out a sonorous groan, body nearly blanketed over yours as his cock slapped into you again.

The warmth you provided was enough to make him stay sheathed within you, spilling himself inside of you without thinking. It only served to fuel his possessiveness, as dangerous as a growing wildfire.

Rocking himself inside of you once more, you let out a strangled whine. Through labored pants, you slowly regained composure, feeling his hot breath fan out across your visage.

Halbrand pulled himself out of you, leaving behind the visceral remnants of your lewd exploits, the sheen of it coating the inside of your thighs. He noticed your sheepish expression as you corrected your garments.

“There isn’t anywhere you can go that I would not follow.” He uttered, fingertips tucking strands of hair behind your ear. As you moved from the table, the smith reached for something within the pocket of his trousers.

“Halbrand,” You began, knowing that asking him to stay in Númenor was not fair — to either of you. Perhaps you could enjoy what comfort he brought, for the time being. “I shouldn’t ask it of you.”

“No matter what destiny entails, know that you belong to me.” There was something strangely dark within his tone, disguised as affection — you were oblivious to it. He placed something into your joined hands.

Touched by such a sentimental gesture, you flourished in the aftermath of your coupling, feeling his rough lips press against the curve of your jaw. You shivered, feeling the weight of a trinket within your palm.

Your lips sought his, the kiss lingering, enough for you to feel it burn within your very soul. There was nothing that could describe whatever it was you felt for him, felt with him.

“What is it?” You inquired, warmth raking along your spine, faces brushing against one another. Halbrand lingered pensively, a smile tugging at either corner of his mouth.

“Consider it a gift.”

[incognit0slut]

i hope this is how to send a request cuz this is my first time requesting anything. but i wanted to ask if you could do a story of spencer x reader of when he comes back home from prison in season 12? i don't know if i want it to be girlfriend and boyfriend or if they're married i don't really know, sorry. but i don't really mind either way. hope you can write something like this, thank you :))) <333

tysm for trusting me with your first request and sorry this took so long, it's also kind of rushed and I'm not too confident with it but I hope you like it <3

Home is whenever I’m with you

Category: angst, hurt, comfort, gn reader ~1.7k words

He’s back. Your boyfriend is back. There's a tangle of nerves in the pit of your stomach at the mere thought of seeing him again, especially after all that’s happened. You get to hug him, to kiss him, to feel the softness of his thick, beautiful hair under your fingers again.

But not now. His mother is missing. Those are the words Emily spoke to you over the phone after she called to let you know he’s released. It’s ironic, to hear such wonderful news just to be followed by something so disheartening. And the guilt creeps in, that nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, if you had gone to visit his mom as planned, this nightmare could've been avoided.

“Do not blame yourself,” Emily adds, her voice is a lifeline in the chaos of emotions. It's as if she can read your thoughts, know exactly what you're feeling without you saying a word. “Just stay where you are, okay? I've got agents keeping an eye on your building. I'll keep you updated."

You're left with no choice but to accept. Your boyfriend may be back, but you still can’t see him.

And you get it. His mom comes first, always has, and always will. A child's love for their parents is unbreakable, and if you were in his shoes, you'd move heaven and earth to keep your parents safe. So, naturally, you do what any loving and supportive girlfriend would do—you wait.

And wait. And wait. And wait. Each passing second stretches into agonizing minutes, and those minutes drag on into long, uncertain hours. One skipped meal turns into two, and suddenly, you're lying in bed in the dead of night with an empty stomach. You know you should take care of yourself, but your mind is fixated on him.

What is he doing? Has he eaten anything? Is he taking breaks at all? Has he managed to get any sleep? And most importantly, has there been any news about his mom? 

Your mind is racing, flooded with countless unanswered questions. You try to find comfort in sleep, but every ring of your phone feels like a cruel interruption, each time hoping it's him—or at least a word from his friends. But it's always a disappointment, just meaningless notifications and distant messages from your friends about mundane plans.

Eventually, exhaustion overtakes you, but your sleep is restless, it's as if your mind refuses to grant you a moment of respite. Then, in the quiet hours of the night, at two in the morning, you're jolted awake by the familiar sound of a new message on your phone.

His mom is safe.

A sigh of relief escapes you, almost audible in the silence. You type out a response to Emily with trembling hands.

That’s good to hear. Is he fine?

Not great, but he's managing.

That's all you need to hear. His mom is safe, and though he's not doing great, he's managing well enough. With a weight lifted off your shoulders, you finally allow yourself to relax. At least now you can drift back into sleep knowing that he's partially okay.

You wake up again later that night by a rapid knocking. At first, you try to brush it off as just noise from the neighbors, but as you slowly come to your senses, you realize it's coming from your apartment.

Half-worried and half-curious, you reluctantly peel yourself from the comfort of your bed, your mind racing with possibilities as you approach the door. When you glance through the peephole, you're met with a sight that instantly jolts you awake. Without a second thought, you fumble with the lock and swing the door open.

And there your boyfriend stands, but he's a far cry from the man you remember. His hair is wild and unkempt, and his eyes, usually bright and lively, are now dull and tired, shadowed by exhaustion. He's dressed in his usual suit and tie, a combination you've always admired for its professional and polished look. But today, his shirt is half-tucked, half-untucked, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck

“Spence, what are you—”

Before you can finish, he bursts through the door, wrapping his arms tightly around you.

"I'm sorry," he breaks, his voice strained with emotion. "I—I wanted to come here as fast as I can—"

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” You wrap your arms around his waist and take in a deep breath. Despite his disheveled appearance, he smells exactly as you remember—warm, familiar, like home. “It’s all good, honey, I don’t mind.” 

“It’s not alright. I should’ve answered your calls—”

“Spencer, it’s okay,” you interrupt gently, running your fingers soothingly down his back. “After all the time you’ve been away, a few more hours hardly matter.”

“Well, it should matter,” he mumbles against your skin, his voice muffled as he buries himself in the crook of your neck. “I shouldn’t have left you like this.”

You hold him tighter, feeling his weight against you, his breath warm against your skin. “Shh,” you murmur, rubbing his back in comforting circles. “You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

He nods against your neck, his grip on you tightening as if he's afraid to let go.

“How’s your mom?”

He lifts his head slightly, meeting your gaze with tired eyes. “She’s... she’s okay,” he replies. “We found her. She’s safe now.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, relief flooding through you. “I’m glad to hear that,” you say, cupping his cheek gently. “Are you okay?”

He hesitates for a moment as if considering the question carefully. “I’m fine, just… tired.”

Your fingers traced the lines of exhaustion etched on his face. “Let’s get you inside and comfortable, okay?”

He nods, and you usher him inside, relief flooding through you as you close the door behind you. Your fingers naturally intertwine with his as you guide him towards your bedroom.

“Do you want anything? Water, food?”

He shakes his head, falling into step with you. “Maybe later,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand. “How have you been?”

"Well," you begin, your voice filled with warmth. "'I've been keeping busy while you're gone.”

You lead him to the edge of the bed, sitting him down while you stand between his legs, your eyes meeting his tired gaze. "Work has been... work," you say with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. “And I managed to put up the shelf I bought online. Look.”

You gesture towards the bookshelf nestled in the corner of the room and he follows your gaze. “You did that all by yourself?”

"Yeah, I did," you reply, your smile widening. "It wasn't easy without having you constantly nagging me how to do it, but I figured it out."

He nods, a hint of regret shadowing his features. “I'm sorry I wasn't here to help you.”

You shake your head, moving closer to him and placing a comforting hand on his cheek. "Don’t apologize.”

He leans into your touch, his gaze meeting yours with a vulnerability that tugs at your heartstrings. His eyes, wide and brown, look up at you, and you can’t help but compare him to a puppy—sad, yet undeniably endearing, with an innocence that melts your heart. You brush a thumb gently across his cheek, noting the subtle change in his appearance.

“You grew out your facial hair.”

A faint blush colors his cheeks as he shifts under your gaze. "Yeah, I guess I did," he replies, his voice tinged with self-consciousness. 

You can't help but smile at his bashfulness. "I like it," you assure him. "It suits you."

“Really?”

“It’s growing on me.”

His expression softens at your words, a warmth spreading through his tired features. "Maybe I'll keep it.” 

You nod in agreement, a smile playing on your lips as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer. He sighs contentedly as he leans into your chest, and you gently stroke his hair, soothing him with your touch.

"It's good to be back," he murmurs, his voice muffled against your shirt.

"It's good having you back," you reply softly, brushing a strand of his hair away from his face.

“I thought I was never going to see you again.”

"Why would you think that?”

He hesitates for a moment. "After everything that happened... I wasn't sure if I'd make it back to you.”

You gently tilt his chin up, meeting his gaze. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that.”

His eyes glisten with unshed tears as he nods, his vulnerability laid bare. "I was also afraid that I might lose you,” he adds. “I was afraid you’d get tired of waiting for me.”

“Oh, honey…”

“Everyone I care for always leaves, sooner or later. And I can’t bear the thought… the thought of not coming home without you in my life,” he admits, his voice trembling with emotion and you feel a lump form in your throat as you listen. "I feel… so different right now. I don’t feel like my usual self, and I-I was afraid you wouldn’t like this version of me.”

You pull back slightly, cupping his face in your hands, your gaze locked with his. "I would never think any less of you.”

He sniffs, and that's when you notice a tear escaping down his cheek. Your heart aches even more. “I might not be the same person you last saw me.”

You shake your head, brushing away his tears with your thumb. "It doesn't matter," you reply earnestly. “You're still the person I fell in love with, and nothing will ever change that.”

He looks at you in disbelief, as if he can't quite comprehend how you could love him so unconditionally. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I see you," you reply. "Beyond the surface, beyond the changes, I see who you are—the kindness, the strength, the love that has always been a part of you. And that's something that remains unchanged, no matter what."

He exhales softly, his features softening as he absorbs your words. But you aren’t finished, not until he realizes how worthy of love he is.

“You’re still the man who loves silly magic tricks, you’re still the man who asks for jello every time we have dessert,” you tease, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your lips. He cracks a small smile at your playful words. “You’re still the man who loves books, who loves learning. You're still the man who loves helping other people.”

You lean closer, your breath mingling with his as your lips almost touch.

“And I’ll be the one to love every version of you,” you whisper. “The person you were, the person you are, and the person you're becoming.”

He grips your hips and pulls you closer. Without a word, you understand what he needs, what he's asking for, and you close the distance between you, your lips brushing against his.

You never truly understand the meaning of bittersweet until this very moment. His tears carry the saltiness of sorrow, but his lips offer a sweetness that lingers on your tongue. You feel the weight of his pain, the heaviness of his grief, yet you also sense a comforting warmth in the way his lips move gently against yours.

You can feel his uncertainty, and it’s clear that getting back into his old routine won't be easy after everything he's been through. But you’re here for him and you're willing to support him in any way you can.

Because he’s back. Your boyfriend is back. You can hardly believe you get to hug him, kiss him, and run your fingers through his thick, beautiful hair once more. You can’t believe you get to hold him again in your arms, and you hope to do so for a very long time.

[gilbertscurls]

Hiiiii, could you please write a smut about either Chris or Matt over stimulating the reader and then the reader has to use their safe word and then either Chris or Matt gives the reader lots of aftercare?????

hope you like it <3

Good for You ➵ Chris Sturniolo

warnings: short smut, overstimulation, oral sex (f!receiving), safe word (i made it pepsi bc i had no ideas lmao), crying

It was late, and the quiet of Chris’s room was interrupted only by the sound of soft breaths and murmured words. You lay on the bed, your head thrown back as Chris settled in between your thighs, seemingly insatiable. One orgasm, two, three…

Chris was attentive, his touches always searching for your comfort. But as the night went on, he kept pushing just a little more each time, his gaze locked on yours, watching the way you responded. There was a hunger in his eyes, tempered only by the care in his touch, each gentle whisper of reassurance keeping you grounded.

"Oh god, Chris…" you gasped out, your body trembling beneath him as yet another climax washed over you. You felt so sensitive now, every nerve ending alight with pleasure that bordered on pain. Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly, nails digging in as you tried to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensations.

But even through the haze of ecstasy, you could sense Chris's intensity, the way his focus never wavered from your face. It made you feel seen, truly understood in a way you rarely experienced. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as a wave of emotion crashed over you.

"Please," you whispered, not quite sure what you were asking for. More of the same intense pleasure? A moment's respite from the relentless tide of feelings? Or maybe just… connection. "I don't know how much more…"

"Shh, it's okay, I've got you." Chris breathed softly, pressing a tender kiss to your inner thigh before trailing up towards where you needed him most again. He licked slowly along your slit, savoring your taste and the way you shuddered in response.

Chris's mouth sealed around your clit, sucking gently as he continued to lap at your folds. His fingers probed deeper, curling inside you to stroke that sensitive spot within. The sounds of your pleasure were music to his ears, spurring him on. He knew he should probably slow down, give you a break, but he couldn't help himself. Seeing you like this, lost in bliss, was intoxicating. And he craved more — more of your moans, more of your trembles, more of your trust. So he kept going, determined to push you to new heights, to make you forget everything except the exquisite sensation of him worshipping your body.

"That's it baby, let go," Chris coaxed breathily between long licks. "I want to hear you fall apart for me." He punctuated his words with a firm suck on your clit, making your hips buck involuntarily. "Come on, baby, give me one more." His voice was low and rough with desire, urging you onwards. He slid two fingers deep inside you, pumping steadily as his tongue swirled around the sensitive bundle of nerves. "Cum for me," he commanded, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core. "Let yourself go."

But then, as he continued, you felt a shift—a hint of something overwhelming that built up inside of you, like waves crashing harder and harder. At first, you brushed it off, trying to meet his pace, but the intensity grew faster than you’d expected, making it difficult to keep up.

And suddenly, it was too much. A tightness built in your chest, and without realizing, you felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

With a shaky breath, you whispered, “Pepsi.”

Chris immediately froze. The safe word you’d both chosen felt like a lifeline, and his face softened as he pulled back instantly, his gaze full of concern and care. “Hey, hey…” His voice dropped to a low, soothing tone as he met your eyes.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… a little much,” you murmured, feeling a few tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a mix of release and relief.

“Don’t apologize. I’m here,” he said, gently brushing a few strands of hair away from your face. Chris reached out to softly take your hand, grounding you, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your knuckles. “Let’s take a breath together, alright?”

You nodded, matching his slow, deep breaths, feeling yourself steady under his calm presence. He leaned in to press a comforting kiss to your forehead, not moving any closer, giving you space to feel and be. Slowly, the room seemed to settle, and the intensity of the moment faded into the familiar warmth of being with him.

Once you both sat up, he guided you to the bed, pulling the covers around you like a soft cocoon. He grabbed his sweatshirt from the nearby chair, slipping it over your shoulders. “Here, I know you love this one.” His small smile reassured you, his touch never hurried, always gentle.

He settled in beside you, wrapping an arm around you, and you leaned into him, feeling the heat of his chest against your cheek. “Better?” he asked softly, fingers brushing through your hair in slow, comforting strokes.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice a bit rough. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he murmured, his voice a soft anchor. “I’ve got you. You don’t need to be anyone or anything right now. Just relax.” He held you close, every gesture gentle and reassuring. A few stray tears escaped, but he just tucked you closer, his hand a steady presence on your back.

Time seemed to slow as you rested against him, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. You felt his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your shoulder and down your arm, a touch that was comforting and steady. He was humming softly now, a tune you recognized from one of your late-night playlists, and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket.

After a while, Chris leaned back slightly to meet your eyes. “Want some water or anything?” he asked.

You nodded, and he slipped out of bed, only to return a moment later with a glass. “Here, take your time.” He stayed close as you drank, watching you with that familiar, caring gaze, never pressuring, only making sure you felt safe and comfortable.

Once you settled back into bed, he tucked the blankets around you both, making sure you were warm. “How are you feeling now?” he asked, brushing a thumb across your cheek, a quiet smile in his eyes.

“Good,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “Really good.” His presence felt like everything you needed to feel secure again, and you felt a surge of gratitude for how gently he’d held you through it all.

He gave you a soft kiss on your forehead, whispering, “I’m here. Always.”

And with that, he wrapped his arms around you again, settling in beside you, letting the peace and closeness wash over you both. The rest of the world faded away, leaving only the warmth of his arms around you, holding you close through the night.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash

[dewdropdinosaur]

Kinktober Day 18: Massaging

Summary: Silco is beyond stressed, so you find a way to make him relax. Little do you know, he has way more on his mind than your hands on his shoulders. Warnings: Oral sex, blowjobs, massaging, slight sub/dom dynamics, etc. MDNI, 18+. You're responsible for your own media consumption. Kinktober Mention of the Day: @silcoitus Their kinktober writing has me foaming at the mouth for Silco! Go check them out!

The tension in the air was palpable. The weight of leadership pressed down on him, with the constant threat of enemies lurking in the shadows. Papers lay strewn across the desk, remnants of plans and schematics, while the glow of the single lamp highlighted the lines etched deeply into his face. The dimly lit office of the Last Drop provided no respite for the Eye of Zaun.

You entered the room quietly, footsteps barely audible against the worn floorboards. You had noticed the signs of stress in him—the way his jaw clenched, the furrow in his brow, and the way he stared at the papers without truly seeing them. Sure, you were his assistant and noticing these signs was apart of the job but recently the both of you had toeing the line of a relationship after a few dates and stolen kisses. So, was walking up to him and placing your firm hands on his shoulders apart of your job or was it your love for the scarred man that sat before you?

“Hey,” you said softly, breaking the silence. Silco looked up, his piercing gaze softening slightly at you presence. “You’ve been working too hard. How about a break?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, revealing the tension in his posture. “I can’t afford to rest right now, Y/N. There’s too much at stake.”

You stepped closer, eyes searching his. “I know, but you need to take care of yourself too. Let me help.”

Silco hesitated but eventually nodded, the flicker of gratitude hidden behind his usual stoicism. You moved behind him, hands warm and gentle as you placed them on his shoulders. “Just relax,” you instructed quietly.

As your fingers began to knead the tense muscles, Silco felt a wave of relief wash over him. You had a uncanny way of grounding him, of reminding him that even in the chaos, some respite may be found. It was part of the reason he was so drawn to you, how you seemed to quiet the incessant noise in his mind. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to sink into the moment as you worked the knots from his shoulders, touch firm yet soothing.

“You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, don’t you?” You murmured, voice a calming presence in the storm of his thoughts.

“Something like that,” he replied, his voice low. It was hard to let go, to admit that he needed this small reprieve, but the way your hands coaxed the tension away, one knot at a time, was perfect. He wouldn’t admit it aloud but he would often imagine how else your hands would feel raking down his chest. How it would sting, leave marks for him to wear secretly with pride. Would your hands feel just as good wrapped around his hardened length, Jana, he could see it now. 

You slolwy dragging the zipper of his suit pants down to let his cock spring free, marvelling at the sight, knowing that it was all for you. Wave of arousal pooling in your pants, leaving a wet spot he would surely tease you about later. His body tenses again, his breath getting caught in his throat, as you work out another knot in his back; unaware of his thoughts. His eyes would drift open to watch your actions, his gaze burning intoyour body with a mixture of desire and need. A low, guttural moan would part from his lips as you would start to pump his throbbing member, his hips instinctively bucking towards your touch. He's almost lost for words, the sensation overwhelming his senses, his mind clouded by a primal desire. He can barely think straight anymore, all his focus centered on you and what you're doing…should be to him right now. 

The strain in his pants is unbearable as he imagines all the filthy little things your hands could do to him. It was wrong, truly, to think such henious things of his assistant. But here you were, so perfect and obiedent, taking care of him like you loved him. 

You chuckled softly, you fingers digging into a particularly tight spot. “You know, you could always delegate a bit more work to others. Trust others to handle things.”

“I trust you,” he said, surprising himself with the quickness of his reply. Had you noticed the way his eyes dialated, how his trousers had a large indent? “You should charge for this,” he quipped, maybe bringing the topic back to its origin would save him from embarrasment. 

“Only if you promise to take me out for dinner afterward,” you replied, playful tone lightening the atmosphere. But then, he could feel your hot breath on the shell of his ear. You leaned down, lips ghosted over his face as one of your hands stopped its ministrations to slowly wander its way down his chest, his belt buckle; settling at the zipper of his pants. “And if you promise to let me make you feel as relaxed as possible, boss.”

Oh, how could he deny you?

[deunmiu-dessie]

ⅵ▬ ⁽ 𝓋𝒶𝓂𝓅𝒾𝓇𝑒 ⁾

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ♡︎ : ₄˖₈ₖ ˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ♡︎ : mdni----- unedited, cringey, NSFW,  explicit content, teratophilia, vampire/human, unprotected sex, creampie, whiny vampire, overstimulation, spit kink, sloppy kisses, aphrodisiac, blood, dubcon, reader is lowkey at fault but not at the same time. ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎

૮ ˙Ⱉ˙ ა ʳᵃʷʳ ⁿᵒᵗᵉˢ : ya'll this is so rushed, m'sorry-- i rlly just wanted to get this out, probably won't be as good as the others but enjoy.

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ♡︎: home for winter break, you find yourself with the house to yourself, right?

꒰subby male!vampire ₊⊹ dom afab!reader꒱

 “ Thanks, Jaime, I’ll see you later. ” 

𝒜fter bidding farewell to your best friend, you stand there, gazing at the car as it swiftly disappears into the night. With your trusty suitcase in tow, you make your way up the dimly lit driveway, carefully sifting through your bag in search of the elusive house key. A sense of relief washed over you as your fingers finally closed around the icy touch of the silver key. Clutching it firmly, you navigate the treacherous icy surface, mindful of each step to avoid any slips or falls.

  Finally making it to the porch stairs, you exerted all your strength to hoist your suitcase up the steps, narrowly avoiding a couple of near-slips along the way. With a sigh of relief, you conquered the last stair, feeling a surge of triumph as you stepped onto the snow-free porch. With ease, you maneuvered your luggage towards the door, unfurling your hand to use the key. It takes a few attempts, but you eventually manage to insert it into the lock and turn the doorknob.

   As you enter the house, darkness envelopes you, with not a single light illuminating the space. However, the comforting warmth enveloping the space indicated that your mother had considerately left the heating on for your arrival. Leaving your suitcase by the entrance, you closed the door and secured it with a lock.

   As you flick the switch, the overhead ceiling light floods the living room with its warm glow, casting away the shadows that had shrouded the space. Eagerly, you venture further into the house, calling out for your siblings who were supposed to be there to welcome you home. However, the silence that greets you is deafening, and the absence of any movement from the game room basement or upstairs is disconcerting. 

   With a sigh, you kick off your shoes and settle down, making yourself comfortable in the unfamiliar solitude. Unlike your siblings, who seem to constantly rely on your mother's support without contributing much themselves, you have always been driven and focused on your education. Your hard work paid off, as you graduated high school with an impressive GPA and secured a spot in your dream college. Now, during winter break, you find yourself back in the comfort of your childhood home, enjoying a well-deserved respite from your academic endeavors.

 The urge to change overwhelms you, especially with the discomfort of your clothes clinging too tightly and irritating your skin. With each step towards the staircase, you flick on every light switch within reach, flooding the house with light. You silently prayed that none of your siblings had invaded your personal space while you were away, either napping or snacking. 

  The creaky ascent up the stairs quickened your heartbeat, the loud squeaks echoing through the otherwise quiet house. A sense of unease washed over you, unsure of who might be lurking around. Finally reaching the top, you let out a sigh of relief upon seeing your room to the left.

  Astonishingly, the room appears exactly as you had left it, save for a few garments strewn about, most likely belonging to your sister. Other than that, everything seems to be in order.  Closing the door behind you, you proceed to delve into your drawers, hastily extracting an oversized t-shirt and a pair of shorts. 

  In a swift motion, you discard your jeans and let out a grunt as you struggle to remove the turtleneck that has somehow become entangled around your head. Finally freeing yourself from its clutches, you toss it aside with a frustrated huff, swiftly replacing it with the shorts and shirt you had chosen.

  A sudden pang of pain and the rumbling noise emanating from your stomach causes you to grimace, prompting you to clutch your abdomen tightly; evidently, you were famished. Your plans of drifting off to sleep were quickly dashed as you reached for your phone and descended the stairs. 

   Unsure of the fridge's contents, you toyed with the idea of ordering food through DoorDash. Fortunately, to your relief and your wallet's delight, a couple of chicken breasts and broccoli were found in the freezer. Taking the frozen items, you hesitated at the thought of waiting for them to thaw. Without delay, you knelt down and retrieved a silver mixing bowl from the nearest cabinet.

  You get up with a groan, muttering to yourself that you’re getting old. As you twist the faucet handle, you wait for the water to run hot, capable of scalding your skin upon contact. Placing a bowl beneath the gushing stream, you watch as it gradually fills up, before finally turning off the flow and submerging the chicken and broccoli within its liquid confines. Although it would require some time, it was certainly preferable to enduring hours of waiting for the ingredients to thaw. 

  Finding yourself in the living room, you idly scroll through the vast expanse of social media, feeling an overwhelming sense of boredom engulfing your very being. Your attention is not truly captivated by the screen of your phone; instead, your mind wanders aimlessly, causing your vision to blur as a whirlwind of thoughts race through the corridors of your consciousness. Your mind is practically blank, lost in a daze.

   A sudden sound from the basement catches your attention, causing your ears to twitch and tingle. You snap back to reality, leaping off the couch in a heartbeat. The recent reports of vampires breaching human borders and the rising death toll flood your mind.

 The Creatures of the Night, or maybe even Leeches, as they were sometimes referred to- didn't bother you all that much. They were just a tad different from the general population and usually didn't target humans— except for the rare cases highlighted in the news. You had never encountered one personally, but you weren't about to form an opinion based on how the media depicted them as monstrous beings.

 Before you know it, your internal monologue has whisked you away from the sounds in the basement, the thought completely vanishing from your mind. You slowly make your way back to the kitchen, dragging your feet with each step. To your surprise, the chicken is already thawed when you inspect it, bringing a smile to your face as you remove it from the now lukewarm water.

While you may not be a master chef, you can still whip up a decent bowl of cereal or a tasty peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The concept of cooking has always been a bit intimidating for you, but the Air Fryer in front of you is a game-changer. 

  You carefully line the inside with foil, place your seasoned chicken inside, add a dollop of butter, and close the lid before hitting start. As the chicken cooks, you decide to skip heating up your broccoli for now. A sudden chill makes you shiver, causing you to furrow your brows as the cool breeze brushes against your exposed legs.

A sudden blast of icy wind makes you shudder and you instinctively turn around in search of its source. Your heart skips a beat as you catch sight of the slightly ajar back door, allowing delicate flakes of snow to sneak their way inside the cozy home. Taking a deep breath, you try to calm your racing thoughts, considering the possibility that your mischievous siblings might be behind this chilling surprise, as they often are. 

   You list off their names, telling them that you’re not in the mood for whatever game they’re playing, and then add that if they want something to eat, then come to the kitchen. However, to your dismay, there is no sign of movement or even a faint giggle, which sends a wave of unease coursing through your veins. The absence of their usual inability to keep quiet when plotting a prank fills you with a sense of foreboding.

As you stand there, your body tenses up, your muscles rigid and your palms sweaty. Reacting swiftly, you reach for a knife from the drawer, gripping it tightly until your knuckles ache. With cautious steps, you make your way towards the basement stairs, carefully descending the first four steps and finally reaching the landing where you promptly shut the door. 

  The frigid cold that once assaulted your skin is now left behind, but before you can proceed any further, an unsettling wetness seeps into your sock – warm and thick.  Instantly, you freeze in place, pressing yourself against the wall for support, and slowly lift your foot to investigate. A wave of revulsion washes over you as you discover a bloodstain on your lilac-colored sock. Overcome with disgust, you swiftly remove the tainted sock and discard it. 

As you descend the basement stairs, your eyes fixate on the blood trail that stretches all the way down, staining the carpeted flooring. A lump forms in your throat, causing you to swallow heavily, as you carefully navigate your way down, avoiding the blood. 

 The basement is not completely devoid of light, thanks to the LED lights left on by one of your siblings, but the crimson hue they emit adds an unsettling aura to the eerie atmosphere. The knife in your hand feels slippery, the perspiration on your palm evident against the black handle. Swiftly switching hands, you finally step onto the carpeted surface. In front of you lies a disheveled basement, with clothes strewn haphazardly and gaming consoles still powered on, emitting warm air.

 No one is there, you can’t see anyone. Your mind drifts away, causing your eyes to lose focus and your senses to become more acute. Suddenly, a sound breaks the silence - the sound of labored breathing and faint, barely audible whimpers. Your attention is immediately drawn to a dark object on the floor, which you had mistaken for a bean bag chair.

Against your better judgment, you begin to cautiously approach the injured person. They’re obviously injured, and badly so. Without even realizing it, you release your tight hold on your weapon. Slowly, you lower yourself onto the carpeted floor and start crawling towards them.

   The person appears disoriented, with their head swaying from side to side and their hand resting loosely on their injury. You carefully set your knife aside and move closer until you can hear their breathing clearly without any difficulty. Your hands automatically reach out towards their face, softly resting on their cheeks.

 As you carefully tilt their head upwards, you find yourself staring at a pair of wispy lashes, set in a devilishly attractive face with pale skin. The sight of fangs delicately touching his full bottom lip doesn't escape your notice. Fear is not your immediate reaction, though there's a hint of it lingering in the background, it doesn't overpower your growing fascination with the scene unfolding before you.

 With your left still hand resting on his cheek, your other hand moves down his body, and you suddenly gasp as you feel the presence of a large stake piercing through his stomach. How could you have missed such a significant detail earlier? Nevertheless, you choose not to dwell on it any further.

After careful consideration, it became evident that his current predicament could be attributed to a group known as the Hunters. These individuals, predominantly middle-aged men, harbored an irrational aversion towards coexisting with Vampires. Their actions were nothing short of despicable, as they embarked on a merciless killing spree, sparing no one, not even innocent children; they were sick bastards.

 Despite your firm pat on his cheek, he stays incoherent, lost in a world of pain, you're sure. Although filled with trepidation, you understand that it's necessary to remove the stake, it isn’t doing him any good to keep it inside. With a surge of determination, you grasp the wooden object and swiftly extract it, allowing it to drop onto the floor, quickly placing your free hand against his wound. Tenderly, you caress his cheek with your thumb, providing solace as he emits a loud groan and breathes heavily. "It's alright, shh."

The sensation of his blood gushing past your fingers sends a chilling shiver down your spine, as it saturates the carpet beneath you without any signs of slowing either. A momentary wave of panic washes over you, prompting you to swiftly retract your hand and grasp the knife nearby. Trembling with fear, you bring the blade up to your neck, carefully making a shallow incision, the slippery blade adding to your unease.

Despite the struggle, you manage to pull his body closer to yours, your right hand, stained with blood, finding the back of his head and guiding it towards the column of your neck. It takes a moment, but eventually, he stirs, his lips parting and his tongue darting out to taste the crimson liquid trickling down your shoulder. 

A shiver runs through your entire being, and you attempt to calm yourself. The warmth of his tongue against your skin is a soothing sensation as it leisurely glides over you, diligently lapping up the spilled blood. Your body tenses as his fangs graze your flesh before finally piercing it, yet surprisingly, there is no pain, only a mild discomfort that quickly dissipates.

You jolt when he wraps his arms around your waist, pressing you closer to his body, his face nuzzled against your neck. You find yourself gripping his hair, fingers intertwined in his tresses. Time seems to stretch on endlessly as he continues to drink from you, leaving you feeling lightheaded. When you manage to break free from his hold, he surprisingly allows you to step back, though he keeps a firm grasp on your slumped body.

As you gaze at him you notice your blood adorns his lips like a peculiar shade of lipstick, and the sight of his tongue darting out to taste it causes the bite mark to throb, sending delightful tingles coursing through your entire body. Despite the gentleness with which he holds you, his verdant eyes are filled with unadulterated horror and fear. 

  You steal a quick glance at his wound, only to find that the bleeding has ceased completely, suggesting that the injury is already healing itself. Swiftly, he rises from the floor, effortlessly lifting you in his arms and laying you on the basement couch. 

Your body quivers and becomes drenched in sweat, gradually sinking into the softness of the couch. What kind of bizarre scenario is unfolding here? You want to reassure this stranger that you're okay, even though he almost drank you dry. Perhaps it's the genuine concern and remorse in his eyes, but as soon as you hear his voice, you find yourself forgiving him effortlessly. His voice is gentle, and sweet. As the LED lights gradually fade from your vision, so does the presence of the vampire intruder.

You awaken to find yourself disoriented, unsure of how much time has passed. As you regain some form of consciousness, you notice the vampire boy beside you, his green eyes bright and attentive. His cheeks and eyes are red from crying and rubbing the tears away, you notice. His lashes are wet as well, his lips pouty and his knees tucked underneath himself. The red glow of the LEDs cast an eerie light on the scene, illuminating his features as you turn to face him, watching as he perks up. 

   “ You’re awake! ” 

You remain silent, feeling the stiffness in your neck and the overwhelming urge to return to sleep. However, he prevents that from happening by placing his hand on your thigh, gently prodding you to wake up. Reluctantly, you open your eyes, questioning why you are so composed in such a strange scenario. As you reach up to touch your neck, you recoil at the two, very deep holes left in your skin. 

Blushing furiously, the vampire boy fidgeted with his fingers, his eyes avoiding direct contact with yours. "M'sorry, didn't mean to-- really." he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. After a brief pause, he mustered the courage to meet your steady, stoic, and sleepy stare, his ears now tinged with a rosy hue. "I-I can make it go away if you want? My saliva has healing properties, b-but it's also, um--." The boy's voice trailed off as he struggled to find the right words, too flustered to realize that you had tuned out his words completely.

Upon returning his attention to you, he offers yet another apology, his voice cute and soft. Feeling too weary to reply and not particularly inclined to elaborate on the injury to your loved ones, you emit a grunt of agreement towards his proposition. Although this turn of events was somewhat underwhelming compared to your initial expectations, you chose not to voice any grievances.

"My name is Elias, by the way," he reveals abruptly, his bottom lip finding refuge in his mouth as a sign of his nervousness. With wide green eyes, he hastily scans your face, his heart skipping a beat as your gaze meets his, seemingly uninterested. This lack of enthusiasm from you triggers a swarm of butterflies in his stomach, creating a whirlwind of emotions within him. You emit a soft hum and tilt your head slightly. He looks worried for a moment, but then, he leans in, resting his head in the curve of your neck, his warm tongue gliding smoothly across your skin like silk.

The sensation of your skin repairing itself is undeniably peculiar, and it's not something you'd willingly want to go through again. He pulls away slowly, swallowing nervously. "H-how do you feel?" Your eyes meet his, and a faint smile graces your lips, though it appears drowsy and unsteady, it still manages to make his cheeks blush. "I feel fine." The sound of your voice causes his breath to catch, it's both gentle and resolute, igniting a warmth that spreads through his chest.

A searing heat rises from underneath your skin, causing a scorching sensation to travel from your calves to your thighs, you can't help but furrow your eyebrows in response. The calmness that enveloped your heart mere moments ago is now replaced by a thunderous pounding, almost reaching a level of pain, within your ribcage.

Elias gazes anxiously as your skin becomes shiny with sweat, your lips parting to release warm, shallow breaths. Your face is flushed with warmth and a twitch starts in your eyebrows. The blonde sniffles and dabs at your forehead with the sleeve of his shirt, frowning softly. "M'sorry, I-I told you that this would happen." His tone carries a hint of accusation, but your sharp, unfocused stare prompts him to apologize softly. "Didn't want this to happen, sorry." You brush his hand from your face and let out a shuddering breath, your breast tender and achy. "Shh, you're so loud. What the hell is happening?"

The vampire with blonde hair appears momentarily perplexed, but then his attractive green eyes gradually widen, displaying a look of regret. "My saliva can heal people, but it also acts as a... s-stimulant," Elias swallows thickly as you sit up slowly, your shirt becoming sheer from the copious amount of sweat you're drenched in. ".. an aphrodisiac." 

"Why didn't you say anything?" You rasp, allowing your head to rest heavily on the couch cushions. Elias pouts, tears stinging his eyes. "I did! It's your fault for not listening!" Tilting your head, your face contorts with anger, causing Elias to tightly squeeze his thighs together. "Huh? My fault?" Your words taper off slowly before you let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.

 Leaning in, you grasp his cheeks firmly, pulling him closer until your breaths intermingle, feeling a shiver run through you as he places his hands on your thighs for support, his cheeks flushed with color. "Regardless, you'll help me, won't you?"

Before he can question what you mean, he lets out a yelp when you pounce on him, lips pressing against his in haste. He lets out a soft whimper, gripping onto your shirt tightly, surrendering to your dominance. Elias savors the flavor of your kiss, finding it both sweet and familiar. You are completely in charge of this encounter, dominating him with your mouth effortlessly. Your tongue sliding against his own in a violent dance, your saliva is as sweet as your blood and pools down his cheeks. You are absolutely captivating.

With a gentle pull, you withdraw, your eyes hooded and your lips swollen, causing a flush to spread across his face. He lies there, surrendering to your touch, as your hands caress his body. A breathy, hiccuping moan escapes his lips when you firmly grasp him through his pants, while your mouth explores his neck, kissing and sucking on his pale skin. It seems effortless for you to mark him as your own.

"W-wait, you're not thinki-" In a moment of hesitation, he halts his words, captivated by the sight of you retreating, gracefully slipping the oversized shirt over your head— breast spilling out from the cotton. The vampire lies there, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, his face adorned with a cute expression. Unable to resist, you lean down and kiss him silly again. You love the way he eagerly searches for your lips, moaning into your mouth and clenching his eyes shut. 

 Lost in the fog of your drugged state, you clumsily distance yourself from him, regaining your balance and enticingly sliding your shorts down your legs, with your panties obediently following suit. The vampire stares at you with pure awe in his eyes, begging for you to do something to him. 

By now, he’s slightly sat up, looking up at you with expecting eyes. You nonchalantly approach him, barely able to contain your laughter as he attempts to guide you onto his lap. You proceed until you reach his craned neck. You confidently straddle his face, sensually lowering your dripping cunt onto his parted lips. 

You run your fingers through his tousled blonde locks, gazing deeply into his eyes. With a condescending tilt of your head, you tighten your hold. "You'll behave for me, won't you? You can manage that, especially after what you did to me." Elias whimpers against your pussy at your accusation and nods eagerly with wide, teary eyes and flushed ears. Your pleased smile makes his cock throb within his pants and he instinctively squeezes his thighs together once more.

 The vampire eagerly laps at your pussy, moaning at how good you taste on his tongue, his free hand gliding up your legs to settle on your hips softly. He adores the way your fingers entwine in his hair, gripping tightly, as your hips sway and gyrate against his mouth. You’re using him like he’s a toy, seemingly unconcerned about the possibility of causing him pain ( which you aren’t. ) 

 The intoxicating sound of your moans fills the air, a tantalizing melody that captivates him completely. They aren't high-pitched or forced, but a velvety resonance, deep and alluring. The occasional hitch in your breath and the graceful tilt of your head let him know that he’s doing good. 

As he takes your puffy clit into his mouth, a fang gently scrapes over your, the potent aphrodisiac intensifying the already heightened sensitivity. Elias whines as you cum, his mouth and chin drenched in your release. With quivering thighs you press against his tongue, grinding against it with increasing urgency, while a soft mewl escapes your lips, your pussy fluttering against his eager mouth. 

   With shaky legs you wiggle off of him, straddling his waist and claiming his lips in a sloppy kiss, groaning at the sweet, musky taste of your arousal on his tongue. Elias' cock throbs. It's thick and hard in his pants, and he needily rubs his bulge against your pulsating  cunt, with desperate whimpers.

He’s moaning at the sound of your voice, it's mocking and patronizing. He looks up at you through bleary, pussy drunk eyes, drooling over himself. You giggle at this and wipe it away with your thumb, smearing it across his lips. His tongue eagerly darts out to kitten lick your finger. “Such a good boy, d'you like eating my pussy?” The vampire is nodding fervently, cock twitching in his pants when you snicker, brushing your lips against his teasingly.  “I want to hear you say it, say you liked eating my pussy.”

He doesn't hold back, eager to please you. “I loved eating your pussy s'much. You taste s'good.” His cheeks flush at his explicit words, but the dark pleasure that resides in your eyes makes up for it. “Good job, was that so hard puppy?” Elias' cock jumps at the sound of your praise and he shakes his head, biting his lip, "Mhm mhn." He jolts, startled as you undo his jeans, pulling the zipper down slowly.

Your eyes stay glued to his as you drool onto your hand, hand slipping down his boxers. He's stiff, pulsating in your warm, slick grasp. He's long and thick but you think nothing of it. Your hand moves deliberately, rolling down his shaft in a slow, fisting motion, his green eyes blurry and locked on yours. Your thumb caresses his sensitive tip, gathering the glistening droplets of precum and using it as lube. Elias whines and bucks his hips, eyebrows furrowing and chest heaving.

You grin at his fucked out face and speed up, focusing your hand on his sensitive, leaky tip. "Does it feel good?" He’s nodding quickly, leaning forward to kiss you sweetly, sucking shyly on your tongue. He almost cums in your hand when you pull away, tongue lolling out. 

With fervent kisses and fervid praises, you leave a trail of marks upon his body. His cock throbs with a delicious ache, his orgasm building slowly as you unknowingly edge him, tears prick his eyes as you swipe across his overly sensitive tip again. His moans are like symphonies, whining and begging for you to make him cum. 

 “ N-no more, I can’t, please, let me c-cum, please. I’ll do anything, just p-please.” His words stumble out, his hips jerking involuntarily. You pause for a second, then give in, planting a tender kiss on his lips. You press him down against the velvety carpet, positioning your sloppy pussy over his cock, and swaying your hips, sliding him through your swollen folds, his mushroom tip catching on your clenching hole. 

Smiling at his tortured face, you slowly sink onto his cock, your thighs shaking as he stretches you out in the most delicious way. Elias buries his face into the carpet, a deep groan leaving his lips. Your gummy, slick walls squeeze him in a vice grip, reluctantly yielding to his thickness. "Mmph--!! You're too tight, wait, s'too much." 

    Ignoring his prattling you bring your hands up to rest against his stomach, lifting from his cock before dropping back down to take the rest of him inside of you. An overwhelming tingling causes your pussy to flutter around him, your cheeks flushing and a whine escaping your lips. "You're so big...you feel s'good." You halfheartedly snicker when he twitches inside of you at the praise.

Without waiting, you start a bruising pace, bouncing on his cock and grinding your engorged clit into his pelvis. His cock bullies your cervix, his hot and slick precum coating your womb. He whimpers, hands gripping the fat of your hips, you look absolutely stunning. Your breasts sway temptingly in front of his face and he can't help but draw a stiffened nipple into his mouth, sucking and nibbling, careful of his fangs against your skin.

Your hips are moving quicker now, your moans getting louder as you shower him with sweet words and adorable nicknames, pushing him closer to the edge. When you stop right on his sensitive tip and grind, he’s seeing stars. He’s cumming hard and long, thick, copious amounts of cum flooding your womb in hot spurts. He unlatches from your nipple, his head gently thumping against the carpet softly and back arching, his hips bucking and griding deftly into your spongey nerves, your pussy creaming around him. "M-mhmn! Cumming, m'cumming!" He whimpers, grip tightening on your waist. 

Elias whines softly as you continue to bounce on his overly sensitive cock, his thick cum dripping onto his thighs. He tosses his head back and cries out, your cunt squeezing his member affectionately. “Such a good boy, you did so well.” The praise makes him flush and your lips slant over his in a kiss, your back bowing as your thighs shake, convulsing around him as you cum. You pull away, chest heaving. 

"Are y-." He pauses as your eyes flutter closed and you collapse against him. Catching his breath, he let himself lay there, holding you close, the aphrodisiac must’ve worn off. His eyes start to slip shut after a few minutes but he tenses when he hears footsteps from upstairs. 

"Honey! We're back!"

[viktateapot]

NIGHTWING'S BREATHER

DICK GRAYSON X READER

Summary: Gotham doesn't give you a break, but Dick has you."A story about how love and silence become a sanctuary for a tired hero, and how even Nightwing needs a place to just be himself.

Dick landed on the roof, as silent as always. Gotham was taking its toll on him, night after night. Crime was rampant, and Nightwing was its eternal nightmare. But tonight... Tonight, his fatigue was not just physical. Tonight, he needed silence.

You silently hand him a mug of hot cocoa. You know that what he needs right now is not words, but simply warmth. He sits down on the couch, and Hayley settles at his feet. One sip, and the tension begins to ease. This small act of care is the essence of your love: a quiet haven in the raging ocean of Gotham.

He stumbles into the apartment without taking off his mask. Exhaustion oozes from every pore. Gotham was chaos again, and he, as always, took the brunt of it. But here, in your presence, even the darkness recedes. Haley, his loyal dog, wags its tail happily, as if it feels Dick's relief as keenly as you do.

Finally, he takes off his mask, and you see the weight he carries on his shoulders. There are reflections of city lights in his eyes, and a weariness that no amount of superhero strength can hide. But there's also something else - a hope that shines brighter when he looks at you.

"Thank you," he says softly, pulling you closer. He doesn't need words of gratitude; you know what he means. In your arms, he is no longer Nightwing, but simply Dick, seeking solace in silence and love."

"A tough patrol, my hero?" you whisper, gently stroking his hair. He sighs. "Do you have any idea what it's like to see so much pain and despair every day?" he asks suddenly, looking straight into your eyes.

You're taken aback by his direct question. He's not usually this open, usually hiding his emotions behind the mask of Nightwing or a slight smile. But today... today, the mask seems to have cracked.

"I... I can only imagine," you reply quietly, feeling his pain resonate in your heart. "But I know that you're not doing this for no reason. There must be something that drives you to return to these streets every time, right?"

He looks away, as if hesitant to speak about what truly concerns him. After a moment of silence, he quietly says, "I'm trying to make this city a better place. To ensure that someone else doesn't experience what I've gone through."

"And you make it better, Dick," you say, squeezing his hand. "Every day, every time you save someone. You're not alone."

He looks at you, and there's warmth in his eyes. "You're right," he whispers, pulling you closer. "Not alone. And it's because of you." Haley, as if sensing the moment, puts her head under his hand, seeking affection.

Dick smiles as he strokes the dog. He looks at you, and there's no longer the heaviness in his eyes. "Thank you," he says with sincerity. "Just for being here."

And you know that these words are enough. That you are his respite, his silence, his light in the night. Gotham can wait. The main thing now is to be there for him, hug him and remind him that there is love, hope and some hot cocoa in this world.

In the silence of the apartment, broken only by Hayley's quiet breathing and contented whimpering, a new promise is born. A promise that tomorrow will be better. That they could handle everything together. Because Nightwing has you.

My comment: I wrote this ff in a hurry, compared to the previous one. But it seems to have turned out well :3

[kiwriteswords]

Hii I love your writing!! I just wanted to ask if you could write a little Hotch x BAU!reader oneshot where the reader is on her period and Hotch takes care of her!! I need that right now

A Quiet Kind of Care

Masterlist || Ao3

AN: I could have used an Aaron Hotchner last week when this was me! Thanks so much for sending this one in, Anon. It was a fun one to write on my day off today!

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Word Count: >1k

Tags/Warnings: Secret Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Tender Moments, Reader who gets a period, Soft!Hotch

Sypnosis: After a long, grueling day on a case, you push through your discomfort to keep up with the team, all while secretly dating Aaron Hotchner. When you finally retreat to the privacy of your hotel room, Hotch’s quiet attentiveness and subtle gestures of care remind you just how much he understands your needs, offering a moment of solace and connection away from prying eyes.

Aaron's keen observation skills were not just a professional asset but a personal one, too. His years of marriage to Haley had honed his awareness of the women in his life, including you. He could discern the subtle signs of discomfort and weariness that often remained unspoken, understanding that even the strongest women needed a little extra care at times.

He’d caught on gradually—the way you’d press a hand to your lower back or shift uncomfortably in your chair during long briefings, the slight furrow in your brow that signaled more than just stress. There were times he noticed you reach instinctively toward your abdomen, only to lower your hand quickly, as if not wanting anyone to see. He saw these little signs, things the rest of the team might overlook but which he couldn’t ignore.

As he watched you navigate the case with more determination than usual, Aaron didn’t need to ask what was wrong. Instead, he offered a steadfast presence, quietly supporting you in small ways throughout the day—taking on more physical tasks, and giving you brief respites, all while keeping a watchful eye on you.

When the day finally wrapped, he made his way to your room, ready to be there for you in the way he knew you’d never ask but that he was more than willing to offer. One of the things he loved most about you was your strength and resilience. And yet, as much as he admired it, he wanted you to know that you didn’t always have to be strong with him.

The hotel hallway was quiet; the sounds of the bustling day long faded into stillness. It had been a grueling day on the case, with too many close calls and endless hours spent in the field. You were exhausted, your entire body aching, and the discomfort of your period only worsened your fatigue. Despite the pain, you’d managed to keep it all under wraps, not wanting the team to notice or, worse, worry. But Aaron—Aaron always knew.

As you leaned against the doorframe, waiting for Aaron, a wave of relief washed over you at the thought of being alone with him. The quiet knock on the door signaled his arrival, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of calm and anticipation.

A quiet knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. You opened it to find Aaron standing there, his gaze gentle, softened with concern.

“Come in,” you whispered, letting him in quickly and quietly.

Once inside, he closed the door softly, turning back to you with a small, knowing smile that held all the warmth and reassurance you needed. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a gentle, steady embrace. His hand settled at the middle of your back, his fingers spreading wide, grounding you as he held you close.

Slowly, he began to run his hand up and down your spine, a soothing rhythm that seemed to melt away the tension you’d been carrying all day. His other arm tightened around your shoulders, drawing you even closer as if shielding you from the day’s lingering stress. You rested your cheek against his chest, listening to his heart's steady, calming beat, letting it lull you into a place of warmth and safety. His chin came to rest lightly atop your head, and he exhaled as if he, too, had needed this moment just as much.

You felt the day's weight slip away in his arms, replaced by a quiet sense of peace that only Aaron could give. For a moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, the world outside the door forgotten.

“You’ve been pushing yourself all day,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with concern. “You could’ve let me help sooner, you know.”

​​You sighed, leaning into his shoulder with a small smile. “It’s just part of the job. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He looked at you, the hint of a smile on his lips. “You don’t have to hide with me. Here—sit down.”

Aaron guided you over to the bed, settling you comfortably. He’d brought a small bag with him, and you watched as he pulled out a few items: a water bottle, some painkillers, and a small heating pad. You raised an eyebrow in surprise, touched by the thoughtfulness.

“When did you even get those?” you asked softly, feeling a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the heating pad.

He chuckled, settling beside you, reaching to plug the heating pad into the outlet beside the bed.

“I have my ways.” He placed the heating pad gently against your stomach, and the warmth was an immediate relief, easing the cramps that had been gnawing at you all day. “You don’t think I’d let you suffer alone, do you?”

You leaned more fully against his shoulder, feeling the tension start to slip away as he wrapped an arm around you. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips tracing gentle, soothing lines across your stomach, each movement easing the ache a little more. He stayed quiet, his steady breathing a calming rhythm, grounding you as you let yourself relax into him.

“You know,” he whispered after a while, “it wouldn’t hurt to tell me these things sooner. You don’t have to act tough with me.”

You looked up at him, catching the glint of tenderness in his eyes. “I didn’t want to be a bother.”

He gently kissed your forehead, his lips warm and soft. “You could never be a bother.”

You stayed wrapped in his arms, the silence between you filled with the quiet understanding that was so uniquely yours. Moments like this, hidden from the rest of the world, were precious—just you and Aaron, no titles, no cases, just two people caring for each other in the simplest, truest way.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

[kisblle]

Vices & Virtues

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Word Count: 7,979 (My longest yet)

Summary: After a series of poor communications, you can't stand Arthur Morgan. Yet, with the help of forced proximity - Arthur does his best to break down your walls.

Tags: heavy angst, smut, pnv, porn with plot, high honor Arthur

18+ MDNI

Author's note: I feel like I really put my useless English degree to work here. This took MONTHS to write, and what I mean by that is it sat in my drafts since November until I finally had the will to finish it. HOWEVER, it is a lot different from I usually write. A lot of plot instead of porn (lol). I've always struggled switching between the narratives of two characters, I always tend to focus on just one - because that is how my brain works. But I really challenged myself with trying to write the thoughts and feelings of both characters - which I think worked, but trying to make a smooth transition between the two was a challenge. Also, after editing this I realized I Mr. Darcy'd the fuck out of Arthur - hence the name. Shout out Jane Austen.

A soft, balmy breeze whispers through camp, offering a brief respite from the heavy humidity of Clemens Point. Cheap whiskey flows generously around the stoic fire as young Sean Maguire tells a tasteless joke at the expense of the camp cook. In response, a thunderous eruption of deafening cackles echoes through the small peninsula. Yet, Dutch’s workhorse remains silent, a liberal blush of mauve creeping onto his cheeks without notice. Not from the heavy liquor coursing through his veins, but because of the woman staring back at him.

Across the blazing flames, you sit cross legged on a log between Karen and Javier. A bottle of French Cognac dances between your fingers and lips as you smirk, the warmth of the fire beating against your skin. You rest an elbow on your knee, gaze locked on Arthur. Taking one final sip of the bitterly sweet liquid, you let it linger, corking the bottle and settling it in your lap. Your cheeks flush with heat - not just from the fire - as you bite your lip in a slow, deliberate motion. Winking at the cowboy, you leave the crowded campfire, escaping to the nearby shoreline.

Arthur's heart pounds as his gaze follows you down to the bank, only the glow from the full moon reflecting upon your skin. Intrigued by your sudden departure, he finds himself slipping away from the commotion, following you down to the water’s edge, where - much to his delight - you’re already staring at him with a mischievous grin, the corked bottle of Cognac still swinging between your fingers.

Within moments, you dart down the lake’s bank, turning around - not once - but twice - with a hop in your step, motioning him to tag along.

With a fleeting moment of caution, Arthur glances back toward camp, scanning for any watchful eyes. To his relief, the others remain gathered around the fire, lost in their drunken revelry, oblivious to his sudden departure. His gaze finds you once more, now several yards ahead, barefoot against the cool sand and without further hesitation, he takes off after you.

Minutes later, Arthur realizes where you’ve led him - a secluded bay just east of camp, where the young Kieran Duffy had taken him fishing just days prior. The spot is a stretch of empty shoreline, close enough that the glow of the campfire still flickers in the distance, yet far enough away to ensure no one will stumble upon the two of you.

“What’re we doin’?” Arthur asks as you pop the cork of the Cognac bottle, taking a long sip before passing it to him.

“Thought we could go swimmin’,” you answer with a cheeky tone, your hands moving to the clasps of your cotton blouse, unfastening the buttons with record speed.

The Gunslinger’s eyes widen, caught completely off guard as you toss your shirt onto the grassy bank. A mischievous grin tugs at your lips as you untie your skirt, letting it slip down your legs, leaving you in nothing more than the thin fabric of your bloomers and chemise.

His lips part slightly in surprise, stunned by your sudden boldness.

You roll your eyes at the dumbfounded cowboy before turning around, your back to him as you slip out of your chemise, letting your bloomers fall - bare as the day you were born. With a slow, deliberate motion, your fingers find the singular pin holding your hair in place. As you release it, your long, silky locks cascade like a waterfall.

In one final act of seduction, you peer over your shoulder, quickly winking at the cowboy before running into the lake at full pace. When the cool water reaches hip depth, you dive down, only popping your head back up to turn toward shore. “You comin’ Mr. Morgan?” Words falling off your tongue in an impish tone.

Arthur could have sworn you were some mischievous siren, luring him to his doom. But if that meant being out there with you, he didn’t mind one bit. Tipping back the bottle of Cognac, he drains the last of it before tossing it aside, mind hazy as he fumbles with the laces of his boots. Once they’re off and safely out of reach of the waves, he unfastens his gunbelt, letting it drop.

As he undresses, a strange feeling creeps over him - like some awkward boy again. He can’t recall the last time he swam purely for the joy of it, let alone with a beautiful woman. A naked, beautiful woman at that. And he feels - giddy.

If the cowboy wasn't nearly a whole bottle of Tennessee whiskey deep, he might’ve felt embarrassed as he tore off his shirt. Littered with scars and sunspots, he knew he was no pretty boy like you deserved. Yet, his strong, bare chest gleamed under the moonlight as he took a final breath, dropping his work jeans to the ground with a light thud.

In any attempt to keep his nearly non-existent modesty, the gunslinger places his right hand over his already swollen member, swiftly entering the lake after you. He only drops his hand when he reaches hips depth, the water protecting what remained of his decency.

The outlaw spots you at chest depth, only your head breaking the lake’s surface. Your slicked back hair glistens with droplets, your lips curling into a playful smirk as you tease, “Took you long enough cowboy."

By the time he wades out to meet you, his nerves had kept him too distracted to notice the water’s cool embrace. But now, standing beside you in the gentle current, a sense of cool relief washes over him.

“Feels nice,” he replies, his voice carrying the faintest tremor. His gaze drifts downward toward you, taking you in. And with alcohol still heavily flowing through his veins, he confesses, “I ain't ever done somethin’ like this before.”

Like the hellcat you were, you bite your lip seductively, eyes locked onto him as you drift closer. You had long admired the cowboy from a distance, yearning for more, but in the sober light of day, you had always convinced yourself he was too closed off, too wrapped up in his own world to see you as anything more than a friend.

But here.

Now.

With the warmth of liquor coursing through your veins and the moon casting its glow over the rippling bay, you had convinced yourself to act on instinct.

Arthur stands nearly a foot taller than you as you push your chest to his, your hard nipples gently peaking above the waterline. “You know, Arthur,” you flirt, dragging your finger up his muscular arm. “Coming out here to cool off ain’t the only reason I dragged you out here.”

Arthur’s breath hitches, squatting deeper into the water, letting his eyeline match yours. “And why’s that?” he mutters, a small smirk falling on his lips as if he knew exactly where you were going.

“Cause,” you respond with a cheeky tone, lips curling as you move closer, pressing your mouth to his.

And there it was - the sweet, heavy scent of French Cognac lingering on your breath, a stark reminder that you weren’t entirely yourself. If Arthur weren’t inebriated himself, he wouldn’t have entertained the thought of stripping down and slipping into the water with you in the first place. Because in the sober light of day, you’d never shown him interest.

The cowboy wasn’t a stand up citizen, but he had his morals - and taking advantage of a drunken woman was where he drew the line.

“I -I can’t,” he manages, quickly pulling away as the passion of the moment already fades into regret. As much as he wanted this - wanted you - he forces himself to chalk it up to nothing more than liquor fueled impulse on your end.

And just like that, the haze of liquid courage dissipates. Awareness crashing over you like a wave. You are bare before him - completely nude. The realization jolting through you like a bolt of lightning. Your hands dart upward, desperate to shield yourself from his gaze. A sickening knot tightens in your stomach, embarrassment tearing through you like a burning fire poker. And yet, somehow, even in the relentless Lemoyne heat , you feel cold.

You wanted to disappear, to shrink into the water, to curl up and never face him again.

“I -I’m sorry,” you choke out before turning and darting to shore, tears puddling in your eyes as you wish you could forget this ever happened - forget him.

How could you be so wrong?

It was as if all your senses had given out, only basic instinct bringing you back to the grassy shore. You knew it wasn’t from the Cognac -the liquor had done nothing more than give you the confidence to do what you’d always wanted. Your sudden fit of illness came from nothing more than rejection, your ears ringing as your vision blurred with tears of regret.

You couldn’t tell if it had been seconds or minutes as you fumbled along the shoreline, hurriedly gathering the scattered pieces of your clothes and pulling them back on. You didn't care, you just wanted to be gone.

Without looking back out into Flat Iron Lake, you swiftly run back to the faint glow of the campfire without another word.

-

In the early hours of the following morning, Arthur scrunches his nose at the bitterness of his coffee, his gaze fixed on your tent.

Sure, he was a fool.

A god damn idiot at that.

But all he wanted to do was catch you early - before anyone else could hear. Before shame could build a wall between the two of you.

He needed to apoligize.

It wasn't until he heard your choked sob from ashore last night that he realized how poorly he communicated. With you running off like that, crying, he put two and two together and realized what you had thought - that he had rejected you after following you out there like an idiot. 

Which he did.

But not for the reason you believed.

Hell, on any sober night, he would have gladly pulled you into his arms, kissed you without hesitation. A silly dream he had imagined for longer than he'd like to admit. But last night wasn’t sober - for either of you. And that made all the difference.

With his head held low, just beyond the brim of his gambler's hat - he waited.

With hours slowly passing, the once quiet camp in the morning hours had turned lively by the afternoon - still no sign of you.

Like clockwork, Dutch eventually strolls up to Arthur, a familiar smirk on his face, offering a fishing trip with Hosea, for old times’ sake.

Arthur obliges, forcing a nod, but his eyes flicker toward your tent one last time, knowing that he had missed his chance. Now, with listening ears all around, his apology would have to wait.

-

The weather was far more forgiving than the day before, the air crisp and cool beneath an endless stretch of azure sky. As the three outlaws rowed back to Clemens Point - several fish in tow, the weight on Arthur’s shoulders felt a little lighter.

That morning, he had woken up uncertain. But after of adventure spent with the men he looked up to the most, his spirit had been lifted.

And yet, as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, a knot twisted in his stomach. There was still unfinished business waiting for him back at camp.

Docking the stolen row boat, Arthur parts ways with the gang leaders. Quickly slipping by the camp cook, dropping off a rather hefty string of lake fish.

Free at last, the cowboy's eyes reluctantly prowess around camp, searching for the one woman his mind has been on all day. Only able to truly breath when he finally finds you; seated between Mary-Beth and Karen, legs crossed as you carefully sew at a torn sock. You’re as beautiful as ever , hair swept up into a loose bun, stray strands falling around your face in a way that makes his breath hitch.

And for a moment - just a moment - he forgets why he was searching for you in the first place.

But as reality kicks in, he exhales, walking up to the three of you with a kind smile. "Afternoon ladies," he greets, jutting his hip out and throwing his thumbs into the loops of his gun belt.

"Oh, Hi Arthur," Mary-Beth responds in a peachy tone.

"Arthur," Karen acknowledges.

The cowboy deliberately ignores the two women, his gaze nervously locked on you, waiting for some sign, any response. But you remain unmoved, acting as though you’re completely unaware of his presence.

"Go fishing with Dutch?" Mary-Beth asks kindly, unaware of the high strung tension lingering in the air.

His eyes never leave you as he answers the young writer, "Yeah, we bumped into Trelawney." His crystal blue eyes searching for even the slightest flicker of emotion from you, desperate to unravel what’s going on inside your head.

"Trelawney?" Karen giggles, her voice a light contrast to the heavyness that hangs in the air.

"Yeah, says he got some kind of investments in Rhodes," Arthur replies, anger silently building beneath his skin. His hands silently falling into fists in frustration, his nails digging into his palms as every second you refuse to acknowledge his presence passes by slowly.

"That Trelawney, he's a kind man-"

Arthur interrupts Mary-Beth mid-sentence, annoyance tightening in his chest as he steals one last glance at you. Your eyes still locked on to that damn sock as if you were in your own little world.

"Well, I best be going," he mutters quickly, his voice sharp and defeated. Without another word, he turns and rushes back to his tent, his face burning with the remenants of anger and irritation.

And suddenly, your once close and cherished relationship with Arthur Morgan had turned nonexistent.

...

Nearly a month later, violent rain lashes against the roads of Lemoyne. The storm fierce and unrelenting. Thunder booms across the flashing sky as Arthur's young mare shifts uneasily as the cowboy ties her to a hitching post outside the Rhodes post office. Rain reflecting off his gambler's hat as he hurries inside.

Alden Carruthers, the discouraged postal worker greets Arthur with a smile. "I forgot to give you a receipt last time, do you want me to write one up?" Alden mischevously smiles.

Arthurs huffs, snorting as he tosses a lifeless possum onto the table, causing the postal worker to nearly jump and the rather loud thud. "No, all I need today is for these to be sent to a Ms. L Hobbs out of Strawberry."

"Got it," Alden replies hastily, picking up the dead rodent up by it's tail and prepping the animal for shipment. "That storm out there is sure relentless," Alden adds as he writes the shipment tag. "Papers are saying it's gonna storm like this for two days."

The outlaw lets out a exhale, flicking droplets of water off of his gambler's hat. "I don't care how long it's supposed to be stormin', just that my shipment gets to Strawberry on time, and I get paid."

"Well," Alden says rather loudly, handing Arthur an actual recepit this time. "Us postal workers will do our best to have your package arrive as punctual as possible." Then lowering his voice, "and if you're feeling discouraged, I have a few good leads on wagons too."

Arthur steps back, shaking his head at Alden. "Not in this weather," he mutters, before turning to leave, only to freeze mid-step.

It’s you.

Oblivious to everything, you sit in the corner of the empty post office, eyes closed, your head resting against a foggy window sill. A peaceful image, almost too calm for the storm raging outside.

What are you doing here?

In town?

Alone?

The questions flood his mind, but they don’t matter as much as the pull in his chest that makes him move toward you. He doesn’t think twice - his feet carrying him in urgency.

The last time you two were alone like this was nearly a month ago, the night by the lake. That kiss, barely more than a brush of lips had raced through his mind everyday since. Yet, since then, the tension between the two of you could be cut with a dull knife as you had been avoiding him for weeks.

But now, here you are, sitting like you hadn't been occupying his thoughts every damn day. Arthur doesn't know what to make of it, but he knows one thing for sure: he's going to make the most of your forced proximity.

His brain races a mile a minute, trying to figure out the proper string of words to splice together, and as lightining strikes near the chapel outside, he is able to muster, "Better not be runnin' away on us."

Slowly, you open your eyes. Rubbing them as you shuffle in your chair. Blinking, your vision clears, and your heart sinks into your stomach as you look up at the rain soaked cowboy standing before you.

You let out a heavy sigh, your expression twisting into a deep scowl. “No,” you mumble indignantly.

Arthur exhales sharply, hooking his thumbs into his gunbelt. “You know Dutch don’t like you women comin’ into town without a chaperone. Too dangerous.”

Scoffing, you push yourself to your feet, grabbing your woven bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “You gonna take me back to camp then?” you reply, swiftly striding past the cowboy and toward the door.

Arthur had expected a cold reception - he knew better than to hope for anything else, but after weeks of you ignoring him, he’d thought he’d at least get something less hostile. His scowl deepens, frustration simmering as he reaches out, grabbing your shoulder and spinning you around.

“You see that weather out there woman?” Arthur snaps, rain hammering against the window. “Better to wait it out in the Parlour House than risk Boadicea bucking us both off.”

You glower at the cowboy, lip quivering as his hands tightly squeeze your shoulder. "Rather wait it out alone in here than wait it out anywhere with you," you spit, knowing that deep down you didn't mean a single word that left your mouth.

A flicker of something unspoken crosses Arthur’s face - hurt or dissapointment, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. His jaw tightens, and he steps back, his usual gruff demeanor snapping back into place like a shield.

"Suit yourself," he mutters, his voice low and defeated. Your lips strongly pursed in a straight line.

He walks towards the door, taking a steady exhale, shaking his head back and fourth before pushing the doors open to a heavy rainfall.

Trying to hold back tears, you retreat to the bench, the bag of items you bought earlier still hanging over your shoulder.

You didn’t know why you were like this, and you hated it. Being stubborn is one thing, but what you had said to Arthur was just cruel. No matter how angry or embarrassed he made you feel, he didn’t deserve that. Tilting your head back against the window sill, you silently sob, listening to the steady pitter-patter of rain against the glass.

...

Arthur huffs as he pulls Boadicea toward the stables, rain soaking his cotton shirt. A thousand thoughts running through his mind as he reaches the wooden barn, paying the stable owner a dollar to board the mare for the night. Slinging his saddle bag across his shoulder, he tips his hat before starting his short walk to the parlour house.

But his feet don’t take him there.

Before he can stop himself, he finds himself once again trudging through the storm, back to the post office.

Back to you.

He wants to curse you to Hell and back, to call you every foul name under the sun, but deep down, he knew you were just hurt.

As his boots hit the wooden porch, he swings open the door, ignoring Alden entirely as he strides toward you.

His chest tightens as your red-rimmed eyes meet his. You’re angry, face still flushed, but he sees through all of it. Without a word, Arthur holds out his hand, offering you a chance to come with him willingly.

Yet, you remain unmoved.

But this time, Arthur doesn’t care. Coming with him was no longer a choice.

He reaches for your woven bag, slinging iit over his shoulder.

"Arthur," you pout, grabbing at it in an act of defiance. But your actions meant nothing and in one swift, deliberate motion, he lifts you over his shoulder as if you were a bounty he was hauling in.

Your stomach rests over his broad joint, his right hand holding you tightly, you're legs flailing against his chest.

"Arthur!" you yell again, slapping his back in defiance.

He strides toward the door, kicking it open and stepping back into the pouring rain, his grip firm and unwavering.

"You know you're one god-damn stubborn woman," he growls, rain soaking through your blouse and skirt as he marches up the road, through the mud. "I don’t know how you ended up alone in that post office, but whoever took you into town and left you there deserves a beatin'."

"I ain't comin' with you nowhere," You yell, thrashing your legs and arms against him. But his grip is tight, carrying you down the middle of the empty road, only seconds later dropping you to your feet infront of the parlour house.

"Now, you better behave. Dutch don't want anyone causing a scene," Arthur demands, pointing a finger in your face as you pout in retaliation.

You cross your arms and scowl, "And you picking me up like that wasn’t causing a scene-" you bark after him, only for your words to be cut off as he pulls you through the door.

No music plays, and barely any heads turn as Arthur pulls you throught the swinging doors behind him. A few patrons are scattered about, but much fewer than what the cowboy was used to - he could thank the raging storm for that.

He sits you at a small table in the corner of the room, leaving you slouched on chair with a scowl spread across your face. You cross your arms and huff as the cowboy walks up to the bar. Returning with two plates of fried catfish in hand, plopping one down in front of you along with a napkin.

"Eat," he orders, cutting himself a piece and shoveling a forkful into his mouth.

You glance down at your plate, the hot, crispy catfish making your mouth water at the mere sight. After being stuck at the post nearly the entire day you would be lying if you didn't say you were hungry - starving at that. But picking up that fork and placing a piece in your mouth meant more than just feeding yourself, it was a peace offering.

That night on Flat Iron Lake haunted you - the cool breeze against your bare skin, the moonlight dancing on the water, the way Arthur had followed behind you, chasing after you like he wanted you. Like he needed you.

Only to turn you away.

Even now, the memory made your stomach twist, your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You had stripped yourself bare - not just in body, but in heart - and he had let you. Let you believe, only to shut you down when you were already halfway there.

And that? That made you sick.

But more than that, you were furious. Furious at him for indulging your delusions, for pulling you in just to push you away. For making you feel wanted, like you were something more to him - only to leave you standing there, vulnerable and humiliated.

You had given him everything that night. And in return, he had left you with nothing but regret.

Yet, something deep down told you to take a bite.

Maybe it was your impending hunger, or maybe it was the desire for him that still burned in your bones. But he had come back for you - even after all those nasty words you had spewed at him, and that meant something.

So you take a bite.

The soft flaky forkful erupts onto your tastebuds as your stomach yearns for more. You look down at your plate, your mouth already watering for another bite as you nearly inhale the meal. Eating much faster than you ever have, yet, still finishing minutes after the cowboy.

Arthur realizes and chuckles to himself, shaking his head with an amused smile. His shirt is still clinging to his chest from trudging through the rainstorm. "Hungry?" he teases, raising a brow as he looks down at your empty plate.

You push away the cleared dish, ignoring his sly comment as he exhales, leaning back into his chair, wiping his hands on his button down.

"Thank you," you murmur, setting aside your bickering with him for the first time in what felt like forever.

Arthur rests his elbows on the table, watching you. "You gonna tell me why you were sittin' at that post office all alone? Lookin' like you were about to catch a train and run away?"

Your gaze drops to the empty dish in front of you. You sigh before speaking.

"I had some errands to run in town. Asked nearly every one of you men to take me before I finally had to ask Micah-."

"Didn't ask me," Arthur interjects, his tone cold.

Your eyes flash to his for a brief moment before dropping back to your plate. A million unsaid words lingering on his tongue.

"Micah - well he offered. Should've known better, but - but I was desperate. On the way back to camp, he told me I owed him something for taking me into town. And - and when I refused, he pushed me off Bayloch and ran off without me." Your voice wavering slightly. "I figured I'd wait at the post office, sooner or later I knew I'd run into one of you there."

Arthur jaw cocks, clutching his fork tighter than before, your words repeating in his mind over and over again, fantasizing about tearing Micah to pieces. "I don't want you ever gettin' on the back of Micah's horse again, if you need to go into town, you ask me from now on." Arthur's voice cold and demanding.

You bite you lip tenderly, his eyes flashing you an icy stare of a million unsaid words. And in that moment you knew he was serious - yet, all you could do was look back down at the empty dish in front of you, embarassed and defeated.

The cowboy's voice softens, "You know I jus' don' want you gettin' hurt."

But you already were, and it wasn't because of Micah.

You shift in your seat, eyes fixed on the worn wood grain of the table in front of you as the conversation with him plays over in your mind, only to be interrupted by the sound of the heavy front doors being pushed open.

Arthur straightens across from you, his posture sharpening just enough to tell you that he knows whoever just walked in.

"Deputy Callahan!"

A middle aged man with a rather gaudy mustache approaches, his grin wide and easy. "Good work with those moonshiners the other day. Sheriff Gray was mighty pleased to hear it had been taken care of."

Arthur's lips press into a firm line. He nods, stiff, giving away his distaste for whatever conversation this was about to turn into.

Then, the man’s eyes slide to you.

"This your lady wife?" he asks, removing his hat as he looks you up and down. His gaze lingers - too long - on the damp cloth still clinging to your skin, the remnants of the storm that rages just beyond the four walls of the parlour house.

Arthur notices.

He coughs, cutting through the growing tension, and flicks his eyes toward you with a silent warning. "Uh… yes," he croaks, the word sounding foreign on his tongue, as if the very idea were a ridiculous lie. "This is Deputy McGregor, honey."

You almost laugh. The way Arthur shifts uncomfortably, the slight scrunch of his nose - he was hating every second of this. But you? You hadn’t run a scheme in a while, but you hadn't forgotten the reason why Dutch recruited you in the first place.

You lean into the role, of Arthur's darling, little wife - flashing the deputy a warm, practiced smile. Oh how you missed the rush of a good con.

"Oh, you can call me Archibald," the man says, offering his hand to shake.

You place your hand in his, soft and delicate, allowing him to clasp it just a bit too long. "Oh, Archibald," you say, tilting your head just so, your tone dipped in the sweetest honey. "I've heard all about you from my husband."

A flush creeps up the deputy’s neck as he turns to Arthur, beaming with an almost boyish giddiness. "You sure got a pretty one, don't you?"

Arthur’s jaw tightens.

The heat of his glare could burn a hole through the man’s skull, but Archibald is oblivious, his eyes back on you, devouring every inch. "Don’t get women like your wife often here in Rhodes," he muses, that hungry stare making your skin crawl, though you keep your expression sweet.

Arthur shifts, his discomfort rolling off him in waves. Then, in a move so sudden it almost startles you, his rough hand slides across the table, closing over yours as if he was making his claim.

“Sure am a lucky bastard,” he says, voice lower now, gritted between his chipped teeth.

Archibald straightens, oblivious or choosing to ignore the sharp threatening edge in Arthur’s tone. "Well," he says, clapping his hands together. "Are you two up for a round-?"

"Sorry, we were just on our way out," Arthur cuts in, already standing up from across the table.

Archibald blinks. "You sure? The round’s on me."

Arthur grips your hand tighter, pulling you gentle but firmly to your feet, his arm sliding around your waist - just to remind Archibald that you weren't his.

"Real kind of you, Archibald," Arthur says voice tense but polite. "Maybe nextime."

Archibald shamelessly checks you out one more time before his eyes meet Arthurs, shaking his head, and returning to the bar.

Arthur shoves your chair in before pulling you toward the swinging doors. The wood creaks as they fly open, and in an instant, the warm glow of the parlour house is swallowed by the raging storm outside.

"Thought we were gonna wait the storm out - " you protest, half-shouting over the wind as he tugs you forward, rain pelting against your skin like tiny needles.

"We'll get a hotel room," Arthur grunts, barely slowing his pace. His grip on your wrist is firm but not rough, just insistent. "Storm’s supposed to last for days anyway, we can see how it is tomorrow."

You huff in protest, but deep down, you know Arthur is right. The storm is relentless, and lingering in the parlour house would have only led to more trouble. Thunder pounds overhead, shaking the very ground beneath your feet as a streak of lightning splits the sky, striking a field in the distance.

Arthur’s pace is brisk, his grip firm as he pulls you through the muddy streets. You stumble slightly, your boots sinking into the wet earth, but he doesn’t slow down. The rain lashes against your skin, soaking through your clothes as you struggle to keep up.

For a fleeting moment, you almost wish you had stayed back - kept playing the part of Arthur’s pretty wife, teasing the deputy just a little longer. You had missed the thrill of the con. But whatever rush had stirred inside of you, clearly hadn't had the same effect on Arthur.

As you near the hotel, the gunslinger finally lets go of your hand, shaking the rain from his hat before stepping inside. The lobby is dimly lit, dry compared to the wetness outside. Behind the desk sits an older woman, her gray, frizzy hair framing her sunken brown eyes. She greets you both with a thin, unfriendly smile.

"You two are lucky," she screeches, peering up at you over the rim of her wire glasses. "I was just about to close for the night."

Arthur reaches into his satchel, pulling out a fistful of bills. "Two rooms," he mutters dully.

The woman adjusts her glasses with a sigh. "Ain’t got but one left." Her gaze shifts between the two of you, judgment flickering in her tired eyes.

Arthur turns to you, his lips pressing into a thin line. He doesn't need to say anything - you already know what he's asking. With a small nod in his direction, you accept the reality of the situation.

"That’s fine," he mumbles, handing over the fistful of bills.

She plucks the last key from the wall behind her, placing it on the counter. "Upstairs. Last door on the left." Her eyes scan over your rain drenched clothes, lips pursing slightly. "For an extra five dollars, I can get you a dry chemise and a union suit for the night."

Without hesitation, Arthur hands her another handful of cash. "That’d be great. Thank you."

The woman disappears briefly, returning with neatly folded garments. As she extinguishes the oil lamp on the desk, you follow Arthur up the mahogany staircase, your fingers trailing along the ornate railing. Your gaze flickers to the paintings lining the walls. One, in particular, catches your eye - a familiar pond in New Hanover. Owanjila. A place you had spent countless summers with your family. A place that now feels like a lifetime ago.

At the end of the hall, Arthur slides the key into the lock, pushing open the heavy wooden door. The room is surprisingly spacious, dimly illuminated by the crackling fire in the hearth.

To your right, the fireplace dominates the space as it towers above a worn bear rug. A painted picture of a small cabin sits between unlit oil lanterns on the mantle and just beyond, a tall bookshelf, packed with dusty novels of all shapes and sizes leans against the wood wall. A rocking chair with a faded green cushion fashioned beside it.

On the opposite side of the room, a large bed sits against the window, overlooking the raging storm outside. The thick red quilt and mound of plush pillows looks inviting. Certainly better than the cots and hard ground you've been sleeping on for the past several years.

Arthur sets his saddlebag down near the bookcase before handing you the chemise. "This looks nice," he murmurs, more to himself than to you as his eyes steady on the bed, and then to the chair.

You nod, accepting the dry fabric. By now, you're soaked to the bone. Staying in these clothes any longer would surely invite sickness. And without a word, you turn your back to him, knowing he's doing the same.

As Arthur tugs off his boots, placing them near the fire, he speaks. "I can take the chair tonight."

It’s the gentlemanly thing to offer. And given the tension that still lingers between you, it’s probably the right thing to do. But as your eyes drift to the bed, you can’t help but think - it would feel too big just for you.

Yet, you say nothing.

With swift motions, you peel off your rain slicked shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin. Your skirt follows, pooling at your feet. It’s not the first time you’ve stripped in Arthur’s presence - but the circumstances are far different this time.

As you pull the soft chemise over your head, the fabric draping over your form, you turn slightly, just in time to catch Arthur struggling with the sleeves of the dark red union suit over his wet skin. His back muscles flex beneath the thin material, every large muscle visible in his frame.

You clear your throat, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Arthur hangs his gambler’s hat on the fireplace, watching you lay your damp clothes before the fire to dry. He does the same, moving absently, his eyes flickering toward you more than once.

Then, finally, he exhales, his hands falling to his sides as he realizes that right now is better than any to address everything that's happened.

"Y’know…" He swallows thickly, his gaze briefly dropping to where the thin fabric of your chemise barely hides the hardened peaks of your nipples. His voice lowering, "I been wantin’ to talk to you. About what happened all those nights ago."

You freeze. The air in the room shifts. Your eyes dart away, your throat tightening. "I -I don’t want to talk about it," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. Heat rises to your cheeks, shame burning through you like wildfire.

"I just wanna say -"

"Drop it, Arthur." The words snap from your lips, sharp and final. A lump forms in your throat, vomit rising in the back of your throat. "It was a mistake. And I’m sorry."

Arthur stiffens, his jaw clenching. "It weren’t no mistake to me." His voice is firm, louder this time.

Before you can react, he takes a step forward, closing the distance between you. His brow furrows, frustration etched into his features, but when his hands reach for yours, he caresses them softly.

Your lips part, confusion flickering across your face.

He sighs, shaking his head. "That night. That night by the water…" He exhales slowly. "I been wantin’ you a long time. And I want you to know that."

Your breath catches.

Did he have any idea how badly he had hurt you? How embarrassed you had felt?

He drags a hand through his damp hair. "But I didn’t want to tell you how I felt when we’d both been drinkin’ like that. Didn’t want you to regret what may have happened when it come morning."

A lump forms in your throat, and before you can stop it, tears spill down your cheeks. You had spent so long buried in anger, in bitterness -but now, all that’s left was the dull sting of sadness.

Arthur watches you carefully. "Didn’t realize how bad I messed up till you were gone," he murmurs. "Then you wouldn’t talk to me after that. And I just-" He shakes his head, his voice breaking ever so slightly. "I can’t stand this no more. You not talkin’ to me. Not trustin’ me." His eyes wide and regrettful, a strange demeanor for a ruffened outlaw like him as his thumbs roam over the backs of your palms. "Livin' in a world where you don't talk to me."

You silently gulp, realizing that in the midst of all this wind, rain, and chaos - his icy blue stare had turned into nothing but two warm pools of water.

"Arthur," your lips finally part, dragging your fingertips against the gritty trail of his freshly cut beard. "I've been real poor to you lately, you don't deserve that."

His eyes shut as he brushes his head against your hand like a cat, revelling in your touch. "I hate not talkin' to you, I hate it," he breathes. "It breaks my heart." The once hard and distant cowboy had turned soft and gentle at your touch, the polar opposite of his usual gruff demeanor and it had warmed your soul.

Now that you knew his rejection was nothing more than a miscommunication, your stomach settled for the first time in forever and the fiery heat that once burned in your chest for him was rekindled.

Your lips moved slowly towards him, closing the distance with a kiss. This time slow, meaningful, and sober. The sour bitterness of the past evaporating off your skin, replaced by nothing but pure need.

You felt seen.

Arthur’s hands comb through your damp hair, his fingers curling around your subtle waves as his lips move over yours, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. You taste sweet, like canned strawberries - as he inhales your scent: cherry blossom and clove.

He only pulls away when he realizes he has you pressed against the bed, pausing just long enough to toss you onto the clean, red quilt before settling beside you. His lips find yours again, doing nothing more than melding with them in slow, deliberate kisses. Through heavy breaths, he manages to murmur, "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

You grin against his mouth. "Sure, Deputy Callahan."

And there it was - that teasing banter that had drawn him to you all those years ago, making its way back into the moment. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Callahan," he playfully responds.

You gently swat his chest before he pulls you in again, this time kissing you with fire and urgency. Your lips dance against each other as your hand finds his, guiding it to your breast - a silent sign that it’s okay to touch you.

Without breaking the kiss, his fingers graze over you, his thumb flicking over your hardened nipple through the thin fabric of your chemise.

It isn't enough.

You drape your leg over his, and in one swift motion, you shift atop him, your chemise pooling at your thighs. Your long hair cascades over one shoulder as your lips stay locked with his, neither of you willing to part.

You feel him hard beneath your hips, his length poking at your core as you revel in his touch.

It was him - it had always been him.

You knew exactly what you wanted. With one swift motion, you pulled your chemise over your head, baring yourself to him once more -this time, sober, and with no doubts.

Arthur broke the kiss for a moment, just to take you in. You sat atop him, straddling his hips in nothing but your slick, damp hair. Lust and love flickering in your eyes, a sight that made his breath hitch.

"S'beautiful," he whispers before grabbing your head, pulling you into another kiss. Then, with a swift movement, he flips you onto your back, his tall, broad frame settling between your bare legs.

Your breaths come heavy, a smile playing at your lips as he practically tears off his union suit, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His gaze roaming over you - first your eyes, then your lips, then lower, taking in every inch of you. He lingers at the soft curves of your breasts, the way they spread slightly in opposite directions. Then lower still, to the thatch of hair resting just above the warmth of your heat.

His eyes feasted on you before he finally leans down, capturing your lips once more, tongue tangling with yours in desperate urgency.

It only takes seconds before you rock your hips up against his hardened length, a silent plea he couldn't ignore.

Arthur looks at you, his elbows resting above your head, his breath warm against your lips. He didn’t need words to understand what you want, but it had been so long since he’d fucked a woman who wasn’t after a few dollars from him that the feeling was almost foreign.

Slowly, he pushed into you, watching the way your lips parted, the way your brows pinched together as he filled you inch by inch.

Tight.

Just how he imagined.

Warm.

Just how he knew it would feel.

Loved.

Just how it should be.

He carved himself between your thighs, stilling for a moment as he buried himself fully inside you. He just watched you, savoring the moment, knowing that every mistake he had made in his past had led him to this - this perfect moment.

And in this moment, nothing in the world could touch the two of you.

"Arthur," you breath shakily, threading your fingers through his still dampened hair. The soft crackle of the fire filling the quiet space between your shared breaths.

"My woman," he murmurs before pulling back, only to sink into you once more.

Again and again, he moved - slow at first, savoring every sensation, then faster as his need overtook him. Your jaw slackens, your breasts moving in rhythm with each deep, deliberate thrust.

Bracing himself on one elbow, his free hand finds the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. He rubs slow, deliberate circles as he drives into you, each stroke deeper, heavier, until all you could do was hold onto him and let the pleasure consume you both.

"I'm gonna-" you gasp, your breath hitching as heat dances deep in your core, the ripening pleasure building under his touch. Arthur's fingers circle over your sensitive nub, pushing you closer, guiding you to the edge.

His blue eyes blur with haze, his mouth parting slightly as he watches you unravel beneath him - your legs trembling, lips quivering, your body utterly lost to the sensation. Only when he’s sure you’ve been properly worked over does he finally let go, spilling himself onto your stomach with a low, guttural moan.

Collapsing beside you, his chest rises and falls in heavy, ragged breaths, sweat glistening on his forehead as the song of flurrying rain and crackling fire play in his ears.

Arthur only pulls you into the crook of his shoulder to fall asleep after working you over three more times - once with the thrust of his hips, and twice with the flick of his tongue.

...

The next morning, you wake to a pleasant ache deep in your core, the soft patter of raindrops drumming against the roof.

You stretch, expecting to find the warmth of a certain outlaw beside you, his naked form tangled up in the sheets. But when you reach out, all you feel is cool, empty linen.

Your stomach twists. You sit up instantly.

No saddlebag. No boots. No clothes drying by the dying embers of last night’s fire. All remenates gone, as if he had faded into thin air.

Panic and sudden regret tighten in your chest - until the door swings open with a gust of cool air, and Arthur steps inside, fully clothed, a saddlebag slung over his shoulder and an apple between his teeth.

"Sorry," he mumbles through the crunch of the fruit, dropping the saddlebag onto the rocking chair. He pulls it from his mouth with a grin. "Tried to get back before you woke, but it took longer than expected for them to heat a bath."

Cheerfully, he sets a small, tied cloth in front of you. "Brought some breakfast."

You unfold the cloth, revealing fresh strawberries, a wedge of cheese, and salted beef. Reaching for a strawberry, you bite into it, its sweet juice dribbling down your chin as Arthur watches you in delight.

"Thank you," you murmur, watching as Arthur strips himself out of his clothes. You half expect him to stay in his union suit, but he shucks that off too, baring himself completely before crawling back into bed beside you, stealing a strawberry for himself.

"The storm doesn't look like it's clearing," he muses, resting his head in your lap. His eyes meeting yours, those familiar blues staring deeply into you soul.

"Went ahead and paid for another night," he adds, a slow, mischievous smile curving his lips. "And if rain means I get to lay naked in here with you all day, I hope the town floods."

[gay-dorito-dust]

Jason finds the act of touching foreheads, or kissing the side of your head an intimate act between the two of you.

Upon pressing his forehead against your own for the first time after a particularly horrible nightmare -or more accurately night terror- Jason felt himself able to breathe. His mind was cleared of the fog within it that overstayed it’s welcome, long had become a thing of maliciousness and heavily distorted memories, he could see you and that’s all he needed to know that he was far away from the darkest moments of his life.

‘You’re okay Jason, just keep looking at me and follow my breathing.’ You tell him as you took one of his hands and placed it against your chest so he could feel your breathing pattern.

From that moment onwards Jason would always find himself resting his forehead against yours whenever he felt as though he was entering a dire situation, one where uncertainty of survival as an outcome, or whenever he just needed to feel you and know that you were just as flesh and bone as he was. It served as a reminder that he was human, even if he didn’t feel as though he was anything close to being human, it reminded him that he deserved peace and happiness in his life despite what he might have himself believe.

There wasn’t a day where Jason wasn’t resting his head against your own to breath you in, or kiss your temple just to feel your skin against your lips as he held you close to his chest. It’s an addictive feeling that Jason didn’t want to ever leave his system, it was a feeling that Jason want to actually keep feeling for the rest of his life if he was allowed to even wish for such a small thing.

After all wasn’t he allowed moments of domesticity? Of respite? Of peace? Or was the narrative to always keeping restless and tired of the injustice within Gotham to the point where he’d be mischaracterised to the point where even his own family weren’t able to distinguish the difference in him and the vengeful vigilante Red Hood.

You however could tell them apart with your eyes closed as far as Jason was aware, and to have one person be able to do that was more then enough for him to be content for the rest of his life because as long as it was you who was able to know where Jason begins and ends; then he knew he wasn’t fucking something else up in his disastrous life.

So whenever Jason got the chance to do so, his forehead was glued to yours the moment he walks through the door of your shared home, his hands cupping your face and caress your cheeks as he closes his eyes to breath you in deeply and be reminded of the blessing he had in his life; you. Clearing Gotham was still a priority but it was also now so that you could walk the streets safely without having to look over your shoulder now and then, but you had become a massive relief for Jason in more ways then one.

‘You’re okay.’ You’d heard him whisper to himself as though in reassurance and it broke your heart that he had to remind himself that you were okay, however now you would just hold his face and mimic his actions of caressing his cheeks in an effort to bring him comfort.

‘I’m okay, we’re okay.’ You replied softly as you felt him further relax against you, only having enough energy to move slightly away from you to kiss your temple before resting against your forehead once more, letting out a sigh of content.

‘We’re okay.’ He echoes, feeling a small smile grace across his lips that he felt as though he never thought he would be able to do again, well before he met you of course, he as a lot of you to thank for and he’ll get there in due time.