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little-diable · 6 months

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"Angel" He calls me – Priest!Tom Riddle (smut)

Listen, this is fucked up – even I was unsure where this came from. But I ain't sorry for it, I know y'all will love this, you filthy heathen (i love you). Shamelessly inspired by the song "The Fruits" by Paris Paloma. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Her mother accuses the reader of preparing a satanic ritual, so she hopes that Priest Riddle can free the young girl from the devil's grasp. What a shame that the young priest is even more cunning than the Devil himself.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, smut in a church, heavy dub!con, choking, wax play, blood play, Tom being Tom, religious connotations

Pairing: Priest!Tom Riddle x fem!reader (about 2k words)

My love, are you the devil? I would worship you instead of him, I have no time for confession, for I'm too busy committing sins

“Priest Riddle!” Her mother’s shrill voice echoed through the empty church, repeated with every further step she took. (Y/n) struggled against her mother’s grasp, feet dragged along the cold ground as if she prayed that the floor would open up, that something or someone would crawl from the eternal darkness to hold onto her, rescue her from the hell she would experience any moment now. “Priest Riddle!”

The tall man appeared after another loud call of his name, concern tugged on his features, a facade her mother instantly seemed to buy into; a facade (y/n) instantly saw through. Priest Riddle was a devilish handsome man, a man so handsome he easily fooled those who clung to him, distracting them from his sinful character.

“Mathilda, (y/n), what is going on?” His bright eyes carried concern as he looked at (y/n)’s mother, concern that changed into something dark the second his gaze found (y/n)’s. Her mother’s torture was nothing against what he’d do to her, that much she was certain of after all those confessions she had been forced through – confessions that had ended with her knees having a carpet burn, with her ass bruised, and her jaw pulsing in pain from being stretched open.

“She’s gone insane, I’ve found her worshipping the devil! He has his dark grasp on her, oh you have to free my girl, you’re my only chance of finding help for her sinning soul, Father!” Tears dripped from her mother’s eyes, tears (y/n) silently cursed. She had done no such thing, all she had done was read a book Priest Riddle had borrowed her, one of the few interests both shared – Latin prayers her mother had mistaken for satanic rituals as (y/n) had tried to pronounce the words.

For a second, he studied (y/n), the annoyance she couldn’t shake, the wide pupils he had grown all too used to, feeling his cock twitch in his trousers at the excitement now thumping through his veins. “Leave her with me, Mathilda. She’s in good hands. I’ll take care of our girl.”

"Angel“ he calls me, does he know that I'm falling from a precipice that I tripped off long ago?

“Rituals, huh?” Her mother had left the church seconds ago, leaving the two of them behind. (Y/n)’s skin prickled, she was fighting against the need to scream, to throw a tantrum against her mother’s foolish behaviour. All because of him.

“This is your fault! She heard me read that prayer book of yours.” Within seconds he stood in front of her, ringed hand wrapped around her throat. Her heart was pounding, blood rushing through her veins, he could feel (y/n)’s fast pulse against his fingertips, a sensation that left the man smirking.

“My fault?” The way he spoke the words, with a voice so raspy and deep, (y/n) didn’t manage to stop her body from reacting, her thighs from trembling and her walls from clenching around nothing. For a few moments, neither of them spoke, all they did was stare at one another. “My fault, really, (y/n)?”

“I,” her words got stuck in her throat as he squeezed, cutting off her strength to pronounce any words. Priest Riddle always enjoyed silencing her, showing her how much power he held over her. (Y/n) was shoved backwards as he let go of her, watching her fall onto the stone stairs leading up to the altar.

“You see, (y/n), your mother may think I’m the saving grace, the voice of reason, but I think you know better, don’t you? There is no saving left for you, no grace I can give you. The Devil would have tried to save you, what a shame that I’m not him.” Angry tears welled up in her eyes, tears that began to drip as a laugh clawed through him. There was no escaping him, no matter how much her mind begged her to run, to never return to these unholy walls, her body craved his touch, desperate for everything he could offer.

“Undress, lay down on the altar, for me.” It took (y/n) a second to snap into motion, to undo the buttons of her dress with shaky fingers. Not once did her glassy eyes leave his frame, not as she stood naked, not as she slowly heaved herself onto the altar, not as she watched him alight the red candle placed next to the Holy Bible.

“Do you remember what John teaches us, (y/n)? He tells us: Whoever makes a practice of sinning is of the devil, for the devil has been sinning from the beginning. But tonight you will sin, tonight you will offer yourself to the devil, even though he will never have you. He fears me, and he will fear my precious toy once I’m done with you.”

“In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” He was standing behind the altar, with his ringed fingers holding onto the burned candle. (Y/n) was forced to watch him tilt the candle, letting the wax drip down onto the valley between her naked breasts. She hissed at the sensation, torn between excitement and fear, and yet she craved more.

“Princeps gloriosissime caelestis militiae, sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio adversus principes et potestates, adversus mundi rectores tenebrarum harum, contra spiritalia nequitiae, in caelestibus.” Priest Riddle’s voice didn’t carry any emotion as he spoke the lines of the prayer to Saint Michael, a prayer used in exorcisms, a prayer he used to mock her now. The candle kept dripping, one by one the drops of wax marked her body, leaving (y/n) moaning as his cold hand joined the wax, touching her hardening nipples with a smirk growing on his lips.

“Veni in auxilium hominum, quos Deus ad imaginem similitudinis suae fecit, et a tyrannide diaboli emit pretio magno. Te custodem et patronum sancta veneratur Ecclesia; tibi tradidit Dominus animas redemptorum in superna felicitate locandas.” No longer did (y/n) try to keep her moans bottled in, she arched her back off the altar as he added more strength to his touch, tweaking her nipples as the wax dripped onto her stomach. It felt as if he was making an offering, sacrificing (y/n) for the sins they had committed together, giving her up for his eternal salvation.

“Deprecare Deum pacis, ut conterat Satanam sub pedibus nostris, ne ultra valeat captivos tenere homines, et Ecclesiae nocere. Offer nostras preces in conspectu Altissimi, ut cito anticipent nos misericordiae Domini, et apprehendas draconem, serpentem antiquum, qui est diabolus et Satanas, et ligatum mittas in abyssum, ut non seducat amplius gentes. Amen.” The last drop of wax fell as Priest Riddle ended the prayer, tossing the blown-out candle aside to press his lips against (y/n)’s. Both moaned in unison as her fingers began to work on his belt, needing to free his cock with the silent hope that he’d fuck her on the altar spurring her on.

He twitched in her grasp, a sensation so familiar, she found herself relaxing, giving her mind a few seconds to relax. Seconds he used to study her with danger laced in his gaze, danger that deepened as her eyes were drawn to his throat, watching him rip his silvery necklace from his neck. The necklace twinkled in the dim light, momentarily entrancing (y/n) as if she was studying a rare gem, an offering only God would make.

“We have been bound together for months, you are my possession, and you will do as I say, you will let me lead you till I no longer think you’re worthy of my time.” He tightened his grasp on his necklace, and without another warning, he ran the sharp edge of the cross along his skin, instantly drawing blood. Blood so red, it looked like sacred wine, richer than Jesus’ blood, more powerful than any other offering.

He wiped his bleeding thumb along her lips, letting her taste the copper staining her skin like a tattoo made for eternity. They held eye contact as she parted her lips, letting her tongue lick his skin clean, unable to stop her moan from clawing out of her. She was nothing but a toy, someone he used to pass time with, someone to fuck whenever his body called for excitement – and she loved it, every fucked up second of their time together.

Priest Riddle let go of her to position himself between her thighs, his fingertips dug into her skin as he wrapped her legs around his waist. Soon he’d fuck her, soon he’d remind her that she was his – his only.

You're faithless, for you pitched me, against your holy father and it seems that I am winning

Without giving (y/n) any chance to prepare herself, he pushed into her, forcing his cock into her tightness. Her arousal allowed him to move without any struggles, moving as if their bodies had been made for one another. In some fucked up way she could have found something romantic in this, claimed in a church for all holy and unholy eyes to see, but the darkness he emanated was enough to keep her from thinking these thoughts.

Months ago when this had happened for the first time, (y/n) had been frightened, not knowing what the man would do to her. But after the first of many orgasms had wrecked through her, she had felt like Judas, the backstabber, the liar she had been turned into. No longer held back by the fear of sinning, rather giving in – all for the promise of being punished by Priest Riddle.

“Even the devil wouldn’t take you in, a soul filled with sins that even He would turn his back on. I’m your only rescue.” He panted his words as he buried himself deep inside of her, eyes staring down at her. Without stopping his movements, his hips from snapping against hers, he pushed the cross past her lips, forcing her to hold it between her teeth. (Y/n) could still taste his blood – heightening her senses as her walls fluttered around him.

She hated herself for enjoying this, for being at his mercy with her legs spread and her back arched. He only spoke the truth, he was her only chance of guidance, the only one to cling to as the others had left her behind, engulfed in darkness. Her saving grace, the poison she was addicted to, the bruising grasp she couldn’t shake.

“Cum for me, show them that there is no chance of rescuing you from me.” With the cross held between her teeth, she moaned for him. (Y/n)’s orgasm wrecked through her, leaving her shaking and panting beneath him. But the priest kept moving, searching his own high with his fingertips digging into her skin.

A heavy moan rumbled through Priest Riddle as he came, imprinting himself on her walls without giving her a warning. Once again marked by the man who called her his own property, once again marked by the devil’s most brutal brother.

“I need you on your knees, it’s time to beg for His forgiveness, (y/n).”

……

Translation of the Latin prayer:

St. Michael the Archangel, illustrious leader of the heavenly army, defend us in the battle against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of darkness and the spirit of wickedness in high places.

Come to the rescue of mankind, whom God has made in His own image and likeness, and purchased from Satan's tyranny at so great a price.

Holy Church venerates you as her patron and guardian. The Lord has entrusted to you the task of leading the souls of the redeemed to heavenly blessedness.

Entreat the Lord of peace to cast Satan down under our feet, so as to keep him from further holding man captive and doing harm to the Church.

Carry our prayers up to God's throne, that the mercy of the Lord may quickly come and lay hold of the beast, the serpent of old, Satan and his demons, casting him in chains into the abyss, so that he can no longer seduce the nations. Amen.

#Tom Riddle smut #Tom Riddle x reader #Tom Riddle imagine #priest fic #Harry Potter smut

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sideblogofthcentury · 2 years

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Steve was flipping through a magazine on Eddie’s bed when the thought came to him.

He looked over at Eddie where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor playing around on his guitar. He’d been working out some part of a song while Steve half-listened. He said Steve “helped him think,” whatever that meant.

Steve had realized he didn’t know Eddie’s name. Or at least, what it was short for. He’d become quite close with the older boy since the spring, since he carried his lifeless body out of the upside down, since El closed the gate and burned Vecna and the entire second world to the ground.

Steve didn’t quite understand how he felt about Eddie yet. He knew he really liked him, felt drawn to him, enjoyed his presence, his personality, his appearance.

Okay so maybe Steve knew more than he was willing to admit to himself.

Eddie’s guitar made an unsatisfactory noise and Eddie shook his head, rubbed his forehead in frustration, and looked up at Steve. He smirked when he saw Steve already looking back, and raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

Steve rolled his eyes, letting the snark roll off his back. “Yeah, actually. I’ve been wondering something.”

Eddie raised both eyebrows this time. “Oh? I never pegged you as the curious type.”

“Alright, keep the sass to yourself, Munson.”

Eddie threw his head back and laughed, his curls falling behind his shoulders to expose his long neck.

Focus, Steve.

“What’s Eddie short for?”

Eddie’s light smile turned into a wolfish grin. “Trying to fill out the marriage license?”

Steve groaned and threw the magazine at Eddie, hitting him on the knee.

“Whoa whoa Steve, watch the baby.”

“See you’re clearly already married to that stupid guitar.”

Eddie gasped theatrically, folding himself around the guitar as if to protect it from harm. “He doesn’t mean that dear, you’re a very smart guitar.”

“Booooooo”

Eddie almost fell backwards with laughter. Steve couldn’t help but giggle a bit himself, charmed by Eddie being so proud of his own joke.

“Eddie.”

“Steve.”

“You avoided the question.”

Eddie chuckled, resting his forearms on the guitar. “Clever boy.”

Steve would be lying if he said his breath didn’t catch, if his heartbeat didn’t quicken, his entire body didn’t feel a bit warmer.

Yes, Steve would continue lying for today.

He shook his head. “Eddie. Just tell me. Is it embarrassing?”

Eddie smiled up at Steve, revealing nothing. “Absolutely not.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

“Now where is the mystery in that?”

Steve groaned again and fell back on the bed. “You’re so difficult. You know that?”

Eddie threw the magazine back at Steve. “I’ve been told a few times.”

—

Movie night at Steve’s, waiting for Robin to return with her popcorn:

“Edward?”

Eddie let out a sharp laugh. “No.”

—

Family Video, rewinding tapes while Eddie sewed a W.A.S.P. patch onto his new, non-blood-stained battle vest:

“Edison?”

Eddie recoiled. “What? Oh. No.”

—

Picking up the rugrats from Hellfire, leaning on Eddie’s van:

“Edmund?”

“Steve. Gross. No.”

—

Laying on the hood of Steve’s car at Lover’s Lake, stoned and looking up at the stars:

“Edwise?”

“What?”

“Edwise? Edwise Gamgee?”

Eddie cackled out into the night sky, echoes of his joy calling back at them from the trees. “Okay, who gave you access to Lord of the Rings?”

Steve shrugged. “I had to call in backup.”

Eddie rolled onto his side to face Steve, propping up his head on his hand. “You asked the kids what my name was?”

“Yeah.”

“And the best thing those little geniuses could come up with was goddamn Edwise Gamgee???”

Steve giggled. “They’re such nerds.”

“Absolute fucking losers, Harrington.”

They both laughed until they were out of breath, panting out steam in the fall Indiana night.

“No but seriously, Eddie? What is it?”

Eddie sighed, straining a smile as he stared up at the night sky. “It’s pretty fucking lame.”

“Lamer than Edwise Gamgee??”

That made Eddie giggle again. “No, I guess not.”

They sat in silence a moment, Steve patiently waiting, and Eddie gathering courage.

“It’s just Eddie.”

Steve turned to look at Eddie’s profile. He was beautiful in the cool near-darkness, the moon hitting his face at just the right angle to sharpen his features.

“Just Eddie?”

Eddie nodded. “Just Eddie. Nothing special or interesting or exciting. It’s just plain, boring old Eddie.”

Steve blinked.

Steve blinked again.

And before Steve knew it, he was taking Eddie’s hand in his own.

Eddie’s breath caught and he continued to look up at the sky, too afraid to meet Steve’s eyes.

“Eddie. I hate to break this to you, but I am pretty sure you are physically incapable of being boring.”

Eddie snickered and stopped himself.

“I mean it. You might be the craziest person I’ve ever met. You refuse to fit in to a box you’ve outgrown. You’re too goddamn stubborn to do what people expect of you. You stand up for yourself and people who need you. You’re kind and gentle with the people you love.”

Steve took Eddie’s cheek with the hand not holding his and turned Eddie to face him. “You are the most exciting, interesting, and special person I’ve ever met.”

And with that, Eddie had heard enough.

Eddie kissed Steve.

And Eddie did not stop kissing Steve until he was bent over him, knees straddling his waist and hands in his hair.

Steve gripped Eddie’s hips and pushed him back, pausing to catch his breath. Eddie panted above him and laughed down at him, his lips reddened and his eyes blown wide. He looked absolutely insane. Absolutely gorgeous.

“Hey Eds?”

“Yeah, Steve?”

“You never asked me what Steve was short for.”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “What is Steve short for?”

Steve panted a light laugh. “It’s just Steve.”

Eddie paused.

And Eddie laughed.

And Eddie couldn’t stop laughing for a very long time.

—

The next year, Eddie signed a Valentine card “To: Just Steve.” and “Love: Just Eddie.”

—

That winter, Steve arranged restaurant reservations under the name of “Just Eddie”

—

The following summer, Eddie got down on one knee and asked “Just Steve” to marry him, and when Steve asked “What about the law?” Eddie said “it’s Just the law.”

—

The spring after, Steve read his vows in front of his entire chosen family. His voice faltered as he said “You’re Just Eddie the way the sun is Just a star. The way the moon is Just a rock. The way the earth is Just a planet. You are my home. You are where I belong.”

Three years after Steve carried Eddie out of the Upside Down, Eddie carried Steve across the threshold of their tiny apartment in Indianapolis.

#and they were HAPPY GODDAMMIT #steddie #steddie fic #steddie fix it fic #steve harrington #steve x eddie #eddie munson #steve eddie #eddie x steve #stranger things

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kaiser1ns · 25 days

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#. YOU CAN CALL ME MONSTER

featuring 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗸𝗮 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

angst. takiishi chika was the one completely covered in flames and you are the one who will burn his world down.

recommended to listen to exo's "monster" because i worked with the lyrics and that song screams takiishi chika

Why is his heart racing? The way you look at him got him going crazy, you are truly beautiful, a goddess, a force powerful enough to destroy everything. From the feral Umemiya Hajime to the cruel Endo Yamato and the bloodthirsty Takiishi Chika — you remain the most terrifying. A sadistic, tyrannical woman who Takiishi let into his already dull world.

There’s curiosity in your eyes, you’ve already fallen for him but won’t let him in. He’ll knock one, two, and a thousand times, so will you answer him, will you let him into your heart? Don’t be afraid, they say love is the way, it keeps you on safe ground, a place where its roots start to sprout deep into the ground...but what if the soil doesn't allow it? The same ground is falling apart, covered in ashes, it’s unstable and destructive.

You can't help it, it's just a habit, you do this for fun. You are not afraid to cause a scene whenever you want, you do it all the time and this is how it's going to be. Takiishi stands before you, his eyes are wide and burning, and you know what he sees — a girl who is on the brink of madness. He can call you a monster if he wants, and he can kill you if he feels like it. You can feel the pain coursing through your body, but it only sharpens your focus: pain is your most trusted friend, not your enemy. Slipping under his guard, delivering a sharp elbow to his ribs, as his groans and whimpers are music to your ears.

You are dangerous, if anyone gets in your way you will never stop til you get everything you want. You are on the top now, higher than the king and queens, mightier than God himself, ruling the world made by chaos. You are just getting started, as you see fireworks in the sky and bodies on the ground. In your beautiful black dress you dance, the red pool and the colors dancing above. Where is everyone hiding? It's time to celebrate, it's a funeral to many, to your morals and values, they are probably long gone. So is your sanity, as you laugh and smile like a maniac. Destruction and chaos, no one can run from them, and nobody will survive when you are there causing them.

Lunging at him with a speed that belies your injuries, your movements are precise, your fists connect with his jaw followed up with a swift kick to his stomach. But he’s also not done yet. He swings, aiming for your head, but you duck, spinning behind him. Before he can react, your hands are on his face, cupping his cheeks so softly, your lovestruck eyes, betraying the violence as you stare at him. There’s something in his eyes—fear? Love? It’s hard to tell. But you don’t care. You slam his head against the wall with a sickening thud, the impact reverberating through your hands. He grunts but recovers quickly, you can tell he’s holding back, still underestimating you.

A fatal mistake.

You grab his collar and hurl him to the ground with a monstrous strength, your grip stronger than steel or any metal, you can't reshape or melt despite his hotness. His body hits the floor, and you waste no time driving your foot into his face. So beautiful, your one and only love.

But Takiishi catches your leg with his hand, yanking you off balance and sending you crashing down beside him. You hit the ground hard, but you’re already moving, twisting your body to get back on your feet. The dance between you continues, two burning flames consuming everything in their path, neither willing to fade out, it is not about who will die first, but who will dominate the other.

You are creeping into his heart, flipping over and breaking him down until you swallow him up. Even if you die, you will live forever because you got yourself engraved in his heart, body and soul—you messed him up and now you will pay and collect your debts. He doesn't recognise you or himself anymore. Out of your minds. To love is to be changed.

Don't let this blissful moment slip away, you are both going crazy, and this day will be remembered for eternity. There's so much to give you—he doesn't need no money, no material benefits—he only wants you. He wants you so bad.

You are a monster.

A bit impatient and not that gentle, a woman of many faces and masks. You thrive on conflict, creating it, nurturing it, watching as it grows and consumes everything in its path. It’s all a game to you, where you always win because you’ve written the rules. You are addicted to the thrill of it, the way it makes your heart race, the way it brings a sick smile to your lips when you make your love bleed.

But he wants you, that's right you are his type, his heart doesn't lie, not when it sends a dangerous signal and you know you make him feel a tremble, he is crazy for you, you know that, you always did. Everyone’s afraid of him, the so-called strongest but he is nothing but a boy with burning desires to have fun. In the end, you can’t reject him, hiding and stealing glances at him, then pretend to be surprised when he looks your way. He’s a part of your existence and you will make sure to destroy him by loving him.

To accept you for who you are, worry has no place here, not when you show such strong attraction to each other. Enjoy the agony that you’re able to endure, as he falls deeper inside in his own world, thinking that it's gonna be the same pattern, the same old way but then again it's your game, with your rules. Play with him however you want as you lash out with relentlessness force, each punch harder than the last, each punch showcasing your affection. He doesn’t fight back; he never does. Your strength surpasses his, and he knows it.

Bruises form under your knuckles, but he takes it all, absorbing the pain like a twisted confession of love. You’re a beast consumed by the madness inside you—stronger, more ferocious than anyone he's ever faced, yet he does nothing but take your blows. You're a monster, they say—insane to the core—but this insanity is yours to own, and for him to enjoy.

You are his monster, insane and fierce, burning his world to the ashen ground and building it again and again, until he finally gives up...until you finally let him in.

taglist :: @nyxypoo @meidiary @maruflix @heartkaji @stunie @slerixx @mydream-synopsis @kiurona

thank you mei, zevie and ke for doing a beta read, i love yall mwah🫶🏻

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hellishjoel · 3 months

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uneasy hearts weigh the most

7.3k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog

summary: Benny hosts the party of the year where broken pieces of Frankie's past are unearthed. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), smoking and drinking alcohol, reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.), house party, explicit smut, oral (f!receiving), swearing, pet names, allusions to bad parenting/parental abuse, vivid writing of a mental disorder [capgras syndrome] and an accompanied nightmare, descriptions of violence against a parental figure, descriptions of a parent abusing drugs and alcohol (please heed these warnings and do not read if you are concerned these may be triggers) A/N: I know this has been in the works for a while and I thank you for your patience! special shoutout to @thetriumphantpanda who beta'd this for me!! I owe her a 100 grand bar now! listen to the song uneasy hearts weigh the most and I'll kiss you on the forehead

Yeah baby, keep fuckin’ my fingers. “Do it again,” he mutters. You moan louder as you gyrate your hips once more against his fingers, grinding your core against his knuckles. “Fuck, baby,” he whispers with adoration.

The last time Francisco Morales saw his father was when he was punching his face in.

It was a blur.

Blood splattered across his face, neck, and shirt. His fist was crimson, his knuckles ached. But he couldn’t will himself to stop.

Frankie would draw his arm back, using as much force as his little twelve-year-old body could muster, and plunge his whole body forward as he landed another hit. He couldn’t stop himself from crying, even when he was at his angriest.

Why was he crying? Why couldn’t he stop crying?

Frankie’s dad wasn't exactly father-of-the-year material. More like a drill sergeant with a drinking problem. When things got tough, he’d ditch his family for drugs and booze and only ever circle back when money turned to dust.

His mom was falling apart before his eyes. His younger siblings were fearful because their mom, who was supposed to take care of them, couldn’t, and their father, who was supposed to love them, hurt them.

Frankie was the oldest; he felt an obligation to protect everyone. But what can you do when you’re not even five feet tall?

If his father hadn’t been so strung out that night, Frankie wouldn’t have been able to tackle him to the ground like he did. He wouldn’t have been able to pin him down by fisting his ratty t-shirt and hit him like he did. As hard as he did. As many times as he did.

Then, his father lay lifeless. Frankie blinked away his tears and let out a shaky sob. He got scared because he thought he had killed him. After all those puny hits, he laid limp. He wasn’t smart enough to know that he had just passed out from the drugs in his system.

Frankie was so torn because how can you hate someone you’re supposed to love? How could his father leave the family he was supposed to be the foundation of?

The Texas Department of Family and Protective Services intervened not long after. And he doesn’t like to think about it, any of it.

Not growing up, not his family, nothing.

But now he’s staring at a letter from his father. It’s his handwriting; the slant in the L’s, and the hook of his Y’s. Slightly smeary, written in pencil with eraser shavings damn near burned into the lined paper. He wrote this letter over and over again, trying to author the right words, to say the right things.

Frankie’s heart stops, and all the memories rush back in a flood. It hits him like a fucking hurricane.

Tommy’s Diner settles after its Friday night dinner rush. The hour before closing was always erratic, putting together to-go orders and ushering stacks of dirty plates from the tables to the back sink.

Your shoulder blades collide with the swing door connecting the kitchen to the rest of the diner, using the force of your body to swing it open as you balance the ceramic plates in your arms.

“Sorry, Lou. Just a few more.” You mutter tiredly as you set the stack beside the teenage dishwasher, hearing him sigh loudly before putting his earbuds back in place. He wasn’t one for many words. The most you knew about him was he listened to cringey, whiney rappers.

You close your eyes for just a moment and lean back into the counter, craning your back and feeling each vertebrae realigning with anguish. Tina called in sick and you offered to work a double to pick up some extra hours this week. Besides, on days you didn’t work with Frankie, you were more… productive.

The hum of customers gradually subsides, their chatter tapering off until the bell above the door chimes, signaling their exit. It’s nicer like this, when you don’t have to be the charming server who keeps up with all of their conversations from table to table. Especially after pulling a double, and your brain feels like it might melt.

The staff worked diligently throughout the rest of the night, tidying up the tables and floors, not letting up until the countertops gleamed, the coffee pots shined, and the strong smell of cleaning fumes mingled in the air.

You grow a fond smile thinking about spending the summer with Frankie. He adores being outside far more than you do. It’s impossible not to imagine how stupidly sexy he would look with his skin glowing a golden tan and a pair of sunglasses sitting lazily on the bridge of his aquiline nose. Loose, flowy shirt and a pair of shorts. Curls lost to the wind.

He talks about taking you on nature walks through his favorite trails and driving you further out of your nowhere town so you can stargaze at midnight. Or maybe you could hit the beach and spend your days under the sun drinking margaritas and Coronas.

Summer could change things for you.

Admittedly, you’ve been fantasizing—romanticizing. You think about him even when he’s not around. You miss the home you’ve made on the open side of his bed, where you’d curl around his orange tabby cat with his arms circled around your waist.

Worst of all were the nights you were back at your place, where there was no one around to cook you dinner or dish out goofy conversations. Having to snake touches over your own body, over the curve of your belly, and sinking your fingers past your panties where the only remnants of Frankie is you muttering his name at the peak of your orgasm, wishing it was him showering you with his affections rather than your fingers or toys.

God forbid you enjoy solo sessions anymore because Frankie has totally ruined that for you. It wasn’t as fun knowing you had a brown-eyed, curly-headed man across town who would beg on his knees given the chance.

Anyway. Enough of that.

You count the till’s cash, level out the profit, and put it all in a small bank bag before your manager, Carla, tucks it inside the safe. The metal keys on your carabiner clip jingle upon flipping the lock, the cool night air tickling your skin as late spring shows its face under the velvet night sky.

A truck rumbles up the drive, and you know the signature death rattle all too well.

“What are you doin’ here?” You lean against the driver's side of Frankie’s truck once he pulls up to you, your sneakers shifting gravel, his mouth tilted in a smirk. He leans past the truck’s frame and kisses you, cradling the back of your head to keep you against him.

“Mmm,” he hums against your mouth, tasting cherry chapstick as he glides his tongue across your lower lip. “Get in. Benny’s having a house party.”

Eyes narrowing, you run your thumb up his beard scruff and gently scrape your nails down the dark hair. “I need to go home to change. Plus, I need a shower. I smell like grease, and I have grime under my nails.”

“Fine, I’ll take you back to your place. I can wait.”

A breath stalls in your lungs, eyes unblinking as you stare at him for a moment.

Frankie has yet to visit your place — your dungeon, a basement-level one-bedroom apartment made up by a measly excuse of a kitchen and a tiny living space. You’re by no means embarrassed of its appearance. You’re rather clean, and you’ve made it as homely as you possibly can with bright-colored rugs and wall art. But it was sort of your final boundary. He was literally about to pass the threshold. Master the final boss.

He’s let you have your space and never pushed you. The least you could do was say,

“Okay.”

A contagious grin catches his lips, pulling you closer by the hand still cradling the back of your head, and he takes you in for a few more slow kisses.

A car’s honk and bright lights jolt your heart, and your eyes squint until the flashers go down on the car Frankie has parked in.

“Can you two lovebirds hurry it up?” your manager, Carla, yells from the driver's seat of her rust-red 2006 Honda Civic. “You’re blockin’ me in, Francisco.”

You purse your lips with embarrassment, heat flushing the back of your neck. Carla was going to find out one way or another that you two have been sneaking around. She knows everything about everyone.

“Hey, sorry, mama,” Frankie nods as she shakes her head slowly, mouth tainted with a smirk.

“I’ll follow you back to your place,” Frankie whispers and you nod shyly, wrapping around the front of his truck and letting him tail you home.

Frankie takes two steps at a time down to your basement-level apartment. His boots thump against the cold stone, and you push the front door open with the force of your shoulder.

His eyes drag along the different pieces of the apartment that make you, you. Soft blankets that drape along the back of a loveseat accompanied by little, fluffy pillows, different pairs of sneakers sit stacked beside the front door, and a small table for two holds random clutter in the criminally tiny dining room.

He follows your lead and kicks off his shoes, watching you unfold into your natural routine: you drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and your fingers are already tugging a black hair tie loose. He trails you down a narrow hallway, squinting as you turn on the harsh overhead lighting to the bathroom.

Out of your clothes without a second thought, Frankie can’t help but laugh at the way you fling your bra past his head, tunneling down the hallway and landing in what he presumes is your bedroom. The shower curtain is something abstract, most likely purchased from the Target down the road.

“I’ll be quick if you wanna wait outside,” you offer, body shielded by the curtain.

Frankie shrugs, eyes glancing to the toilet opposite the shower.

“I don’t mind waitin’. Wanna tell me about your day?” Frankie asks, taking a seat on the closed toilet lid. He sees you fight away a timid smile and slink behind the shower curtain. The beads of water hit your body and change the tune inside the bathroom. He can tell each time you shift and twirl. It takes you a moment to become acquainted, but you retell the details of your day in a sweet lull.

“I, uh, I usually listen to music when I shower,” you admit between the spray.

“Oh, so you want me to start singin’?” Frankie asks with a smirk, to which you quickly shout no!

It doesn’t stop him from breaking into a pitchy rendition of a song by the Bee Gees.

After a fit of laughter, you both settle down, and Frankie is back to smiling at the sheer, cheaply-made shower curtain. He can see your silhouette dance under the shower head, gathering your hair and rising out the suds, grabbing a loofa to scrub away the worst of the grime from Tommy’s Diner.

Holy shit, Frankie thinks, you smell like heaven. Oh my god, he likes you. It hits him like a bullet to the chest, the impact rippling through his veins and making his heart beat so loud that it rings in his ears. It’s a silent reminder that feeling things are beautiful when they are about you.

The bathroom grows steamy, fogging up the glass of your medicine cabinet mirror. His skin grows clammy and his knee starts to jump in anticipation.

“I’m almost done!” Your voice sing-songs as he slips off his jacket, his eyes still cast upon your body beyond the curtain. He’s in love with the way your body moves, fluidly and without intention. You’re just taking a shower and he thinks you’re beautiful.

Just as you’re about to flip the water off, the curtain rings screech to open.

“Frankie,” you breathe, eyes falling to his exposed tan skin. No other words come to mind other than another breath of his name.

His lips attach to your neck, slow but faltering. Like he’s searching for the one spot to push you over the edge and join him in oblivion.

The tension in the air rises as the water cascades down his back and soaks his dark curls. His frame, large and broad, protects yours as his arms circle your waist like wild vines.

Your eyes slowly fall closed, lips parted as your head eventually tilts back and rests against the shower wall. It exposes more area for Frankie to explore, his palms kneading at your lower back, arching your torso into his own.

His teeth skim along your skin, the steam already forcing your flesh to glow and rise under the growing pressure of his hunger for you.

He begins to navigate a new path, his lips finding purchase above your breastbone. Your fingers start at his biceps, feeling the strong muscles protruding underneath. He’s so unbearably handsome, and you can’t believe his body is fitting in the small shower stall with you.

Finally, a heavy breath slips, something that resembles a moan. After that, he’s starving for you.

The teeth that were once just grazing your skin, now nipping and sucking. His hands fall lower down the curve of your ass, squeezing and lifting as you gasp into his ear. You're dripping with arousal that sits achingly between your legs.

You place a slender hand over his more muscular one, guiding it between your legs and gently cupping your mound.

“Please,” you whisper, like the only thing Frankie needs to hear.

He paints your mouth in a wet kiss, drowning any better judgment that may have resided.

Intertwining your feelings together, the steam buckles heatedly in the small space.

His fingers curl in your hold, swiping between your folds and feeling you. There’s a whimper let out against his ear, nipping at his lower lip once his fingers push past your threshold.

And he groans.

You’re so fucking tight, so fucking perfect for him. His forehead lays against your temple, your nose brushing against the coarse hair of his beard. Frankie sinks his fingers into you, knuckle-deep, and leaves you squirming under his hold. His fingers are so thick, it’s a bittersweet symphony the way your moans mingle in the air.

He’s got you cornered in the shower, body pressed against the hot mold. Two fingers move fluidly inside, stretching your core and stoking the burning embers that rest low in your stomach.

“There,” you breathe, gasping as he adds more pressure to one spot that makes your legs nearly collapse out from under you. He still has you locked with an arm around your waist, holding what’s left of your presence.

He’s skilled, his thumb finding your clit, and you want to scream at the way his fingers are long enough to fuck into you and massage your aching pearl at the same time. He’s the only one who can make you unfold like this.

“Christ,” he mutters into your ear as he feels your walls desperately clench around him. “You can take another, can’t ya, baby?”

His brown eyes melt you, waiting for your confirmation. You sigh weakly but ultimately nod. It’s all you can think about.

He groans as he works a third into your entrance, and it burns, the way your pleasure mixes with the pain.

You wrap an arm weakly around the tops of his shoulders, nails etching into his skin in a last-ditch effort to keep yourself able in his arms.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you whine, long and bratty almost. You’re so close already, he knows just how to get you to the brink.

You tingle at his touch, your muscles going numb as he fucks his fingers at a now unrelenting pace within your tight core.

He works you to the edge, feeling the tick of the timebomb slowly begin to set off inside you.

With all the energy you have left, you swing your leg up and hitch it on his hip.

He looks bewildered for a moment, shocked eyes meeting your own as you rest your shoulder blades back against the shower wall with enough room to move your hips. You begin rolling your core down onto his fingers and he makes a noise resembling praise.

Yeah baby, keep fuckin’ my fingers.

“Do it again,” he mutters.

You moan louder as you gyrate your hips once more against his fingers, grinding your core against his knuckles.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers with adoration.

He watches your body with fascination, Frankie’s eyes obsessively taking in your movements. His lips are quick to bow down at your alter, lips latching onto your exposed nipples that perk up in his mouth with all the attention. It makes a tingle shoot down your spine, only making your hips move faster as you fuck yourself down onto his fingers.

Frankie kisses down your body until he’s sunk down onto his knees, damn near growling as your hips grind against his awaiting mouth. He latches his lips to your clit and harshly suckles, causing a high-pitched whimper to leave your mouth.

You’re so close and he knows it, he can feel your thighs trembling under the heat of his palms. It’s the only thing holding you up at this point. Weaving your fingers into his watered-down locks, you grip them tight and keep Frankie close.

He chuckles lowly, eyes flicking up to yours and seeing the desperate look cast over them.

“You wanna come?”

Like he even has to ask.

“Please,” you say, desperation leaking from your voice as you feverishly nod.

Frankie tsks playfully, humming lowly against your clit. “Love when you beg for it, sweetheart.”

Frankie circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, making out with your pussy and lapping away at your sweet juices. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, allowing his fingers to move with more precision.

You can feel your muscles contort as he starts to massage your spongy sweet spot. It’s enough to make your jaw drop and heat to spill down your spine. Your fingers clench his curls tighter between your fingers, holding him against you as your orgasm finally breaches.

The leg hooked onto his shoulder shakes with each uneasy wave of your orgasm. The shower’s heat leaves you breathless, crying out in pleasure as your body shudders.

Frankie smirks as he slowly loosens his fingers from your entrance, taking each finger into his mouth, one, two, three. His tongue swirls around each digit before he inches your leg back to down to the shower floor, planting your feet on solid ground before he stands and twists the shower’s handle.

It only takes a few seconds, but the high of your orgasm and the heat of the shower makes you lose your sense of self. Your legs tremble and your hands feverishly grip Frankie.

The ringing in your ears slowly fades away as he snaps the handle on the shower, letting the room calm into gentle silence.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers as he wraps you in his arms, feeling weightless as he talks you down. “Wow,” he breathes, “never had a woman faint from how good-”

“Stop,” you laugh breathlessly, peaking your eyes open, and seeing the glittering haze of the handsome man in front of you. Water droplets run down his face, cascading down his neck and gliding horizontally across his shoulders.

“I like hearing you talk about your day.”

Innocent eyes meet his own and you nod. “Okay.”

Frankie wasn’t joking when he said his friends threw a house party. They threw a goddamn party.

After winding down a long gravel road about thirty minutes out of town, you arrive at a two-story classic country home. It’s surrounded by acres and acres of green grass and tall trees in the distance. The most action this house has seen in years is most likely deer or coyotes.

And now it was seeing the house party of a lifetime.

“Frankie,” you breathe out in disbelief once he parks his truck in the grass and kills the engine. “Whose house is this?”

His mouth tilts in a smirk as he peers forward up at the house, not sure if he’s staring at the long string lights that reach from one side of the home to the other, or the drunkards climbing onto the roof.

“Will and Benny’s, after their grandfather passed away. Pretty sweet, huh?”

The crunch of a beer can under your shoe is the first thing you hear, other guests quick to park their vehicles and rush inside with cases of beer on their shoulders. The echoes of the partying inside could be heard from the dirt driveway, Frankie wrapping his arm around your shoulder as he escorts you in.

A chorus of people bump against your shoulder as they step outside, laughing hard and obviously tipsy.

“What is this place?” You mutter in slight amazement and curiosity.

“Come on, I’ll give you the tour,” Frankie whispers against your ear, making a tingle slip down your spine as you playfully nudge your elbow somewhere between his ribs.

He walks you through the living room, easily the most filled room in the house by the looks of it. All the furniture has been pushed aside and a band resides at the forefront of all the chaos. The lead singer and guitarists stand on the sitting area of the recessed mantle. The cheering rings in your ears and the bass thumps through the floorboards, electrifying everyone’s bodies to move and dance.

Off the dining room is the kitchen. You can’t really tell how modern or outdated it is due to the sea of people making drinks. Frankie reaches through the hoard and retrieves two beers, popping the top off yours and slipping the cold bottle into your hand.

“Thanks,” you mutter as you clink your bottle with his.

Aside from the noisiest parts of the house, there were chill places where people were talking and sharing ideas or the latest things that were happening in their lives. You try not to laugh as a woman swaying in a hammock accidentally falls out, landing with a thud. Thankfully, her friends in the bean bags below caught her with bellows of glee.

“Best part,” Frankie whispers to you as he opens the door to a nearly pitch-black room, only lit by two lanterns at the very front of the mostly wood study. People are sat on the floor, whispering and shushing each other as you and Frankie fill in quietly towards the back.

“And now, may I present to you, Santi, the Significant!”

Your eyebrows furrow as Santiago steps in front of a white flashlight’s spot, bowing ridiculously as everyone laughs.

“Santi the Significant?” You whisper as Frankie chuckles quietly and nuzzles his nose against your temple.

“He thought Magnificent wasn’t spectacular enough, or kitschy.”

“He performs real magic? Isn’t that kind of…” At the risk of offending one of his best friends, he fills in the blank for you.

“Nerdy?” Frankie snidely smirks and shakes his head. “Works better than you think. Watch.”

You're skeptical about the magic act, but you can't help but be impressed as the confident Santi pulls roses from his jacket sleeve and hands them to the most eligible ladies in the audience, eliciting gasps and enthusiastic applause.

“No way,” you shake your head as Santi continues a few close-up magic tricks, enough to keep his drunk audience convinced. After a few more card tricks and cheesy jokes, the crowd applauds and whistles.

“That’s all from me today, folks. If you want my number, please see me after the show.”

“Dear god,” you mutter, hiding your face in Frankie’s shoulder. “How is this working?” You ask as a group of young women circle Santi with praise and lusty eyes. “Should I go ask for his number? I was pretty wooed back there.”

Frankie tuts as he ushers you out of the study. “Absolutely not.”

The entire night thrives on high energy with a constant flow of surprises. The decor of pink plastic flamingos and a surprise disco ball is making this everyone’s night one to remember - as long as the guests don’t drink too much.

You’ve let Frankie go to mingle with his friends while you keep an intoxicated Benny at bay sitting at the top step of the staircase that looks over most of the party.

“Quite the bash, Benny.”

“Thank you, m’lady. You’re enjoying yourself?” He slurs and sways, even while sitting.

“I didn’t even know this many people our age live around here.” Your head rests against old yellow wallpaper, the design mostly faded and lightly curling at the floorboards. Your finger plays with the exposed edge, fighting the urge to tear it off or keep peeling it.

He hums and throws an empty beer bottle behind his shoulder, hearing it clatter against the wall. “The best distraction for someone like me is people. I like people. And everyone needs a good distraction.”

You narrow your eyes on Benny curiously, the disco ball flashing along the bedazzled beads hanging around his neck. “Distraction from what?”

Benny seems like a very happy person, but it’s moments like these that reveal one's vulnerability. He slowly shakes his head with a very telling smile, gently squeezing your shoulder as he sighs. “It’s okay,” he slurs, “it’s why our friend group gets along so well because we all need distractions.”

He speaks so knowingly, almost like a prophet speaking in riddles, so you decide to amuse him.

“Yeah? What about Frankie? He needs distractions too?”

Benny hums and points at Frankie down below. You peer through the wooden balusters, seeing Frankie mix and mingle with a drink in one hand and a lit joint in the other. He takes a hit and sputters up a cough as he laughs at what his group is saying, making you smile.

“Frankie… is a very special case. He’s uh,” Benny’s eyes droop, his head resting on your shoulder as he closes his eyes and relaxes with your presence.

“He’s what?” You whisper, reassuringly running a hand up and down his back.

Benny lets out another sigh, breath reeking of alcohol. “You’re a good distraction for him. ‘Nd I don’t mean a distraction like a bad thing. You’re… You’re very good for him. He’s had a hard life and y’know, I’m sure he’s told you. But now he’s happy again.”

Your heart hammers in your chest and you’re afraid Benny might be able to hear it. The large grandfather clock standing by the front door chimes, and you can’t read the time from this distance, but by the multiple rings, it must be midnight.

And before you can stop him from spilling, Benny shares maybe more than he should.

“Y’know with his dad. His whole family, really. His mom has capybara… no, not capybara syndrome.” Benny pauses to laugh before finishing.

“Capgras syndrome? She just wasn’t all there when he was growing up and she didn’t get the help she needed until later in… in life. Frankie was just a kid and all of his siblings were, y’know, younger than him. Plus his dad wasn’t around to help her, drunk asshole that he was probably wouldn’t have been much help anyway.”

You stare straight ahead, watching your happy goofball down below with a new view.

“So his mom was there but not really there. He hasn’t seen his dad in years, but now, he’s back around and sent Frankie a letter or some shit. I don’t know what about. But everything has just sort of sucked for him for a long time.” Benny scoffs and lays his forehead against your shoulder, muttering now. “Especially that damn letter. ‘Nd his damn dad. But you know about all of this already.”

No, you didn’t. You’re stunned into a soft silence, the hand on Benny’s back slowly falling.

“This party and you, good distractions. But Frankie told me he started having nightmares again.”

Suddenly very awake and alert, Benny sits up straight and looks you in your eyes. “Don’t let him drink too much tonight, okay? He’ll start spiraling if he thinks about this shit too much. Keep… keep being a good distraction.”

Benny pauses and clenches his stomach, his face turning a little pale. “Fuck,” He mutters as he quickly shifts onto his knees and crawls up the opposite side of the staircase, pushing himself to his feet and rushing towards the bathroom.

The buzz of the party slowly fades, like the sound of snow falling outside. It’s a silence that isn’t silence at all. Everything falls into slow motion, the confetti falling and the disco ball gleaming all halting mid-air.

You weren’t supposed to know this much, or Frankie would have told you if he wanted to. But now as you stare down the staircase to Frankie, seeing him throw his head back in laughter, it’s hard to imagine someone like him had a past like that.

Benny was drunk. Maybe he was mixing Frankie up with someone else? You didn’t know why, but instead of your usual instinct to flee, one of protection starts to come over you.

“Hey,” Frankie breathes out with a big smile, his eyes glazed over and a little red from smoking as he watches you step down the staircase.

“Hey,” you say with little to no masking of your emotions.

He tilts his head adorably and rests his hand on your hip, pulling you in closer to him. “You alright?”

After nodding quickly with wide eyes, you know it’s more important for Frankie to believe nothing is wrong.

“Yeah! Yeah, all good. Do you think we could head out soon? I’m getting pretty tired, worked a double and all.”

Frankie smiles and pulls his truck keys out of his dark blue jeans, doing the responsible thing and putting them into your very capable hands. “If you’re tired, I’m tired. Let’s go.”

He’s cross-faded for sure. At one point on the drive home, Frankie hung his head out of the passenger-side window and stared at the stars, giggling, as the wind whipped his face. But he never let go of your hand.

The exhaustion from the night seems to hit you both once you return to the comfort of his apartment, a small orange fluffball hopping off the couch to run his body against your lower calf.

“Hi, Leo,” Frankie whispers, squatting down to gently scratch the cat’s chubby cheeks.

After stripping your clothes and turning on his television in the bedroom, the lull of a sitcom settles him into slumber. You lay with Frankie in bed, his arms slung low around your waist and his head nuzzled into your chest. He snores quietly as Leo curls up between you two.

Sleep seems to escape you, because every time you close your eyes, you picture a young Frankie with a tortured past. A shit father, a not all there mother. How was he so seemingly pieced together as an adult?

With one hand gently stroking his hair and massaging his scalp, you use the other to search capgras syndrome on your phone.

The National Institutes of Health describes it as, the most prevalent delusional misidentification syndrome and is characterized as a delusion of doubles. Patients falsely believe that an identical person has replaced a person close to him or her… CS symptoms may result in intrapersonal and interpersonal conflicts, along with poor social relationships. An individual with this kind of disorder is prone to self-harm and violence. There are also implications for the patient's family, as the stress on the caregiver and stigma-related stressors could further compound the issue.

Clicking the lock on your phone as fast as you can, you shakily sigh and wrap your arms tighter around Frankie.

It’s like nothing you’ve ever heard of and Frankie was at the center of it all. It felt like your stomach bottomed out thinking of what he had seen.

Was his mother ever violent with him? Or to herself?

And this letter from his father that Benny mentioned, what did it say?

You manage to exhaust yourself to sleep, but it doesn’t last long.

Frankie sweats bullets, his body rustling against the bedsheets that now make him feel confined. His heart hammers against his chest and pounds in his ears.

These dreams would be just dreams if they were happy, but there’s nothing happy about what he sees.

On a stormy night, his mother cries. The sobs fill the house, his younger sister fears it’s a ghost by the shaky howling that sways down the hallways to their bedrooms.

“It’s okay,” his uncertain voice reverbs as he fluffs her light pink princess pillow and tucks a lilac quilt over her small body. He smiles convincingly and closes the doors to his closet.

He walks alone down the dark hallway, his eyes anxiously peering from left to right. He spies his father downstairs drinking alone at the dining room table. The glass bottle shimmers as lightning strikes outside.

Is he passed out or impossibly still?

His mother lets out another wail.

“Goddammit,” his father curses to himself, shaking his head and finding a coat from the closet before slipping outside and into the rain.

It’s okay, Frankie thinks, because it’s easier to take care of her when he’s not around to intervene.

With a breath of relief, little ten-year-old Frankie walks downstairs and gets a glass of water. He’s so scared, his hands won’t stop shaking. No matter how much he tries to fill his lungs with air, the shaking doesn’t stop. Dribbles of water slide down his hand and wrap around the outside of his tiny wrist.

He follows the cries with hesitant steps, lightly pushing open the door to his mother’s bedroom.

“Mom?” He asks into the dark, his voice soft and squeaky.

“No! No, get out!” Her cries have turned to yelling, scrabbling up to the top of the bed and flushing her back against the bed frame.

“It’s me, mom, Frankie,” he whispers, slowly walking forward with an arm extended with the water.

She lets out another wail and shakes her head, causing Frankie to lurch back. He thinks the lightning strikes and the thunder booming outside is scaring her, and all he wants to do is soothe her panic.

“D-do you want some water?” He asks as she sniffs, her wide and unblinking eyes enough to keep him awake at night.

In a wake of reality, she wipes her face and whimpers. “Is that really you, Francisco?”

His bottom lip trembles as he nods feverishly. “Yeah mommy, it’s me.” Can’t you see it’s me?

She slowly lowers the covers that she had previously clutched to her chest, nodding slowly. But then she freezes again, horrified, unconvinced.

“I-It’s not you.” She says with uncertainty, shuddering at another clap of thunder.

“Momma,” he whispers as he moves closer, reaching out and touching her arm as he stands at her bedside. “Drink some water, momma.”

He offers the glass, her eyes shifting from Frankie to the glass and back.

“No-no! Your smile is bigger! That’s not my Frankie, his smile is bigger! Stay away from me!” She yelps, harshly smacking the glass of water out of his hands. Frankie jumps but can’t pull away, the grip of her hand wrapping around his wrist burns.

“You need to stay away from me, you hear me? Stay away from my family!”

Frankie tries to pull away, his own tears sprinkling along his eyes as he yanks yanks yanks and finally he’s free, running out of her room as adrenaline pumps through his little body. He quickly closes her door on the way out, sobbing erratically as he runs to the safety of the staircase, black funneling around his imagery.

Frankie’s eyes pop open, feeling the tight hold of your arms like the one of his mother. He shoots up and pushes your arms off, seeing your sleepy eyes tiredly open.

“Frankie?” You whisper, soft eyes meeting his own.

Fear still possesses him, it was overwhelming like a heavy weight sitting on his chest. It was all-encompassing, his manifestations of terror and panic being linked to the feeling of being chased by something from his past.

“It’s me, it’s me!” He shouts, his throat feeling like something was clawing at it.

You nod your head and reach out for his arm to which he instinctively rips away from you.

“It’s me!” He shouts again, causing Leo to scurry off the bed. His stomach felt uneasy, dread pounding a dent into his head.

“I know it’s you, I know it’s you, Frankie,” you breathe out, pushing yourself up fully as you take his hand and reassuringly squeeze.

He swallows down an impossibly large lump in his throat, catching his breath seems impossible. He couldn’t escape it, overwhelming helplessness nesting itself deep inside. It’s always the same nightmare or similar variants from his childhood. He used to think that he had blocked them out, shoved them away to a teeny tiny part inside him, locked away inside a vault. But recently, they’ve been coming back in swarms.

The reality that his nightmare is over suddenly hits him and his back slumps weakly. Like a human no longer possessed, his physical existence slowly turning from mush back to something concrete. Suddenly, a sense of relief washes over him. It wasn’t real, he was safe, he was with you.

“Frankie, you’re crying,” you whisper, slowly moving your hand up to wipe away the streams on his cheeks.

Frankie’s shaky hand holds yours, tight, and brings it to his heart, letting you feel the impossibly strong beat.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, putting his head in his hands, “I’m sorry, I’m s-so sorry,” he quickly shakes his head, feeling his body subtly relax from the strong heat that was tingling from his head to his toes.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now, it was just a bad dream.”

He knows now and he nods, but he still feels lost between his past and his present.

He shouldn’t have drank as much as he did, and he certainly shouldn’t have smoked. He knows that now, but he was hoping it would help him sleep, keep him at bay until you were gone in the morning. But now you were here and he felt so exposed, his open wounds now out and in the open.

Please don’t run.

“I’m sorry,” he says on repeat as you slowly run a hand up and down his back, his body leaning into yours and nodding; he needed this, he needed you.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you whisper, “can I hold you?” You ask so sweetly, your voice dripping in kindness lined with concern.

He’s already nodding as you gently wrap your arms around his broad torso. He puts his arms over yours and sighs weakly, his fingers interlocking with yours.

Comforting energy exudes from you, the thing he desperately needs the most right now. Your soothing voice is nothing like his mother’s anguished cries, breaking him into reality with the honey drip of your sweet whispers.

“A nightmare?”

Frankie nods and closes his eyes, wiping the stray tears that still fall down his cheeks.

“I never wanted you to see me like this,” he tries to laugh, but it just comes out wrecked and thick from crying.

Why was he crying? Why couldn’t he stop crying?

Your chin rests on the dip of his shoulder and he can feel your slow breaths against his back. He aligns his wrecked breaths with your calm ones, your bodies slowly becoming in sync.

He’s so tired. He wants to close his eyes, but every time he does, he sees the flashes of lightning outside his mothers window and hears her untrusting words.

It’s not you!

You sit together like this for fifteen minutes and he’s becoming grounded again. He strokes the blankets and relaxes the clutching hold he has on your hand.

“I’m gonna get a cold washcloth, you’re burning up.” You whisper. He doesn’t want you to go, but he knows it will help - something his mother never understood. Help was good.

“Leo wants to sit with you,” you whisper as you round the bed, Leo already leaping up onto the bed and circling himself between Frankie’s parted legs.

“Sorry buddy,” he whispers, his voice raw and still shaky, but no longer feeling like he was choking on the air his body was desperately craving.

With hazy eyes, he watches your body move in his bathroom, the light making his eyes squint. Your soft legs tucked under his large t-shirt was a sight. He was definitely here again, in the present.

Benny had warned you, but nothing could have prepared you for that. But again, your usual feeling to run wasn’t here, because Frankie really fucking needed you right now. Your own concerns about this relationship were pushed aside. He needed comfort and reassurance, love where there wasn’t any before.

You soak a washcloth in cold water until your fingers turn numb under the streaming faucet. Squishing out the excess, you return to his bedside and gently dab at his neck. His honey-amber eyes have never looked so dark and lifeless.

He blinks slowly, he must be so tired. Frankie rests his hand on your upper thigh, fingers sinking into your plush flesh. He’s trying to ground himself, you think. A reminder that this was real.

“It must have been really scary,” you whisper as you bring the washcloth up to his rosy cheeks, then to his temple and across his forehead. “Does this feel good?”

He nods and squeezes your thigh reassuringly. “Really good.”

“Okay, baby.” You whisper, running the washcloth slowly down both of his arms. The cooling sensation should help him fully awaken. You rest the washcloth on the back of his neck and rest your hand on his now cool cheek.

His words ring through your ears, begging to be heard that he was real, that it was him. It was a dream about his mom, it had to be.

He lets out a breath of relief, smiling weakly. “You must think I’m insane.”

He grapples to find the right words, and you think it’s best to come clean.

“Benny told me,” you whisper, seeing his eyes harden at your truth. “About your mom, Frankie. Is that… is that what your dream was about?”

He sits impossibly still, but something in his gut must condemn him to tell you the truth. “Yeah, it was.”

You nod and run your fingers delicately across his cheek, giving him a reassuring smile. “You can tell me what you want when you’re ready. But it doesn’t scare me off, and I don’t think you’re insane.”

An exhausted breath of relief mingles between you both and he agrees. He’ll tell you when he’s ready.

“My dad, he sent me a letter and the nightmares started again,” Frankie whispers, brokenheartedness laced in his words.

You press a gentle kiss to his lips, one of understanding.

“I wanna read it to you in the morning.”

You give him a tight-lipped smile, nod, and kiss him again.

After making Frankie a sleepytime tea in his favorite mug, he settles back into bed. He was so vulnerable tonight when he really had no other choice. He falls asleep with his ear to your heart, and his arms wrapped loosely around your hips.

You stay awake and watch the television for as long as you can, hoping the comforting vibes of a sitcom will calm your racing heart. Gentle fingers draw shapes over Frankie’s back and you share a look with his cat. One that said you were both in this together. As the sun slowly slips across the horizon, your eyes finally close knowing this night of terrors is over.

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#frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x reader #fuck yeah frankie #francisco morales #catfish morales #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #francisco catfish morales #pedro pascal #frankie morales x f!reader #francisco morales smut

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laiiaaa · 1 year

Text

THE PART WHERE YOU KISS ME — JJ MAYBANK

summary: You're stuck with the job of getting a very drunk, very lovesick JJ into bed.

length: 2.4k

contains: tooth-rotting fluff, obsessed boyfriend JJ, soooo touchy he can't keep his hands off of you (can you tell my love language is physical touch lmfao???), mentions of heavy drinking of course, zero plot, he's a flirty little freak and i hate him

note: Not the happiest with this but I haven't posted in a week and I'm in the middle of writing three other pieces right now...so take this as an apology gift for not having the GFAW chapter out yet <3

Driving to the Chateau this late is never ideal, especially when you’re tired and ticked off from a busy shift. Your feet and back ache, your head could use a few Advil, and you would be perfectly happy to stay home and sleep for twelve hours.

But when Kie calls you, groaning and saying Your boyfriend is wasted and won’t shut up about you and you need to come pull him to bed, you go. It’s as simple as that, really. Partially because JJ is already painfully stubborn when sober and only gets worse as the night goes on (code for: he won’t listen to anyone but you), and partly because you get a sweet kick out of his clinginess and extra loving.

So when you finally pull up and hop out of your car, the sound of Pope sighing Finally doesn’t surprise nor offend you. Kie and Sarah scurry over, welcoming you with hugs and jokes about how sorry they are they had to call you while John B and Pope still tend to the drunken blonde.

“It’s alright,” you assure them, “I don’t mind.” And you really don’t, not at all, not when he acts all the more helplessly in love with you.

The bonfire still burns on, red-hot embers breaking off into the midnight sky. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon plays from a speaker nearby, and beer bottles litter the ground as you approach. The fire’s warmth wraps around you, a handle of Tito’s—only half full—entering your field of vision as you find JJ reclined back on the ground, an arm thrown over his eyes while his other hand taps along to the song. You crouch down next to him and hear him hum in tune.

John B stands behind you, feeling a little helpless. “He’s been talking about you nonstop since he got, like, three shots deep.”

“And as much as we love you guys together,” Sarah adds, leaning into the boy’s side, “He doesn’t listen very well once he gets started.”

You shoot them a smile over your shoulder. “It’s okay, I get it. You guys can head in if you want, this might take a while.” The two lovebirds wave you goodnight as they walk back inside with Kie and Pope, and you turn your attention back to your exceptionally troublesome boy. “JJ? Time to go to bed.”

He grumbles without moving an inch. “I told you to fuck off, Sarah, I just wanna see my girl.”

Your heart flutters at the name—his girl. You’ve never heard him call you that. Does he seriously think you’re Sarah? “Your girl?”

“Yeah, you know the gorgeous one?”

“Might ring a bell.”

“Yeah, well, she’s the most…the most beautiful person in the history of…of forever, and she’s mine, so get outta here n’…go flirt with John B or somethin’.” He lazily waves you off, mumbling something you don’t quite hear.

A smile fights its way to the surface, and you gently place your hand on the smooth plane of his shoulder. “Oh, but I wanted to flirt with you instead. How’s that sound, hm?”

He quickly pushes your touch away. “It sounds like my girl’s gonna kill you any second now, so watch it, Blondie.” He slurs his words as he speaks, pulling giggles from your lips. You gently take his wrist in your hand to remove his arm from his eyes and press a kiss where your fingertips touch him. His eyes stay closed, and he juts his chin in the opposite direction in protest.

“Jay, baby, I’m not killing anyone anytime soon,” you coo, leaning over his chest and face while running a hand through his hair.

He opens one eye, suspicious of your claims, but quickly realizes it’s you, and turns to look at you like he’ll never get the chance to do it again, his expression swallowed by a smile. “When did you get here, baby?”

“Oh, just now,” you answer, laughter lacing your words, “Kie called me over.” You press a kiss to his forehead before sitting back up, your hand quickly taken by his.

“You should’ve come sooner.” His other hand makes its way to your thigh, smoothing over your skin. “I was waiting for you, all by myself, and—” he abruptly sits up— “there’s something I have to tell you,” he whispers. He casts a glance to the Chateau. “It’s top secret.”

With him this close, you can smell the vodka on his breath. “Yeah? What is it?” You loop your arms around his neck and scratch at the nape of his neck, to which he instinctively responds by wrapping his arms around your waist and rubbing the palms of his hands along your back.

“This is top secret, classified information, princess, you can’t just get it for free. Everything comes with a price.” A sly little grin comes over him, tugging you a little closer.

Knowing JJ, you already know where this is headed. You decide to play along anyway: “Name it, then. I’m sure we can strike a deal somehow.”

He mulls over his words before saying, “Hear me out.”

“I’m listening.”

“You—” he points at your chest— “give me three—no, five kisses for the info up front.” When you raise your eyebrows in suspicion, he continues, “And every follow up question is worth another kiss.”

“This must be very important information.”

“Very.” His hands, still soaking in the feeling of you beneath them, start to play with the hem of your tank top, fingertips slipping beneath the fabric to feel skin. “Better pay up soon.”

You feign a look of shock and place a hand on his chest. “I didn’t even agree yet, don’t get too excited.”

He pouts with furrowed brows, convinced his offer would be impossible to resist. “Why? Baby, come on,” he urges, holding you tighter, “This is the part where you kiss me.” His eyelids droop with drunkenness and fatigue as he presses his lips to your neck, but you quickly take his jaw in your hand and pull him away.

“Ah ah ah,” you tease. “You come to bed first, then I’ll give you kisses for your secrets.”

“But I don’t wanna go to bed.” His hands work their way from your waist down to your hips again, soon grazing your thighs the way he knows erupts butterflies in your stomach. “I wanna stay here with you…have you boss me around. You’re very sexy when you do it.” He smirks while looking up at you, and you know for a fact he’s just trying to push your buttons.

You roll your eyes and push his face away as you start to stand up. “You’re a pain in the ass, I hope you know that.” As bitter as you try to sound, you’ll always have a soft spot for him the way he does for you, especially when your bitterness is met with that beautiful smile of his. You hold out both hands, towering over him and urging him to stand. “C’mon, Jay.”

He leans his weight onto his hands, stubborn as always. “Will you stay the night?”

“Not if you keep this up, I won’t.” You lend him a condescending smile.

“But Baby,” he groans, finally complying now that the stakes have been raised. “I haven’t seen you all day, and I miss you.” He starts to shuffle where he sits, taking hold of your hands as you pull him up, dizziness causing him to stumble into your arms. “Can’t a boy just get some love from his girl?”

There he goes again—his girl.

You loop his arm over your shoulder and wrap yours around his waist as you lead him into the Chateau, surrounded by his warmth and the smell that’s so distinctly him: a bit of beachiness, mandarin and musky from his body wash, a hint of marijuana.

“You’re very kind,” he rambles on, “for coming here so late. I missed you.”

“I know, baby. You told me.”

He makes his way up the steps with you, following as you open the door. “Well, I’m making sure you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, love.” You smile to yourself, a little caught off guard with how open he’s become.

“I still have to tell you that top secret information,” he whispers, leaning down to your ear-level. His body wraps around you as you stand in front of him to open the door to his bedroom, his arms start to wrap around your waist again. “And you still owe me kisses for it.”

You usher him into his room, shutting the door behind you. “C’mon, let’s get into bed. That was the rule.”

He does as you wish without complaint for once, though when he does sit at the edge of his bed, he also pulls you to stand in between his legs. “I’m in bed now.”

“I can see that,” you giggle, hands massaging his neck and shoulders.

“Does this mean you’ll give me a kiss now?”

“Not yet.” You tug at the fabric of his shirt. “Take this off, please?” You don’t think much when you say it, but once the words slip out and you see JJ’s brows raise as a cocky smirk crosses his face, you realize you need to cover your tracks.

He bites his tongue to oblige, nabbing the back of his tee before pulling it over his head. Revealed to you are his broad shoulders, his chest, those toned arms that are, admittedly, to die for, though you’d never tell him that directly.

“You’re trying to undress me, baby?” he asks, too quick for you to correct yourself. His hands take purchase of your hips before taking up your thighs, his hands molding to your curves and getting treacherously close to your inner thighs.

Your face goes hot—why is he so good at this?—but you keep a straight face and grab his face, one hand cupping his jaw while the other supports the back of his head. “Do you want your kiss or not?”

“Yes ma’am,” he responds, almost immediately. His eyes glaze over, entranced by everything you are. A drunk smile is sent your way, and he can’t really tell whether the tingling all over his body is just from the vodka, or if it’s your hands on his body, your snippy tone that he knows is full of love. He’s sure that no matter how flustered he can make you, it’ll never compare to how you make him feel with even the slightest of touches.

Your grip goes soft, and you rake your hand through his hair, his eyes falling shut and his head gone slack into your hands. “You’re beyond wasted, aren't you?”

He laughs heartily now, eyes still shut as he nods his head. “I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, princess.” Giggles line his words and his face scrunches in a smile, dimple on display.

“How much did you drink?”

“A few beers.”

“And?” You tug lightly on his hair.

“Mm, some vodka, maybe. A few shots.” His hands drag from the backs of your thighs, to your hips, to your waist.

“JJ.” You stare down at his clearly vodka-dazed face. “How many is a few?”

He hums to himself, as deep in thought one can be when wasted. “Maybe seven…or nine…don’t remember,” he mumbles.

You sigh to yourself, not surprised by his recklessness but still not all too happy with it.

But before you can formulate a single thought, a single articulated response, he starts to pout—eyes still closed of course, because your boy is nothing if not a truth-teller. “You sound mad.” Even when wasted he knows you so well.

“I’m not,” you fib a little, for his own sake. You kiss his forehead, then his cheek before letting go of him entirely to pull back the covers for him. “Come on, time to sleep, yeah?” You give a soft tug on his hand as his body goes pliant.

He slowly but surely crawls properly into bed, giving you a show of his back muscles flexing and relaxing before falling face-first into his pillow with a hmph. You lay down next to him as he lifts his arm with all his might, slowly turning onto his side to make space for you. Legs intertwine without words, the warmth of his body blankets your senses, his weight grounds you.

“You need to hurry, princess. I need to…need to give you the information.” The words are half-muffled by his pillow, and his eyes are still shut.

“Oh. We’re still doing that?” You’re surprised he even remembers the information at this point—whatever it might be.

He squeezes you tighter into his body, pulling a smile from you as he groans. “Yes, we’re still doing that…it’s important. You need three more…”

“Okay, okay,” you soothe, and you press a kiss to his shoulder. “Does that count?”

“Mhm, two more.” A stupid, drunk, terribly charming grin crosses his face, and it feels like you’re falling for him all over again, teetering at the edge of a cliff. His arm, still heavy on your waist, shifts a little, and his fingers dance along your back and light fires where they touch.

You curl your hand, gently, along the crook of his neck and kiss his jaw. “And that counts as well?”

With the way you’re whispering your words into his neck, JJ swears he could die happily. “Mm, sure does.”

For the fifth and final kiss, the corner of his mouth. It curls into your kiss like he knew it was coming, and you give him one more just for good measure—and, maybe, because seeing him smile is worth his weight in gold. You brush your hand through his hair before hugging him a little tighter towards your chest, all too aware now that you won’t be getting any information out of him the rest of the night. This minor inconvenience, however, doesn’t seem to compare to having him in your arms, his breath against your neck, his arm wrapped around you to tell you he’s there, and he’s there to stay, and he wants to be there more than anywhere else.

You think that you could play this game a million times over. The part where you kiss him—that is, when his lovely, sweet little smile peeks through that rough shell—will never get old enough to retire.

(But for tonight, you can live without more of his drunken teasing. Just for tonight.)

#jj maybank #jj outer banks #jj obx #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank fluff #jj obx fic #jj obx imagine #jj maybank x you #outer banks #obx #obx fic #obx imagine #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks imagine #jj maybank one shot #jj maybank outer banks #jj maybank fic

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dewdropdinosaur · 7 months

Text

As the World Caves In

ALASTOR X READER Summary: Alastor has heard his fair share of voices in Hell, none quite like yours though. Warnings: NONE. Except a sassy narrator. Have a wonderful day lovelies! Requests are OPEN, so feel free to ask!

In the heart of Hell, where chaos reigned and sinners roamed, there existed a peculiar location known as the Hazbin Hotel. The sole purpose of such a place to redeem sinners like yourself dear reader, though let's not get too much into that. (We all know why are you on this website darling.) Among its more eccentric residents was Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon. He was a charismatic and enigmatic figure, whose mere mention sent shivers down the spines of even the toughest souls in Hell.

One day, as Alastor hummed and strolled through the halls of Hazbin Hotel, he heard a melodic voice echoing from a nearby room. Intrigued, he followed the sound and found Y/N, the cleaner Charlie had hired to aid Niffty in the small demon's never ending pursuit of a bug free haven. Gracefully going about their chores, Y/N sang with a voice that seemed to transcend Hell itself.

The song was unfamiliar to Alastor but nonetheless a haunting melody that told the tale of love amidst impending doom. Alastor, ever the connoisseur of entertainment, paused to listen. Must have been from a time later than him, shocking that a song from not the Roaring era peaked his interest. Though, the lyrics did resonate within him, in such a way that made his demonic heart stir with emotions he thought he'd long pushed down.

"My feet are aching, and your back is pretty tired. And we've drunk a couple bottles, babe. And set our grief aside. The papers say it's doomsday, the button has been pressed. We're gonna nuke each other up boys, 'til old Satan stands impressed."

Y/N, unaware of their creeping audience, continued to sing as they dusted and cleaned. A certain sadness filled their voice but the small smile that graced their face fueled the fires of the red demon's listening. The Radio Demon leaned against the doorway, his crimson eyes fixed on the cleaner. The dichotomy of the cleaner's sweet appearance and the dark setting of Hell created an atmosphere for such a song that was both beautiful and unsettling. The Radio Demon did love his ironies.

"And here it is, our final night alive. As the earth burns to the ground. Oh boy, it's you that I lie with, as the atom bomb locks in. Oh boy, it's you I watch TV with as the world.... as the world caves in."

The world caving in, a sentiment not unknown to Alastor though he might try to deny it. Few times had a performance stirred him to pensive thought, at least not a performance in his afterlife. As the final notes of the song hung in the air, Alastor applauded, his sharp teeth revealed in a sly grin. "My, my, my dear. That was quite the performance. I must say, you have a talent for making even the damned feel something."

Y/N jumped with a small yelp, startled by the sudden presence of the Radio Demon. They looked up at him with a mix of surprise and fear. "Alastor! I didn't realize you were there." Whipping around to face her demonic audience, Y/N felt an all too familiar pit of anxiety well up in her stomach at the sight of Alastor.

"No need to fret, my dear. I simply couldn't resist the allure of your singing," he replied, tipping his cane with a flourish. "I've heard many voices in Hell, but yours… it's truly captivating."

Y/N felt their cheeks flush with color, a compliment is a rarity in the underworld. Nonetheless one from the Radio Demon. "Thank you, Alastor. It's just a little something I do. Keeps spirits up, you know?" Rubbing the back of their neck with a sheepish grin, Y/N let out a small laugh. Almost as musical as their singing voice, Alastor noted that for later.

Alastor chuckled, his laughter statically filling the place. "Ah, the irony of keeping one's spirits up in Hell. Quite amusing, my dear. I do have a soft spot for a good performance. Now tell me, what is your preference for---"

As Y/N nodded along and answered his questions, a peculiar alliance formed between the Radio Demon and the sweet-voiced cleaner. Little did they know that their paths would cross again in this chaotic realm, where the unexpected was always just around the corner.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor #the radio demon #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #alastor imagine #romance #alastor the radio demon #vizziepop #radio killed the video star #as the world caves in #one shot #help me this fandom has a hold on my soul

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seeingivy · 1 year

Text

dress

satoru gojo x f!reader

in which you can’t stop thinking about satoru, after you share a drunk kiss at a party

author’s note: writing this to avoid being too sad and to avoid my post-eras tour depression

**part of my satoru as taylor swift songs series

You fumble the door closed, your hands aimlessly pushing the lock of the door closed as you face the mirror.

Fuck. Who the hell let you keep drinking?

Your hair is a tangled mess, your mascara clumped around your eyes. Your lips are tattooed pink from all the wine you had been drinking. Wait, where did your wine glass go?

You turn around to find the bottle not glass you had brought in with you, fully spilt over the bathtub. Great.

At that moment, the door opens and Satoru Gojo climbs into the bathroom, nearly knocking you over. You lean over, your head hanging over the sink. You’re going to wretch.

“Occupied, Gojo.” you groan.

He moves at the sight of you, plopping onto the floor, his head in between his knees. You’re glad you’re not the only one who had too much to drink.

“Stop calling me that L/N.” he slurs, basically slumping further on the floor.

You shake your head, confused by what the hell he was talking about. You just called him by his fucking name.

“No. That’s my last name.”

Fuck. Did you say that last part out loud?

You lift your head from the sink, moving to join him on the ground. The two of you sit back against the wall, cheeks pink and panting. You really did have too much to drink. That’s the last time you listen to Geto again.

“Call me by my first name.”

“I don’t even know you that well.”

You try to lean your head against his shoulder, but miss entirely and end up falling into his lap.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Got tired of holding my head up. And you don’t call me by my first name either.”

You readjust, your head in his lap, his hands in your hair. If you were sober, you would tense at the contact - never getting this close to anyone, let alone Satoru Gojo. But you weren’t sober. You leaned into the touch, staring up at his icy blue eyes. His cheeks are red, eyes dilated.

“You know me. First name.”

“No. What is your favorite book?

“Slaughterhouse Five.”

“Favorite Taylor Swift song?”

“Gorgeous.”

“You’re ran through. Why do you, a man, know that song?”

“Shut up.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Light blue.”

“That’s stupid. You’re just saying that because that’s the color of your eyes.”

“My eyes are not light blue.”

You sit up, adjusting yourself in his lap to look at his eyes. You place your hands on the sides of his cheeks, lifting his head to get a look at his eyes. He flutters his eyes open, staring into yours.

Since when was he so…pretty?

“Pretty? Not gorgeous?”

Shit. Why are you talking out loud? You wince, sticking your head into the crook of his neck out of embarrassment. He brings his arms around you, his hands slightly shaking against your back.

“I think you’re pretty too, Y/N.”

The air leaves the room. You freeze. Your hands are shaking, stuck around his neck. His hands were now firm, holding you steady in his lap. He looks into your eyes, his gaze suddenly piercing.

“Yes, Satoru. I think you’re pretty.” you whisper, your voice drying in your throat.

It’s his turn to freeze, the grip on your waist tightening even more. He shifts, his right hand moving to cradle the side of your face. He’s so close, you swear you can feel his breathing against your lips, the smell of wine still hanging from his lips. His lips.

Instinctively, your eyes darting down to them, his lips tinted a similar shade of pink to yours. He leans forward, his lips pressing to yours.

It feels like a shock, electric, burning. Satoru Gojo is kissing you. Satoru Gojo is fucking kissing you. Why haven’t you done this before? When can you do it again?

The door knocks, Shoko pounding against the door.

“Y/N! We’re fucking leaving, get out.”

You and Satoru pull apart, still tangled in each other's arms. You meet his gaze, his face radiating pure warmth. My god, was he was the sun?

Why the hell did he have to kiss you like that? He reaches up, his thumb running across the length of your lip, still swollen from the place he had just kissed you. He just kissed you. Satoru Gojo just kissed you.

“I’ll leave you here to rot. Get out!”

You speak up, realizing Shoko would break down the damn door if you didn’t come out soon.

“Satoru.”

At the sound of his name, he leans forward, his lips pressing against yours again. He nearly knocks you over, leaning over you on the bathroom floor. This time, the kiss is more desperate, hungry. Like he’s wants something from you. You break apart, attempting to speak, but he keeps pulling you close again, smashing your lips together again.

“She’s-

Kiss.

“Right outside.”

Kiss.

“I have to go.”

Kiss.

“Come on, I really have to go.”

He stops, his gaze peering into yours. He places two final kisses, one on the side of the neck and then the tip of your nose, before letting you go. The two of you stand up, wobbling from the alcohol still in your system. You balance each other, hands clasped together before you regain your balance.

You look up one last time, your hands resting against his biceps. He’s still drunk, his head lazily leaning against yours. His blue eyes stare down at you, the makings of a smile on his face. You stand on the tips of your toes, your turn to press a kiss to his lips. He leans in, the kiss soft. He breaks, giving you the biggest smile you had seen on his face yet. You plant another one at the side of his cheek before leaving.

“Bye Satoru.”

You can’t look at Satoru anymore. Not Satoru, Gojo. You can’t look at Gojo anymore.

The following morning, you woke up in Shoko’s bed, who had informed you Suguru had made brunch plans since everyone ‘owed’ him for trashing his room. She had already told you she had no intention of paying for any part of that breakfast, but instead was going to get free food. You didn’t think Satoru, no Gojo, would show up so you accompanied her.

This is where you found yourself, unable to make eye contact with Gojo. One look at him and all you could think about was his lips on your neck, his fingers brushing across your lips, his hands in yours. Which was rather uncomfortable, because he was seated right across from you, knees knocking with yours right under the table.

Why the fuck did he have to be so god damn tall? You couldn’t even brush past his knee without feeling your heart pounding in your chest. He was electric, a fire, burning you every second he sat across from you.

You feel your hands shaking at your sides, fighting the urge to reach over and touch the side of his face. Press kisses into the side of his neck. Run your fingers over his lips.

Suguru shakes his hand in front of your face, catching your attention.

“Sorry, what?”

“My friend from the party last night! He was asking about you.”

“What friend?”

“The one you talked to. For like the first two hours.”

You pause, trying to wrack your memories of this guy. When did you talk to a guy? All you can remember is Satoru, his hands all over you, lips tangled with yours.

“Well, he wants to see you at the party next week. Asked for your number and everything.”

“Oh.”

Nanami leans over, joining the conversation.

“I took classes with him last semester. He’s a nice guy.”

“I’ve heard he’s good in bed.”

You turn your head, glaring at Shoko.

“Do you always have to be so vulgar?” you ask, pinching the bridge of your nose.

She narrows her eyes, a blank expression plastered on your face.

“It’s been a while for you. You should get some to release all that tension in your forehead. You look all hot and bothered.”

You glare at her before prodding your fingers into her forehead. Suguru laughs, pulling his arm around your shoulder.

“Want to drive him real crazy? So bad you’ll have to get some?”

“What? You’re worse than Shoko, Suguru.”

“Wear blue.”

You give him a confused look.

“It’s his favorite color. He won’t be able to resist.”

You sit back, crossing your arms to look at Satoru. He doesn’t say anything, only speaking up again when the topic changes to how much Suguru drank last night.

Who are you kidding? He was drunker than you. Maybe he doesn’t even remember.

Saturday rolls around and you’ve devised the perfect plan for the party. You’re going to wear blue. Light blue.

If Satoru remembers, if he really likes you, it’ll drive him crazy, per Suguru’s words. Granted, hinging an entire plan off of Suguru’s horny ramblings is a bit of a gamble, but you’re willing to roll the dice.

If he doesn't remember, you can flirt with the guy Suguru was mentioning, though you don’t know his name or what he looks like. You’ll make it a point to have Shoko point him out, but you’re hoping it doesn’t get that far in the first place. If things go your way, you’ll be tangled in Satoru’s arms in a few hours.

You show up to the party two hours late, fretting over how your hair and dress looked for too long. You never really got overly ready for these parties, but here you were, hoping to impress stupid Satoru Gojo.

You waltz into the kitchen, to find Shoko, Gojo, and Geto leaned over a chocolate cheesecake. You join them, Suguru grabbing your hand to spin you around as you stand next to him.

“Damn, Rookie! You clean up nice.”

You feel your cheeks warm at his words, pushing him off you. Shoko winks at you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You can smell the beer on her breath already, knowing it was her turn to be wasted this week.

“Did you wear a matching set?”

“Shoko. Shut up.”

“You can’t get some if your bra and panties don’t match.”

“Stop asking me questions about my bra and panties. Drag me to the bathroom yourself if you want me that bad.”

She sticks her tongue out at you, before turning to rummage through the kitchen with Geto. You and Satoru are left standing alone, their abandoned cheesecake next to you.

He’s staring you down, the same look in his eyes from the bathroom. You feel your heart pound at the closeness between you, his lips only a few feet away. Moment of truth.

At that moment, you feel an arm sling around your waist, spinning you into someone’s chest. You’re facing a guy with blonde hair and hazel eyes, his strong smell overwhelming you.

“Y/N! I’ve been waiting for you all night.”

“Um. Do I know you?”

“Haru. We talked at the party last week.”

You feel the embarrassment rush to your cheeks. This was the guy you talked to last week, the one they were mentioning.

“Right! Give me a second, I just have to go to the bathroom.”

Before he can respond, you scurry off to the bathroom, leaving Satoru and the guy standing there at the counter.

You close the door behind you, fumbling with the lock as you sit on the toilet seat. You’re in over your head. Gojo doesn’t even like you. He barely even gave you a second glance when you walked in.

You hear the door open, Gojo storming in. You stand up as he walks in, speechless at the sight of him. He’s staring you down, the anger rising to his cheeks. He puts his hands on your shoulders, your heart already thumping at him touching you.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what, Satoru?”

He laughs, pushing you against the wall and slotting his mouth against yours. You’re caught off guard, the kiss the same as the one before. Aggressive, desperate, needy. He pulls off of you, panting.

“Shut up. You know what you’re doing.”

He presses his lips against yours again, deepening the kiss from before. His hands find their way to your sides, his warm hands tangled in yours. You pull back, your heart about to burst in your chest. You can feel the blood rushing to your head, moving so fast you were seconds away from seeing stars.

“What are you talking about?”

“You kissed me like that in the bathroom last week. All soft and sweet, whispering ‘Bye Satoru’ in my ear. You see me the next day, barely even giving me a second glance, talking about getting some from another guy. And today, you show up in blue, but you’re here in the bathroom pressed up against me, whispering my name like you don’t know what it does to me.”

You freeze. Is this really happening? What does he mean?

“What does it do to you?” you whisper.

He lets you go, turning back to lean over the counter. He’s pissed. He’s actually pissed.

“You’re impossible. You say my name and everything just stops.”

You feel your cheeks warm at the confession, heart bursting with joy. You join him at the counter, pressing your pointer finger into the side of his arm to get his attention. He turns to look at you, towering over you.

“Satoru…”

“Don’t start, Y/N.”

“Let me finish.”

You reach forward, resting your hands against your biceps. You push into the side of his arms, grounding yourself in the moment. He’s really here. This is happening.

“You like blue too. I bought this dress so you could take it off,” you whisper, looking up at him.

You feel him freeze against you, his turn to be shocked by the confession. After a few seconds, he reaches forward, pushing your hair behind your ears. He reaches down, lifting you to sit on the counter.

The two of you are the same height now, your arms secured around his neck. He leans forward, standing in between your spread legs. You suddenly feel embarrassed, burying your face into the side of his neck again.

“Did you just make a Taylor Swift reference?”

You punch him in the stomach.

“You, Satoru Gojo, are ran through. Why do you even know that?”

“Because I was enchanted to meet you?”

You smack across the side of his face, glaring at him.

“Stop mocking me. You’re such a man whore.”

“No, really. I listened to her music after Saturday, because I know how much you love her.”

“Oh. I thought you just wanted to like…do what we did last week.”

He stops, pressing his forehead against yours.

“No, no. I want you to stay. I don’t want you like a best friend, I want the whole damn thing.”

You feel the smile spreading across your face, breaking apart to hold his face in your hands. He waits for a response, but you’re unsure what to say. How do you say the right thing?

“That’s also a Taylor Swift song. Stay stay stay.”

He smiles, cradling your face in his hands.

“You are impossible.”

He leans forward, pressing a warm kiss to your mouth. You can feel his heart thumping in his chest and you’re sure yours is beating at the same pace. He lets go, interlocking his fingers with yours before you join the party again.

“Who taught you how to kiss like that? You’re so ran through, Y/N.”

“You don’t want to know.”

You see him pouting at you as he exits the door, him slinging his arm around your waist as he whines into your hair.

the satoru as taylor swift songs series masterlist

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thebreakerofchains · 1 month

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Lights Down Low

A/N: So, I was listening to this song, and I was hit with the thought of Nesta and well...Less than decent thoughts. So, I mused to myself "why not?" and wrote this self indulgent one-shot. Keeping in mind that while I am a pro at reading smut, I am all but a novice writer of it, at best.

Nesta Archeron x Fem!IllyrianReader

Warnings: SPICY!! DNI if you are a minor.

Cassian had woken you up that morning frantically spewing about how he wouldn’t be able to go to training – you were barely awake let alone properly hearing what he threw at you full speed at those ungodly morning hours – all you got was that it had something to do with the Illyrian camp and Devlon and that he really would appreciate if you could cover for him seeing that leaving the females with Azriel being the only instructor was as dangerous as lighting a match near gasoline. And, if you knew something about Nesta, Gwyn and Emerie it’s that do they burn and blow easily.

So, you decided you were in a generous mood today while you dressed up in your fighting leathers and headed towards the training area at the House of Wind. He also owes you one, naturally, and you had almost the perfect idea as to what favor you’d call in for that, you think to yourself with a wicked grin.

“Good morning, ladies.” You say with a smile to your face at their already sweaty state, considering they have been here for forty minutes at most.

Azriel gives you a once over from where he is standing and an inquisitive look, “I didn’t know you were joining us today.”

“Nice to see you too, Az.” You feign an expression of hurt, “Glad to know you have missed me.” You had been on a diplomatic trip with Morrigan to Vallahan for a few weeks and had only recently got back as of two nights ago, and the only people you got the chance to see were Rhysand and Feyre for the report, and Cassian this morning as he groveled at the end of your bed for you to cover him for training.

“I am glad you two are having a great time chatting away, definitely don’t mind us.” Nesta said from where she stood in a stretching position that looked about as painful as it probably was. “Should I ask the House to bring you some biscuits and tea so you can get properly acquainted?”

You bite the insides of your cheeks in an attempt to control your grin from growing any wider. How you missed those snide comments. Not that Mor wasn’t stimulating company during that rather boring trip, but no one could entertain you so effortlessly like Nesta Archeron.

Rhysand says you are a different brand of masochist for enjoying the blue-gray-eyed woman as much as you do. Well, you and Cassian, who also never shied from a mostly healthy banter with her – without dramatic repercussions, at least.

“If you gave the same attention that you do us to your stretching you would see more effective results, Archeron.” I wink at her and she eyes me with a look I do not know how to describe other than ‘I will make you eat those words’; I shiver inwardly.

I am distracted, or rather saved, by Emerie to my side as she groans out, “This is insanity.” She moves out of position with a deep intake of breath, and I see my opening.

“Here, let me help.” I move to her sitting on the ground, silently asking for permission as I move my hands to her arms. She nods slowly in recognition and I start adjusting her sitting stance spreading her limbs wider apart and then holding her upper members up from behind her. My chest is pressed on her back, and I move my head to the side of her ear before asking, “How does it feel?”

“Fine.” She breathes out low and quick.

I hum, slightly puzzled with her reaction wondering if I am somehow making her uncomfortable. I look above her shoulder and see Gwyneth’s teal eyes gazing at us, cheeks red adorning a mischievous smirk. I clear my throat and get up from my position behind Emerie, “Now, you only have to keep it up exactly like that, and you will see that as nagging as it is, it won’t be quite an unbearable pain as before.”

I circle around the field correcting the priestesses here and there, mostly giving them verbal instructions on how to improve their stances and the whole time I could feel a much familiar fire burning on my back. I was being watched.

The training ended on a positive note, and much to Azriel’s dismay, the priestesses all left with a thankful and hopeful murmur that I should lead the sessions more often to which I just smile shyly at. As soon as they left, I start tiding up until I hear the swish of a small blade, looking back to see who my companion is, I meet the face of Nesta and her intense eyes as she plays with a dagger.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask, mentally cursing myself from being that affected at the sight of her in training leathers.

“So, this is how I find out you are back home?” She runs the blade on the wooden table where the other weapons laid, slowly approaching me, closing me in a lot like a predator hunting its prey.

“I didn’t-” I start and she pauses me raising the blade to my lips, the sharp end meeting my skin with a blazing cold touch much like Nesta’s own.

“I don’t care.” She eyes me in a silent dare to try and explain myself again.

I for one, get so completely lost in her eyes and the smell of her that all I do is take one of my hands up to her face where a strand of her golden-brown hair slipped from her updo and remove it from where it laid on her sweaty forehead. Nesta sharply intakes air and I lose mine altogether, as if she sucked in my very breath to her lungs, her full breasts touching my own, her nose brushing on mine.

“Did you miss me?” She husks.

I nod gradually.

“Hm.” She hums out, “Is that why you were feeling up Emerie at practice earlier?”

My eyes widen at the implication, “I would never!”

She merely grins wickedly to me, her leg moving between my own and I feel her leather covered core press down on my thigh. I let out a gasp, and she strokes my hair gently, “I wonder if you didn’t look for me because you were too busy with Morrigan. You did spend two full months with her at Vallahan – so eager to help, volunteering yourself like that – and we both know you don’t last long being on your own, don’t we, baby?”

She blows soft air to my face, as if it would help me cool down. “That is absurd, Nes. Morrigan doesn’t see me that way, or any other female, that we know of.” I muse out. “Well, maybe Emerie if we are being honest, but I know better than to raise the question to her.”

She presses herself further into me in a way I didn’t even know that was possible, I see stars and my hands find her hips in a possessive grip, “Nesta...” I mean to sound warning but it comes out a tad too desperate to be anything else other than pleading.

“Yes?” She drawls out sensually, hips moving away and right before I answer she pulls them back down deliciously deliberate and steady. A growl leaves my lips and I switch our positions, her back now touching the stone-cold rock walls. “I thought you could help me out with my stretching exercises, unless that special attention is reserved for Illyrian females only.” She draws out and I swear I hear a hint of jealousy to her tone.

“I can always make an exception for you.” I decide to tease her back, “If I am not too busy. You high fae do bend different.”

“Oh?” She lifts one of her perfect eyebrows at me. “Care to elaborate, professor?”

“For example, you are much more sensitive here,” I say as I slid a hand down her ass touching her inner thigh from the back, “than most Illyrian females I taught before.” I drag my hands upwards again, purposefully grabbing her ass and she lets out a small squeal. “Or maybe, that is just you.”

She moans out, “You are right, just me.” Enunciating the last two words roughly with intent as she pulls me for a mind-numbing kiss. My grip to her back tightens and my other hand finds its way to the mess of tangled hair that was once her braid, deepening the kiss, she gasps in surprise and I take my opportunity to slowly enter my tongue in her mouth giving her lower lip a teasing lick before sucking on her own. At this point, we are both frantically panting, all I can see, sense and smell is Nesta as her nails scratch my back until I can feel blood coming out. I draw back from the kiss and she glares at me in her dizzy state, I give her a mirthful look and she seems to understand exactly where my thoughts went to just as I rip her top apart and am met with her creamy perky breasts waiting to receive my undivided attention.

Wasting no time, I take my mouth to her left breast as my hand that was in her head seconds ago playfully twists and teases the other one, her hips still moving, relentlessly searching for any kind of relief and contact they can find.

“I reckon you missed me as well, Nes.” I breathe out between my ministrations as I move to the right side and suck hard on her hardened nipple. She moans out my name, “Ah, Y/N!”

“I want to hear you say it, Nes.”

She looks down to me, and it’s like something snaps between us. I have fucked Nesta thoroughly and often for a while now, in many occasions – and positions – but never have I felt such a feeling like the one engulfing me right now. It’s like the time we spent apart left the thing desperate, as desperate as I was when I thought of her, especially in the night when my hands drifted between my legs and I would come time and time again at the memory of her.

I move my head to her neck and with a bite I order, “Say. It!”

She screams in pleasure and I pull back to look at her dazed eyes while she says, “I missed you.”

I waste no time as I take her into my arms, and fly to my room, the House apparently ever attuned to Nesta had the whole ambient ready for us. From the corner of my eyes, I could see red candles were lit all over the place. The curtains were now closed and there was a dizzying smell, but that was no one else’s credit but Nesta’s as her deep arousal hit my nostrils.

Her hands that laid with a tight grip on my back move up to plant a feather-like touch to my wings and I shiver out a moan, “Illyrians and their wings.” She breathes out teasingly.

With a snarl I rip her leather pants off her finding her glistening exposed sex so fucking ready for me. I ghost touch it and she arches her back trying to draw my hand closer to her center, “How long do you plan on making me wait?” She lets out petulantly. “Weren’t two months of touching myself at the thought of you enough punishment?”

I raise my eyebrows at her, smiling wolfishly like a starved madwoman, which I am sure is the exact definition of what I am right now. I lower myself, kissing her inner thigh leisurely, and she grips my head her nails scratching on my scalp. “Y/N, please, I need you.”

“That was fast, maybe I should go away more often, it seems you finally gained some manners while I was gone.” I say before planting a teasing kiss to her clit.

“Baby!” She screams.

I decide to put both of us out of our misery and draw my tongue from bottom to top before closing in my mouth on the bundle of sensitive nerves, I hungrily move up and down, circling and sucking in different points and directions before moving one finger close to her entrance.

I look up to what is one of my favorite sights in the world, her golden-brown locks sprawled on my pillow, body glistening with sweat, her forehead creased in pleasure as she bites on her lower lip punishing the plump part before locking her gaze with mine and saying, “I need to feel you inside of me, love.”

I suck at her clit before speaking, “Only ever me?”

“Yes, yes, only ever you. I don’t want anybody else. Just you!”

I groan on her pussy, a low guttural sound that has never come out of me before as I insert one finger inside her soaking wet pussy. “You are mine, Nesta Archeron.”

“Yes, I am yours, all yours.”

I put another finger inside her, mouth working mercilessly on her sensitive bundles as she screams chants of pleasure, and I can feel she is getting close and I am not far myself, she takes one of her hands to my wings and strokes a particularly soft spot and I moan loudly on her pussy.

“Cum with me, baby.” She lets out breathy, mind close to succumbing. I move my fingers faster, harder and she continues stroking the spot on my wings, my climax borderline here until I feel the knot on my lower belly tighten impossibly and in a blinding flash of life I come just as her juices flow out of her and I divert my mouth lapping as much of it as I can. Licking her clean, fingers now moving slower and softer to help her ride out her high.

I let go of her, a string of saliva between me and her intimate area, she pushes my head upwards and I meet her with a searing kiss. Her legs engulf my torso pushing me closer before she bites down on my lips strong enough to draw blood, and as the metallic tinge of it fills my tastebuds Nesta says lowly:

“If you ever leave me for that long again, I will hunt you down, and I will kill you with my bare hands.” Her blue-gray eyes locked on mine, daring me to protest in any way.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I give her a slow kiss.

She gives me a smile that bore nothing good, and I knew I would be in for one long, long night.

#nesta archeron #nesta x reader #lesbian hours #wlw #acotar #emerie acosf #gwyneth berdara #azriel #fem reader #acotar smut #acosf

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sluttysnowangel666 · 2 months

Text

Chapters 7, 8, & 9 of The Song of Blackwoods & Brackens

This story is written BY ME and I do not consent or give permission to it being posted or translated anywhere else. thank you for supporting your writers <3

Chapter Master List

cw: fem kissing, mention of smut but none yet, cursing and violence

Chapter 7: The Wars to Come

𐂃 𐂃 𐂃 𐂃

I did not return to the court yard after Benjicot's words.

They had stricken me, hurt me. I was drawn to his presence, and yet he thought of me as a fool.

It had been 3 days since our fight, and approximately 4 days since my brother had left for King's Landing. He likely would have caught up with uncle by this point, but they would still have a ways to go. My uncle would be furious to know I was still here, but he could not refuse the words of the King, and he could not leave Stone Henge unattended. I was his only option.

As Benjicot Blackwood was also mine.

———

Ignoring Benjicot's advice, I returned to the court yard. My body had started to recover from the aches and pains, but my heart hadn't. It ached from his sharp words.

I should not have been getting upset by them. He wasn't truly talking to me. He was talking to Aeron. I tried to remember that.

I was shocked to arrive at the court yard and see him a few meters away, waiting at the boundary stones.

He notices me and arises, making his way over to me. "Lord Bracken."

"Why do you keep saying Lord like that? It feels insulting."

"Trust me that it is." He says, smirking. I sigh. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come back."

"Well... You told me not to."

"I did," He says, "And you didn't listen. You didn't take my advice. So, here we are. Ready to spar again."

"Spar? Is that what you call it?"

"You're right, I apologize. It was me besting you, and you running home with your little Bracken tail tucked between your legs." He laughs.

"You are a miserable man." I say.

"And you act like no man at all. Grow up, Bracken. Learn to stop bloody crying. Stand up after a fight. How can you possibly be the heir to Stone Henge?"

"I wonder that myself." I say, defeated for the final time. I turn and toss my sword on the ground.

"Stop." He says, and I do. "I'll help you, Bracken."

I turn to him, "What?"

His face holds an emotion that I can't interpret properly. It almost looks sympathetic, sorry even. "I will help train you. You'll need to learn to carry a sword if you are to defend your house in the wars to come."

"Do... Do you mean it, Lord Blackwood?"

He sighs, "Unfortunately, yes. I do."

I can't hide the small smile that appears across my face, whilst his stiffens as if it's taking all his strength not to smile back.

"Are you ready to begin, little Bracken?"

Gods, I wish I could hide the blush on my cheeks when he calls me that.

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 8: The Weirwood

A day later, 24 days before the Battle of the Burning Mill

𐂃 𐂃 𐂃 𐂃

"First of all, your bloody problem is your sword is 3 times your body weight." Benjicot says, taking it from me and tossing it aside. "I have something you can borrow until one of your blacksmiths can forge you something closer to your size."

I scoff, "As if they'd ever do that for me."

He's confused, "Well, why not? You're the heir. You need a sword to fight."

Bloody fool I am.

"Oh, I just meant... my uncle wants me to keep on using the one I have now."

"Alright, well just keep this one then and use it for practice."

"Wow, really? Are you sure?"

"Uh, yes? It's just a pretty standard steel sword. Not too hard to come by." He says, grabbing a satchel and his sword before trudging down the boundary stones.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"We're gonna get you some proper training where not everyone is gonna see you knocked on your ass. Not that I care, but if you plan to be the heir, you need to earn a good reputation."

"A good reputation? You mean like yours, Bloody Ben?" I say

He stops in his tracks, and I run directly into his back. "Exactly." He continues walking.

——

"This should suffice." Benjicot says, setting down his belongings.

"Well, I should bloody hope so! That was an hour's walk!" I say, resting my hands on my knees and panting.

"It was. You don't want us to get caught now, do you?"

"Caught? We're not doing anything wrong."

"Perhaps not, but we are doing something queer. You ever seen a Blackwood and a Bracken stand more than 5 feet apart without brawling?"

"I suppose not."

"Exactly. Now shut up and unsheathe your sword."

I do as he says, and our training begins.

It's hours and hours of grueling, painful training. By the time he's ready for us to break, I could no longer hardly breathe.

"Don't be so dramatic." He says, as I chug water from the river. I scoop it into my hands and let it run over my head and face. Benjicot's eyes linger on my wet tunic, specifically my chest.

"You want a bloody kiss do ya, Blackwood?"

"You're disgusting." He retorts.

He sits beside me at the river, mimicking what I did with the water. I let my eyes linger on him farther than I should.

"What, do you want a bloody kiss or something, Bracken? Quit staring at me."

"Sorry." I say, quickly, averting my gaze.

"Don't be so apologetic. Learn to be a brute back sometimes." He says and I nod.

We sit together, passing an apple back and forth while staring at the rotted weirwood tree.

"You know why it's rotted, right?" He asks me.

"I've heard the rumor." I say.

"It's not a rumor. You Brackens are insufferable. Can never just admit to your mistake. Maybe then our houses wouldn't be at war."

"Good Gods, can you shut up? You're boring me." I say. He snatches the apple from me and throws it in the river. "You are such a bloody cunt, Blackwood!"

"Well, you would know about bloody cunts, wouldn't you?!"

"What the hell are you implying, you fool?" I ask, trying to hide the tremble in my voice, worried he may be onto me.

He jabs his finger in my chest, "I'm implying that you, Aeron Bracken, are a pussy."

Although I am not Aeron Bracken, those words ignited a fire in me.

I spit in his face and he stills. He wipes the spit, yet he is eerily calm for a few moments.

He smiles, "I am going to kill you."

He lunges at me, wrapping his hands around my throat.

He straddles me, "I shouldn't have even helped you, you bastard Bracken." His fingers are tight around my throat, and I claw at his hands.

I wiggle my knee out, and jam it right into his crotch. He immediately groans and releases me, moving his hands to his crotch and falling on his knees, resting his forehead on the forest floor. For a moment, I think he's crying, but he's panting. Short and shallow breaths.

"How shameful. Your uncle raised you with no morals, bastard." He says, finally catching his breath.

"My uncle didn't raise me at all."

After regaining himself, Benjicot gathers his things in silence. The walk back is long and silent, and we arrive by nightfall.

"I apologize... for today's events, Lord Blackwood. Will I see you tomorrow, same place?" I ask, worried he will no longer train me after today's events.

"Who says the night is over?"

~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 9: The Brothel

𐂃 𐂃 𐂃 𐂃

"Lord Blackwood, I must admit I am slightly unsure of this."

"Have you truly never been to the brothel, Bracken? It's a rite of passage. Trust me, this will help you finally man the hell up. No great swordsman has never gotten died without getting his cock sucked by a pretty whore." Benjicot says, my face twitches at his words, offended at his crudeness... and upset at his honesty.

"You shouldn't speak of ladies like that." I say.

"They're not ladies, they're whores. Your sister is a lady. Learn the difference." My face twitches again, he's unbearably insufferable at times.

We arrival at the brothel, both of us wearing large dark cloaks. "I'll be right back, I'm going to grab us a flagon."

"No, please, Blackwood-" But my words are useless, and he's gone in the maze of people.

And I'm left alone. A lady, in a brothel, pretending to be her brother.

I find a dark booth in a corner and take my sitting. If I was fortunate, any of the women would avoid me and just think of me as another brothel creep. If I was more, Benjicot would find me too. If he didn't, I'd likely never move from this spot again out of fear of being caught.

Luck would fortunately be on my side today, as Benjicot found me only minutes later. "Gods, did you have to pick such a dank spot?"

I sigh, "Just give me the bloody.." I trail off, snatching the wine from his hands. I pour some into our glasses and set the flagon back down.

We sit in silence. I don't know what to say, and truthfully he seems unsure too. His face displays nervousness, as if he's regretting coming here.

A woman appears and breaks our awkward silence.

"You two..." A glance at me, "gentlemen seem rather lonely back here. May I join you?"

Before either of us can answer she slides her way into the booth. "What brings you boys here?" She asks, flashing a gleaming smile at me.

"Drinking." Benjicot answers, flatly.

"Is your friend always so reserved, milord?" She turns to me with that smile again.

"No, normally he never shuts up." I say, staring at Benjicot. The woman laughs, smacking my arm playfully, and I swear the corner of Benjicot's mouth turns up into a small smirk.

"What about you, milord? Are you a proper gentleman?" She asks, a curious smile on her lips. She twirls her fingers up my arm, then begins weaving them through my hair.

My cheeks flush, "Oh, I... I'm unsure... I.." I cast a look to Benjicot, silently pleading for help.

And boy, does he.

"This one's never been with a lady before." He says, a devious smile on his face. The woman gasps at his words.

"Well, that's no good is it?" She tosses her leg over my lap and straddles me, "Let me be your first."

"Oh, no, my lady, I-" She cuts me off, pressing her delicate lips to mine. I gasp into the kiss and a shiver runs down my spine. My heart feels as though it will beat out of my chest.

I glance at Benjicot, and his eyes are already on mine. His expression is curious, and shocked, his mouth slightly agape.

"My lady-" I try to speak, but she continues the kiss, pushing her tongue in my mouth and swirling it with mine. I close my eyes and allow her to kiss me.

Not that I don't particularly enjoy the feeling, but it is so foreign and new. Her mouth tastes of sweet wine, and I can smell her sweat and skin.

She grabs one of my hands and rests it upon her breast. I allow it to rest there, but I make no attempts to massage it.

This is where it all went awry.

Her hands slide up my tunic, rubbing her slender fingers along my stomach. She pushes further to my chest, and moves her hand slightly to the right onto my breast before immediately stopping.

"What the hell? Are you-" I shove her off me before she can continue her sentence.

She falls beside me onto the chair, shock and a hint of anger on her face, "I'm so sorry, my lady. You're lovely. I... I-I'm so sorry."

I don't even look to see Benjicot's reaction. Instead I throw up my hood, and I run all the way to Stone Henge without stopping once.

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