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pitlanepeach · 23 days ago

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Invisible String | Chapter One (1/5)

( MAX VERSTAPPEN x CELESTE S. PEREIRA )

SUMMARY — Born into a life of luxury, Celeste chose ambition over inheritance. Max buried his fame to have a chance at being known. Loving him might destroy them both.

WARNINGS — Sexually suggestive content. Chronic illness (Type 1 Diabetes). Lying and deception. Mentions of death of a parent. Emotional themes (grief, trust issues). Identity concealment. Angst + Fluff.

A new chapter will be posted every Monday.

A huge thank you to @emma-manuhpe for her assistance with this beast of a chapter!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

January 2021

Celeste was in a rush.

Lately, she was always in a rush.

No matter how fast she moved, it never seemed fast enough — and it was starting to piss her off.

She stood at the crosswalk, glaring at the slow, deliberate tick of the timed streetlight. Thirty seconds to stop traffic; she knew because she’d spent her whole life on these streets, one of the rare few actually born in Monaco. She could chart the whole of the Principality by heart, every shortcut, every back alley, and still, today, it felt like the whole place was against her.

This morning had been a disaster from the get-go.

Ripping out her old CGM sensor, fumbling to stick the new one into her arm with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking. Trying not to cry when it peeled off the first time because she'd rushed the adhesive. Re-sticking it with a backup patch, already late before she even left the house.

Then sprinting from one side of the city to the other for a client who thought the world revolved around him — and he was a Saudi oligarch, so it probably did.

Contracts to be signed, outstanding documents that still needed to be chased down, blood sugar levels already threatening a nosedive that she could sense at the edges of her vision.

And on top of it all, she was going to be late. Again.

Plus, she was stuck walking across the city because her car had died on her the week before, right in the middle of Avenue Princesse Grace, at the worst possible time, because of course it had. And the garage, run bya group of men who had spoken to her like she was eight years old rather than twenty-six, still hadn’t given her a straight answer about when it would be fixed.

(“Next week, maybe. Parts delay. You know how it is, mademoiselle.”)

She ground her teeth every time she thought about it. Yeah. She knew exactly how it was.

They’d seen the Birkin, the dress, the heels.

They’d seen money.

Maybe she had it. Maybe, just maybe, she had too much of it to be allowed to complain about anything. She had a closet full of handbags she barely used, a jewellery case she forgot about half the time, and a collection of dresses that cost more than most people’s yearly salaries. She had a degree from the best university in Europe. She had a career people would kill for.

She was lucky.

She knew she was lucky.

It didn’t stop the bitterness from curling up in her chest anyway, thick and sour and stupid. It didn’t stop the part of her brain that wanted to scream every time someone smiled too slowly at her, talked down to her, or dragged their feet because they assumed she could afford to wait.

And it definitely didn’t stop the part of her that kept whispering, quietly, cruelly, that it was all about to fall apart; that she was balancing her life on a thread, that any second now, she’d lose her grip.

She knew she was being dramatic.

“Doom-thinking,” her therapist had called it.

Her brain’s worst party trick.

It didn’t matter.

Today, it felt real.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

She shifted her weight, feeling the CGM itch under her sleeve, the patch tugging against her skin with every impatient move.

She clenched her jaw and stared hard at the crossing signal, willing it to turn before she did something reckless — like scream, or cry, or tear the damn pole out of the sidewalk and hurl it into the street.

It would pass.

It always did.

But right now, the world was too slow, and she was too fast, and it felt like the whole damn thing was pulling itself apart at the seams.

Then her phone rang, vibrating sharp and sudden in the pocket of her coat, and in the split second it took her to pull it out and glance at the caller ID, she stepped off the curb without looking.

A flash of silver.

Screeching tires.

A horn blasting so loud it rattled her teeth.

She jerked back instinctively as a low-slung car, some sleek, priceless thing, slammed to a halt inches from her knees. For a moment, everything froze. Her heart felt like it had been punched clean out of her chest.

The driver's side door flew open, and a guy stumbled out, one hand up, his face wide with horror.

"I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you okay?!" He rushed out, his words tumbling over each other, voice rough with panic and an accent she didn’t have time to place.

Celeste barely looked at him.

She waved him off with the sharp, impatient flick of someone hanging on by a thread.

"I’m fine," she snapped, already thumbing her phone open as she answered the call. "Hello? Yes, hi — I’m just five minutes away," she said breathlessly, forcing her voice into something bright and professional even as she side-eyed the car like it might still lurch forward and finish the job.

(Which was a lie, anyway. She was twenty minutes away, minimum.)

The client barked something about urgency. She rushed through polite apologies and promises that she was just around the corner and had everything in hand.

When she finally hung up, the world came rushing back in: the noise, the heat, the lingering adrenaline still making her hands shake.

Only then did she properly look at the guy who had almost killed her.

He was standing there awkwardly, one hand braced on the roof of the car. Brown hair, messy like he’d been running his hands through it. Strong jaw, dark jeans, and a leather jacket that looked very out of place in Monaco’s usual parade of suits and loafers.

Dammit.

He was cute.

An almost-murderer. But cute.

Celeste glared at him anyway, because her heart was still jackhammering against her ribs, and being almost flattened wasn’t something you just got over because the reckless driver was handsome.

She shoved her phone into her pocket and started to step around him.

"Hey— Hold on a minute. Wait," he called out, jogging a few steps after her. "At least let me give you a ride. You seem like you're in a hurry. And... seriously, I’m sorry. I really didn’t see you."

She stopped, turning just enough to pin him with a look. Everything in her screamed no. Stranger. Car. Disaster.

But she was going to be late.

And late meant dead when it came to this client.

Her eyes flicked to the front of the car, a beautiful silver-grey Aston Martin, of course, and caught the license plate: MV333.

She hesitated for one breath, two.

Then yanked her phone back out, snapped a photo of the plate, and tucked it away again like a weapon.

He watched her do it without flinching, just sort of half-smiling.

"If you kill me," she said flatly, "everyone will know."

“Of course,” he said, holding his hands up. “But I am very non-murderous. Promise."

She gave him one last hard look, then yanked open the passenger door and slid inside.

"Rue Princesse Caroline," she said crisply, already fastening her seatbelt. "Avoid Boulevard Albert if you can. Construction’s a nightmare."

There was a beat of silence, him blinking at her sudden efficiency, before he scrambled around the car and dropped back behind the wheel. “Right. Of course. Got it," he said, throwing the car into gear.

Celeste leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, heart still pounding. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.

—

What the hell am I doing? Celeste cursed in her head.

Getting into a car with a stranger was stupid. She was smarter than this.

Her mother would kill her if she found out. She’d say she was reckless, irresponsible—“just like your father.” Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, but she shoved it aside.

"You're late to something?" The stranger’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

"Client meeting," she muttered, not offering more. She wasn’t late yet—she had at least ten minutes before that became an issue. Her phone buzzed again. Ignoring it, she turned to glance at the stranger. "So, you’re new to Monaco? Visiting or...?" He glanced at her, clearly caught off guard. She couldn't resist teasing. "Well, you clearly don’t know the roads."

He winced. "Ah. Right. I’m... relatively new. Moved here a few months ago."

"Impressive." She sized him up. Nice jacket, expensive leather. The jeans were probably from Zara. But those shoes? Expensive. She raised an eyebrow. "You’re in business?"

Might as well distract myself before I spiral, she thought bitterly.

He seemed unsure how to answer.

She smirked. "Trust fund kid?" she asked, half-playful. "Don’t be ashamed of it. I am too, technically, but I get bored. That’s the only reason I went to university, and then I fell in love with property law.” She shrugged.

He glanced at her, squinted slightly, then exhaled, seeming to relax. "Right. Yeah. I guess." His response was vague.

Her phone buzzed again. She rolled her eyes.

Damn oligarchs and their huge egos.

"Uh. You’ve lived here for a while, then?” He asked, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the steering wheel.

She glanced at him, her patience thinning. Maybe it was just the exhaustion creeping in or the frustration from the morning’s chaos. Whatever it was, she was clearly irritable. She needed to check her sugars; the near-collision had probably caused a dip. "Forever. I was born here. My mom’s Brazilian; my dad died before I was born — but she moved here while she was pregnant with me. We lived in Saint-Tropez for a few years when I was a teenager, but Monaco has always been home." She glanced at the centre console. "Do you have any gum?"

He nodded, waving a hand toward the slim glove compartment. She reached for the latch and pulled it open, sighing in relief at the sight of gum with real sugar—thank God, not the sugar-free kind that would do her no good. She unwrapped a stick, popped it into her mouth, and looked at him, matter-of-fact. "I’m stealing the rest of these. Payment for almost killing me." Then she eyed him curiously. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” He said, then frowned at the road for a moment glancing at her. "Can you… I don’t know where I need to go from here. Give me directions?"

She blinked, but quickly gave him the rundown, pointing out the turns and landmarks as they navigated the winding streets. He took it all in with an efficient nod, his focus on the road sharp and steady.

In the meantime, she considered his answer. Twenty-three. Three years younger than her, then. Not a huge gap, but still… he looked older. She would’ve guessed twenty-five.

Adjusting her handbag on her lap, Celeste glanced around the interior of the car. She was looking for anything to distract her, and she found it.

She scoffed, lip curling in dissatisfaction. “You don’t have a girlfriend?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

His head snapped toward her, clearly thrown. "Uh— No. I don’t. Why?" He sounded a little defensive.

She sighed. “You don’t have a handbag hook. It’s annoying. I hate having it on my lap, but I’m not putting it in the footwell.” She made a face as she shifted the weight of her bag, trying to make it more comfortable.

He let out a huff of laughter. “You really leaned into the rich kid stereotype there.”

She shot him a quick, narrowed look. “Says you.” Hadn’t they established that they were both trust-fund kids? “You don’t have any female friends?” She asked, referring once again to the lack of a handbag hook.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t look at her this time. “None that would care about that.”

She glared at him. “I’m allowed to not want my bag digging into my stomach every time you turn.”

He glanced at her again, a grin tugging at his lips. “Alright. My apologies. Next time, I’ll have a hook there for you.”

Next time, huh? She almost laughed. She’d probably never see him again.

He pulled into a spot outside the office building and stopped.

Celeste brushed down her skirt, giving him a cursory glance. “I won’t say thank you for almost flattening me, but… I appreciate the ride. I hate being late.”

He nodded.

She thought about the car, his outfit, and the networking potential. She dug around in her bag and handed him a business card.

Celeste S Pereira

Property and Asset Management

Cavallier Legal Services LLC

Tel: +377 93 123 456

Email: [email protected]

He glanced at it, then back at her.

She flashed him a charming smile. “If you ever decide to buy property in Monaco— or your father. Mother. Wherever your riches come from,” she shrugged.

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes sparkling. “I’ll keep this safe. Good luck with your meeting.”

She climbed out of the car and, after a quick glance back at him, disappeared into the building.

—

Her Valentino heels clicked against the polished stone floor as Celeste moved past the receptionist, offering the woman a polite nod. The lobby was pristine, all chrome and glass, as if it had been frozen in time, a mirror of Monaco’s glossy exterior. Her heart rate ticked up just slightly, a small, familiar flutter of nerves. She wasn’t sure if it was from the anticipation of the meeting, or the gnawing feeling in her stomach that told her something was off. She checked her watch; plenty of time to spare.

The elevator pinged, and she stepped in, alone with her thoughts. As the doors closed, she allowed herself to relax for a moment, taking a deep, steadying breath.

When the elevator doors slid open, she straightened her posture instinctively. The meeting with Khitfa Salim was only one of many, but it felt significant, a chance to prove herself. He stood by the window, his back to her, gazing out over the glittering Mediterranean. The blue water stretched out below the building, a calm contrast to the storm she expected to weather inside.

She recognized him immediately. Khitfa Salim, Saudi oligarch, notorious for his large wealth and sharp temper. She’d heard the rumours. Seen his name on the list of 100 Wealthiest Men in 2020.

Celeste squared her shoulders and walked into the room, her heels clicking with purpose. "Mr. Salim,” she greeted him, her voice smooth, confident. She extended her hand, maintaining eye contact as she did.

He turned toward her, his sharp eyes immediately taking in her appearance—tailored dress, perfect makeup, the kind of polished professionalism that made her hard to forget. His gaze lingered just a moment too long on her chest before he reached out, taking her hand with a firm grip.

"Ms. Pereira," he replied, his voice thick with accent, deep and commanding. "I trust it wasn’t too difficult for you to meet me here?”

"Not at all," she replied easily, keeping her expression neutral, offering a practiced smile. "Shall we get started?"

Khitfa nodded, gesturing to the polished walnut table where a set of documents lay neatly arranged. She had sent over the initial service contract she’d drafted for him ahead of time; there was no need to go over that again.

He settled into a chair, folding his hands in front of him. “Now, Monaco is attractive for its tax benefits; we all understand this. But I want more than just a place to park money. I require a property that will appreciate in value over time. Something unique and beautiful. My wife likes pretty things." He said, his voice cool and calculated.

Celeste leaned forward slightly, flipping through the papers she’d brought along. "Understood," she said, her fingers touching the edge of the listings she had prepared. "There are several properties on the market that fit your criteria. I’ve already drafted some preliminary options for you. What’s your timeline?" she asked, pulling a particular listing from the bottom of her pile. She glanced up and met his gaze.

"I need something within the next few months," he replied, his eyes narrowing just slightly. "I have capital that cannot stay where it is being kept for much longer without suffering for it.”

"Of course," she said, pursing her lips as she tapped her pen thoughtfully on the paper. "We can streamline the process, make it as quick as possible. I can facilitate that for you."

His expression remained unchanged. "I trust you will, Ms. Pereira."

"Now, you’re aware that there are no property taxes in the province," she continued smoothly, sliding a few more documents his way, "but you’ll still owe approximately six percent in closing fees. Nothing you need to concern yourself with. I’ll ensure it’s all structured properly as soon as we settle on a property."

“This!” Khitfa said, his voice sharp as a knife, slicing through the air. He nodded in approval as he thumbed through the mini property portfolio she had put together for him. "This is why I hired you. I don’t want to waste time, and I don’t want surprises."

Celeste laid out the details of the properties she had in mind: prime real estate, luxury developments, and discrete locations perfectly suited for someone of Khitfa’s stature. She watched as his sharp eyes flicked over the listings, taking in each option.

"I am fond of this one," Khitfa said, jamming his finger onto one of the properties, his voice taking on a more satisfied edge.

Celeste peered at the listing he’d singled out, recognising it immediately. Ah, just as she’d thought, the castle. A sprawling estate on the outskirts of Monaco, with its breathtaking views of the sea and its historic architecture. It was the kind of property that would fit a man like Khitfa.

She gave him a polite smile. “Of course.”

He nodded, his expression hardening slightly. "Prepare the final documents. I’ll need them ready to sign as soon as I’ve seen the property in person."

She nodded, agreeing easily. "I’ll arrange the viewing as soon as possible."

The meeting came to an easy close. He shook her hand, and she tried to ignore the way his gaze lingered on her chest again.

Rich or poor, men were all the same.

—

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Celeste let out a quiet breath of relief. She moved away from the table, her posture stiff. Another deal was all but sealed, but her brain felt cloudy. The dizziness that she’d been ignoring was more pronounced now; almost like the room was tilting slightly. She rubbed her temples, hoping it would pass, but it didn’t.

Her stomach churned uncomfortably, a familiar feeling. She tried to ignore it, but the edge was there: the telltale signs of a blood sugar dip. She could feel the fog creeping into her mind, and she knew what it meant.

Dammit.

She quickly grabbed her phone, opened the app that synced with her CGM, and checked the numbers. Her heart sank. 3.1 mmol/L. She cursed under her breath. That was dangerously low.

“Shit.” She whispered, pulling at the hem of her dress as she turned toward the bathroom.

Her hands were starting to shake. She moved toward the bathroom, her steps quicker than usual. The stall clicked shut behind her, and she fumbled through her handbag to retrieve her glucose tabs. She was always prepared for this, of course, but she hated the vulnerability of it.

It was different at home. In her apartment. In her bathroom.

She didn’t need her insulin pen this time—this wasn’t about bringing her sugars down. This was survival mode. A glucose tab, fast-acting sugar, something—anything—to get her numbers back up.

She popped two tabs into her mouth, the chalky texture familiar and unpleasant. It didn’t matter. They worked fast, and that was what mattered.

Diabetes was equal-opportunity.

It didn’t care how much money you had, how prepared you thought you were, or how many backup plans you had in place.

The numbers on the CGM still flashed in her mind: 3.1 mmol/L. Below 3.3, and she could easily lose concentration—and if it dropped any further, she was running the risk of losing consciousness, too.

She cursed again and grabbed a juice box from the bottom of her bag, one of those emergency ones she’d stuffed in there months ago. Warm, slightly squished—but full of sugar. She took a few sips, forcing herself to breathe slowly between each one.

Her pulse was erratic, her vision still slightly off. But she’d done what she needed to. Now it was just the waiting.

She rested her back against the cool stall door. Her fingers still trembled slightly as she refreshed the CGM screen. 3.1. Still. But she knew how this worked. It was frustratingly slow, but the sugar would kick in soon.

Ten minutes. That’s what they always said—ten to fifteen to feel it.

Her last meal had been about three hours ago. A light salad with protein. Enough carbs to keep her stable, in theory. But stress had a way of messing with the numbers. The near miss on the street probably spiked her adrenaline—and now, here she was.

Minutes passed. She checked again. 4.5 mmol/L.

It was rising. Not perfect, not where she wanted—but better.

The fog started to lift, just slightly. The world around her shifted from a dull blur to something sharper, more navigable.

She gave herself a few more minutes to gather herself before standing up, adjusting her dress, and leaning over the sink to swipe a hand under her eye. She pulled her lipstick out of her handbag and reapplied the mauve pink, giving the mirror a performative pout that completely contrasted the way she was feeling.

Then she took one more steadying breath and squared her shoulders before she walked out, the faint taste of glucose on her tongue, and a hundred things to do before sunset.

—

Later that evening, Celeste stood at the large window of her mother’s sprawling villa, watching the golden hues of the setting sun dip beneath the horizon. The property was everything her mother adored: grand and opulent, yet still homely.

The marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers, and the long hallway opened up into rooms filled with priceless pieces of furniture: heirlooms, gifts from old friends, and treasures from their travels. Outside, the garden stretched across the estate, lush and green, offering undisturbed views of the sparkling Mediterranean.

"Filha, you’re finally here," her mother’s voice broke through her thoughts, warm and soft, with that familiar Brazilian lilt that never failed to soothe her. Celeste turned, her lips curling into a smile. Her mother stood next to the dining table, gesturing for her to join her.

She crossed the room, the click of her heels against the stone floors echoing in the otherwise quiet house. She kissed her mother on both cheeks, inhaling the comforting mix of jasmine and roses from her perfume, a scent she could never forget.

"Mother," Celeste greeted, using mãe—the affectionate term for mom in Portuguese—as she always did when speaking to her. It felt natural, intimate. It was what she’d heard her mother call her grandmother, after all.

Her mother smiled warmly, her tanned skin glowing under the soft light of the chandelier. "You’re looking a bit pale, minha filha. Are you eating enough? You’re so thin," she said, concern in her eyes as she eyed Celeste critically.

Celeste settled into the chair across from her, glancing at the spread laid out on the table. Grilled fish, fresh salad, feijoada simmering on the stove, and a basket of warm pão de queijo. Her mother was an amazing cook; in a different life, Celeste was certain she could’ve made a career out of it.

"I’m fine, mãe," Celeste reassured her, her voice carrying a hint of affectionate amusement at the way her mother fussed. "Just a busy day."

Her mother’s gaze lingered on her, clearly unconvinced, before she sighed and sat down. "You’re always working," she muttered, lifting a glass of wine to her lips. "You should slow down. You’re young, filha, enjoy life. Monaco is a beautiful place to live—why not embrace it?"

Celeste bit her lip, stifling the sharp retort bubbling up. Her mother was content to live her life without a care, focusing only on the next pilates class or social event. She would never judge her for it; life had been hard enough on her, but Celeste just needed more. She needed purpose. "I enjoy it, just in my own way," she said finally. "I like keeping busy."

Her mother raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eye. "Keeping busy is one way of saying you hide behind your work, yes?" She teased, her smile softening the words.

Celeste couldn’t help it. She laughed, the sound escaping before she could think. "Maybe. But it’s better than hiding behind something else, isn’t it?"

Her mother swirled her wine, taking a sip. “Yes. There are worse things to hide behind than work, I suppose." She gave a soft sigh, then pointed her fork at Celeste. "But take care of yourself, querida. Get more sunshine. And please, start looking for a husband. I do not want to be waiting forever for—"

"Mãe!" Celeste interrupted, laughing in disbelief at the familiar jab. "I’m only twenty-six. I’ve got plenty of time to meet the right man. Don’t worry."

Her mother sighed but nodded, her eyes soft with a mixture of concern and love. "I will stop asking, then."

Celeste gave her a fond smile. "Thank you. I love you. I promise I’ll give you grandchildren, just…" She held up a hand as though to make a point. "Not yet, okay?"

Her mother shook her head, the smile tugging at her lips. "You say that now, but mark my words, one day you’ll be wishing you listened to your mother."

"Maybe," Celeste replied with a smile, the warmth of the moment settling between them like a quiet understanding. "But not today."

—

The week passed in a blur of meetings, endless email threads, and, thankfully, much more stable blood sugars.

By Thursday, Celeste had completed the sale of the twenty-million-dollar castle to Khitfa Salim. The deal had gone smoothly, even though his indifference toward everything except the numbers made her stomach twist. It wasn’t the money, or the property, that left her unsettled; it was the hollow feeling that came with the constant transactional nature of her work.

The property was beautiful. Grand, historical, something that might’ve taken her breath away had she been someone else, but instead, she’d simply signed the paperwork, her pen gliding across the documents with practiced ease. Another day, another sale. Another step further away from the person she thought she might be, beneath the layers of personality she’d crafted.

She’d had no time to process it. Instead, the next day, she stood in front of the garage, staring at her car.

She’d been hoping they’d finally managed to fix the issue.

But when she asked, the older technician shook his head and kissed his teeth sympathetically. “Nothing we can do. It’s a total loss. We recommend scrapping it.”

Her chest tightened, but she forced herself to breathe slowly, swallowing back the frustration. The car had been her father’s, once upon a time. It was, therefore, older than she was, and it hadn’t been in the best of conditions then, let alone now. But it had been hers. It represented the life she’d built, the legacy she was trying to escape, and now it was just… gone.

She managed a stiff nod, turning on her heel to leave. The world outside was loud, the traffic almost deafening, but Celeste didn’t feel it. She felt a quiet anger simmering under her skin, a frustration with the entire week, with everything that had seemed to fall apart in small, painful ways.

By Friday night, she was drained. She could barely bring herself to check her messages, but she did anyway.

Come out with us tonight!!! We’re going to Jimmy’z. You need a break.

She read the message twice, her finger hovering over the screen as she debated. Part of her wanted to decline, remain in the quiet comfort of her apartment, and wallow in self-pity.

But that was a stupid idea, and it would only make her feel worse.

I’ll meet you there at eight.

A distraction was exactly what she needed.

Celeste moved quickly through her routine—her version of quick. Two hours between the shower and the final spritz of perfume before stepping out the door.

She had chosen a dress that fit her mood: a limited edition Saint Laurent, black and sleek, hugging her curves in all the right ways. She swiped on her favourite red lipstick, the colour bold enough to make a statement without saying a word. Her freshly manicured feet slipped into a pair of black stiletto heels; tall enough to give her an edge.

She studied herself in the mirror, the reflection that always felt like it was missing something. A subtle, quiet thought nudged at her; the small white device on her arm, the one that monitored her blood glucose. It was attached right above her elbow.

She stared at it for a moment. It was visible, just there—uncovered, unhidden. But it didn’t matter. She didn’t feel the need to hide it. Too much pride to feel shame, she reminded herself. No, it wasn’t something she was ashamed of. It was part of her.

She took a breath and smiled, just a little, before stepping away from the mirror, feeling the sting of her plumping lip gloss against her lips as the familiar rush of confidence settled in.

—

When Celeste arrived at Jimmy’z, the pulsating beats of music mixed with the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter enveloped her the moment she stepped through the door. The lights were low, flashing in sync with the rhythm of the DJ’s set.

Her friends greeted her immediately, a wave of affection and light-hearted teasing.

"Finally!" Maria exclaimed, a cocktail already in her hand. "We thought you were going to stand us up again."

Celeste laughed, leaning in to kiss both of her friends on the cheeks. "I almost did," she confessed, "But here I am."

“And you look amazing," Clara added, her eyes taking in Celeste’s outfit with approval. "That dress? Wow. You're stealing all of the attention." She pouted.

Celeste chuckled, sipping her drink. “I like the attention,” she said with a wink, feeling a small, mischievous spark ignite within her.

As they made their way to their table (VIP with bottle service, of course), she took in the surroundings, allowing herself to get lost in the thrum of the music.

Her friends weren’t concerned with business deals, tax breaks, or property markets. Instead, they pulled her into conversations about boys, gossip, and the latest celebrity drama. They made her laugh until her stomach ached, joked about her love life (or lack thereof), and passed around a cocktail list that made her forget that she'd been living on a constant diet of stress for the last seven days.

She excused herself from the table after a few hours with a playful smile to her friends and made her way to the restroom, hoping to clear her head for a moment.

The bathroom was cool, offering a welcome reprieve from the heat of the club. She touched up her lipstick, running her fingers through her hair to smooth it down, and gave herself a brief glance in the mirror, her eyes lingering on the faint line of tiredness that had started to settle into her face.

With a quick sigh, she pushed the thoughts of the week’s pressure out of her mind. Tonight wasn’t about that.

As she stepped back into the club, the hum of conversation and laughter greeted her like an old friend. She wove her way through the crowd with ease, her heels clicking against the polished floors. The bar was busy, but there was a spot open at the far end, near where the bottles of top-shelf liquor were displayed like trophies.

She walked over, ordering a glass of water, already feeling the slight buzz from her previous drinks start to settle. As she waited for the bartender, she glanced around, taking in the people around her; some lost in conversations, and others caught in their own world, dancing and laughing.

But just as the bartender handed her a chilled glass of water, her gaze landed on… him.

He was leaning casually against the bar, a glass in hand, visibly more relaxed than the last time she’d seen him. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just the fact that he hadn’t just almost murdered someone, but he seemed significantly more laid-back.

And he looked good.

Really, really good.

The way his white shirt fit across his broad shoulders made her stomach tighten in a way that was unexpected but not all that surprising. She liked arms, specifically men's arms, and she liked them even more when they were attached to broad shoulders and strong, muscular necks.

Check, check, and... check.

Their eyes locked across the bar. A flash of recognition passed on his face, followed by that lazy grin, full of something playful, something just a little daring.

Before she could look away, he was moving toward her, a slow, deliberate walk that didn't seem in a rush but still had purpose. His eyes never left hers, and as he stopped just a few feet away from her, his grin only deepened.

“So, let me guess,” he said, his voice low, but not too serious. “You’re stalking me now?”

Celeste raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes. She took a sip from her water, her lips curling into a smile before she answered. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, her tone teasing but with a touch of something sharper. “Do you really think I have time to stalk anybody?”

He chuckled. “I have no idea what you have time for.” He leaned a little closer, but not enough to invade her space. She narrowed her eyes at him. His presence was... oddly magnetic. A quiet tension simmered in the air between them, probably amplified by the fact that they were both very clearly more than three drinks deep.

“You’ve got a serious ego. Have you already forgotten that you almost killed me?” She asked, her eyebrows raised.

He laughed, the sound was rough, and she hated how much she liked it. “Guilty. But I did offer you a ride, didn’t I? And you stole my gum. I could’ve just left you on the sidewalk, but I didn’t.” His gaze flickered down to her lips, a brief glance before it shifted back to her eyes.

She caught the look, and her lower stomach clenched, a feeling she couldn’t quite ignore.

“You did,” she agreed, the playful edge in her voice matching his. “But I had to give you directions, and you didn’t have a hook for my handbag, so who really suffered, hm?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued. He wasn’t used to being challenged, and that only made her more amused. She wanted to smirk. “The handbag hook. I forgot about that,” he confessed, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

She tilted her head, her gaze steady on him, and hummed a little in mock disappointment. “You’ll need to fix that, of course, if you ever want me in your passenger seat again.”

He leaned in just a little closer, and for a moment, the air between them grew thick with something unspoken, something undeniably charged. His breath was warm against her ear, his voice lower now, smooth and slow. “And what else would I have to do to get you there? A little plaque with your name on it, declaring the seat as yours alone? Maybe I’ll get an upholsterer to stitch your name into the headrest, to make it clear exactly who belongs there.”

Her heart beat a little faster, the way his eyes held hers, the way his words hung in the air.

She couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, a slow, seductive smile spreading across her face. “You think a silly little stitch will be enough?” She asked, her voice low, teasing, but with an edge that told him she was far from the kind of woman who could be won over by something as simple as that. “No. I would want something more obvious. When something is mine, I like everyone to know it.”

He let out a soft laugh, his lips curling into a smirk. “So, no upholstering, then?”

“No.” She smiled at him, her eyes flickering with something dangerous, something playful, but also… daring. “Something much more.”

With that, she leaned in close enough to brush her lips against his jaw, just a fleeting, barely-there touch. The warmth of his skin lingered, and for a second, everything else faded. When she pulled away, she could feel the pulse in her neck, the rapid thumping in her chest.

“Have a good night, stranger,” she teased, her voice almost a whisper, before she turned on her heel, heading back toward her table. She could feel his eyes on her, heavy, persistent, the entire time.

—

She was in her home office when her work phone started ringing.

After nursing a two-day hangover into remission, and getting her blood sugars back on track with her usual diet and routine, Celeste was finally feeling like herself again.

She answered the call, an unknown number flashing on the screen. “This is Celeste Pereira, who am I speaking to?”

“Max.”

The gentle lilt of his accent was unmistakable.

She straightened in her chair, eyes narrowing at the abstract painting across from her desk. Splashes of blues and whites.

“This is my work number,” she said sharply.

“I’m aware.” He paused, and she could practically hear the grin in his voice. “I’m interested in buying some property in Monaco. I’d like to start an investment portfolio.”

“Conflict of interest,” she replied flatly.

There was a beat of silence on the other end. Good. He hadn’t expected that.

“I—”

“Do you want to ask me about properties, Max?” She teased, letting his name linger in her mouth. It suited him. “Or do you want to ask me on a date?”

He barked out a laugh. “Wow. I— yes. Yes, I want to ask you on a date.” He said.

Celeste smirked, pursing her lips. “Okay. Plan something. I’ll text you my address.”

“That’s it?” His surprise was evident. “I thought I’d have to beg.”

She hummed, amused. “No begging. But just so you know, I judge first dates pretty harshly. But… no pressure.”

He laughed. “Text me your address.”

Huh. He was good at taking charge, then. Didn’t mind the fact that she could be too sharp, too quick, too cold.

She liked that a lot.

“I will.” She told him. Then she ended the call and set the phone down, her gaze flicking back to the incomplete stack of paperwork on her desk. She had hours of redlining to do, but now, at least, she had something to occupy her mind while she did so.

—

Saturday, 7pm. Black tie. Bring a jacket.

His instructions had been precise and clear.

She’d ignored them completely.

Wearing a floor-length gown, Celeste supposed she’d ticked the ‘black tie’ box. But it was already seven, and she hadn’t even started on her hair yet.

So, when Max texted to let her know he was outside, she sent him the code to her apartment without a second thought, then went back to running the Dyson through her hair.

She barely noticed the door opening as he stepped inside, but when she heard the soft thud of his footsteps, she glanced up from her vanity. And there he was. Max. Looking impossibly good. Black suit, crisp white shirt, and a grey tie that only accentuated his broad shoulders. A wave of sudden impulse struck her, the urge to walk over and adjust his collar.

Without thinking, she set the hairdryer down, switched it off, and moved towards him. She let her fingers slide along his collar, straightening it with the gentleness of a gesture that felt oddly intimate.

“You look handsome,” she said, her voice light, as she pulled back slightly.

He glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “You look beautiful. And also like you’re not ready. It’s past seven.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not a hint of impatience in his voice.

Celeste gave a half-hearted shrug. “Sorry.” The word was polite, but her tone suggested she didn’t actually mean it.

Max just shrugged. “It’s fine. I can wait.” He walked to the other side of the room, settling into her chaise lounge with ease, crossing his ankle over his knee. The casualness of it, the way he made himself at home in her beauty room, was somehow disarming.

She couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips as she turned back to her vanity, picking up the Dyson again. Five more minutes. They’d be fashionably late, but that was exactly the point.

Celeste’s eyes flicked to him as she worked.

He had passed her test. With flying colours.

—

Celeste slid into the passenger seat of Max’s car, smoothing her dress over her thighs, her bag tucked carefully into her lap. She was reaching for the seatbelt when she noticed it. A small, silver hook installed neatly on the side of the centre console.

She froze, staring for a second.

Max shifted slightly behind the wheel, catching her look. “For your bag,” he said, a little awkward, a little smug. “You made it sound like a non-negotiable.”

For a beat, she could only blink at him, something warm and strange blooming low in her chest. She reached out and hooked the strap of her handbag over it with exaggerated care.

“My Birkin is very thankful," she said, voice tipping toward playfulness even as something deeper stirred inside her.

Max glanced over, and when he saw her smile, something in his face relaxed. He looked… pleased. Not smug anymore. More like he was genuinely happy that he’d managed to impress her.

He laughed under his breath, brushing a hand over his jaw. “Is that… an expensive bag?” He asked teasingly, but there was a boyish curiosity in it too, like he actually wanted to know.

Celeste tilted her head, feigning innocence. “No, not really.”

He gave her a look, skeptical, but amused.

She tightened her seatbelt, feeling a little reckless all of a sudden, her mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Why? Are you thinking about buying me one?”

Max glanced at her sideways, and the look he gave her made her skin prickle with awareness. It was steady, a little heated, a little dangerous in a way that made her stomach flip.

“Maybe,” he said, voice low and lazy. “If you’re good.”

Celeste laughed, her heart picking up speed. She tipped her head back against the seat, feeling the easy pull between them, like a live wire stretched too tight.

Tonight was going to be fun.

—

The restaurant he’d chosen was nothing short of breathtaking.

Located on the top floor of a glamorous Monaco skyscraper, it boasted panoramic views of the city and the Mediterranean, the lights below twinkling like stars. The interior was a symphony of elegance, gleaming floors, sleek black and gold accents, and soft, intimate lighting.

Every table was draped in crisp white linens, silverware gleaming, and the air was filled with a delicate blend of rich, expensive perfumes and the soft hum of violin symphonies.

She let Max lead her, her arm tucked lightly into his elbow, enjoying the way the soft fabric of her dress brushed against her legs with each step.

“Ms. Pereira,” the maître d’ greeted her with a familiar smile as soon as he saw her, his French accent thick with professional warmth. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Celeste returned his smile with practised politeness, but as she did, her attention shifted to Max. She watched the exact moment his posture stiffened, his eyes darting between her and the maître d’ in subtle confusion. It was a fleeting moment, but it was there.

She caught the subtle tightening of his jaw, the faint crease in his brow, and she couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. She had to admit, the moment was... entertaining.

Max cleared his throat, his voice tinged with a slight edge of discomfort. “You know him?” He asked, his tone more curious than accusatory.

Celeste offered him a reassuring squeeze on the arm before giving him a look. “Yes,” she said smoothly, making sure her voice was light and matter-of-fact. “I’ve been here before, a few times. It’s nice. You chose well.”

His gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer, and she could see the flicker of relief in his eyes.

—

They ordered far too much food. Max, apparently, had a big appetite.

He insisted on ordering three dishes; the exact ones Celeste had been torn between. When she raised an eyebrow, he gave her a sheepish grin. "Pure coincidence," he said with a shrug.

Then, in a move that would have been more fitting at a casual diner, he pushed all of the plates into the middle of the table. Celeste stared at him, her cheeks flushing ever so slightly. She should’ve been embarrassed by his lack of decorum, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Instead, she speared a piece of scampi with her fork, taking a bite. The taste was fantastic, and she couldn’t help the pleased hum that escaped her lips.

Max’s grin grew wider, his chest puffing out a little in self-satisfaction. It was a Neanderthal response to providing for her, but damn if it wasn’t cute.

The bill never came. He’d already paid before they even stepped foot in the restaurant. His card was on file. She’d assumed that he would pay, of course, and the lack of fumbling for a credit card at the end of the meal was a relief.

On the walk back to his car, Max reached for her hand. It was a step up from the elbow hold, and she couldn’t suppress the pleased hum that bubbled up. He glanced at her, grinning as if he’d just won something. And not for the first time that night, she thought to herself, God, I actually really like this guy.

The drive back was easy, quiet. He parked the car, turned it off, and then walked her all the way to her apartment. They stopped in front of her door, the air between them thick. Celeste looked at him for a beat before her hands found the collar of his shirt, tugging him down toward her. Their lips brushed together, just a feather-light touch, but it was enough.

She pulled away, a smile tugging at her lips as she saw the lipstick marks left on his mouth. She reached up, using her thumb to gently wipe them off.

"Do you like padel?" he asked, his voice low and warm.

"No," she said, honestly. "But I like golf."

—

Max was terrible at golf.

He had awful form. His swing was all wrong, and he had an unfortunate tendency to hold the club backwards. Celeste watched, barely suppressing a laugh, as he swung wildly at the ball, only for it to veer off in the completely wrong direction.

It was a disaster, but it was also the most fun she’d had in a long time.

They spent more time talking than actually hitting balls, but Celeste couldn’t bring herself to care. Max was fascinating, and his words flowed easily. There was never an awkward silence between them. He did all the talking, and she didn’t mind at all.

He told her about his family: his mom, his sisters, his nephews, and his dad. His stories were filled with warmth and laughter, and it was easy to picture the people he loved. Celeste shared stories about her own family, too. Her mother, grandmother, and the handful of aunts scattered around the world, each one adding a different layer to the patchwork of her childhood.

They didn’t talk about work. She’d concluded that he was just living off his trust fund, and honestly, who was she to judge? She had her own way of surviving. When he asked about her job once, the wince that followed her answer was enough to make him drop the subject entirely.

They fell into an easy rhythm, hit a ball, walked around the green, and laughed about something silly. It was simple and unhurried. The way it felt between them was… relaxed. Natural.

Then Max said, out of nowhere, “I have two cats. Jimmy and Sassy.”

Celeste froze, her lips trembling with something that felt a lot like amusement. "You named your cats after Monaco nightclubs?"

He looked entirely serious, nodding with complete sincerity.

She stared at him, not sure whether to laugh or be horrified. "I need to meet them."

Max’s grin widened. "You’d like them, I think. Jimmy’s a bit of a troublemaker, but Sassy… she's just the sweetest thing."

Celeste shook her head, a soft chuckle escaping her lips as she picked up her club again. “Take me to meet them after we eat dinner.” She tells him.

He smiles at her, and it’s something so soft and sweet that she feels it in her chest.

—

They were sitting on the low stone wall near the ninth hole, their golf clubs forgotten behind them, two half-finished bottles of water at their feet. The sun dipped lower, turning the world around them molten gold. For the first time all afternoon, the easy flow of conversation slowed.

Celeste pulled out her phone, flicking through her app without thinking. She felt his eyes on her. Steady, focused.

"Everything okay?" Max asked, his voice low and careful, like he was ready to act if it wasn’t.

She hesitated, then tilted the screen toward him briefly before letting it fall back into her lap. "It’s for my glucose monitor," she said. "I’m diabetic. This keeps track of my numbers."

Max didn’t flinch. No awkward glances, no false sympathy. Just a simple nod, like he was absorbing the information and tucking it somewhere important.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, after a beat. His tone was rougher, a little more serious than his baseline. "Snacks, juice, emergency stuff? I can keep whatever you need on me."

The way he said it, like it was already decided, like she wouldn’t ever need to ask; threw her off more than the question itself.

"I’m okay," she said, her voice softer now. "But if we keep seeing each other… maybe I could leave a travel kit in your car. Emergency insulin."

"Done," he said without hesitation.

His gaze on her was warm and steady, and there was something grounding about it. No pity. No big show. Just an easy protectiveness.

"You didn’t make it weird," she said, smiling at him, feeling something tug loose in her chest.

Max leaned back on his hands, a slow grin pulling at his mouth. "Good. Do people usually?"

"Yeah," she said, laughing lightly. "Either way too much sympathy or not enough. And the classic—'but you’re not fat'—as if that’s the only way you can be diabetic."

His jaw tightened, just slightly, like the thought alone pissed him off on her behalf. "Anyone who says shit like that around me, I’ll sort them out."

It was ridiculous, but it was sweet, and it made her feel something dangerous bloom in her chest.

She stared at him, her heart thudding a little harder. His hair was messy from the breeze, his shirt slightly wrinkled from sitting, and she had the sudden, absurd urge to lean over and kiss him right there.

Instead, she just smiled, slow and knowing, and bumped her shoulder lightly against his.

Maybe it was the sunset, or the soft murmur of music from the restaurant nearby. Maybe it was the way he looked at her like she wasn’t fragile at all—but still worth protecting.

Or maybe it was just him.

But Celeste couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so seen.

—

Celeste tugged her sweater tighter around herself as she followed Max down the quiet hallway.

He lived at the top of one of the newer buildings in Monte Carlo. Glass, steel, and sharp, deliberate lines.

She'd worked on a few contracts for these apartments before; she knew exactly what they sold for.

Even by her standards, it was an eye-watering number.

When he pushed open the door and let her step inside first, she stopped short, her mouth parting slightly.

“Oh,” she muttered under her breath.

The place was huge. Not just big, but huge. Wide open spaces, high ceilings, and entire walls of glass looking out over the glittering sea. The furniture was sleek but comfortable:, low couches and thick rugs. A little empty for her tastes, but it was… masculine, in a very deliberate, moneyed way.

Max chuckled behind her as he set his keys down. “You approve?”

She turned and gave him a look. “It’s very impressive.”

Before he could say anything else, a flash of grey and black came barreling toward her.

“Oh my God," Celeste gasped, laughing as a very fluffy cat wrapped around her ankles, purring loudly enough to fill the space. "Is this Jimmy or Sassy?"

"That’s Jimmy," Max said, smiling almost shyly as he crouched to scoop the cat into his arms. "Sassy’s probably plotting your murder from behind the couch."

Sure enough, a smaller, sleeker cat peered out suspiciously from under the coffee table, eyes narrowed into snake-like slits.

Celeste crouched down, holding out her hand, and after a few moments, Sassy slinked over and butted her head against Celeste’s fingers.

Betrayed by her own curiosity, Celeste thought, laughing softly.

“They’re perfect," she said, glancing up at Max, and her heart gave a weird little kick at the way he was looking at her:; soft, pleased, almost a little bashful.

As she straightened up, something else caught her eye across the room. A dark, tucked-away corner filled with sleek screens, a massive monitor, pedals on the floor, and — was that —?

“Is that a racing rig?” she asked, eyebrows furrowing as she wandered closer.

Max shoved a hand through his hair, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink.

"Uh, yeah. Sometimes. Just a hobby."

Celeste turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised, something complex flickering in her eyes. "A hobby?"

He gave her a crooked smile, leaning casually against the wall. "What? You think less of me now?"

She pursed her lips, picking up the steering wheel lightly and giving it a playful spin.

"No," she said. "It makes sense. You strike me as someone who needs hobbies." Her gaze swept the vast apartment. "You’ve got enough space for a golf simulator, you know."

She tossed him a teasing smile.

"If you ask nicely", Max said, his cheeks twitching, "I might just set one up."

She tossed him a look over her shoulder. "Is that your way of inviting me over again?"

"Maybe," Max said, voice low and casual. But there was that spark again — the same pull she felt every time he looked at her a little too long.

She dropped her bag onto his couch without a second thought and sank down onto the white fabric. Jimmy immediately jumped into her lap like he’d known her his whole life.

She scratched behind his ears and smiled up at Max. “Ah. I think your cats have already decided that for me."

—

They were curled up on Max’s couch, a half-empty tray of sushi between them, the low hum of a foreign film playing on the screen. Celeste popped a piece of salmon nigiri into her mouth and laughed as a Brazilian character butchered his Portuguese.

“God,” she said, grinning, “my grandmother would’ve thrown her slipper at the TV if she heard that accent.”

Max chuckled, stretching an arm lazily across the back of the couch behind her. “Did you live with her growing up? Your grandma?” He asked, his tone casual but curious.

Celeste nodded, picking at the rice with her chopsticks. “Yes. I was raised around lot of strong women. My mom raised me here in Monaco of course, my grandmother too, but I spent my summers in countries all over the world.” She smiled a little, thinking of sun-drenched afternoons and kitchen conversations that ran late into the night. “A lot of culture.”

He watched her with a soft sort of curiosity, like he was picturing it all. “Sounds nice.”

She tilted her head, looking at him. “What about you?” She asked. “Dutch upbringing?”

Max smiled a little, leaning back against the cushions. “Yes. Pretty normal. Bikes everywhere, strict schools, rainy afternoons. I travelled a lot, though. My mom’s Belgian, so I spent a lot of time between the Netherlands and Belgium.” His voice was easy, like he was glossing over something personal without really wanting to dive into it.

Celeste raised an eyebrow, sensing that Max had sidestepped the subject, but she wasn’t about to push. They were still figuring each other out, and she liked that he was reserved. He didn’t owe her every detail of his life, not yet.

“Ah, so lots of travel. That sounds… well, exhausting, really.”

Max nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah, well. It was never boring.” He nudged her lightly, a teasing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “But I think you’d like it. A lot of waffles in Belgium.”

“I do like waffles,” she said with a small laugh, then tilted her head, the glint in her eyes mischievous. “Bring me some next time?”

Max leaned a little closer, his lips just brushing against her ear as he murmured, “okay. Next time, I’ll bring you waffles.” His voice was warm, soft, and there was something in the way he looked at her now that made her pulse quicken.

She felt the heat of his proximity, the weight of his gaze as he watched her with an intensity that made the air around them feel charged. Her breath hitched slightly, but she smirked, trying to keep it light. “Expensive ones?” She teased, her lips curling into a playful smile.

Max laughed low, a sound that rumbled through his chest, and then his lips were on hers. The kiss was slow at first, gentle, like he was testing the waters, but Celeste didn’t hesitate. She leaned into him, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt, feeling the heat of his body through it. His hand moved to the back of her neck, drawing her closer, his thumb brushing against her skin in a way that made her breath catch.

Her lips parted slightly against his, and she felt the pull of something magnetic between them. He deepened the kiss just enough that the soft warmth of it turned into something more. Max’s hand moved from her neck to her side, his fingers skimming the curve of her waist in a touch that sent a shiver down her spine.

“You really want waffles now, don’t you?” He mumbled against her lips, his voice low, teasing, yet filled with an underlying desire.

Celeste smiled into the kiss, shaking her head slightly. “Not waffles,” she murmured, her hand slipping to his jaw, her thumb tracing the line of it. “Just you.”

Max pulled back just enough to look at her, his lips still ghosting over hers. “Yeah?” he whispered, his voice rough.

She nodded, her heart racing as she caught her breath. “Yeah. I’m done talking about waffles, Max.”

He chuckled softly, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes. Something that made her heart skip. Then, without warning, he kissed her again, deeper this time, his hand sliding to the back of her thigh, pulling her closer.

She slid her hands down to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palms. Her patience quickly wore thin. “Max,” she murmured against his lips, pulling back slightly, her voice breathless. “Take me to your bedroom.”

Max stilled for a moment, pulling away enough to look at her with that intense gaze of his. His chest rose and fell with each breath, his eyes searching hers for any hint of hesitation. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and thick with desire.

She met his gaze, syrupy and full of want, and she saw something deeper in them; something protective, instinctual. Her heart hammered in her chest, and without having to think about it, she nodded. “I’m sure. More sure than anything.”

—

Max leaned against the doorframe of his bathroom, watching Celeste as she prepared to inject her insulin. It was early, and the soft morning light filtered through the blinds, casting gentle shadows across the room. Celeste had been quiet, almost hesitant, as she set everything up. She didn’t say anything as she reached for the vial, her fingers a little shaky, though she was clearly accustomed to the motion.

He watched her closely, sensing the tension in her posture. “You okay?” He asked softly, his voice breaking the stillness.

Celeste glanced at him, meeting his eyes briefly before focusing back on her hands. “Yeah, just… routine,” she said, her voice steady but guarded.

Max took a few steps into the room, a little unsure of how much space to give. He’d never been in this kind of situation before, never had to witness someone so casually manage something so intimate. “You don’t have to let me watch if you don’t want me to,” he said gently. “I just—well, I guess I don’t really understand it, and I don’t want to seem ignorant. If I’m going to be spending more time with you, I should at least… know.”

Celeste paused mid-action, her hand hovering over the syringe. She looked at him for a long moment, eyes softening as if she were gauging his sincerity. She didn’t pull away, but there was a subtle hesitancy in her movements. Finally, she nodded slowly, her lips curling into a faint smile.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said, a little quieter now. “I just… it's normal for me, you know?” She carefully injected the insulin, her eyes flicking over to him again, catching that earnest look in his eyes. “Do you really care about this?”

Max took another step closer, his presence calm, unassuming. “I want to learn,” he said softly. “I like you, Celeste. I’m planning on spending a lot more time with you, so... shouldn’t I be educated? I don’t want to be that guy who just stays clueless.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but the way her shoulders relaxed just a little told him everything he needed to know.

“Thank you,” she said after a beat, her voice a little quieter now, almost tender. “I’ll — I won’t hide it, then. If you’re okay with it. And I suppose, sometimes, it might be nice to have somebody help me replace this thing.” She nodded at the little device that sat above her elbow.

Max smiled, a little unsure but entirely sincere. “I’ll try to be good at it.”

Celeste chuckled softly, the tension easing. She finished up and cleaned the area with an antibacterial swab before turning to face him. There was something sweet about the way he was watching her now, as if it wasn’t just about understanding her condition but understanding her, too.

“You’ll need a sharps container in each bathroom.” She informed him, only a little hesitant to make such a demand.

Max just nodded, standing just a little closer than before. “Of course,” he said, after a long pause, “And an emergency kit for the car, yes? Which pharmacy can we get that from? I’d rather we have it sooner rather than later.” He told her.

Celeste studied him for a second, her smile soft but genuine. The morning light caught the edges of his features, making everything feel just a little more perfect. “We can get it later today,” she said quietly, stepping toward him. “Breakfast first?” She asked.

He leaned down and kissed her, a tender thing. “Of course, liefje.”

—

Celeste and Max walked through the sleek, well-lit aisles of the pharmacy, soft music playing overhead. She pushed the mini cart slowly, her gaze flicking from the shelves to Max, who had his hands tucked into his pockets as he shifted his gaze from side to side.

She picked up a bottle of prescription-strength hand cream, scanning the ingredients before tossing it into the cart. Lavender scented. It would be nice to use before bed — something she could leave on Max’s bedside table. A very quiet claim.

“Oh,” Max started, glancing over at her with a look that was earnest and hopeful. “Should we pick up some things for my apartment? Shampoo?”

Celeste blinked, taken aback by the suggestion. “Shampoo?” She repeated, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Max, I usually order my hair products online. The brand I like is a bit... niche, I guess you could say.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Niche?”

She nodded. “Yes, it’s a special formula from a small Brazilian company. It’s not in stores.” She thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I can tell you the name, if you want to order some.”

Before she had even finished her sentence, Max pulled out his phone, his thumb already hovering above the screen. “Please,” he said with a smile that was almost too eager.

Celeste bit her lip, trying to suppress the smile tugging at her mouth. “I’ve only stayed at your apartment one time,” she teased, her stomach fluttering. “And you're willing to buy my ridiculously expensive shampoo to keep in your bathroom?”

Max’s expression shifted then, his gaze growing unexpectedly serious. He paused, considering her words, before meeting her eyes with complete sincerity. “Yes,” he said quietly, his voice soft but firm. “You’ll stay again, I hope. And when you do, I want you to be comfortable.” He shrugged as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Celeste’s breath caught for a moment, and she felt something warm unfurl in her chest. There was no joking, no light-hearted tone. He really meant it.

“Well, if you insist,” she said, her teasing tone softened by the unexpected sincerity of his words. She dictated the name of the shampoo, feeling oddly tender.

Max’s fingers moved swiftly across his screen as he typed it down. “Good,” he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. His gaze softened when he looked at her again, unwavering and calm. “Do they sell sharps bins here? We’ll buy one for every room,” he said, clearly serious.

Celeste blinked, startled by his sudden practicality, then watched as he moved toward the medical section with purpose. “Max, we really only need them in the bathrooms!” She called after him, a hint of exasperated amusement in her voice as she pushed the cart after him.

He was already waving down a pharmacy technician, enquiring about diabetic kits, when she caught up to him.

She hung back, resting a hand on her hip, watching the way he interacted with the staff. It felt juvenile to call the feeling in her stomach butterflies, but that’s what it was.

—

March 2021

Celeste sat at the small café, morning sunlight spilling over the table, her coffee stirring absentmindedly as memories of the past few weeks drifted through her mind.

Lazy mornings with Max had become the highlight of her week. Breakfast in bed, delivered by him, warm and fresh, the hum of the city outside muted by the height of his penthouse.

The dates he took her on had also become a highlight. Between the exclusive restaurants and the small family-run diners by the harbour, he’d taken her to places she never would have considered otherwise. Somehow, he made her feel like she could belong anywhere.

Max’s thoughtfulness had taken her by surprise. The handbag hook in his car, the emergency insulin stored in his glove compartment in a temperature-controlled case, and the little things that now filled his apartment, like the Brazilian hair products crowding his shower shelves and the small Brazilian flag miniature figurine that she’d seen in a store window, thought was cute, and he’d insisted on buying for her.

He paid attention.

It wasn’t clear when things had shifted, from casual to something more serious. One moment she was keeping her distance; the next, she found herself looking forward to every moment they could spend together.

She hadn’t meant to get attached, but she had.

And she couldn’t help but wonder if the clench in her chest when she saw him meant that it was too late to turn back.

—

Celeste sat at her sleek, modern desk, the sound of her keyboard clicking punctuating the quiet in her spacious office. The walls were lined with shelves of law textbooks, client files, and architectural plans, all neatly organised in the way only someone like her could manage. It was just past noon, and the sunlight streamed in from the large windows that overlooked the Monte Carlo skyline, casting soft light over the papers spread before her.

She was deep in her work, going over a new development contract for a client who was planning to buy a luxury property in the heart of the city. The legal language was dense, full of clauses and contingencies, but she navigated it with ease, her attention fixed. She could feel the slight tension in her shoulders, the result of long hours spent reviewing the fine details, but this was the kind of work she excelled at. She thrived on the pressure.

Her phone buzzed, breaking her concentration. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was a text from Max.

Need a break later? Thought I’d bring you lunch.

A pleased smile tugged at her lips, but she didn’t immediately respond. She was knee-deep in another clause that seemed to contradict an earlier one, and it was taking her longer than usual to sort it out. She hadn’t had the luxury of taking a proper break in weeks; work was a constant.

Her mind wandered back to Max as she continued to redline the contract. She’d never had anyone take such an interest in the details of her day-to-day life as he did.

She tapped her pen against the desk as she reread a particularly convoluted clause. It didn’t seem to align with a provision in the client’s earlier contract, and she needed to figure out why before sending anything to the client. She shifted in her seat, pulling her thoughts back to the task at hand. This was what she was paid to do:, make sure nothing slipped through the cracks, make sure everything was legally sound.

Still, it was hard not to think of Max’s offer of lunch. She hadn’t eaten a very good breakfast, and the idea of spending a few hours not buried in contracts sounded... incredibly appealing.

With a small sigh, she decided to text him back.

Lunch sounds perfect. Take me somewhere with a nice view? I need to get out of my office.

She hit send, then turned back to her papers, already thinking of ways to address the issue she’d found in the contract.

—

Max sat across from Celeste at their usual spot, a small bistro tucked into a quiet corner of the café. Sunlight filtered through the awning above, casting a soft glow on their plates of food. Max usually insisted on getting their favourite salads and sandwiches, but today, his usual enthusiasm was absent. He poked at his food, clearly distracted.

Celeste’s gaze flicked from her own plate to Max, noting the tension in his posture, the unease that had crept into his expression. Something was off.

"What's going on, Max?" She asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her voice was more pointed than she meant it to be. "You're acting strange.”

Max hesitated, his fork hovering in the air before he set it down. He looked at her for a beat, eyes searching for the right words, but he seemed to struggle with them. Finally, he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I’ve got some travel coming up," he told her. "I’ll be gone a lot over the next couple of months."

Celeste blinked, confusion pulling at her. "Travel?” She asked, her stomach tightening with unease. They hadn’t talked about this, not once.

Max nodded, avoiding her eyes. "It’s a regular thing. Every year. Just... long trips. I’ve had a bit of a break over the winter, obviously.”

Her brow furrowed. "A regular thing?" She repeated it, feeling a knot form in her chest. "Why didn’t you mention this before now?"

He didn’t look at her, instead fiddling with the water glass in front of him. "It didn’t seem important," he muttered, the words not quite matching the guilt in his eyes. “At the time.”

"Of course it was important," Celeste said, her voice sharp now. "We’ve been spending every single day together, and now you’re just leaving? And you didn’t think I deserved to know about it sooner?”

Max shifted uncomfortably in his chair, clearly thrown off by her reaction. "I’m sorry. I’ll be back in Monaco more than you think, every few weeks, probably. But between then, we can FaceTime. Call. It won’t be so bad."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Is this, like, a work thing?" She asked, her eyebrows drawn together. She was trying to make sense of this, trying to decode everything he wasn’t saying. "Something you're doing for your father?" She clarified.

He hesitated, just for a second, but long enough for Celeste to catch it. Finally, he nodded, his gaze flickering briefly to hers. "Yeah. Yeah. It is."

Celeste’s chest tightened, her heart sinking. She felt a sudden coldness creep over her. Intentionally or not, he’d put up a wall between them, and she hated it. "You could’ve told me," she said quietly, her voice betraying the hurt she felt. "I’ll miss you. I can’t believe you didn’t… warn me about this. I feel like I’m just an afterthought right now, Max."

Max’s jaw jumped. "You’re not. I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to make it a big thing," he said, his tone low. "I didn’t want to complicate things when things between us were so new.”

Celeste shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Max, I’m not a convenience to slot in when it’s easy. I deserve to know what’s going on in your life."

She could see the guilt flicker across his face, but it wasn’t enough to ease the tightness in her chest. "I’m sorry," he said softly, his hand reaching out to brush against hers. "I don’t want you to feel like that. I just... I’m not good at letting people in, and I’ve loved getting to know you like this, you know? Just Max and Celeste.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the warmth of his touch only deepening her frustration. She stared at him for a long moment, her heart beating painfully in her chest, but it didn’t erase the feeling of abandonment gnawing at her.

"You should have told me about the travelling sooner," she said finally, her voice tight. "But I’ll be here when you get back, I suppose."

Max nodded slowly, his hand lingering on hers, the weight of his unspoken words pressing between them. "I’ll make it up to you. I promise."

Celeste exhaled a shaky breath, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. "Start with another coffee," she muttered, her voice betraying none of the anger swirling inside her. "I’m parched."

—

Celeste sat on the couch, her legs tucked under her, with a glass of wine in one hand and a half-empty bottle on the coffee table in front of her. Her two closest friends, Lila and Sophie, were sprawled out on the other side of the living room, taking turns offering words of comfort between sips of their own drinks.

It had been a long day, and the frustration of the conversation with Max still simmered in her chest. She’d avoided texting him after their lunch, unsure of what to say. Part of her felt silly for letting it bother her so much, but another part of her was hurt. Hurt by the way he’d decided to keep her at arm’s length when she’d genuinely believed that they’d been growing closer.

Lila, always the direct one in their little trio, leaned forward and set her glass down on the table. “Celeste,” she started, her voice a little softer than usual, “you said he’s a trust fund kid, right?”

Celeste looked at her, her gaze wary. “Yeah. He hasn’t mentioned work once since we met, so I mean, I’m just assuming, so…” She shrugged.

“Well, trust fund kids—” Lila rolled her eyes dramatically “—they’re all the same. They get used to living in their own bubble, never really having to deal with real life consequences, and they pull this ‘I’m too busy to explain myself’ crap. You should know that by now, we grew up around them. We were them.”

Celeste leaned back against the couch, sighing heavily as she stared at the ceiling. “It’s just… he’s been so available since we met, Lila. I thought that meant something.”

Sophie, who had been quiet until now, offered a reassuring smile from across the room. “He might be genuinely just… bad at feelings. He’s obviously a terrible communicator.”

“Yeah,” Lila agreed. “I get it. I was the same way before I went to uni. I thought the entire world would bend to my will, you know?”

Celeste exhaled a shaky breath, shaking her head. “I want him to be real with me, though. I don’t like all this mystery.” She met their eyes, the vulnerability creeping into her voice. “I just… I don't know if I’m overthinking it. He was so vague about the details. He’s always vague.”

Sophie stood and walked over to her, sitting down beside her on the couch. “Trust your gut. If he’s keeping you in the dark, that’s not fair. I know it’s only been, what, three months since you met? But you guys were basically living together at one point. He can’t just expect you to be oky with him just disappearing on you.”

Celeste managed a weak smile. “Thanks, you guys. I just don’t know what to say to him.”

“Take your time, babe,” Lila said with a shrug. “If he’s really a good guy, he’ll come crawling back to explain himself. If not… well, he can stay the fuck away.”

Celeste laughed softly, the weight in her chest easing just a little. “Yeah. Thanks. I think I needed to hear that.”

“You’re welcome,” Sophie said with a wink. “And we’ve got your back. No matter what happens with him.”

Celeste glanced at her phone and frowned.

“It’s a regular thing. Every year. Just... long trips,” he’d said.

It had sounded like a half-truth then; and it felt even more like one now as she replayed it in her mind.

—

“All rich boys are liars,” her mother declared from across the table.

Celeste blinked, almost choking on the sip of wine she’d just taken. She let out a small laugh, trying to mask her surprise. “Mãe!”

Her mother lowered her glass, her amused gaze softening as she met Celeste’s eyes. “Your father was the same,” she said quietly. “He could charm anyone, and he had his secrets. I knew that, even when we were teenagers. But I loved him. Loved him deeply. I knew all of his flaws, but I still chose him.” She sighed, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “We always think we can fix things, especially when we’re young. But some things can’t be changed.”

Celeste’s heart fluttered, and she found herself stunned by the rare openness. “You loved him, even then?” She asked softly, almost uncertainty. ”As teenagers?”

Her mother’s eyes grew distant, lost in the past. “I did. In a way that no one else could understand. Even when I knew he wasn’t being honest with me, I loved him. I thought love could fix everything. But when you’re young, you don’t realise how much control you don’t have.” Her voice softened, tinged with sadness. “I loved him through it all. And I should’ve told him sooner that I was pregnant with you, but by the time I was ready, it was too late. The chance was taken from me.”

Celeste’s throat tightened, the weight of her mother’s words sinking deep inside. She had always known how painful her father’s death had been for her mother, but hearing the quiet regret now felt like a punch to the gut.

“You never resented him?” Celeste asked, her voice small. “For how it ended?”

Her mother met her gaze, her smile knowing but gentle. “No, darling. I never resented him. How could I? He was complicated, yes, but I loved him for who he was, flaws and all. I think... I think we make mistakes, and we hold on to things we shouldn’t. But I don’t regret loving him. I just... regret losing him before I could give him what he wanted most: you.”

Celeste’s eyes burned with sudden tears. She hastily reached for a napkin to dab at her eyes before they ruined her makeup.

“I guess I’m just trying to understand him. Max,” Celeste clarified, her voice quieter. “Sometimes he’s so guarded. And then sometimes it feels like I’ve known him forever.”

Her mother studied her for a long moment, her expression softening with understanding. “Love makes us vulnerable, darling,” she said gently. “It’s not easy. You can only love them as they are. And you can only hope that they’re ready to love you back.”

Celeste met her mother’s gaze, searching for any answers. “So, what do I do?” She asked desperately. “How do I know what’s real? When he’s hiding something from me?”

Her mother reached across the table, her hand covering Celeste’s with warmth and certainty. “You trust yourself, baby. Trust your gut, your heart. If this ‘Max’ truly wants to be with you, he’ll give you all of himself—eventually.”

Celeste nodded slowly, the weight of her mother’s words settling in. “I’m impatient,” she admitted, her voice a little less certain than before.

Her mother’s lips quirked into a soft smile. “I know. I raised you.”

—

April 2021

Celeste had been wandering the dealership for almost an hour, pacing between sleek, polished models, unsure which one would suit her. She hadn’t expected it to feel so... intimidating. Choosing her first car felt monumental, a symbol of independence and a shift in her life. She’d been driving her father’s old car for so long that she’d never considered having to drive anything else.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the salesman, whose voice seemed to echo too loudly in the otherwise quiet showroom. “This one’s a beauty,” he said, stepping closer and gesturing to a sleek silver coupe. “The interior’s top-notch, and it’s got a V6 engine for power. All the safety features Monaco streets demand. I’d say it’s perfect for you.”

Celeste felt her skin prickle as his gaze lingered just a little too long. She could handle it; she’d been getting this kind of attention for years, but it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. She’d seen enough of this to know exactly how it worked. Men like him thought they could get away with treating women like they were part of the display, not the customer. She smiled politely and nodded, though her mind was already elsewhere.

The buzz of her phone in her pocket caught her attention. When she saw the caller ID, a flicker of irritation bubbled up. Max. She hadn’t heard from him much over the last few days, nothing substantial, anyway. He’d been vague, disappearing with little more than a few texts here and there. She didn’t want to admit it, but it was starting to wear on her. She missed him.

With a sigh, she swiped to answer. “Hey,” she greeted, trying to keep the edge of frustration from her voice. As soon as his face appeared on the screen, though, a small smile tugged at her lips. He looked a little out of breath, sweat glistening on his forehead, and his usually perfect hair was a wild mess. “Did you just finish at the gym?” She asked, a small laugh escaping her.

He smiled back, though it was a little lopsided, and his eyes were sparkling with something. Adrenaline, maybe.. “Something like that.” He said. Celeste raised an eyebrow, but before she could ask more, he glanced at her surroundings. “You’re at a car dealership?” He asked.

“Yeah,” she said, looking back at the cars around her. “I can’t decide what to go for.”

She panned the phone toward the sleek black coupe the salesman had pointed out. “What do you think of this one?”

Max squinted at the phone. “It’s nice,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Solid. The engine’s reliable. That model’s been on the market for a while, so it’s got a good track record. You won’t be disappointed.”

Her stomach did a little flip. There was something about the way he spoke, like he knew what he was talking about, like he cared. For a split second, she forgot the distance that had been building between them over the last few weeks.

“It’s 85k,” she said, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Of course, she had the money in spades, but looking at the car, it just felt… too high.

Max’s smile faltered, his brow furrowing slightly. His gaze darkened, and for a brief moment, Celeste could almost feel the weight of the tension in the air. “Let me speak to the salesman,” he said, his tone firm but calm.

Celeste blinked, her confusion creeping in. “What? Max, are you serious?”

“I am.” He replied, his voice quiet but with an underlying sense of control. “Hand him the phone, schat. Please.” He added, after a beat.

She stared at him for a moment, taken aback. The nickname had slipped through, soft and affectionate.

Reluctantly, she handed the phone over to the salesman. He took it with a strange, wary glance at her, stepping aside to speak quietly.

Celeste watched him from a distance and noticed how his posture stiffened almost immediately. No more smug smiles, no more lingering looks.

It was subtle, but it was there — the shift in how he held himself, the way he nodded along to whatever Max was saying.

She wandered back to the silver coupe, running her fingers lightly over the polished hood. It was a beautiful car. Maybe a little flashy. Maybe a little reckless. But it was hers — or it would be, if she said yes.

When the salesman returned, he thrust her phone back into her hand, the call had already ended.

She frowned at the screen, annoyed that Max hadn’t even said goodbye.

“All set?” she asked, glancing up.

The salesman cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am. We can offer it at 65k. Premium package waived. Complimentary service included.”

Celeste blinked. “Wait— really?”

He nodded stiffly, avoiding her eyes.

Confused but unwilling to argue, she reached for her bag. “Okay, I’ll just get my—”

“No need, ma’am.” He cut her off quickly. “Your, uh... Max. He’s already taken care of it. Wired the full amount. The car is yours. The title will be in your name.”

She froze, staring at him.

“He— he what?” She asked, her voice thin.

The salesman flushed, fumbling with the paperwork. “Yes, ma’am. Oh, and, uh...” He hesitated, seeming uncertain whether she was even listening. “Tell him we wish him luck this season.”

But Celeste didn’t really hear him. She barely registered anything as she numbly took the keys he pressed into her hand, muttering something about emailing her the deed and just needing an electronic signature.

She stepped outside into the sharp sunshine, the weight of the keyfob in her palm unfamiliar and heavy.

Max had bought her a fucking car.

A beautiful, brand new car.

Her mind reeled as she slid into the drivers seat, the leather still smelling factory-new. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry, or scream, or call him and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

Instead, she just sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against her ribs.

—

She sat there for a long time, fingers clenched around the steering wheel, staring out at the glittering street beyond the dealership.

Eventually, her phone buzzed in her lap.

Max.

She answered without thinking. “What the hell?” She snapped, her voice cracking sharp in the quiet car.

There was a pause, then his voice, low and hoarse. “Celeste—”

“No.” Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. “You can’t do this, Max. You can’t disappear, hide things from me, and then just—buy me a car and expect everything to be fine.”

She hated how her voice broke at the end, and hated the stupid hot sting behind her eyes.

“I’m not trying to buy you,” he said softly, like he could hear the tears she was fighting.

“Oh, really?” she snapped. “Because that’s exactly what it feels like. You’ve shut me out, Max. Completely.” He tried to interrupt, but she steamrolled over him, voice shaking. “You have! It genuinely feels like I have no idea who you are. You feel like a stranger, and I hate it.” Her breath hitched. “I hate it so much.”

Silence stretched out between them. She could hear background noise wherever he was – distant voices, the hum of an engine – but he said nothing. Finally, quietly, he said, “You’re right. I’ve not been fair to you. I’m sorry.”

The words hit her like a punch. She blinked hard against the burning in her eyes, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel.

"I just..." Her voice came out in a whisper. "I miss you. I hate not knowing where you are and what you’re doing. I feel like the other woman in my own relationship. And this—" She gestured helplessly at the car around her. "This doesn’t fix anything, Max. It just makes it all so much worse."

There was a heavy exhale on the other end of the line.

“Okay,” he started, his voice steady. “Go to my apartment, yes? See the cats.”

She lifted her head, confused. “What? No— I don't want to be at your place without you.”

But his voice only softened, warm and sure. “I’m coming home. Just for a few nights.” Her heart twisted painfully, hope flaring sharp and hot. “I miss you too, schatje,” he said, all tender and honest and earnest. “I’m sorry.”

Somewhere deep inside her soul, the anger cracked.

NEXT CHAPTER

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vegan-peppermint · 5 months ago

Text

Frost and Flour

Pairing: Krampus!konigx reader

Cw: size kink, power play, slight cnc, breeding;

Inspired by this post.

Summery: in your village, men would dress as monsters on Christmas stealing women and children and run around the town. Your krampus had other ideas.

Did not proof read, I saw this post yesterday and tried to speed run this fic for it to be ready before Christmas. Might be bad and rushed. Will edit after new years.

Word count: 4k

The snow fell thick and soft, blanketing the jagged peaks of the mountains like a heavy quilt. The air was sharp and bracing, scented faintly with pine and the smoky warmth of wood-burning stoves. This was the village of your childhood Christmases, a place where the world seemed smaller, quieter, and steeped in old traditions. Nestled deep in the heart of the mountains, it felt like a hidden pocket of time where the modern world dared not intrude.

Traditions are the heart of the holidays, the thread that weaves magic into the season and shapes the way people celebrate. In every corner of the world, they bring warmth and wonder: streets lit up with strands of melted honey, the soft glow of advent candles peaking through the frosty windows and the -oh too comforting- aroma of cookies baking in old family kitchens.

But this village had its own unique tradition, one that set it apart from the glittering cities and quaint holiday fairs elsewhere. Here, Christmas wasn't just about warmth and cheer, it carried a shadow, a reverence for the old ways—

both enchanting and a little haunting.

When winter arrived and snow blanketed the wooden rooftops, the young people who had left for the city always hurried back to their childhood homes. So did you. This year, you came earlier than most, arriving in November to help at your family’s bakery. The holiday season brought plenty of special orders, far too much for your grandmother’s old hands to handle alone.

As your hands kneaded the cookie dough behind the counter, your mind was heavy with thoughts and debates. The life you’d built back in the States wasn’t bad—a steady job, a cozy apartment near the city center—but as the warmth of this small, close-knit community enveloped you, a cold stone pressed heavily in your chest. Before sinking any deeper, the bell on the door jingled.

"Hello! Welcome to Frost and Flour, how can I help you today?" you greeted with a cheerful smile.

The man—who, no doubt, had to bow his head to fit through the doorframe—returned the smile, his lips barely visible beneath a fluffy green wool scarf.

"Hallo," his voice came out muffled, the words soft behind the thick fabric. Snowflakes clung to his blonde hair, drifting down like sugar crystals. He shook his head with a swift motion, trying to flick them off, and the gesture reminded you of a puppy entering your shop on a snowy day.

You recognized him, yet you couldn't really match the face to the name. He was the son of the lovely, old woman living on your street, Frau Lieder. Unlike her son, who resembled the mountains that surrounded your village rather than a man, Frau Lieder was as delicate as a breeze, tiny as an ant. Even though she was always quiet and humble, she'd always sit upright and proud when talking about her son, the colonel.

"It's not too late to place an order, no?" He spoke, taking his scarf off revealing his red, frozen cheeks.

"No, not at all. Come in, come in!" You encouraged quickly running to the tap to wash your hands off. "It's really freezing outside! Would you like anything warm to drink? Coffee, or tea?"

He shook his head in refusal, but the way his frozen eyelashes trembled seemed to tell a different story. "How about a coffee? I made too much for myself already," you patted your hands dry on the apron.

The man opened his mouth to protest, but you didn’t give him a chance. Gently guiding him to an empty table, you set down the coffee before him and sat down beside him, placing your own cup next to his to ease the tension. He didn’t seem eager to speak, so you attempted to fill the silence, though your words came out a little more forced than usual.

"You came a long way, didn't you? You look like a snowman," you remarked, trying to break the ice.

He only hummed in response, a soft sound, and you hesitated for a moment before pressing on. "Want sugar in your coffee?"

"It's fine like this, thank you," he said, his voice calm but distant.

An awkward silence settled between you both, thick and uncomfortable. He looked tired so you decided to give up. Not everyone wants to chit-chat, you understood that.

"So, what do you want to order?" You got right to the point.

"Oh, Ja... I need two Stollen," he replied.

"Yeah, we can definitely do that," you said, quickly moving into a list of other things you could offer. You kept talking, listing the flavors and sweet treats, drifting in how they were made and why you made them the best. He seemed taken aback by your sudden burst, but after a while, you saw him relax. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs comfortably, and took another sip of his coffee, the steam rising around him like a cloud. His icy blue eyes didn’t leave you as you talked, causing your words to spill faster. They were fixed on you with a piercing intensity, scanning your every expression.

"So I think you should really add the chocolate cookies- we also make them vegan if that's the case-"

"That sounds good," he finally said, agreeing to the order. You jotted it down quickly.

"Great choice, I'll throw in some samples of the others as well!" You grinned, excited for people to try your new recipes.

The cups were filled with coffee still. You lingered as much as you could, writing as to avert his eyes. What's up with people with blue eyes and staring like that? You could still feel his gaze on you as you re-read the same 5 items for the thousandth time.

You shifted in your seat, unsure of what to do with yourself. He seemed to notice, and you caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful tease.

You swallowed, trying to regain your composure. "No, just... not used to quiet customers," you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

He hummed, just as you were accustomed. You stood up quickly, feeling the need to escape the weight of the silence, and found something to occupy yourself behind the counter, fiddling with a few stray utensils. The soft clink of ceramic was the only sound until, after a moment, he spoke. "You going to the Christmas fest tonight?" His voice was low, almost secretive.

"Yeah, so excited," you replied with a laugh, grateful for the change in topic. "It’s the reason I came all this way!"

"Me too," he said solemnly, and something familiar downed on you. That’s when it hit you. "You're the one dressing as Krampus, aren't you?" you exclaimed, a bit too eagerly.

The surprise on his face was brief, quickly replaced by an expression that matched your own newfound curiosity. "I—I remember you," you added, turning to face him, a rush of memories flooding back. "Last year, I brought my younger sister too—you stole her and lifted her up in the air—swinging her around. She loved it so much."

"Ah, seems like I did a shit job—kids are supposed to be afraid of me," he chuckled.

You thought about the scary outfit he'll wear tonight, the furs that will coat his big back doubling him in size. How he'll run around, stalking and shouting- you couldn't help but hope he will be chasing you as well.

"Being punished by Krampus sounds pretty good, to be honest—"

You caught yourself too late, the words already hanging awkwardly between you. Maybe if you played dead, he’d just walk away, pretend nothing happened. You refused to acknowledge what you’d said, refusing to even glance at him. Faking a heart attack or any kind of medical emergency sounded plausible—anything to escape the tension creeping up your spine. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable.

You opened your mouth but no words came out.

A Christmas miracle happened right in that moment as an elderly customer entered the shop.

"Welcome to Frost and Flour! How can I help you?" You beamed without skipping a beat, grateful you didn't have to start choking or throw yourself on the floor.

As you listened to the customer and answered his questions, you felt a heavy set of eyes pressing down on your frame. You didn't look at him again, tried really hard not to. He finished his coffee, got up, and left without saying a word. At the last possible moment, the second between the door hitting the frame, his eyes met yours for one last time. And as the door shut with a loud thud, leaving a sudden silence in its wake, you realized you hadn't asked for his name. You looked down at the empty line left at the bottom of his order and wrote:

Krampus.

The sun set down, the sky turned from blue to orange and back to blue again. You had met with some friends at the small Christmas market, wandering around the little wooden shops that lined the square. Laughter and chatter filled the chilly air as you and your friends picked up festive Christmas toys, nibbled on gingerbread, and sipped warm drinks. The air was alive with the sound of the Christmas choir, their voices drifting through the market and adding a touch of magic to the evening.

As time passed and the night grew darker, the atmosphere shifted. The carolers’ songs faded and adults began to gather around the tables, glasses in hand. It wasn’t long before Krampuses started appearing, stalking through the crowd. The sound of children screaming and running to their parents echoed through the square, while some men pretended to be brave, stepping forward to protect their girlfriends. You couldn’t help but laugh as some of your friends found themselves the prey of a particularly mischievous Krampus, who chased them with exaggerated growls, making the whole scene feel like a playful dance between fear and festivity.

"What's wrong?" Your friend asked through laughter. "Come on, why they long face?"

You suddenly became aware of your thoughtful expression and quickly excused yourself. You had been thinking about your Krampus- both embarrassed and hopeful to see him again. "You better cheer up soon, or the krampus will get you!" Another friend teased.

The air was suddenly filled with the deep, resonant thud of drums, each beat like a heartbeat pounding through the square. A group of men pushed their way through the crowd, their rhythmic movements sharp and precise, their boots striking the cobblestones with deliberate thuds. Their dance was primal and hypnotic, an echo of something ancient and untamed. Behind them, two towering Krampuses loomed, their enormous cowbells clanging with a deafening ring that sent shivers through the crowd. Draped in heavy, fur-lined cloaks that swayed with each step, their grotesque masks twisted into demonic faces that seemed to leer at anyone who dared to meet their gaze. The crowd recoiled instinctively, a ripple of nervous laughter and gasps breaking the tension as the Krampuses stalked forward, commanding both fear and awe.

The main drummer, the same one who had parted the crowd in two, struck his drum with a horrendous bang that swallowed all other noise. In unison, the crowd fell silent, their collective breath caught in their chests. Yet, despite the stillness, a distant rhythm lingered in the air—a pulsing thrum that echoed: the rapid, heavy pounding of every heart present.

Thud!

The crowed took a step back in anticipation as the Krampuses looked around hungrily.

Thud! Thud!

The beats served as a count down, a warning and threat before the krampuses will be set free. You were too mesmerized by the show that you haven't realized you were being watched.

Thud! Thud! THUD!

That's when you noticed the taller monster staying still, focusing on you. Shivers creeped unbidden down your spine, cold and sharp, leaving goosebumps as they passed. Your stomach plummeted, a hollow, twisting ache of dread settling deep within you, even before your gaze met his. You didn’t need to see his eyes to recognize it was him—undeniably, inescapably him.

The rhythmic pounding of the drums grew faster, more frantic, but the meaning escaped you, lost in the haze of your thoughts. Blurred figures rushed past, their panicked shouts blending into something you barely registered. Shoulders slammed into you, hands shoved, voices screamed, everything—the chaos, the fear, the blinding motion—blurred and faded, except for that mask. That awful, looming mask. Its hollow gaze pinned you in place, your focus narrowing until it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Then, like the sharp crack of a pin dropping onto glass, the veil lifted. The muffled roars of the crowd became deafening, the banging and fireworks thundered in your ears, and the swell of scared people pressed against you, pulling you back into reality.

Run.

The word tore through your mind, an instinct louder than the drums, louder than the crazy fantasies you had. Run. You have to run.

The adrenaline hit you in full force, blood pumping hot through your veins as your feet pounded against the uneven ground. The small, twisted streets were making it harder for you, but you didn’t dare look back—you didn’t need to. You knew he was there. You could feel it, like a cold breath on the back of your neck.

You knew in the moment you broke eye contact, the second your body shifted to flee, he was already moving. His feet swept through the mud, closing the distance with the precision of a predator. He wasn’t chasing—you realized, with a spike of fear—he was hunting.

Exhaustion hit you hard, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your legs felt like lead, slowing to a near halt. Your body begged for rest, and you made the mistake of glancing over your shoulder. The street was empty—silent. No sign of him, nothing but the faint echo of your own heavy breathing. As you huffed in relief, grateful for the brief moment of peace, a hand clamped down on your waist, and another shot up to cover your mouth, muffling the scream you let out instinctively.

It all happened so fast, the way he grabbed you and spun you on his shoulder as if you weighted nothing. He ran away with you through the crowds, some people cheered and others ran away in fear of being the next victim. He ran past the crowds, past the houses and the gardens. The snow was getting higher and the lights were getting dimmer as the two of you strayed further from the towns fest.

No matter how much you screamed or how many questions you'd ask, he'd remain silent, eyes straight ahead not minding you at all.

"Please, stop! Put me down!" you begged for what felt like the hundredth time.

This time, he paused. With a grunt, he hurled you onto the snow-covered ground, your body colliding with the icy surface.

"You make so much noise," he growled, his voice low and rough. "I wonder how much louder you can get."

You stumbled onto your feet but the slippery ground betrayed you as you slipped again. Above you, the massive figure loomed, his imposing horns casting jagged shadows across the snow.

Your eyes were getting watery and your lip began to tremble. You were scared- your heart thumping and body trembling, that was fear. But the excitement that grew in your stomach and the urge to rub your legs against each other were something else entirely.

"Please," you whispered as a last plea, curling up as to make yourself as small as possible.

"Don't play dumb with me, little one. You deserve to be punished, you'll take what I'll give you and say thank you," he said.

Your eyes moved frantically from his mask to his muddy boots, then up his legs to the hard erection visible through his black pants before meeting the black holes where eyes were supposed to be.

"Please," you cried out doe eyed not sure what you were begging for.

The beast fell to his knees with a heavy sound making you flinch. You tried to push yourself further, but his strong hand grabbed at your ankle harshly. He dragged you by the foot, your skirt rising up as your ass slided on the cold snow. He let go of your leg, hand moving to your inner knee, slowly dragging his nails up your thigh.

"So sensitive," he coes when your skin reacts so eagerly to his touch. You instinctively grabbed at his hand which hovered above your panties. He paused his movement, seemingly amused at your attempt. "Go on," he leaned closer, covering your body with his own, the mask mere inches from your face. "Fight back," he breathed out a threat. "Try and fight me off, little lamb."

His hand slapped your clothed pussy, the weak attempt at a stopping him completly ignored. You let out a loud moan at the sudden feeling of pain.

His calloused hand started rubbing up and down the thin fabric. The daunting realization of how wet being hunted down like pray made you hit you as the panties became drenched.

"Aren't you ashamed?" He teased, fiddling with the zipper of his pants, tugging them just enough to free his large cock. "Being violated gets you this wet, Schatz?"

You whimper and squirm trying to get away from his touch, thriwing your hands at him- scratching and grabbing at his horns and neck.

Pathetic. That’s the only word for it. You know you’re not trying to escape or fight back. No, you’re just edging him on, hoping he'll snap and take out all his built up anger on you.

He easily grabs your wrists in one rapid motion. No matter how much you'd try, pulling with your whole body and then some, his grip would effortlessly stay the same.

"I'm going to fuck you," he announced pinning your hands above your head with one hand. "You will cry and scream and plead- and you will swallow every inch I give you."

He pulled your panties to the side placing his angry tip at the entrance. In the dead of night, under the midnight sky the lewd, wet sound of his dick spreading your juices was so loud.

No waiting, he pushed himself inside your throbbing cunt splitting you open.

"F-Fuck," you plead. "T-Too big, 's too big!" Your gummy walls stretch around his girth, causing your to choke in pain. The resistance slowly fades away as your cunt leaks more with every shallow thrust as he fills you up in ways you've never thought were possible.

"You can take it," he hissed, allowing you to adjust to his size. His cock was throbbing inside of you, pulsating eagerly. "You feel that? Feel what you do to me? I'm so hard for you, Schatz. Don't you wanna make me feel good?"

"Agh~," you cry out as you feel more of his size slipping inside your wet cunt. He let's go of his tight grip bringing one of your hands down to your stomach. His hand on top of yours as he's bullying his cock inside you. You feel him moving, the buldge in your stomach rising and lowering in sync with his thrusts. He growled loudly as you spammed around his dick so soon, moaning loudly and rolling your eyes in the back of your head, finally allowing him complete access as you cum on his fat cock.

"You're the tightest cunt I've fucked in a long time," he said bringing his hands on your hips angling you slightly better. His balls were hanging on your ass and his tip was pushing twords your womb.

If you could think straight, you'd be embarrassed of cumming just from being filled, of the moans and gasps you made with every inch he gave you. But the warmth of the village is distant and the ground behind your back is freezing, you need him- his warmth- to keep the cold from swallowing you whole.

Through teary eyes, you look at him. The faint light spilling from the village clings to his mask and coat, tracing his silhouette in an otherworldly glow, as if he were carved from shadow and firelight. He is no longer just a man draped in beast's clothes;

And yet, his gaze lingers on you, heavy and unreadable, somewhere between a silent threat or solemn apology.

It started slowly, dragging his member out then pushing it back in with slightly more forced than before. Your whole body was pressed deeper into the ground, head bobbling to his increasing rhythm.

One if his hands reached up to your chest, cupping one of your breast through the cotton material of your dress, the other digging into the side of your hip. He found your hardend nipple with ease, rubbing it between his fingers. He'd pinch and drag them only to see them bounce more viciously.

"Shush," he'd scold through heavy breaths. "If you keep moaning like that people will hear you. They'll see you spread wide getting your pussy stuffed, is that what you want?"

When his words were only getting you more riled up, he'd let go of your hips moving it to your loud mouth. He fell onto of you, his heavy body crushing your smaller frame, one hand desperately pulling at your tits while the other pressing hard on your mouth. He pounded into you like a man starved, abusing your needy hole.

You looked so pretty right now, your Krampus thought behind his mask. Your face was flushed, your eyelashes sticking together from tears. Strands of hair, damp from the snow melting behind you, clung to your face, yet your eyes were hazed with pleasure. He got you like this, so pathetic and cock drunk. You tried to say something but your words were muffled.

"Shut up, just a little- a little longer longer-," he sounded desperate, a change in his steady demeanor. "You'll take all I give you, every last drop of cum- Fuck- I'll pump you full of cum, you horny bitch," he groand against your neck, thrusting into you deeper than before.

He fucked you through his orgasm, cock twitching and slaming hot cum inside your cunt, a white ring foaming where your body met.

He fucked you through your orgasm, his dick barelling into you making sure you won't spill a drop of this gift he had given you.

Your legs were shaking around him, hands dirty and tired from clawing at the ground. His chest rumbled against your own.

After he pulled out, he shoved his fingers in its place- pushing his cum deep into you. You'd lick them clean afterwards, after he pulled you back on your feet. Your eyes tried to find his behind the devil mask, as his fingers explored your mouth.

You didn't.

The night didn’t feel as cold as before, the stars no longer just wishes in the sky, but silent witnesses to everything that had unfolded. You didn’t dare move, or speak—not before he would at least. You tensed, waiting for words that never came, as he grabbed you with an eerie calm, lifting you once more, just as he had in the beginning

#konig mw2 #konig x you #konig call of duty #konig cod #konig x reader #cod #cod x reader #cod x you #ghost cod #ghost #Krampus #krampus!konig #krampus x reader #winter special #smut #christmas #christmas fic #yandere konig

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inkbybambi · 2 years ago

Text

bodyguard!simon riley who takes a bullet for you —

words: 2.9k rating: e warnings: nightmares, guns/shooting, gunshot wound, hospitals, smut, creampie, cunnilingus, mentions of threats against reader, threat against reader, lowercase writing — please let me know if i missed any! notes: 18+ content, minors dni. warnings have been provided.

He's been assigned to you for two-ish years now. You weren't thrilled at first, and neither was he — but he didn't make it as obvious as you did.

"I don't need a babysitter," you had damn-near hissed when he was introduced.

"I wasn't hired to be one," he counters coolly, which only serves to irritate you further.

Actively ignoring his presence — as much as you could when your company moved him into your apartment — even though you begrudgingly made room in the counters and fridge for his things, even going as far as investing into a better kettle so he could make his tea and clearing out an entire cabinet for all his tea, sugar, and steeper.

He trails you quietly as he was hired to; keeping close enough to always have you in his sights but far enough away that people wouldn't be able to clock his association to you — or so he thought.

Six months into his contract with you — an unknown amount of time left, as Price never answered and soon he stopped asking — he wakes in the middle of the night from a scream he never thought would come from you.

He rushes to your bedroom, gun in hand with his finger resting on the side — not the trigger. The front door is locked as he had left it, windows unbroken. He almost thinks he might've associated it with one of his own nightmares, until he sees you.

Curled in on yourself, face tucked into your knees, fingers threaded at the nape of your neck as you struggle to breathe properly, hiccups and sobs breaking between your stuttered breaths.

He knocks gently on your door, not wanting to startle you. You jump a little, regardless, but lift your head to look at him.

"'m sorry," you mumble, voice rough, "I didn't mean to wake you."

And you hadn't. You thought you were done with these awful nightmares, the ones gnawing at the edges of your mind during the day.

"'S'alright," he replies, tucking the gun into the waistband of his sleep shorts, walking carefully towards your bed. "You okay?"

The look he receives damn near breaks his heart.

He learns, that night, that an attempt had been made on your life before. More than once.

They never got close enough to do any harm, you say, but then swallow thickly and clutch your bicep where Simon sees a scar that he never took notice of previously. They didn't get close enough to do anything worse, you amend, chancing a look at him.

"I had security then, too," you explain, wiping your tears with your hand, playing with the blanket. "It didn't change anything."

Something shifts after that.

He starts cooking for you — with you, when there's time — and you bring him a cup of tea each morning. The bookshelf in the living room, previously only half-filled, collects Simon's books. You give him the login to all your streaming services, and ignore the pointed look he gives you when he sees some trashy reality tv show in your continue to watch queue.

He doesn't complain much when he stands behind you during an episode, arms crossed, asking a question here and there. You sigh, exasperated at having to explain everything, telling him to sit down as you start the series from the beginning.

Nine months into his contract, your nightmares become more frequent, and worse. You don't understand why. You were getting better, you cry in Simon's arms after a particularly rough night.

"Sometimes these things happen," he tells you softly, gently petting your hair, tucking you under his chin.

"Make them stop, please," you beg, even though you know he can't. he wishes he could.

He starts sleeping in your bed.

He's so warm, your cheek pressed into his chest, feeling more secure than you have in months when the weight of his thick, tattooed arm slings around your waist. He presses a kiss to your forehead at night, and you burrow into his side.

He starts taking the balaclava off at night.

A morning where you blessedly don't have to be up early, grey clouds hang in the sky, the promise of a storm later.

"G'mornin'," he says, voice rough with sleep, feeling him flex and stretch beneath you, groaning as his body relaxes. A flash of heat snaps through you.

"Morning," you reply, only half-awake, tilting your head up to drag your lips across his jaw, prickling with stubble.

He cradles the back of your head, fingers thick and comforting, tilting you back until his mouth slants over yours. He holds you so carefully, like glass, as his tongue slips into your mouth, hot and heavy.

The sheets rustle as he moves to lay over you, free arm resting by your head as your legs hook on his hips, trying to draw him closer to you.

He nips at your bottom lip as he rolls his hips, the heat of his cock through his boxers frazzling your brain. You mewl, his tongue back in your mouth, moving his hand to grip your waist and drag you up against him, moaning low in his throat when he feels the wetness seeping through your panties.

"Fuck," you breathe out as his mouth moves over your cheek, down your jaw, kissing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"Say please," he rumbles.

"Simon, please," you whine, fingers curling at the base of his skull and scratching, and he snarls against your skin, sinking his teeth into the side of your neck as he tears your panties off, pushing his boxers down enough to free his cock.

You're so wet for him, slick coating your thighs as he drags his cock through your folds.

He usually takes his time — using his fingers and tongue to open them up first, wanting to feel the wet heat of their cunt and the spurt of their release to know they're relaxed and ready for him. He eats pussy like he'll die if he doesn't, will happily spend hours between your legs if you let him.

But with you? He feels feral with need.

"It's big, sweet thing," he rasps into your skin, lips hovering over that sensitive spot on your neck that he sunk his teeth into earlier, notching the head of his cock at your entrance. He's not trying to brag, it's just a fact.

You claw at him, the sting of open scratches burning his skin so pleasantly.

"It's okay, don't care," you pant, gripping him hard enough to leave deep crescent marks in his skin, angling your hips up to draw him into your cunt yourself.

He grips your hips with both hands, slowly pushing his thick length into you, nails digging even deeper the more he pushes in.

"Feels so fucking good," he says, tongue laving over your throat to collect the thin sheen of sweat that coats your skin. "Could fuck you forever," he groans, your breath hitching.

You make a strangled noise low in your throat. It's been awhile since you've fucked anyone, and you've never fucked anyone as big as him before.

The stretch feels so good, though. Your cunt clenches around him as he sinks in deeper, mind glazing over as you focus only on him.

"Fuck," he whines when he finally seats himself fully into you, nuzzling into your neck, overwhelmed by the heat and slick, "good fucking girl, taking me so well."

He swallows thickly, waiting a couple heartbeats to enjoy this — it's been awhile for him, too.

"Think you can take it, love?" and his fucking voice. You would agree to do anything as long as you could hear that rough accent along your throat, teeth skimming your skin.

"Yes," you breathe out harshly, moving to wrap your arms around his shoulders, needing him close, close, closer.

For a man of few words, Simon has a filthy mouth as he fucks into you, accompanied by groans and growls into your collar.

"Never had a cunt this perfect." "Fuckin' made for me." "Can't wait to get my tongue in you, feel you cum on my face." "No one else can have you." "You're mine."

And you, normally far more verbal than him, are reduced to nothing more than mewls and pleas and moans for more.

You mouth and nip at his jaw when you can, wanting to mark him, wanting to stake your claim. You'll be his forever if he lets you, but you'll be damned if anyone else gets to have him either.

"Simon — " is the only warning you give before you cum on his cock, head thrown back as you moan through the waves of pleasure, release coating his length and thighs.

"That's it, baby, good girl, give it to me," he says, blunt nails digging into your waist as he grinds himself deep into you. You feel so warm and pliant, the pleasure numbing your mind as he rocks himself into you.

"Wanna feel you give me one more, angel," he bites at your throat on the other side, his need to sink his teeth into every inch of your skin overwhelming. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, fucking into you deeper, hitting that spot inside you that has you seeing stars and your toes curling.

You grip at him again, clawing as he fucks into you, the sound of your wet cunt taking each thrust creating a symphony with his groans and your cries. He feels so fucking good, splitting you open and making you whole, desperate for him to cum inside.

The way your nails dig into his shoulder is the sign that you're getting close, and he thrusts just a little harder, a little meaner, your cute whines growing more desperate as you walk the precipice of another orgasm.

No one's ever made you cum more than once — sometimes, not even once — and you've never been able to do it yourself either.

Simon? Fucks a second orgasm out of you like it's his life mission, ankles tightening around his neck as pleasure lines your veins, shaking as he continues to hit that spot inside you as you cum, prolonging it as much as he can.

"Baby — " he chokes out, sharp teeth on your shoulder, thrusts getting sloppy. The slick of your two releases sounds so loud in your bedroom, feeling the desperation as he thrusts, deeper, harder.

"Cum inside," you mumble against his cheek, nails scratching at the base of his skull as he thrusts once, twice, three times — the warmth of his release flooding your cunt.

He fists the sheets in one hand, nails dragging down your thigh as he pumps deep into you, your slick and his release seeping out of your hole, dripping down his balls and your asshole.

You stay like that, lips brushing, breathing in each other's air as you slowly come down from the high.

Simon gently — so gently — lowers your legs, carefully watching your face for any signs of discomfort, settling them on his hips, hands moving up and down your thighs. "Y'alright?" he asks. You swallow thickly and nod, both hands now at the base of his skull, affectionately scratching at the nape of his neck.

He slowly pulls out, and you miss the stretch and the warmth immediately. You push up on your elbows, watching as the mixture of your pleasure leaks out of you, biting you lip.

"Fuckin' beautiful," he says almost reverently, mesmerized.

He spends the next hour cleaning you up, and you think your nails create permanent marks on his shoulders.

Time bleeds together.

His contract renews on the twelfth month.

He heard rumors that Price might switch him out for another guard.

You're at the meeting — it's your bodyguard, after all, they figure you should get some input. Price has two separate folders prepared. A sharp look from Simon is all Price needed to know about how he feels. The tongue lashing you give your higher ups has Price raising his eyebrows, and Simon sits forward a little more should he need to haul you out over his shoulder.

He wouldn't mind that too much, he thinks, but he'd rather not.

Ten minutes later and you're angrily signing his renewal papers, a blotch of ink at the start of your name as you didn't even read the contract before signing, lungs burning from your rant about personal safety and what the fuck are you thinking and I didn't just buy an entirely new tea set for nothing.

You grip his wrist as soon as he signs himself, dragging him to the nearest bathroom.

His hand covers your mouth as he fucks you deep and slow.

"Don't worry, darling, 'm not going anywhere."

Eighteen months into his contract, and he's never felt so little control before in his life.

He's meticulous, prepared, tactile.

There's a gun in his holster for distance threats and a knife in his sheath for those who dare get too close.

He makes sure to memorize the exists before you even get to the venue, now making no effort to conceal himself.

He's like a shadow, or a guard dog.

You've never felt more secure, more protected.

Until —

He doesn't know how it slipped past him.

He let his eyes linger a little too long on the curve of your neck, where a new diamond pendant lay with his initial engraved on the back. He admires the dip of the dress you wear, open-back that shows the enticing expanse of your back, the dress covering you above the curve of your ass. You look back at him briefly while whomever you're with speaks, eyes sparkling in the bright light of the room, a smile reserved just for him.

He hears the cock of a hammer and his eyes snap to a gentleman who brandishes a gun like he's never held one before in his life. His eyes, though. His eyes are like fire, black with rage, staring at you with such hatred.

You look one second too late.

Simon is on you right after the click of the trigger, pushing you to the floor and caging you with his body.

"Stay down and don't fucking move," he growls as he reaches for his own weapon, up in a flash.

You can't hear anything except white noise and screams that sound muffled, heart pounding and making it hard to breathe. Two shots ring out, in tandem, and there's the telltale sign of a body hitting the floor.

Simon is by your side, eyes scanning, frantic, looking for any signs of harm.

"You okay?" he asks, carefully outstretching his hands to let you stop him from touching you should you want. you don't.

"Fine," your voice cracks, and you can't stop shaking.

"You're okay, you're okay," he says, cradling your cheeks, thumbs wiping under your eyes. "I'm so fucking sorry," he adds, guilt heavy in his chest.

You grab his wrists lightly, tears streaming down your cheeks as you look him over. You gasp, unable to catch a real breath, unable to look away from his stomach.

"Simon — " you say, horror laced in your voice.

He looks down, seeing the red seep through his shirt.

Fuck.

At least it wasn't you, he tells himself.

Nineteen months into his contract, and he isn't dead.

While he's been shot before — a fact he tells you, assuming it would comfort you, but only got him a venomous glare in return — it's been awhile.

The hospital, the stitches, the gauze and needles. He hated it then and he hates it now.

Price comes to you in the hospital — they're keeping Simon for a little, to make sure there's no complications with his healing — offering another guard in the interim while he recovers.

You've never shot down a proposal so quickly in your life. The nerve.

Twenty-two months into his contract, and the last of the moving boxes are taped shut and labeled. Some of them in your writing, the others in his. The keys to your new house are tucked into his pocket, alongside a black velvet box.

"Why do we have so much shit," you whine when packing, only two boxes deep and so many rooms left to go. You're too busy stuffing a manatee shaped steeper into a box — mana-tea, you giggled when he opened it, him rolling his eyes fondly in reply — and don't see him pause, looking at you softer, never hearing "we" before like that. Never dreaming he could hear it like that.

A lot of stalling on your part and encouragement on his, and the last box is packed and placed in the back of the truck.

He laces your fingers together as you drive to the new house, a bottle of champagne already chilled.

Twenty four months into his contract, and you come home with something hidden behind your back.

You smile like you have a secret, which would be a first.

It's awkward to bring around from your back, but there's a large German Shepard puppy wiggling in your grip, tail wagging furiously.

He feels his heart stop for a moment, unable to take his eyes off the puppy, and then the band that's sitting around your finger. He touches his own subconsciously.

You set the ball of fur down, who immediately launches at Simon, whining and wiggling and trying to give him kisses.

There's a collar and tag already there, and you watch with your heart beating faster than ever, unable to stop the smile on your lips, as he wrangles the pup enough to read it.

Riley.

#ink by bambi #simon riley/reader #simon riley x reader #ghost/reader #ghost x reader #simon riley/you #simon riley x you #modern warfare imagine #modern warfare fanfic #simon riley imagine #simon riley smut #mondern warfare smut

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fwaist · 7 days ago

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JAW once said in an interview that “Carmy does not fuck” which is 1. hilarious and 2. in character and 3. intriguing, and I would love to hear your headcanons regarding this🙏🙏💕

of COURSE carmy doesn’t fuck. not because he couldn’t, but because he’s so emotionally repressed, chronically stressed, and buried under ten layers of guilt and self-loathing that sex would just be another thing he overthinks into oblivion. the man is hanging on by a thread and that thread is beef. so yeah. he doesn’t fuck—but if he ever did? it would be awkward and intense and kind of sweet in a “he’s trying so hard please someone give him a hug” way. and i have so, so many thoughts about that. okay—diving in.

Carmy’s not inexperienced, per se. He knows what sex is. He’s watched enough porn, read the occasional questionable Reddit thread, jerked off in rushed, guilt-tinged moments between 14-hour shifts and deep spirals of culinary self-loathing. But sex—actual sex, with a person who looks at him like you do? That’s a different kind of pressure. It’s a kind of heat he doesn’t know how to hold.

He prepped for this. Not like—intentionally, but… kind of. He showered longer than usual. Used the good soap. Trimmed everything down there as best he could and definitely nicked himself once or twice in the process—stood over the sink like it was a high-stakes mise en place, squinting into the mirror, muttering, “Okay, slow, slow, don’t fuck this up, chef…” The result is neat, if a little uneven. He smells like clean cotton and whatever expensive shampoo Sugar left in the apartment.

When it finally happens—when you tug him by the hand to the bed and he stammers something like, “We don’t have to, if you’re not—if this is too soon or whatever, I can wait, I’m chill,”—you kiss him quiet. He melts. Shoulders slumping. Lips soft and hungry. He kisses like he means it, like every second is precious, like he’s scared it’s going to be the last. And when your hand dips between his legs?

He gasps. Full-bodied, shaky. “Fucking Christ,” he chokes out, hips twitching. His cock’s already hard, hot against your palm. Not huge, not small—just right, pretty even. Cut, flushed pink at the tip, thick enough to make you feel it stretch you, but not enough to overwhelm. There’s a vein down the side that pulses when you stroke him, and he watches you like he’s watching God.

“Oh my god—yeah, okay, that’s—fuck, shit, sorry,” he mutters, hips jerking forward. “That—feels better than, like—anything. Ever. I don’t—am I supposed to do something with my hands or—?”

You laugh, and he blushes so hard his ears turn red. “You’re good, Carm. You’re doing fine. Let our bodies do the talking.”

He groans like that line alone nearly finishes him off. “Ohhh—fuck, no, don’t say shit like that—”

You guide him inside you, and for a second, everything stops. His breath catches. Eyes wide. Muscles tense like he’s bracing for something catastrophic, like maybe he’s about to cry or come or die. “Holy fuck,” he whispers. “Are you sure—are you okay—do I need to slow down?”

You just nod, and he lets out this broken little sound. Kind of a moan, kind of a whimper, and so sincere it nearly undoes you.

At first, he’s awkward. Bumping the wrong angle. Hips moving in tiny, unsure thrusts like he’s terrified to go too deep. Keeps checking your face like he’s looking for notes. “That—no, sorry—was that weird? I can stop. I’ll stop. Shit. I—uh—yeah.” You kiss him again, thread your fingers through his hair, and roll your hips until he’s buried deep and shaking.

When you get on top, his brain shorts out. Full-on blue screen. His hands fly to your waist like instinct, but his mouth is stuck on a loop. “Yeah. Fuck. Okay. Yeah. You’re so—holy shit, you’re—beautiful, baby, fuck, shit—” His voice goes high when you clench around him, like a whine caught in his throat. His hips twitch like they want to buck up but he’s scared to move, too scared to end it too soon.

And he does come too fast. Not in a tragic way—just in that achingly human, overwhelmed way that makes you want to kiss every inch of him. His hands tremble on your thighs, face slack with pleasure, mouth open as he gasps out, “I—I think I’m gonna—fuck—fuck, fuck, f—ohhh—shit—” and then he’s done, shaking under you, pressing his face into your neck like he’s trying to disappear.

“Sorry,” he whispers after. “I—I swear I can go again. Like. Soon. Just—holy shit.”

And he does go again. He’s hard again in less than ten minutes, and the second time’s better. He starts to find rhythm, his hands more confident, his mouth bolder. He talks more, too—low, raspy praise between panting breaths. “You’re so fucking soft, baby, you’re perfect, so wet, so good for me—” He latches onto your tits like he’s been dreaming about them for years. He sucks and mouths at them like a man starved, eyes glazed and reverent.

“I’ve got a thing,” he confesses, voice rough. “With—y’know. Tits. Just—fuck. They’re amazing. You’re amazing.”

You ride him through it. Take control. And he loves it. Because it lets him feel without the pressure to perform. He’s sensitive, vocal—little gasps and sighs spilling out with every grind of your hips. When you tell him not to talk, just to feel, he moans so sharply it echoes. His whole body tightens, stomach clenching, hands white-knuckling the sheets.

“Ohhh, fuck—don’t say that—fuck, I’m gonna—” he whines, high and airy, and then he’s coming again, teeth sunk into your shoulder to muffle it, cock pulsing deep inside you. His thighs twitch. You feel his whole body flutter under you, coming undone again.

After, he holds you. Silent. Breath slowing, chest rising against your back. Face nestled into your hair. And for once, there’s no chaos. No kitchen yelling. No fire alarms. Just the sound of your heartbeat under his cheek and the soft hum of the city outside his window.

You trace his jaw, and he mumbles, “I was so bad at that, huh.”

“You were perfect, Carm.”

He sighs, a sleepy little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Okay. Good. ‘Cause I—uh. Wanna do that again. With you. Like, a lot.”

And he means it. Every stammered word.

#𐔌 . fwaist ! ౨ৎ #✦ ⌇ elowyn writes !#★┊anon ask .ᐟ #the bear #carmen berzatto #smut #carmen berzatto x reader #first time #losing virginity #carmy the bear #carmy berzatto #literally the only part he was 100% confident about was the condom.#the last thing this dude needs right now is a baby. seriously.

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biteyoubiteme · 3 months ago

Text

with wings of wax and thread

angel!huening kai x demon!fem!reader

‧₊˚ ⋅ synopsis: In the kingdom of Aethera, an angel is pushed from the heavens. Wings torn and feathers spilling, he finds himself in the den of a demon who wishes to have never been found. Long having lived with your own fall from grace, wingless and bloody just as he is now, you help stitch back up what once was. Can nurtured understanding be crueler than nature? ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ warnings: 🔞!!!demon fem!reader, angel!huening kai, angst, blood, depression, mentions of death and gore, reader talks about being violently attacked, cpr performed, slight open ending that could lead to mc/member death if interpreted that way, unprotected sex, no pull out mention, prob forgot some sorry

⊹₊ ݁ . wc: 19.6k . ݁₊ ⊹

𓅪 ⸝⸝⸝ now playing: I, carrion (icarian) - hozier an: im so in love with this event, the work that all these amzing writers put into this is so astonishing- it’s so wild to participate in something like this when I still feel like a baby writer with so much to learn but thats always the fun bit I guess lol im so happy we could all stretch our creative abilities to come together and make this work <333 thank you for reading!!

[m.list] [aethera!event m.list]

ONCE UPON A TIME… In a land far far away, where the treetops touched the soft clouds of the sky, and the water sparkled under the glowing sun. Where mountains rose high and in which long, deep caves ran. Where the sea met shore in a collision of tall waves. Where the undead walked among the living. Where the winged flew above the finned. In a land where things beyond any reason and rhyme existed. And amongst those very beings, within the veils of Aethera, there was…

Feathers, soft and white, twisted in the golden glow from the slow-setting sun. Raining down like a thrown stone, sinking and littering the waiting ground.

The fall from grace had been sickly sweet. The shock of that first second of flightlessness was frightening enough to cause Kai to sink his teeth into his tongue. Holding back the staggered scream he wanted to let out, still protecting the ones who wronged him. Who had sent a blistering pain down his back, the cracking of cartilage ringing in his ears as he screwed his mouth shut, pleading with glistening eyes, forgiving them the second that his foot had met nothing but air.

His mouth had filled with blood, the ichor more sugar than iron, his stomach turning from the flavor, or maybe it was the feeling of falling. Flying had been something like this, the air rippling in his hair, every strand kissed with the soft hands of the north wind, a mother's touch. Flying had felt so close to life that even in falling he understood what it meant to have all your memories rush in front of you one last time. Because falling was like the memory of flying, the echo of it so close it was like a shout right in his ear.

And he laughed, the sound a strangled choke, fighting its way out from between his lips, teeth stained and heart sinking. He had never felt heavy, not when lifting off the ground was second nature. Kai had imagined his bones had been hollow like a bird's, but plummeting only showed him how led he was lined. Heavy, too much for even the mother's air to carry him, slipping through fingers, through feathers.

He didn't think that having a wing ripped right from his back would have made so many of his feathers come free, whirling around him, in a thick plume. Maybe it was his wing's way of bleeding. He had witnessed the damaged appendages before on others and they never bled, not unless wounded at the base, right at the shoulder blade. But even his feathers now were dotted with thick spots of blood, the droplets rising instead of falling with him, lighter than his lead bones. He reached out, trying to catch any feathers he could, trying to grasp them as if they would be the edge of a cliff he could pull himself back up from. But he came away with nothing but understanding.

This was a brutal way to make a grave but it was the hand he had been dealt, the cards pushed into his waiting palms without question. He only hoped the ground wouldn’t damage his wings worse than they already were. Half hanging on by tender threads of pink life, he hoped to tuck whatever was left around him like he had when he was a child, creating a small cave for him and him alone.

Kai was thinking in full circle thoughts, that crippling adult understanding washing away to childlike hope as he counted the seconds down to when someone would realize he wasn’t catching air, their rush to reach him deterred by the weight of him hurtling towards the waiting dirt. If his bones were not lead-lined they had been made of magnets, his ruined wings having kept him from the realization sooner; the grave always called the body.

The carrion had made the decent look appealing. Kai had grown up seeing the demons sore up only to tuck their tar-colored wings close to their bodies, looking freer than when Kai stretched his out, the span of his shadow over the sea. If they could feel the thrill of descent he could find it in him to enjoy the last of his sorry life.

The wind picked up, spinning him, round and round, dizzying and giggling. It was his twinkling laugh that made you look up. The jagged rocks circling his falling form, the ceiling of your cave the perfect opening for him to find himself invading. The sun was setting just enough so that the shadow of him cut deep into you, palms slick as you pushed up from where you sat at the edge of the moon pool, sand coating your fingers as you pressed a hand to your racing heart. Blood rushing in your ears, serpentine fear wrapping around your limbs running a chill down your spine.

They had come, found your hiding spot, and planned to finish you off, that laugh was only the start. It had not yet turned cruel as it was that day, the parroting of the group still ingrained right behind your ears, following you around no matter how you tried to shake the thoughts. And now they were coming down like a meteor into the only safe space you had ever known. The entrance was hard to maneuver with wings; it only made sense they would have a rough time with landing except there was a giant splash, the water in the moonpool lapping up, the crashing sound like the waves hitting the rocks only now echoing in the carved out cave.

Everything was getting wet, the water cold to your skin as it dotted your legs, feeling like a burn when you were so shocked. Because as the water settled, the churning sound still worked its way through your skull and it began to rain. The soft white feathers swung down billowing side to side, drifting as if they were a newborn butterfly, always knowing flying was in their bones but never knowing they could do it alone. Drifting to a final stop on water starting to calm. And there sinking to the bottom, face up and eyes closed, was an angel.

His white wings torn and weighed him down lower and lower to the sandy floor of the pool, the plume of derby shadowing him as he hit the bottom. Hands out on either side of him like someone welcoming in the sun after a long winter, the look you saw before a much needed embrace, not as if you had ever seen it before.

Stepping to the edge where sand turned to rock you looked back up at the sky, the fading light of the day slipping into hazy darkness, the blue hour working its way over the land before the moon fully made its appearance. But you could only see the slow falling feathers, catching wind and making way in other directions far from where you stood now. If he had been pushed by a demon they would have been on their kill without a second thought, they tracked them without mercy, like the hunters who aimed to play with their food instead of showing it the grace of kindness. If they had hit to watch him run they would have chased until it was over not let him sink in this water so far from home. They would have wanted the angels to see what they had done to such a pretty face.

Because he was pretty, even in dying. The last bubbling breaths fluttered to the surface until they broke through the tension. You trembled, cold all over from the moment's rush of fear that was still coursing through you, hands clenching and unclenching as you thought over what to do with him. In the water he could rot without much worry to you, the fish would pick him over but it wasn't as if you got many swimming around anymore. The sea folk had warned of swimming too close to your pool, for the first couple months of you finding shelter in the hollow cave, the fish had been your only source of sustenance. But the sea folk kept to their own, even the lowest of the food chain, warning them about you had been easy enough. So his body would rise unless his wings found themselves lodged under a rock.

You were ready to turn, find company in him even if he was at the bottom of the water until a single lone feather caught your attention. Eyes tracing the swaying descent like a cat following the trail of a mouse. Bleached white like a bone, pearlescent once it landed on the now still water, cupped like a curved leaf or petal. And there, dotted like a heart, was a single spot of blood. You could remember the way your own feathers looked, black enough for the blood to seep in and disappear like it had never existed.

It had felt like drowning the day you found yourself here. Falling from where they had dropped you had hurt, the salt water burning your open wounds like a quick scratch from a cat. Your mouth full of the ocean, choking and suffocating you as you claw for anything to grasp. They had left you, the rain of black feathers not unlike this angel's white ones now. Only you had been still fighting, ripping at the hold that death had on you because in death you would have to go back to some kind of hell and you wouldn't be able to survive an eternity with your worst moments, not when at that peak they felt that excruciating.

The angel now had given up, his twitching hand slowing to a stop. If the day you had found yourself drowning in this very pool had been your worst you would not let the same death kill someone else when you knew that it had been survivable. You would not take the name of your brethren as a brand but only the burden as it was, this action a shoulder shake to lessen its hold. So you dove in.

You had reached the bottom before, the sandy ground only six feet deep, a proper grave for when your arrow rang true on the rare fish that came in. They sank from how heavy the weight of their death hit them. But they had never been truly heavy and you still felt weak in comparison to the other demons you should have taken after. It wasn't until you reached him that you realized you would have to touch him to take him to the surface.

Your hands slid around his wrist, trying to lift him just enough to get your arms under his. Legs kicked behind you as you struggled to keep yourself in the right position, lungs constricting. He was lighter than you imagined and it was mostly because of the water's help, but his wings, broken, bent, and barely hanging on, weighed him down, hanging behind him like a sheet torn to bits.

Kicking and kicking you went, feet pushing against the rocky walls lined with coral, sharp enough to cut into your feet. Blood was darkening the small space, his and yours, mixing as you went. The need to breathe begged at your aching lungs, throat tight with the need. He was so limp, no help as you finally broke the surface, gasping air by the mouthful as you reached an arm out for the edge.

It hasn't crossed your mind how you would pull him out only that it was better to have his head above the water than below it. But you tried, not caring if he got scratched up as you pushed him needing to get him halfway out of the water so he was easier to pull out. Your grunts turned into near cries, he was heavier and heavier the more you pushed him out of the water, sopping body, wings, and clothes adding on to the bricks piled up you felt you were pushing out. When he was halfway up when your arms weak, you pulled yourself out of the water. No time to take a breather as you wrapped both your hands around his wrists. You groaned, putting all your weight back, tugging and tugging until he was just feet resting in the bloody water.

Your arms are trembling, half limp only held up with the adrenaline crossing through you from the fear that was still making its way through your veins. Pushing him onto his back his partially open mouth looked as if he had already gone and died, effort wasted if you gave up now. You had never been taught the art of saving anyone but you knew what you would want if someone had been kind enough to lift a hand to help you. Fingers locked together you press on his chest, shoulders burning with the effort. Dripping water fell from your chin as you went, the droplets sliding down his cheeks like tears as you cursed. “Don't,” it was all you could make out from your clenched teeth, a demand that he not die right here, right now. Sand digging into your legs, grains between each feather pressed under him, turning them golden as the fading light hit in just right.

You pressed so hard you felt your arms out snap, elbows locked, chest heaving in the way you wanted him to and then he coughed. The strangled choke like a morning bell, that slim chance of promise of another day. His body jerked to life, shocked like lightning he bolted, turning to the side and vomiting a mess of sea. Your nose scrunching as you sat back, joints electrified and shot, you fell back into the sand, watching the high mouth of the cave as you listened to him continue his fit.

In the time you had spent in the Moolpools cave it was easy to only make small movements, you hardly went out unless you were truly hungry enough to risk it. This had been the most motion you had done in a long time, and now you knew exactly why it was easy for them to target you. You felt weak, you were weak, this was only proof enough. But you had saved him, if even for a second, and they would have thought you weak for that too.

You could hear their laughs right behind your ears. You had not been facing the sky then, but you had hoped, their hands forcing your face into the dirt. Childish demon cruelty taken a step too far even in the eyes of the elders. It had taken you a long time to catch your breath then, your lungs never obeying you but it's another reason why they had believed you dead, the sudden stillness that had taken over your body as the pain made its way through you. You wondered if your angel felt that way now. Only you had been kind enough to let him see the sky before he slipped into unconsciousness.

Because he had, as you regained your strength to look at him, eyes closed, breathing rapid and uneven. You had given him a chance and now you didn't know what to do with him. His wings were bent and broken. Hardly any feathers clinging to the frail bones they had been attached to. It would be hell to fix them, pain unimaginable to bind and snap them back into place, stitch them together, and pray for some way to make them better again. You stood over him, the white shirt that had once been billowing in the wind was now transparent and clinging to his skin, the thread strong and fine.

When they had ripped your wings off you had nothing left to attach, not that you haven't tried, but alone with no help there was no way to reattach wings with your hands. No way to reach behind yourself except to feel the spots they had once been, the jagged scars still there now, the ghost pain of that day still shooting down your back every time you dreamt of that day. And on the worst days, you could imagine them still behind you, heavy and protective, enough to curl yourself into your personal space, alone in the dark velvet home you had been born with already built in. Wishing they were back was worse than knowing the pain of them being taken away. And even as a demon, you would not be so cruel as your brethren had been to leave you without so much as the one thing that should never be taken from a person, angel or not.

You still had your embroidery kit, the soft bag had been tied to your finger the day they had ruined you. The thread was dark, dyed to match the rocky mountains you had been sewing into the fabric. You wonder if they had burned your work after you were gone. All the hard hours doing the thing that you had hoped would get you by in the underworld. People loved to be flashy, spend on extravagant things, and there had been nothing more extravagant than the garments you had embroidered.

Tucked in the bottom of the small pouch was a thin sharp pair of scissors, the handle shaped like a bird, wings laid back with its beak glossed in gold. They had been a gift when you started to learn, your needles next to them clicking around, silver and all different sizes. Everything was so small, your only weapon that day as if it would hurt them. They Had been useless but they would be put to work now. He would need to be wiped of the sand before you went in and started to clean the wounds enough to see where you would have to help sew him back together.

You had collected a fair amount of things having lived in the cave for so long, your stash that was similar to a magpies, pretty but never something you used. Sometimes you would find things and keep them just because you might want them because it was better having something over nothing. The crate of glass bottles filled with alcohol is one of those things. It had washed up on the beach after a ship had hit the rocks, too close during a storm to leave anyone alive in the mess. You had picked over the wreckage just as the carrion you were nicknamed after. Someone would have wanted it and so you had taken it just because of that fact, if the gold meant nothing to you but everything to another you would have it, as was your nature. Now you could use it, uncork the bottle, and pour it over his back if you could get him to roll over again.

Kai did not see you move to the dark corner where your stash was hidden when he blinked himself awake. In his confusion his lungs still felt full, his throat constricting as if he was waking in the water and not beside it, choking because his mind was trying to catch up to his reality. He hurt all over, his chest and stomach scratched and burning, heavy with an ache of bruised ribs. His back was on fire, screaming at him, begging him to scratch and rip at the pain. It made him whimper, the only sound that could come out from his raw throat.

He could not think past anything but the look of the sky above him and not behind him as he fell. And when you showed yourself, a bottle of clear liquor in one hand and a small pouch in the other, he believed you to be a human stumbling upon him on a lone beach. He had not seen many humans, accustomed to staying up in the heavens with his brethren. And how could he have known what you really were when you were wingless? You had not grown the horns that most of the demons possessed, you could feel the spot they must have wanted to sprout through if they had been given the chance, the area always colder than the rest of your scalp. It had been one of the things they had picked at when taking their dues.

To them, you had been no demon without the markers they had been so used to seeing, your wings the only thing tying you down to their depths. Even your power had been faint, strong enough to only wave a candle's flame to life, no roaring forest fires and destruction. To Kai, in that moment you were nothing more than a girl who looked like the saving grace he had been begging so fiercely for when falling.

For an angel, his dark eyes cut through you like knives. You had not been looked at so intensely since the attack, people who caught a glance had known to keep going and turn away. This gaze was a line of glimmering hope that he had thrown around your shoulders tightening until it was nothing but a collar of expectations tugging you forward. You had been taught to crush looks that felt suffocating, praise broken bonds, and burnt bridges before ever letting someone take you for a helping hand and honest heart. “Do not look at me like I'm something to be thankful for,”

It was not the first thing that he had expected you to say to him. Not when he was so close to thinking you to be some sort of angel like him without the matching wings. Your voice cut through him, sharp and demanding, nearly as painful as it had been to wake up like this. Everything was falling apart; his body, his grip, which he had believed to be tight, around his good faith in people. But you had pulled him out of the water and maybe he had come to expect too much from people. A package deal that had been wrapped up in the warped expectations of the angels. Not that most of them followed the rules, but it was better to hide behind the guise of kindness than the truth of wrongdoing and instinctual indifference.

The fallen angel only blinked back at your words instead of taking them in, eyes softening at the realization that it had been you alone to pull him out, your chin still dripping with the saltwater that stung the open wounds on his back. He could not do anything but look at you thankfully because it was the only thing he could focus on feeling without turning back into a pit of despair that had let him give up the second he had hit the water. Thinking even about that second of thought that would have led to forever was nothing but crushing rocks landing on his back heavier than the wings still trying to hang on by nothing but thin ribbons of flesh.

And in truth what the look did was make you nervous. Like some lone schoolgirl who couldn't be under the pressure of her class watching a presentation. It frustrated you to no end, twisting a bloody knuckled hand around your insides and tugging them down to your knees. He was in no way able to make a move to hurt you that you wouldn't see coming first. You knew the small cave better than anyone alive and he was weak, his hands opening and closing limply like the steady wings of a butterfly resting. And all his feeble voice could muster up in response was, “Thank you,”

The words strung together felt like thrown stones hitting you one after the other. You had been kicked out of your home and told you were no more demon than the humans roaming the castles pretending to play ruler and kingdom. To be told thank you for saving anyone, or even more specifically an angel’s, life was the final nail in your coffin. Every last thing they had said to you as they ripped your wings from your shoulders buried deep enough to burn, those two words sprouting from the grave to show the fruits of your tormentor's labor. The final stamp to seal the truth of your wrongfulness.

It would have been easier to kill him then, easier than having to hold him down as you tried to help him, and easier than pulling him up from the depths of the moon pool. But they had been right to call you a sympathizer, right in calling you weak because looking at him needing you it was impossible to turn him away. “I'm going to hurt you,” it was a warning bell, the echo of your voice mimicking the sound of some faint prophetic truth. It was not your intention to cause pain on him but the only way that you could help him. It was easier to confess to that than to say you would try and fix him.

But Kai did not listen, he did not care if you hurt him so long as it made his mind stop working over his last thoughts. The blinking of tears the second he had been pushed had made him feel little again, a child wondering why bad things happened at all. Why would someone push him, why would someone rip his wings until they were nothing but dead weight trying and failing to hold on to their last breath, drowning him, pulling him under into nothing but darkness? He had been wronged more than he thought would ever happen to him and if those who claimed to be honest, kind people,were the ones who hurt him, what was there to believe when those claiming to hurt him had done nothing but pull him free from death? It was a mess of contradictions and his gut was not helping him pick sides. He was a mix of emotions that felt hollow like a long dead tree waiting for a victim to fall into and perish just the same. Being hurt meant nothing to a newly found desolate creature, betrayed, and seeking grace.

And so he would let you hurt him because he had nothing to lose, no more to give but turn over and let you try whatever it was that you had planned to help fix him. It was like a mutual understanding had fallen over the two of you like a blanket. He saw the bottle in your hand and knew, watched your fingers as they pulled out the needle, watched the way the metal turned red and you started to heat it enough to sterilize it. It was then that he knew what you were.

It did not make him cringe, not when he knew that to have a demon at his back was akin to death incarnate welcoming themselves to twist a knife right into his spine. He knew that there were hardly enough people on this island who would have helped him enough to the point that they wouldn’t have gotten ill at the sight of his blood. Demons had steady hands; they did not tremble and they did not cower away from gore. To have been stumbled upon by a demon as generous as you were was a blessing he could not fight back against.

So he let you turn him over, your warm hands working to take off his shirt, cutting it away until it was nothing but scraps, his face pressed into the sand, the grains catching in his lashes. You were gentle with him, laying out his wings that had lost most of their feelings, numb all the way up until they hit the spots right where they were supposed to be connected. It was the only place he could feel the pain anymore, his lungs and throat secondary to the pain he was feeling right there at the root of him. If everyone else had worn their hearts on their sleeves angels had found a way to wear their hearts on their back, their life source, and now it was screaming at him.

You picked over the scraps of his shirt, peeling away the thread in long stands, looping the thread around your fingers, and making a small ball for you to pull from as you worked. He kept his eyes closed, lashes laying so peacefully across his cheeks as if he was dreaming in the moonlight and not waiting for you to put him back together. There was no going back the second you started, not unless you picked him apart again just to see the way he looked again while hurt. The thought made you feel a bit sick. The intrusion of it is either your mind trying to work around the situation or your faint demon instinct kicking in, playing with the idea until you fall into the trap of it.

But it was still enticing even if it was sickening. You were so alone and bored, with nothing to do and no one to see. You had been hurt and had not yet found the outlet for that pain even years later, this was the perfect opportunity and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything but cringe the second you straddled his back. Holding him down with the weight of you as you poured the liquor over his wounds and watched him writhe from the pain. There was little enjoyment to find here.

Kai tried to keep his mouth shut nearly as tight as his eyes but the second the first wave of the anesthetic washed over him he could not help himself from screaming. It echoed around the cave, loud enough to find itself spilling from the cave's top entrance. If anyone had been walking around they would have run, believing some wolf had gotten too far from the woods and taken a victim. You did not try to shush him, just placed your warm palm in the center of his back and pushed him back down, trying to keep him still even if it was an impossible task at that point.

Then the first stitch came. It was easier to hold back, easier to try and focus on anything else but the blinding pain he was feeling, it was something other than the emptiness settling over him. He could not think of anything good coming from this, could not see himself going home again, to see his friends, the ones who had pushed him, his mother, his sisters. There was nothing but shame and treachery. They would have welcomed him back even wingless but there was no way for him to ever feel at home again, not when he knew what it was like to be nothing but air and death.

He did not care if he did not move from that spot, the sand the only thing grounding him as he sunk his fingers in curling them until he could feel nothing but his mind trying to work and count every grain he could imagine on his skin. It was nothing but a tactic to let the pain wash away for even a second. He didn't even realize he was crying until the wetness was making more sand stick to his cheek. The soft rumbling of his whimpers mixed in with the faint groans he would release after a particularly tender part of the stitching.

“You are very lucky to have me, when they took my wings I had nothing to do but bury the one they had left hanging. I don't know what it had looked like but I do know that it felt like this,” you were muttering, talking to yourself and letting the words come out without a filter just as you did when he hadn't been here. “I would have wanted even the one to be stitched back but I remember the pain and I'm-” The word sorry was not one that came from you often or at all, there was little you could do but say it now but still your throat caught. “I would not wish it on anyone,”

Your fingers worked fluently, picking up the memory of the old stitches you had perfected long ago in a life you did not care to remember. This was nothing but an old way of passing time that you had practiced over and over again. You had never stitched up flesh and blood but it was no different now than it had been then. In a way, it was a comfort you should not have found in the task but it was impossible not to.

“I do not know how well this will work but I will try,” his wings, covered in sparse feathers, twitched every once in a while as you carefully threaded your needles, tightening the stitches and watching the way the wings came back to life like a marionette doll pulled at its strings. It was hope and nothing more.

Kai couldn't grit out any more words, the sound of your voice washing over him like a balm but nothing more. He wanted to hate you but knew it was necessary to feel this way when it came to pain. They had told him never to bite the hand that fed him but this was a forceful hand coming out to get him, twisting its fingers in his hair and pushing his face in the dirt until it was nothing but a given that he had to eat whatever it was that was handed to him. But he listened, taking in each word and trying to keep them as close as he could get them.

Tried to imagine you with dark wings at your back. The silky feathers always shined so nicely in comparison to his white ones. His wings had looked plush and downy, nothing like the oily temptation of the demons. But he could not get the image around his head, could not see what it looked like any more than what it would look like to go home again. It was with you in his mind that he passed out, eyes closing until there was nothing but peaceful darkness where he had no reason to think of hurtful homecomings and angels dressed as death.

You noticed almost as soon as he fell into the pain. Body going slack underneath you, all of his muscles loosening before he was nothing but twitching nerve ends from each insertion of the needle. It was not delightful work but clean and concise, the expert precision of a fiber works artist long since skilled in their field. Every so often your fingers struggled to keep hold of the slipping needle, the tips of each digit dipped in crimson as you went on with your task. And even as he lay there you went on with your muttering. “We will have to look for more feathers, only a few fell in here, I still have a couple but I don't know how well you will feel looking spotted like a pigeon,”

For a long time, you had been sick at the sight of the clutch of feathers that you had kept from your wings long gone. It had been nothing but pain to see them, the sight cutting into you like a knife just sharpened on a whetstone. You had wanted to bury them right along with the wing you had put to rest, ripped the rest of the way from your back from your own hands, and yet you couldn't part with them just as you couldn't let go of the needles from your past life.

Helping him right now, pinching skin to pierce through and thread, felt like it was somehow stitching up a bit of yourself. You acted fast almost as soon as he was out of the water because it was the way you would have wanted someone to help you. Without discrimination, just understanding. They had given you no chance and if you could not give it to yourself you would give it to someone not far off from you. Because you knew what it was like to live here stuck wingless with nothing to do but try not to rot like some discarded apple. It had taken everything in you to help yourself once you had let go of your past life. The feeling was nothing like you had ever felt before.

It was emptiness, no more and no less, just an expanse of nothingness that unraveled the farther and farther you went into the recesses of your mind. To pull yourself from that pit and find some kind of routine was nothing short of a miracle. But if someone had been waiting here, even if they didn't pull you out of the water but took the wing you had and gave you the hope to live with that once comfort would have been better than nothing. Even if he didn't have full control over his wings like before he would still have his childhood home still there right at his back protecting him when no one else had. If you could give him that it was enough.

But then when the sewing was done there was nothing to do but let him rest. The work you had done was as neat as it could be, the prickling skin around the base of each wing would hold steady and let the skin heal. You stood looking over him, sleeping with his soft cheek on the sand, his hair once wet now dry and resting against his sleeping brow. Angelic was the only word that would surface and it felt silly to attach something so obvious to him. He was nothing but angelic down to the bone; to his blood. But even still freckled in dried blood and his half-feathered wings you could tell it was written all over him fallen or not.

You had seen little of the angels when growing up but occasionally they made a pass over the moonpool's mouth. Their bell-like laughter twinkled like the stars in the night that they flew with. They had seemed so far off and distant. But what you had been told about them was that they were nothing but selfish and self-righteous. Underneath the beauty was callous arrogance, they helped others but only if they had already achieved more and found that they could take the last step without them. Take help but never give credit unless it is beneficial to them to say, drop everything to look good, or fend for themselves.

They had said all demons had shared blood with the angels, until one was banished, the bitterness infecting their souls until their wings turned ebony with rage and the promise of revenge. The story had been on your mind the second they had picked on you for being weak, wondering if somehow your blood had run thin and showed assets of your long since dead ancestors who had seen the heavens and walked with wings of ivory at their backs. Because although you found yourself thinking cruel things you did not dream to be a cruel person.

So you cleaned him up as best you could, cleaning the blood from your hands and his back, taking the time to take your wet cloth over his feathers to try and clean them as best as you could. You watched his wings twitch in response every so often but he did not stir, there was little you could do in terms of his pain, little more you could do if he found himself with an infection. You could hardly keep yourself alive in the space, you don't get many fish unless you make it out to the beach at night, or find a rabbit in the woods easy enough to catch with a trap. Two mouths to feed was a limit you would have to push yourself to reach.

But it was something you would think about in the morning, not when the sun was gone and the cave was dark enough that the only thing you could see was the faint glow of the moonpool. The water reflected onto the walls of the cave, washing everything in an eerie blue hue that minced what it would have looked like if you plunged in and swam with the sea folk. It was one of the few beautiful things you could indulge in and yet now you could add to the list because you had him to look at.

Without turning your back to him you found your usual spot against the wall, the perfect place so that it was just hidden in the dark with the view to see the ceiling's entrance. There was nowhere else to look with him blocking the water as you lay down, back pressed up against the smooth stone wall, washing your heated skin with the faint coolness it had been seeking. You traced the lines of his sleeping face, scared to fall asleep with him so close. Wishing that in that moment you had your own wings to wrap you up, block you from the fear of waking up with him so near with nothing but questions and demands.

You curled up with your small blanket, tucking it under your chin keeping the angel in sight. It was only when your lashes were fluttering closed that you noticed his eyes start to peek open. He only blinked faintly, a tremble starting in his arms but he was unable to move them. Kai felt weak, drained of everything, vision blurry with the sight of you lying down in the blue darkness.

Whatever fear you had before was slowly washing away with the look of pain written all over him. He had no way of hurting you when he could hardly breathe properly from the pain. “What is your name?” you could not keep calling him the angel in your head or out loud.

Your whisper carried in the room and he closed his eyes at the sound, it had been what he had heard before he passed out and it only made his mind feel at ease, something to grab onto in the pain. “Huening kai,” it was low and the only thing in the whole room besides the two of you.

“You need to rest Kai, tomorrow we have to look for any feathers that may have dropped around the beach or the woods,” but Kai didn't care about that, not when he was still trying to find more of you to hold onto.

“What’s-” he couldn't think of the rest of the sentence, not until it was tumbling into him like the rocks off the side of a cliff. He wanted to know your name and hold onto it so he could attach it to the thoughts and memories he was building of you in his head. “What's your name?” He was looking through his lashes only able to keep his eyes open the smallest bit because even that had felt like it took too much energy, the small twitches of his fingers taking most of the rest of his will.

For a second you could not remember what you had been called before you were just you, because in here, alone, no one asked and no one cared. But it came back to you like the moon had come back each night, there was no forgetting it even if it sounded foreign on your tongue after so many years. Saying it, Kai could hear how unsure you felt until you repeated it again for him.

So that's how he said it in his head, the slight second between the two the repentance following the state of his mind, that question lingering at the last syllable, and the sigh of content following the tail end when he said it again. So he let it go over and over in his head, counted the letters like sheep jumping over him, letting the thought of you lull him back to sleep instead of the pain. And you followed right after him, sleeping fitfully because every time you heard a small hitch in his breathing you had to make sure he was still alive. Make sure that your effort has not gone to waste.

And he did live through the night and with your aid you helped him sit up in the morning. Watching him ball his fist and rub at his cheek to rid it of the sand that had built up. He looked like a cherub fallen to the stone and looking up in the foreground of the painting waiting for someone to notice his absence. Because all he could think about was if anyone missed him, if they knew what had happened to him and how he had been pushed instead of just caught in some wind he could not find control in as if he was little and learning to use his wing again. They must have said something, maybe they had blamed a demon for what had happened.

But now with your eyes on him, watching him as you made to clean his back again, checking if in the night there was no more redness or sign of illness, he could not think to see a demon the same again. Here you were being a complete contradiction to everything he had ever been told in his life. Demons were nothing but troublemakers who thought nothing about others. They kept to themselves and made fun by bringing people down. There was no room for him to think about how good a demon could be to anyone let alone an angel like him.

Sitting up, letting your warm hands look over his back, he wanted to lean into the touch, let you care for him until he could find a way to fly right out of here. There was no way that he could repay you for something like this, nothing for him to do but sit in the silence you had built around you. But he wanted to break it, crack against the hold that the stillness had over him, and scream at the top of his lungs and curse the heavens even if he had forgiven them for so much already.

He did not know if he deserved what had happened to him but he understood that it had happened and there was nothing for him to do but take it. Cursing and screaming would do nothing but make him bitter and bitterness took too much from the soul, it drained people and he needed all the energy he could get. “Thank you,” it was again the only thing that he could think to say.

“I told you it would hurt,” because every brush of your fingers to check your work was making him suck in the air between his clenched teeth, the sound fast and snakelike.

“Would there have been another way to do it without pain?” it was nothing but a question to poke fun. Kai wanted to lighten the mood but it did not help the situation.

“Do you think my kind would have taken it if so?” you didn't care to look at his blinking reaction, because as much as he knew you were his only option he still held some kind of grudge against demons. It was written all over his face and you didn't even have to see it to know. It shut kai up in a slip second of shame for thinking the instant no.

“You're helping me nonetheless,” his hand reached across his body to press at his shoulder, delicate fingers so close to the torn flesh.

You waved his hand away, “don't touch it, the worst thing would be an infection,”

“The worst thing would be to lose them all together,” he did not say it to be mean or pick at you, he was not like your kind in that way where they know the thing that would tear you down and pick that option every time. No, he was just stating his truth and he was not lying. Infection could be helped but losing them would be closer to death. It was nothing but words but it made your back burn.

You had heard of ghost limbs, the feeling of a hand still being there after it had been cut clean off. People believed they could scratch the limb if they thought hard enough to get rid of the feeling. You didn't know how real the feeling would be until you were there with your wing buried in the woods, the other long lost and tossed in a fire if you knew how any of them would have cleaned up the mess they made. If anything was to tear into you it was that first night where everything ached. Your back where the scabs started to turn to scars began to itch and the feeling traveled down to where there was nothingness but the hope of where your wings would resprout if that was ever an option. You wanted to wrap them around you and wished if you felt the ghost of anything it would be the home they had helped you feel but all you had felt was pain. A pain you could not help because there was nothing to do but let it work its way through your system. The pain was not an itch; not so easily taken care of.

“That would be horrible and if you don't listen to me they will be gone, keep your hand away,” you left no room for argument in your tone and Kai listened. He curled his hand into a fist and sat it in his lap. “Today we will let the area breathe and while I’m out we can get whatever we need to make a salve to help the healing process,” Kai nodded knowing that you were right. He didn't even have the first thought of where to start to find out how to help himself.

“Can you try and pull your wing in,” you didn't want to push him so early but you needed to know if it was worth the trip to even go out and look for feathers if he could not use them.

For Kai, it felt like an impossible question to answer. He felt distant from his heart back, like he was cut in half but then he felt your fingertips, the feeling of them dragging along the edge of his wings, tracing the span of them and following the curve. “Can you feel that?” This was easier because it was the only thing he could focus on. The heat of you was constant, radiating from your body onto his like a blanket he wished he could pull in closer.

“Yes,” it was shallow as he followed the feeling in his mind. He had never been sensitive to touch on his wings, he knew others could feel any brush of their feathers but he felt nothing until now. If he had lost the ability to fly he had gained the ability to have sensation right along the spot he feared he would lose anyway.

You curled your fingers around the top of his wings slowly following the natural way they folded into themselves and helped him push them close to his back. Kai groaned but it was not as horrible as he expected it to be. With your help, he found whatever connection he had lost because now he could keep them pulled in without your help. But you still helped to tuck the other one close just as neatly, checking around his stitches to make sure they could handle the movement without being impossibly stiff.

The sight made you clench your jaw. Jealousy had not been a familiar feeling here but it was alive and well now. But it did not matter, you could be jealous and still help him. But you had to get up and turn away, busy yourself with finding your own feathers, the ones you kept at the bottom of your stash of things, making sure they didn't accidentally get seen by you when you didn't want the reminder.

It had felt easy to say you would give them to him in the moment but the second you pushed aside the spare clothes you had and laid eyes on them it was like saying you would clip off your fingers and let him use them on his own hands. You let the stack of clothes fall right back into place, picking up the loose shirt you could find that would button over him. He would have to wear it backwards because it was not made with wings in mind but there was nothing else for you to do unless he wanted to walk around shirtless.

But Kai was thankful pushing his arms through the sleeves and leaving the buttons for you to do up for him. You made sure to keep yourself from brushing him accidentally, no need to touch him more than you needed to as you secured the fabric around him. But Kai instantly missed your warmth the second you pulled away.

“The only way out is up but it's nothing too bad, you only need to raise your arms about this high,” you demonstrated, “it's mostly leg work,”

“You want me to leave?” he didn't know why it was the first thing he would think, you had just told him about collecting materials to help him but as soon as the words left your mouth all he could think was no don't kick me out don't push me like them, as if you could hear him you shook your head.

“Do angels only sit around when faced with adversity or do they get up and work?” you slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping both arms in to have it securely against your back. When going out it was the only thing that felt comfortable enough to have at your back when you had little else. “If you want to stay, I say we work together to make sure that we can keep you here for a bit longer, but I cannot do everything and you cannot stay forever. Tonight we only need a few things,”

“Okay,” Kai stumbled to stand, feeling unstable and wobbly enough to reach out for the walls to hold him up.

“You can stay here for tonight, rest more if you're not up for it,”

“No,” it was a slight snap back against the way he was feeling. It was not only because he was feeling weak but because he did not like to sit around doing nothing, he did not want to wait for you to come back or worse wait and think that you were never coming back for him. He's sure that is something a demon would do, leave him here without help just to see how long he would stay without the help. But he was thinking badly because he didn't want to face his own truth, “I need to do something,” anything would be better than sitting around and thinking up ways to hate you over nothing at all. Because there was nothing to hate you over, you had done nothing that would make him hate you but the longer he stayed up with his thoughts they seemed to poison the image of you slowly. And he could not do that to his savior.

“Fine, you can go first so that I can make sure you don't fall back,” and you had been telling the truth about the way out, the grooves of the walls made perfect spaces for his feet to fit. Only after a few steps up did he have to raise his arms to try and hold himself steady as he kicked his feet out the top of the opening. It was only possible because the side you had set him to get out of was shorter than the rest of the jagged ring of rocks forming the entrance of the cave. And as soon as he was out it was easy to sit and rest with his legs dangling into the open mouth as if he would just jump right into the water he had nearly died in.

You had no trouble pulling yourself up and out, the rock smoothed down from the amount of time that you had made the trip up even if you avoided it most times. “There is no other way in or out?” Kai asked as you showed him the way down to the grassy underbrush.

“You could swim in and out, it's not very practical but it's better that way if you want to make sure no one sees you coming in. But I don't think that would be good for you and you have to hold your breath for a long while,” Kai could not think about what it would be like to go back into the water after yesterday, he's sure he would instantly imagine himself drowning again.

Instead, he focused on following you and your steps through the thick mess of trees surrounding the spot where you had made your home. Distantly he could hear the sea, the soft crashing of waves on the shore lightening as the two of you went until he saw the first blood-dotted feather.

His wings twitched at the sight, the soft white tucked in between the branches and leaves of a tree. He was silent as he watched you pluck it between your fingers, reaching it like you were picking up a gold coin found on heads for luck. “You will tell me eventually why it is you fell from the heavens won't you?” he watched you twist the feather, examining the dark dried crimson stains.

“There is little of a story there,” he was clenched all over, fists and jaw tight as you held the feather out for him to take, “you hold it,” he jutted his chin out, the only movement he could bring himself to make or else he would fall apart.

Kai had gone through many feathers of different sizes growing up. Preening them and feeling grateful to have grown fully so that they did not fall out as often as they had when growing from downy softness to strong enough to let him fly. But it was different to see them like this. He knew they should not be in your hand, or even his. They should not be spread around the woods like bunches of snow that had not yet melted with the coming spring. But it was as if the longer he looked out over the expanse of woods in front of the two of you the more speckles of white he caught mixed in with all the green.

He was frozen in his spot, stuck just looking out at all the pieces of himself spread out like nothing more than a chess board thrown to the ground, with no intention of being picked up after a soiled game. You could see in him the same kind of evil that was in you twisting itself around your brain the second you moved that stack of clothes and saw your own feathers. When you were young they meant nothing because they had always been there but once it started to go away, once it was nothing more than a pile in front of you it made you feel small and insignificant.

“When they first ripped my wing it didn't hurt like I had imagined it would have,” you had been frozen, stuck like a kitten who had been picked up by the scruff of its neck. You had looked up with eyes that nearly rolled in your skull the second you realized what had happened. How could you not have felt something so huge? Maybe it was because you could not see it, your mind not catching up with your body until seconds later and it was all you could think to feel. There had been blood, slick down your back and on your fingers as you reached to try and hold onto anything that was left. “For a second you almost think you can fly away from the pain,”

Kai watched your eyes go unfocused, lost in a thought that had been his reality just the day before. It was almost as if he could feel that foot pressed right into his back again. His ‘friend’ with the heel of his boot cutting into Kai’s spine. He had asked him to look out over the edge of the last cliff, claiming to have seen carrion flying around too close for comfort. It was only a second, looking over the edge so high up he knew that if he flew down and caught the wind that it would be a rush he could never replicate.

The boot had been nothing but a second before his hands had been on his wings pulling them back until that sickening crunch and tear. It had happened so fast kai had felt nothing until it was all too late.

“There is always a story and you don't have to tell me yours but know that if I could get revenge on the ones who took my ability to fly, I wouldn't hold back from repeating over and over the same pain they inflicted on me,” you tucked his feather into your bag, “they wouldn't think twice about you so don't give them the grace of never speaking up for what they did to you,”

“You’d think that because you're a demon,” and for the first time Kai saw you crack a smile, a twisted tarnished thing.

“We are not too different, the only thing that sets us apart is you thinking you are any better than me. You forget we both woke up in that cave only I was alone and you had me, and how lucky for you that I'm nice and don't just build you up to pull you right back down again,” you turned walking because you needed the distance, “go back if you can't see that we are the same,”

“My first thought wouldn't have been to hurt someone I helped,” Kai kept pace with you, watching you pick up each one of his feathers as you went.

“Just because I say I resist hurting you physically does not mean that what you say or think cannot hurt me. You want to freely throw your judgment around and stick a label onto me, reducing me to nothing but blood I did not ask to be born with and still you cannot see how we are exactly the same. We are only doing the same thing in different seasons, only one of us is plain as day and the other is hidden behind some thick smokescreen allowed in whatever game we have found ourselves,” he could tell there was no room for argument with you. Set in some demon way that made you want to burn instead of heal. But even he knew he was just being bitter, proving you right even if he didn't say it out loud.

He was grateful and he was upset, he had been a pot of water his whole life and it had never been set above a fire until right now and the bubbling was unwelcome and made him itch all over. He didn't see the reason for revenge when there was no way for him to get back up to the heavens without walking up the stairs and that would feel more shameful than coming back wingless. The only thing he could feel about the topic was that if it had been him or you he's not too sure that it would have been him you would have picked to help. But even he couldn't hide from the truth of wanting to pick himself every time.

So he kept his mouth shut knowing there was nothing he could say that would make him look better and nothing he could say to make you look worse because faintly you were right about the both of you being so similar. He followed you like a lost puppy, watching you pick over the brush, collecting pieces of him until you found every part of the set to make enough of a picture. You were careful with them, fitting them all together in a neat stack and wrapping a loose string of thread around them to keep them from spilling all over again.

By the time you two had combed most of the area, the sun was setting into nothing but stars. Two handfuls of feathers and a pit in Kai’s stomach made for little conversation. Keeping his eyes on his footfalls he did not see what it was that made you tense up until it was right there burning in the distance.

A little ball of fire, dancing seemingly above nothing but the air. A Willo-the–wisp, bright enough to feel like a beacon one could not turn to look away from. But you hissed at the thing, reaching down to pick up a rock, smooth in your palm before you threw it. “Hey!” Kai's voice echoed in empty woods, previously the only sound heard was his crunching footsteps. Your years of walking down here had taught you how to keep yourself light as you made a journey this far out from your home. “See only proving my point, hurting things without reason, what did they ever do to you?”

But you didn’t feel like explaining yourself to him, it felt silly to believe in rumors about the little creatures but it was impossible not to feel conflicted about bad signs when your life had been full of misfortune. “Its bad luck to see them,”

“Well it showed up there was no need to throw a rock at it, bad luck or not it was given the second it popped up,” his statement made you roll your eyes. What was there to do but watch the flame snuff out? It felt better to make the flame extinguish the second you saw it as if they were the thing that leached luck from you the longer they stayed around.

“I'm not going to sit and let the death promiser dance around and curse me, or you for that matter, I don't know how I would pull your corpse from the cave if you were to die from the infection they wanted to warn you about,” you watched his face pale, your eyebrows lifting letting it known that you had seen that you had won written on him, “see, so let me throw stones, I'm doing it for both of us even if you don't believe it,”

“It's only an omen, it doesn't mean anything real,” but he was trying to convince himself to fear the little flame, small and weak enough to be taken out by nothing but a pebble.

“You know we have people who read the stars? Creatures deep in the sea, the woods, the kingdom, even your precious sky. They all have stories and folklore that came from some kind of truth,” you picked up another stone in case you saw another little flame lingering around not wanting to risk a sighting even if you could help it.

“How are you planning on getting the feathers back on?” Kai wanted anything else but to talk about being the same or not, about folklore and truth. He was tired and didn't want to think about anything else besides what was supposed to come next.

“Wax, I have lots of candles stored up that will do, if I get the layers thin enough it shouldn't weigh you down. It's also soft enough so that it won’t restrict any growth when they start to grow back,” it felt far away to think about having to go through the process of aging all over again, he had been through the phase of watching his feathers transition he did not want to wait again. The wax would give him an option, anything that would help to keep him from feeling as if he fell so far back from everything he had ever known.

He wonders if you had thought through the same things with your wings before it was too late. If the idea for the wax had come before or after you buried your last option. He did not think it would be okay to ask that, not when you were helping him already. Demons being fickle was not uncommon; he wouldn't be surprised that you tossed him aside for something new to tinker with if given the option. Rather he gets as much information for you on how to help himself before you leave him with nothing at all.

You showed him the way back up and down into the cave and for a sickening second, he thought you would push him while he looked for a way to make it down without landing in the water. Your hand had been on his back to steady him and yourself on the edge together. His flinching from your touch only registered as pain and not fear. You jumped down angeling yourself so that you landed right at the edge of the water and you looked up, stepping out of the way waiting for him to follow your lead.

Kai pushed himself down feeling nothing but air for only a second but it was a second too long. He stumbled as soon as his legs hit the ground, leaning back and looking at you for a sickening moment before he was ready to accept falling back into the water, but you reached out making a fist in his shirt as his arms waved trying to find something to hold onto. The heels of his feet almost tipped him into the water, his wings shuddering and trying to pull in closer, hiding back away as if they could when this damaged. The buttons on the back started to pop with the strain of his weight and he had to reach out for you, hands wrapped around your forearm as you pulled him back to the safety of the sand.

“You're very clumsy on your feet,” you muttered, pulling yourself away from him and his tight grasp. He was embarrassed but only because he was washed in fear and being caught for it on his face.

“There was not one time you fell while jumping down?” he waved at the short distance that was available for him to land.

“Once or twice but you get used to the angle and learn,” you don't put your bag down, not when you have to turn around to look for your candles, keeping your back covered even if now you knew he would do little to hurt you physically. Everything you had picked up from your conversations and just watching him walk around made you realize just how his label fits him so well. He had been more upset over the will-o-the-wisp than his own ruining. But it still didn't make you drop your guard.

Finding your stack of candles you tucked them under your arm and turned to find Kai sitting in the sand all over again, looking out at the water and watching the way it swayed. He traced the dark outline of the opening leading out to the sea, hardly noticeable if you hadn't said there was a way out before. He would have believed there was only the two of you and not the world's ocean just a few feet away from him. So much just inches away from his tomb that he believed he would have been stuck in until someone found his heavy lead-lined bones.

“We don't have to do it tonight if you don't want to,” your voice was soft as if you knew he was stuck in some darkness in his mind, struggling against the hold of some blanket of depression he had thrown over himself and couldn't find his way out of. “It would be better too because we need the light and I can hardly make a fire big enough to produce enough,”

Light, once so easy to produce on the edge of his fingertips, wasted power on his childhood innocence trying to find ways to light up his bedroom when he was supposed to be sleeping. It had been easy back then and now sitting here wanting to get it all over with he couldn't get up enough energy to heat his skin. He was cold all over, blood leached, and hollow. Lifting his palm he focused in on his hands, the soft ridges tracing around the center supposed to be the lifeline or so he had been told. That was where he had always watched the light come from first, starting right at his wrist and working its way up curving between his thumb and pointer finger before it was nothing but light held in his hand like he had caught a star.

Now it was nothing. Not a flicker of illumination nor a hum of warmth. He balled his fist clenching until he felt his nails digging into his supposed lifeline wishing that if he squeezed hard enough he could find a single drop of anything left in him. And still nothing. Not even enough to help him now when he wanted it, needed it most. “Tomorrow,” the word was a bitter thing, in his chest and making it sound rough with hatred.

“It takes a bit to get back,” you tried not knowing why you didn't just curl up in your spot and wait for the rest of the sun to set so that you could sleep. Ignore him and his well-deserved mood. But you had done the same thing, sitting in the dark trying to make even the smallest flame and nothing would come, “I was never the best at lighting anything on fire, not even the blades of dry grass they let the little ones practice with,”

Kai listened, watching you from the corner of his eye as you took a seat next to him, legs crossed just like his, your knee so close to hitting against him he could feel the heat from it. “I should have known then that I wasn't like the rest of them, tailless, hornless, powerless,” you gave a dry humorless laugh, fiddling with the candle sticks you had, letting them spill into your lap picking one only one up and examining the wick. He traced the side of your face, following the bridge of your nose right till the end and watching you blow so softly it wouldn't have taken down the light of a birthday candle.

But a flame bloomed, catching on the wick, and dancing in the coming darkness. It lit up the features of your face, your eyes shining in the light as you watched the small reflection of your power. You had little to give, children had been playing with fire long since they were learning to crawl and you had only come to master a few tricks. “The only thing that had labeled me a demon were my wings, and they had been…” the edge of your lips wobbled, your jaw clenching closed at the itching in your throat as if this was even too much to say to him. “They had been beautiful,” it was said just as softly as the exhale you had done to light the candle, hardly there and weak.

“I didn't even care about the fire, anyone can light a match or strike flint and create a spark. But…”

“Not everyone can fly,” he could feel the way you struggled to say it as if it was traveling from his mind to yours. In the firelight he watched the tear fall, tacking down your cheek faster than you could wipe it away. But you caught it erasing it as if that would take your feelings away from you as if it would keep those intrusive memories from surfacing. Because no one would know how it felt to be that high, physically and mentally, unless they had been up there with you catching air with a laugh bubbling up from your chest like it was coming from a faucet that could never be turned off.

You blew out the candle, sticking it in the sand and pushing yourself to stand, letting the rest of the candlesticks stay laid out for tomorrow. “Don't worry about what you don't have just yet and be thankful for what you're still holding onto. I'm going to bed.” No more was needed to be said when the two of you both knew it hurt too much to find yourself in the mix of confessions and shared sympathy. So you tossed your bag to the side, turning your back to the wall and closing your eyes so that you couldn't look at the blessing you had given him and hadn't received from anyone else.

But it was incredibly hard, there was nowhere to look except him or the back of your eyelids and all you could see when you closed your eyes was the vision of you in the sky. It ached to remember and the pain was fresh looking at his new stitches that you had done even with his wings pulled in and sparse of feathers. Because he sat there at the edge of the water trying and failing to open his wings up again without your help this time.

He could tell they were stiff and he was unfamiliar with the feeling. Before it had been second nature, his wings moving as his lungs did without the need for his mind but now that he focused on them it was like they couldn't work and wouldn't unless he focused on not paying any mind to them. But it was hard to do that when his healing stitches were itching and he was told over and over again by you not to touch them. So he sat there watching the water with his back to you as if that would keep him accountable for not messing up your hard work.

All that was keeping him up was the promise of tomorrow when the sun would come out and you would help him put his feathers back even if he felt that it wouldn't work. In a way he worried it was too unnatural to work, that somehow it would just fail because it was not right, the wind would not agree and still, if it did work he had no intentions of going home. To go back with wings made of nothing but wax and thread felt like a lie of himself. Some imposter trying to pass as himself to fit back into the same life he had before. But with his wings stuck together like a forged abomination felt like he was never going to find himself comfortable there again.

He didn't care if they took him in as he was, whispered behind his back, because he knew they would, and let him pretend that everything was the same when it so clearly was not. He knew little of the world below and even less of the world below that one from where you came from, leaving home would be an adjustment but necessary. He just needed his wings healed enough to hide them back inside of him wherever it was they unfurled from when he wanted them. It had been uncomfortable back in the heavens because there was no need to hide who you were. He would have to get used to the feeling but it would not be something as horrible as this ache was now.

It wasn't until the morning, the sun just peeking over the edge of the cave's mouth that he realized he had not gotten any sleep at all. He listened to the water, the chitter of the animals in the distant woods, and the sound of your easy breathing while you dreamt. He wondered if you would have dreams of flying, if they hurt just as bad as the pain of knowing you never would fly again but he knew they must have been tethered feelings; unable to have one without the other.

He pictured you over and over again in his head. Imagined you with your wings of night in the air next to him, that laugh you had turned his way unlike the one he heard but one he wished you would give him so that he would know something in his dream would be real. This laugh was somewhere caught between a giggle and a sprinkle of light from his fingertips. He locked in on thinking of the laugh over the feeling of flying because it was impossible to not hurt when thinking of the air. But you, thinking of you, felt safe even if it was some kind of hope caught in a dream.

Because you would never fly again he knew that much because you were so certain of it. He had known of people who wanted to mimic the feeling of flight. Making things out of clockwork and magic as if it would help them but that felt worse than having to go home stitched up. To walk in with wings not even close to the ones you owned, or were born with, felt like the worst kind of death. You wouldn't have even known that you had died, that the only thing keeping your body animated and moving were the strings of your delusion tied so tight around your joints that you never got a chance to look down and realize this was not you at all.

So he tried to grasp that laugh because it was the only thing that felt close to real; the only thing that felt close to happening at all even with all the distant hope he was supposed to be having. And when you woke you could see it all over him, the failure written on every inch of him. It fueled an anger you had not felt in years, the simmering pot inside you turned up to boiling over nothing more than an empty glance.

You kept to yourself, let him stay seated by the water, and went about to find the two of you food. And it wasn't until the two of you had eaten that you set into getting yourself ready for the long days work waiting for you. Candle in hand you watched him look back out over the water and you couldn't take it anymore. Kicking at the sand you watched the grains puff up in a plume around his legs his hands waving away the dust, brows scrunched as he scowled at you, “Stop looking as if I'm a failure already,”

“I didn't say anything,” but he knows what you're talking about, the thought had infected him and was spreading as rapidly as the infection you had warned him would happen if he touched his back.

“You didn't have to say anything, trust me if saving your life meant little to me I wouldn't have done it in the first place, I wouldn't waste my time,” you grab the handfuls of feathers, his eyes locking in on them in hand.

“You have nothing better to do,” he didn't mean to say it but it was true he felt it and it made him believe it was the only reason why you were helping him. Because you were bored here, sitting in a cave doing nothing that he could see because there was nothing to do but sit. He had made it so that you had something to do. In a moment you would turn him away and tell him not to come back, to find someone else willing to help him. But you wouldn't let him give up on you.

“No, I don't but I could have done anything else besides this. Hell it might be more fun watching you fall again than it would be to watch you actually fly but I guess we won't know unless we try,” but Kai’s scowl was back and it was better than seeing him feel nothing at all.

“Why would you say that? You know what it's like-”

“Exactly why would I help you for nothing at all but boredom? I wouldn't help if I didn't want to see you succeed, I wouldn't be doing this at all I would have let you die. So stop wasting my limited kindness and accept my effort without believing it will lead to nothing but failure,”

“You would do that, wouldn't you?” because it had caught on him, the idea of being watched as he fell again by someone who would enjoy it. Unlike the first time, it would be worse, he would never come back from that fall, because even if he had forgiven the person who had pushed him he had known the second he felt their foot on his spine that it had been out of pure evil, if it were you doing all this just to watch him fail again it would be worse and there would be no forgiveness. “Build me up only to prove I should never fly again,”

“You are incredibly cynical,” you blow on your candle, watching the flame heat the ivory colored wax so close to matching the color of his feathers. “Did you ever think that maybe I want you to succeed? That it would help me see you make it out of here more yourself than I ever would have left this place?” you stand behind him, pushing back the first row of feathers as gently as you can before placing the feather over the node you knew a new one would find to grow. You tilt the candle just enough until the wax drips, translucent dots pattering around the area as you watch the way they dry the color blending in perfectly. You let the feather go watching the way it sticks and stayed in place, right where it looked like it had never been gone.

Kai could not feel the process, not when he was lost in his thoughts. He tried to separate the knowledge of you being a demon away from the proof he had of you being nothing more than someone who was lost. The two could be synonymous is what he reminds himself over again. He had his back to you and was hoping you wouldn't shove a knife right through him but that didn't mean he wasn't worried.

He did not bring up his thoughts again, he let you work and passed himself off as being hopeful when it was the last thing he felt he was. He was grateful that you cared enough to try even if he believed you had ulterior motives but he would not say out loud that he had any hope when it was not true and if it was it felt wrong to jinx it.

And so you worked, the slow repetitive motions evening out your heartbeat. And even when the wax fell to your fingers you did not flinch, taking the slight burn and continuing. Even Kai did not back away from the fallen wax when the sparse drops landed on his back. Anything was better than the pain he had felt before and now this felt pleasant, trembling from the shock the first time and accepting any other spot that made itself known to him.

Then the two of you began to talk, small things that felt so insignificant when you were alone. His first question filled up the silence, “What's your favorite color?” you had not been asked in years something so lighthearted, there was no need to have a favorite when you wouldn't seek it out.

“I don't know,” you had shrugged, dripping the wax over the next feather in the lineup. By midday, you had done one whole wing. The way the feathers overlapped made it so that you never even saw the wax since most of the top feathers had stayed in place.

“You don't know? How could you not know your favorite color?” It was hard to explain to him how it didn't matter because Kai would take nothing short of an answer he saw as being good enough. He asked again, asked what it had been like when you were a child, and he listened as you tried to explain. Answering his own questions and trying to take everything off his mind besides you and who you were.

He asked you everything and anything he could think of until it was too late and the only thing he could think about was the fact you had stopped and were looking over his stitches again. “Is it bad?”

“No,” it was the opposite of bad, he healed exceedingly fast because of his angel blood, the once torn flesh already looking a day away from having the stitches removed. “It's doing well, but I ran out of feathers for your right wing,”

“Oh,” he felt like he had been deflated, his shoulders already bent forward so that you could have the best access to his back and he did not think he could sag anymore, yet he did. Periodically as you added more feathers in you would tap your wax-coated fingertip against his spine asking him to stretch his wings out. In the length of a day, he felt stronger and more like himself as the time passed. He could hold the weight of his wings up fine even with the thread still pulling him together bit by bit. And now he couldn't even finish what had been started.

You had not thought before you spoke up next, the words spilling out as easily as the continued answers to his constant questions, “I still have a few from my wings if you don't mind the color,” but once it was said it felt right. You had no need for the feathers anymore, the only thing they did was bring you pain. They should have been buried right along with the rest of your wing and now you knew that there was some reason out there why you had kept them besides the reminder of a painful past. If they could help it felt right just as it felt right the second you pulled him out of the moon pool. You could give them up because in some way healing him was healing you. What better than to let your feathers fly again when you could not?

And Kai did not mind, not when now he was itching to fly again, the hope somehow filtering into him the second you had told him to stretch his wings out again, to try. He let you put the feathers on, looked at the glossy ink color, and had not turned away because now he was tying the strings of his delusion on and he could not bring himself to stop.

You did not feel loss this time around when seeing your past spilled out in a heap in your lap as you took wax to each one, fastening it to the angel boy's wing to give him one last chance that you wish you could have had. It felt cathartic, watching the way the colors contrasted and blended so well together. Your fingers ran over the line of them the second you had finished. A soft sad smile on your lips as you told Kai to stretch one final time before trying to fly.

It felt so sudden, so soon from the last time he had taken flight. He hadn't even realized it was his last time at least before the fall. He wondered if you remembered your last time, what it had been like, and if it felt just as insignificant to you as it had to him. Wondered what you would have preferred your last flight to have felt like, where you would have gone. But the thoughts were a distraction to him trying to fly now.

Kai stretched his wings, the white expanse only broken up by the tip of black at the end of his right wing. He couldn't remember what it felt like to lift off the ground instead of hurtling towards it but then he felt it, his heels lifting first, and the soft beat of his wings echoing in the small space. You stood back watching with a blank expression, tingling all over because you couldn't believe you had done it. He was up, the tips of his shoes just hitting the stirring sand before he felt his wings give out.

Shouting he fell, the distance nothing but a foot but feeling like he had come crashing all the way back down the side of a mountain. His back ached but not from pain but the strain of weakness. “You can try again tomorrow, we just have to keep at it even if it's a little bit every day,” Kai had fallen to his knees, looking up at you with his slumped shoulders and puppy dog eyes.

“Thank you,” the words still tumbled into you, but it was easier to accept when the fruits of your labor were still right at the forefront of your mind. He had flown even if it was just a foot, it had been more than what either of you had expected. You had worried of his stitches ripping, worried of the feathers falling with only a few beats of wind and they had not, both holding stronger than your conviction.

Your smile could not be contained, the edges of your mouth trying to hold it back like a stranger at the door because it had been far too long since the last time you felt this happy about anything. “It worked,” disbelief made itself known in your tone but Kai was just as surprised. He did not care at that moment if he got any higher off the ground, only that he did not have to lose so much of himself. “It worked,” he mimicked his smile wobbling as he fought back his tears, “it worked,”

It was the way he said it last that hit home. You did not think about it hurting so bad to see him succeed, jealousy thick and alive in your blood. You wanted that feeling, you wanted those words to come from you not just from being an aid but from being the project. The words were felt all throughout you as he whispered them, just enough to watch the stress of never again flying dissipate into nothing but happiness. He had been empty and you had tipped in a bucket of everything you had to give, he had gained so much and you lost more than you had to offer him.

There was nothing more to call it besides envy; sickening jealousy. If you could rip the wings right off his back and give them to yourself in that split second you would have. It was not productive but it was the only thing you could see when you looked at him. But you shook your head as if you had been caught in the rain and needed to get the water from your hair, pushing the thoughts to the side. You would never have what he did, no way for you to have given yourself the chance in the way that you had given it to him.

So you squashed the feeling, talked yourself out of the need to cry once the two of you had laid down. Your back to the wall again as you look at him with that faint smile on his lips because he was getting to sleep peacefully since the first time he had come here without the aid of his pain. The outline of his wings in the darkness made them look just like a shadow behind him. And it was so hard not to cry as soon as you knew he was asleep. Wanted to turn and face the wall to give yourself the illusion of privacy in your struggle to keep the burn in your throat from turning into a sob you had fallen into to fitful sleep.

What had awoken Kai was the strain in your voice, the way you muttered, again and again, the word no, the noise of it getting louder and louder until it was impossible to ignore the sound as if it was nothing more than the hum of a mourning bird's song. He opened his eyes and there you were on your makeshift bed, your face pressed into the blanket, your back turned to the sky and you reached back trying to scratch at your shoulder blades. But even in sleep, he could see the way it pained you, hands only just brushing over your shoulders when you found yourself pinned down in sleep. You were whining, crying in your sleep, and it was full of pain.

Because in your sleep you had dreamt of that first night without your wings. You could not lay on your side, could not lay any other way but with your face to the ground like they were pulling your wings from you all over again. Back facing the sky praying that they didn't come in because you had no strength to turn over, no strength in you except to try and restrain yourself from scratching at the healing wounds, unaided by careful stitches.

It had been a long time since you had felt the dream so real that it made you believe there was something wrong with your back. Because you were somewhere on the edge of your dream telling yourself it was real, that the pain was right there at the surface and you didn't know it unless you woke up. If only you could just wake up instead of struggling as you had back then. And when you looked to your side there was no kai, just the outline of that wing, the one you had to pull off there dead and waiting for its burial.

But Kai would not let you sleep through it, not let you scratch at your shoulders and wade through the dreamscape colored in nothing but the shade of a nightmare. He grasped your sleeping hand, the one fluttering at your back like a moth to a flame and curled his fingers between yours. Your hands fit neatly against his, locking in place as if you had been reaching out for him the whole time. His free hand was at your lower back, keeping away from the top where he knew you were trying to reach. And when your eyes opened your gasp followed the way you shot up, back pressed back to the wall and you tried to cure the burning.

You knew this feeling, the momentary ghost wings pretending they still had feelings for which could be hurt. Everything about you felt as if it was shaking, like a rattling cabinet of glass in an earthquake because your world was shaking at your feet telling you something was wrong but you couldn't tell what it was. “It's okay it was only a nightmare,” Kai tried to sooth, thumb running over the back of your hand that he held in both of his.

In your dream you had been alone, so much of it had been like it always was. Pain circling around everything you had come to know. But now there had been pain but the faint hurt that Kai had not been there to help you. As if he could go back in time and do what you had for him even if it was no use you had just wanted him to be there next to you. But he hadn't been and in the mix of the sobs you had found his name and prayed he would hear because if they were your dreams you should have been able to grab them by the neck and control them, not follow them down the dark hall that felt neverending.

But waking up to know he had been here the whole time, knowing that if he had been there he would have helped just the same, settled something inside you that had been overrun with worry. You unfurled your arms from around yourself, throwing them around Kai’s neck and pulling him into a hug.

He did not freeze up under your hold but melted into you, sliding his hands around your back and pulling you closer to him, your face pressed into the space between his throat and his collarbone. He hadn't known how much a hug would have helped him just as it was helping you. You were warm and clinging to him in a way no one had ever needed him.

Kai could have sat like that with you in his arms until the sun came up and you would have let him because you needed to be closer and needed something that only he could give you. Your fingers ran through his hair, his hands sliding down your lower back pulling you to straddle his hips because he needed you chest to chest, needed to feel the weight of you against them to make sure that he knew it was real just the same as you did. “You're okay,” he whispered the words, a hammer against the dam you had walled up in place to keep you from ever getting close to anyone ever again.

It was so quick you are unsure why it was your instant reaction. Your lips kissed over the mole he had right along the column of his throat. The feeling of his words pressed right to your mouth when he hummed your name. Everything was so much easier to do in the half dark, the room alight in that blue glow of the water, the moon still high in the sky as he slipped his hands under your shirt, cool against your heated skin and only making you arch further into him, hips sinking as you kissed up his neck.

Neither of you stopped the other from the exploration, you curled your fingers in his hair right at the base of his neck and he found any expanse of skin that he could let his fingers touch. And when you finally made your kisses stop right at the edge of his lips he couldn't help but turn his head, chasing after your mouth with his desperate desire to get lost in you. Because once you started neither of you could pull yourself away from stopping.

He tasted like nothing short of twinkling light filling the darkness that you had let wash over you for far too long. His soft moans caught in your mouth with each drag of your hips now perfectly placed over him and his wanting need. It was the only way to describe the way he was feeling, he did not just want you, he needed you, so hard from just a few devouring kisses that you couldn’t resist.

You pulled away for only a second standing so that you could take the few clothes you had on off. Kai sitting there watching in awe as you peeled off your shirt, his hands itching to have you back on him with no layers between the two of you, chest to chest but closer now being skin to skin. He reached out for your hips pulling you closer to him so that he could rest his chin on your stomach, looking at you like the fallen angel he was, like you were the only savior he had written in his stars.

He let his lips pepper over you, your hands brushing the hair from his brow, his fingers dipping into your waistband holding the fabric in a way that asked you for permission to tug them down and off. “Please,” he whispered check pressed to your hip, “I need you,” and you would give him everything he asked for if he continued looking at you in that way as if nothing in the world mattered but you at this moment, not your blood or cruel words, just a boy and a girl seeking out the pleasure of another.

You let him take your pants off just as easily as he had let you tug him free from his. And when you sank onto him, took all of him in with a gasp at the stretch working its way through you, nothing had felt more right. Because he was curving into you, your lips were his only salvation as you slowly rocked your hips back and forth on him. His face washed in the pleasure of having you his hands growing warmer and warmer as they held your back. You did your best to avoid his stitches, ignoring his wings that twitched along with his body every time you found a new slow rhythm to move to.

The angle the two of you had was grinding against your pleasure point, your moans so sweet and rumbling against him. He traced up the line of your spine with one hand, keeping the other wrapped around your back to make sure you stayed in the circle of space the two of you had created. You whimpered when he brushed over the scars on your back but did not pull away, letting him have a part of you that you would never give to anyone else because he knew what it was like, he knew what it meant, this level of trust rushing into you almost as fast as your coming orgasm. And right behind him the soft blue light of a will-o-the-wisp on the water, gone as quickly as it had come into your field of vision but you would not have cared in that moment anyway.

Both of you neared the end, and when you came, the feeling in your belly took all the space to think because it had been reduced to feeling only him and the pleasure he was giving you. His hands felt hot and alive with the power he had believed had been lost to him as you trembled in his hold, swallowing down each little noise you made. He guided you down to the blanket stretched out on the sand, rocking his hips now chasing after his own high watching the hazy look wash over your face as you held onto his shoulders. And behind him his wings spread covering the two of you in that safe space you had craved more than anything, his panting breaths pressed to your neck as he spilled all he had into you.

You could only focus on him and the way he brought you the closest you had ever felt to being whole again. Wrapped up in nothing but him was close to being saved because you both knew how similar you were and to be seen like this, to be understood, was healing all on its own and you welcomed everything he had to offer. You would let him take you again and again because you felt linked, the jealousy washed away because being held like this was enough to sedate the torment you had found yourself subjected to being here alone for so long.

And in the morning, when the sun came in on the new day you never felt as excited to see the light as you did in that moment. Because Kai was grinning looking over at you knowing what it meant. He would go out and try again and again until he knew that he could fly even if it took time but here starting today would be the beginning and he would be starting it all with you at his side.

He did not need help out of the cave's mouth this time, pulling himself up as easily as if he had been doing it his whole life. And he stood, looking out over the water below him and knowing that if he fell he had you there willing to pull him out if he needed it. He looked to the sky the second you pulled yourself up next to him, his wings spreading out and beating softly enough to draw your attention. “We don't have to start so high up. I know it's a short distance to the ground and it won't hurt much if you fall but just in case it might be better to go to the beach,”

He should have listened to you but he was too excited to think about where he was when all he wanted to do was fly. “Just this once and we can go to the beach and try again if not,” he reached his hand out at his side, low enough to find yours and your welcome squeeze in support.

“It's okay if you don't get up too high so long as they can carry your weight that's the main issue at the moment because of the stitches,” Kai nodded along half listening as he focused in on the clouds. He pulled your hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before letting it go once more before trying.

Both of you held your breath, the seconds passing slowly as you waited for his heels to lift again only this time it was so much higher, Kai was rising, each beat of his wings only raising him and widening your smile. You had done it, you had made him fly again and it didn't hurt but made you elated.

Kai could feel the wind welcoming him, pushing him up and up until he could see nothing but the expanse of blue and you were gone. It was that thought that had him going back. He could have spent all day up there if he could, if he knew that it wouldn't hurt him if he pushed himself so far but thinking of you watching him without being able to feel it tore into him. He flew back down landing right where he had started and laughed like it had caught him by surprise.

And he looked at you, his arms open enough for you to run into them, that smile you wore was going to be tattooed along the insides of his eyelids because it was the only thing we wanted to see. Because you had done this for him, you had given him his flight back, his hope, and wrapped in nothing but sarcasm and truth because it was your way. So he hugged you tight, kissed you until your arms were locked around him just right and he took you with him.

It had only been in dreams that you felt the faint feeling of being weightless. The wind hits your face as you let the laugh bask in the morning sun with you. It had been everything Kai had wanted, his dreams coming to reality as he caught the wind to carry the two of you higher and higher, until it felt as if you both would be made of nothing but clouds and happiness. He knew what it meant to be up in the sky like this again for you and knew that it would never be much of a thank you in return for what you have given back to him.

And when he found a place to be steady, beating wings behind him, no pain in sight as the two of you looked out over the green and blue land and water below you. He held you close, arms keeping you up and in place even with your dangling feet picking up the memory of what it had been like before when you were a child with nothing to be scared of because you had not been wronged yet, you had only been a girl with wings happy to be in the air.

Kai pressed his forehead to yours, nose dipping and bumping your cheek as he kissed the edge of your smile. And it didn't matter anymore if you felt weak, or had been told it was all that you had ever been because you had saved someone worthy of being saved, picking up yourself along the way and flying through him when flying was only a word thrown around to hurt you. You had put his wings back when they had been nothing but torn flesh and nothing made you feel this good, only the knowledge that you knew he would take you again if you asked.

The trail of your fingers did not cross your mind when you felt this good, your subconscious working over the thoughts you were having and putting together the puzzle you had made by following the seam of his stitches. You could feel the knot you had tied to secure the wing in place, the spot you would have to cut away when pulling the thread free after you had checked again that his fast healing had done its job.

But the ghosting of your touch on the closed wound was akin to you pushing him into a frozen lake, the ice breaking beneath him and reminding him just how heavy he had been when he had nothing behind him to support his body. It was the fear mixed with your words that you had said what felt like ages ago, as if when the two of you had shared then you had been different people. But here at his core, he felt it, that foreboding and gut-turning maggots wiggling into his skin and poisoning his already made-up mind. ‘Hell it might be more fun watching you fall again than it would be to watch you actually fly but I guess we won't know unless we try,’ you had said those words, he had rolled them over in his head over and over again because it had not sit right with him, but he could not remember the rest of the conversation, not when your fingers were messing with the stitches right on his back like you were fulfilling a promise.

It had been quick, the intrusive thought taking over because all he could think again was that you two were similar. He would have helped you yes but if it had been him or you at the bottom of the water and both of you had to pick who got their wings back he would not hesitate to make sure he felt this feeling again. And having you here, threat alive in his mind he could not help himself from leaning into the cruelty if it meant saving this.

And so he let you go.

When in his arms it had been the illusion of flying, still grounded to him just by holding on but falling from this height was even closer to the feeling of flying. The wind rippled around you as you fell in slow motion, his sweet angelic face washed in shock at what he had done and all you could do was think about how you would forgive him because you knew that if it had been you in his place, demon or angel, you would have done the same.

You did not feel heavy, you felt free and the laughter echoed around Kai as he realized his mistake. His fear had control over him in ways he had not expected it to and his shouting did nothing to make it any closer to you as he tried to catch up to your falling form hurtling closer to a waiting grave that had once had a tombstone with his name written on it. You had missed this feeling of freefall and descent, missed the open arms of the wing kissing your skin in the same way Kai’s hands had only the night before.

And then the feathers started to rain. A few white tumbled down along with you as you looked up at him, wax melting from being so close to the sun for only a short time. The edge of his right wing was still tipped in black as if your feathers had infected his mind and thoughts as if they had been the cause of the drop and not the sickening worry he had of losing everything that had just been returned to him. But you could not stop yourself from thinking again of the story you had been told as a child. That demons had been the same as angels, cast out for the bitterness lingering in their near-empty hearts. You two were the same, cast out, and only now did he truly see it.

The last of his feathers started to come free, his control over his wings lessening as the two of you fell, the sky a perfect image of just you and him with feathers all around as it had always been. The spotting of inky black feathers floating around you, finally ready to be buried alongside the body they had come from. You reached out, Kai’s hand already trying to find anything on you to grasp but was just far enough to miss by the brush of his fingertips. The expanse of blue widens around you and is impossible to tell if you were rising in the sky or sinking closer to the waiting ocean.

If falling felt like flying you would welcome the feeling because anything was better than nothing at all.

<333 thank you to @beomiracles who wrote the opening paragraph that is italicized for this event so that we could all start on the same page- taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire @no1likemybbgcharlie @chasingthatjjunie @taegyutomorrow @izzyy-stuff @yeoningz @filmnings @jellymochii @dawngyu @bamgyuuuri @lickingan0rchid @felixleftchickennugget @thetxtdevil @luvsicktyun @hyukascampfire @prince-jjae @liverspaghett want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join!want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask!

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charliemwrites · 9 months ago

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Greater Bad - Part 5!

This is the final chapter of this series. I had so much fun working on it, making myself write a character that was genuinely just really mean most of the time and not chickening out by softening him (mostly).

Again, a gigantic, smooch-filled thank you to ceilidho for letting me write this based off her drabble/concept.

(The concept comes from @ceilidho’s concept/drabble of “military asset Soap” and heavily inspired also by @391780’s Nikto version. Please go check out theirs because they’re brilliantly written.)

Content: Dub-Con/Non-Con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, Semi-Safe/Not-Sane/Dub-Con Intimacy

You still smell the same.

Clean water, soap and skin. It saturates the back of his tongue when he inhales deep. The sharp, cloying scent of printer ink has been replaced by the buttery aroma of bread and sugar. It’s better. His mouth waters, canines too big and sharp in his mouth, jawing aching to bite down until he’s teething on bone. Scrape his imprint into marrow.

Some shrink mentioned it in those first sessions, before Laswell and Price realized their precious Johnny wasn’t lost in the hole in his temple.

The human olfactory sense is strongly associated with our memory. What smells like home to you, Soap?

The jagged puzzle of his mind didn’t have a piece for home. But it had one for his – you – and that’s just as good.

The humidity in the shower leaves him drowning in the scent of you, lungs heaving. If they’d waterboarded him with your perfume, he wouldn’t have struggled at all.

“Easy, easy,” your voice derails him.

Velvet and smooth, purring in the bottom of your throat. It bounces off the walls and cracks across his skull, a concussive force, disorients him. He grips tighter to keep his balance, swaying into you. You’re all slick and soft, caught between his body and the wall, nothing but naked skin and those big eyes that drive him more mad.

His face is still buried in the vulnerable curve of your neck; you taste just as good as you smell. You jump when he nips, a high noise caught on your clumsy tongue. He growls, wants to hear it. Wants to be overwhelmed by you until all his senses are blown out.

“I’m not saying no,” you soothe, hands skittering down his biceps.

Of course you’re not, not his girl. It’s not a matter of yes or no, not for the two of you. The moon doesn’t agree to orbit the Earth, the sun doesn’t choose to shine. You’re the gravity keeping his feet on the ground.

“Slow down a bit,” you murmur, “We’re not in a rush, are we?”

Just hearing you say “we” sends his heart thundering double-time and euphoria flooding his poisoned veins. “We” - you and him. You squeak as he thrusts hard against your lower stomach, where you’re pillowy and perfect from a life of plenty.

He doesn’t even process what you’ve said for a few moments, too busy nibbling “we” into your shoulder. Only when you thread shaky fingers into his hair – too excited to keep them steady, sweet thing – does his head surface over the swelling waves of desire to hear you properly.

“Missed you,” he explains, raking fingers over your thigh in hopes it’ll bruise. Your mouth parts on a gasp, inviting him in. He ravages your mouth, teeth snagging your plush lips. Needs to leave his mark everywhere for always. Don’t you get that? How could you ask him to slow down when your skin is still pristine, your cunt all tight and unspoiled – a fucking tragedy that.

“Ye missed me too, aye?” he asks. Of course you did, of course. Made this pretty little cottage for the two of you, filled it with so many things that he could never forget where he is again.

“I ken ye did.” He does you the favor of answering, since you’re too busy with his fingers in your mouth. You’ve gotten better with your priorities since that first reunion, laving your tongue over and between his digits rather than waste it on idle chatter. “Can go slow once I show yer mine. Been too fuckin’ long they kept us apart, little bird.”

Your fingers curl around his wrist. Must be satisfied with how wet they are, then. He presses down on your tongue one last time before pulling away.

“B-but you took care of them… we don’t need to—ah!”

He smirks as your entire body jolts. You’re already starting to warm up, but your saliva makes the slide between your delicate folds even easier. You’re just as silky as last time, clit shy at the top of your slit. He coos in your ear, gets you flushing and hot from filthy promises.

“Ye wan’ this just as much as I do,” he growls. Poor thing, he knows you like your little games and he’s being impatient. But it’s been too long and you’re playing with fire. “I ken ye do. Tell me ye do.”

You stutter in shock – if he still felt guilt, he’d feel bad for doubting you – and stumble over your words. He stills his hand to help you, bracing his arm over your head. The stretch of his body seems to distract you, mouth parted but frustratingly quiet as your round eyes roam scars and muscle.

He clicks his tongue and pinches your clit to catch your attention. You yelp, little nails sinking into his chest. He rumbles. It feels good, but he’s on a mission.

“Tell me,” he repeats when you blink up at him. “Tell me.”

“I-I just want to be able to go again,” you babble. “If I’m too sore…”

He chuckles. Is that all? “That won’ stop me, love. We’ll go plenty.”

You whine as he draws tight circles over your clit, coaxing it hard and swollen.

“I d-don’ wanna be t-too… sore! Christ!”

He huffs, caught between amusement and exasperation. Voice of reason you are, he knows you’ve got a point. Big as he is, and he knows he’ll lose any sense of restraint once he’s inside.

“I’ll make it good, bonnie,” he promises, biting kisses along your trembling jaw. “You’ll cum crying if tha’s what it takes.”

With that matter settled, he drops his head to your pretty tits. Water has beaded all over them and he jealously licks paths between each drop, flattening his tongue over your hard nipples. You moan and squeal as he sucks and nips, teasing them sensitive and achy. One of your hands tangles in his hair and tugs. Tingles race down his spine, scattering any sweet thoughts of going slow or gentle or with restraint.

You’re babbling at him but nothing could be more important than the rosettes he’s biting into your breasts. And you must agree because you’re getting so wet, leaking all over his rough palm, bucking your hips. He tilts the heel of his hand for you to grind against while he prods at your slick little hole.

You really have been good, somehow even tighter than he remembers. Of course, you were; he never doubted you. No wonder you were so insistent on prepping. He’d split you in half as you are now – fuck but that’s tempting.

“S-Soap – John. Please don’t… stop.”

“I won’ stop, birdie,” he soothes. Nothing could make him stop now.

Two is probably too much for you, but he loves the punched out little noise you make when he forces them in. The way your entrance clings and squeezes around his knuckles. How your spine goes tight and stiff, tilting your head back so that he has access to your singing throat. Pretty face all scrunched up as you struggle to adjust, stinging too much to even squirm. A flighty little bird right in the palm of his hand.

You’re so hot and wet inside. Feel fucking heavenly. Coating him in arousal, in need. His cock is aching to replace his fingers, feel you strangling him down to the base. Grinding against your thigh isn’t tiding him over anymore.

“Yer hand,” he grits out, “on my cock. Now.”

You shudder and circle the head, fingers tentative. Little tease.

He thrusts his fingers into you hard in retaliation, hips driving into the loose tunnel you’ve made. You must know what you’re doing, goading him on like this, plucking at his fraying patience.

“More,” he snarls, “or I’m going to use you like a fleshlight.” (Sooner than he was planning, anyway.)

You whimper and close your hand tighter, rubbing your thumb just under the head. Relief makes him generous, scissoring those two fingers inside you, easing you open. Lets you grind your clit on the meat of his thumb.

He crooks his fingers and finds a spot that has you mewling all sweet and precious. Does it over and over just to get your hand squeezing rhythmically around his shaft, precum dribbling over the back of your knuckles.

Christ, it’s been so long that he thinks he could blow just from this. Your voice in his ear, drooling pussy wrapped around his fingers, grinding into the open circle of your hand. But he needs to be inside you when he cums, he has to.

You don’t even seem to notice the third finger until it’s halfway inside, prying you open. Your legs buckle, knees shaking. He catches you with an arm around your waist, but it squishes you against his chest, the arm you’ve been stroking him with nearly immobilized. He can only stand the lack of stimulation for a few moments, occupying himself with his tongue down your throat.

“Enough,” he rasps, kicking the shower off.

Dazed, you blink at him in confusion, half-lidded and guileless, panting. He wants to fucking ruin you.

You yelp as he scoops you up, fingers still slippery where they grip your thigh. He croons as you cling, asking in a high, nervous voice where he’s going.

“Poor thing, dick’s not even in yet ‘n yer all addled.”

The dripping head of his cock grinds against your sopping slit as he carries you back to the bedroom. He remembers how much you liked it before – and you still do, your blunt little teeth buried in your bottom lip as you whimper.

It’s still dark, the crescent moon no use to your weak eyes. Like hell you won’t look at him when he finally claims you proper.

He slaps at the wall switch, a tiny lamp flicking to life across the room. You’re bathed in soft golden light, deep shadows swimming where it doesn’t reach. You and him, gold and black, light and dark.

He eagerly lays you out on the blanket, drinking in the marks decorating your upper body. You even have teeth prints on your arm that he doesn’t remember putting there – fetching, though.

You wiggle further up the mattress, and he follows, flashing a grin as he plants his hands on either side of you. The size difference is stark like this, the breadth of him subsuming you. Safe, tucked away, all his. Your breathing is loud as he bullies his way between your plush thighs again. You have to spread them so wide just to accommodate.

“Lemme see,” he says, voice barely leaving his chest. “Lemme see her. It’s been so long, baby.”

He can already tell you’re about to start up the fussing again – so shy, his little bird, but he’ll get you singing nice and loud now. No more of this demure chirping facade. You both know what you really are.

You squeal as he forces your thighs up, far enough apart that you babble that you don’t bend that way. Of course you do, though, you’ve just done it. Not that he really hears you by that point.

No, all his attention is on that gleaming, puffy pussy. So fucking pretty. Sticky and throbbing, your hole hardly showing the stretch of three fingers. Dripping as he watches, a dewy glob of arousal sliding down the seam of your cunt, towards your ass.

Just the slightest shift and his cock is nestled between your folds, the glans chafing against your hot clit. He measures the depth of it against your abdomen, head cloudy on the nervous whine that eeks from your throat.

Even with prep, he might break you anyway.

He hopes he does. Break you around him, shape you to him so that no one else will fit – not that anyone else will ever get the chance.

It’s not a conscious thought that gathers saliva on his tongue, purses his lips. You jump when he spits, rubbing the head of his cock through your combined fluids. Your cunt looks good in white. Like a bride.

You’re too needy, wiggling with nervous anticipation. He has to hold you down while he sinks into you – poor thing too blissed out to control yourself. One hand around your wrists above your head, the other pinning your hips at an angle to drive in as easily as possible.

One snap of his hips, and he’s buried to the hilt. You cry out, shuddering and dry sobbing. His vision goes spotty with the pleasure of it, your little pussy squeezing. You’re so…

“Fucking perfect.”

He shushes you, unable to bend to kiss you without making the stretch worse. Settles for rubbing circles into your hip, twisting to lace your fingers together. Now that he’s finally, finally where he belongs, it doesn’t seem such a monumental task to muster some patience.

“B-big,” you whimper. “You’re t-too big. I d-don’t – I can’t…!”

“You already are,” he coos, “little girl taking this fat cock, I’m so proud. My girl is so brave, my little bird. Bonnie lass.”

He’s rambling now, a dirty stream of consciousness. But that primal urge to fuck you open and loose and stupid is already clawing at him again. The tight clutch of your cunt calls for him to break you in, mark you up on the inside. Claim you as his irrevocably.

You feel him drawing back, eyes flying open wide. Writhing, half-formed protests on your tongue - that you’re not ready, that he’s too big, that it still hurts.

As if that’s any reason to stop, when anything needs to sting a bit to leave a lasting mark.

“Only way to make it hurt less,” he reminds, burying inside again. This time he rolls his hips, grinding the head of his cock along your satiny walls, against the hard barrier of your cervix.

Whatever you’re about to say is swept off in a wave of moans, washing over your wet tongue and down the back of your too-empty throat. Every time you try to gather them, he fucks back into you, hard enough to bounce you up the bed before he tugs you right back down.

Eventually you give up on doing anything but keening for him, massaging his cock from root to tip in those twitching walls. You loop your legs around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back, knees squeezing against his ribs.

“Tha’s it, love,” he slurs, “jus’ take it.”

He lets your wrists go to clutch at both of your hips, angling them as he straightens his back. On the next thrust you scream, curse, throw your hands up to brace against the headboard. Smart girl.

His restraint unravels with each thrust until he’s pounding into you, slamming the bedframe into the wall. Your eyes are rolling into the back of your skull, jaw loose, spilling pathetic, weepy “ah, ah, ah” noises in time with his hips. He’s not going to last long at all. Not when you feel so goddamn good, finally claimed.

He presses his thumb against your clit and grins wickedly as you thrash. Tears leak from your unfocused eyes. You babble incoherently as he rubs a little rougher than he should, but your walls are sucking and clutching at every centimeter of him, so he doesn’t stop.

Even when you seize up, back bent into a sharp arch, clamping down so tight that he goes lightheaded.

“Soap! John… John it’s too much,” you sob. “John – Johnny!”

His orgasm blindsides him, makes him fuck you so hard that something in the bed cracks. In the haze, he flattens you to the mattress while bucking into you, not taking any chance of coming unseated. You whine in his ear but go limp, resigned to his cock spurting at the entrance to your womb – as deep as he can get – your cunt milking him for every drop.

He comes back to himself when you tap weakly at his hip, uncoordinated.

“Hm?” he asks, a little miffed that you’re disturbing his afterglow already.

“Hard to breathe,” you squeak.

He huffs. Alright, suppose he can understand that. Besides, he wants to see you.

And what a sight you make, splayed out and shaky on pleasure. Sweat at your hairline, lips swollen and bitten. He can still feel your pulse against his cock.

He sits himself up, eyes trailing down to the place where you’re joined. His cum is already seeping out a bit at a time, a thin creamy ring around his still half-hard cock. You keen a bit when it twitches.

“Pretty girl,” he coos.

You groan softly, flopping an arm over your glassy eyes as he pulls out – slow because he’s reluctant to leave.

But the sight of your slick diluting the milky white of his cum is too much to resist. You jolt at the first swipe of his tongue, react much faster than he’s expecting. Flip onto your front and try to scramble away. He growls at his stolen prize and pounces.

Under normal circumstances, you’re no match for him. Trembling and spent like this, you don’t stand a chance.

He grabs your calf and yanks you back, chuckling at the helpless stretch of your arms. You try to plead your case, but he’s hearing none of it. Plants his hand against your back as he shuffles onto his stomach, your thighs over his shoulders, knees digging into muscle. He tilts your hips with his other hand, thumb fitted in the crease of your pelvis, and brings you to his mouth.

Your struggling has made more spend leak out, and he laps it all up hungrily, tongue flat and ravenous. Sweeping from clit to hole to gather any stray droplets, even skimming over the tight furl of your ass. He licks into your loosened hole, high on pride at the difference he can feel his cock has made.

“’S too much,” you wail, “J-Johnny, please. I-I can’t, it’s…”

In retaliation, he slurps loudly at the fresh arousal blooming across his tongue. You hiccup, try one last time to wriggle away. He can’t have that.

You shriek as he fucks two fingers into you, voice thick with a fresh wave of tears. But you stop trying to escape. He doesn’t show mercy now that you’re behaving, coaxing more out, licking around his own knuckles. When he sucks at your overstimulated clit, you jerk and whine.

“I’m – I’m gonna… feels… w-wait, wait!”

It’s too late. He’s already laved his tongue over your trapped clit, crooked his fingers. You cum again with a shout, wetness splashing across his mouth, chin, down his neck. He groans, deep and rough in his chest. Doesn’t even give you a moment to recover before he pulls away, licking his lips.

“Do tha’ again on my cock.”

You’ve learned better now though – you lay there like a good girl as he stuffs you full again. Even better, you keep rewarding him with your soft cries of pleasure.

You really are made for him.

He likes the couch you picked. Not very big, but cushy. Besides, the two of you don’t need a lot of room anyway. Not when his lap makes a perfectly good seat for you.

You’ve been quiet all morning – probably still waking up from the coma he fucked you into. Eating babka from his fingers, licking them clean between bites. Docile and sweet, melting against his chest with your face tucked against his collarbone.

“Sore?” he asks.

“Mhmm.”

Your sweet little voice is all hoarse and soft. He’d coo if he didn’t think he’d be pushing his luck with skin so close to your teeth.

“Maybe I’ll massage you later,” he offers, smirking at the grumpy little “hmph” he gets in response.

He encourages you to sip a bit of water before your voice emerges again.

“What happens now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand the question.

“Now I get the life I’m owed,” he answers. All that fighting, suffering, bleeding, dying – and for what? A hole in his skull and his own goddamn people thinking he’s a monster. Even you, at first. You’ve learned, though. He’s sure of it. The rest can swallow bullets for all he cares.

“What if they come back?” you ask.

He hums. “Might contract with someone. Not opposed to killin’ on principle – just sick of doin’ it to someone else’s tune, aye?”

“Wh-what… what about…”

What about you. Poor thing, afraid Laswell and her ilk will snatch you up and dangle you in front of him again. Or worse – some other sod drooling for a slice of heaven in the pits of hell.

He doesn’t loosen his grip even when you shift a bit – needs to feel you in his hands.

“Got a plan for that, don’ you fret, little bird,” he soothes. “Still got one friend, I think. Jus’ gotta find ‘im.”

You exhale slowly, accept another piece of babka. “We’re stayin’ here, though?” you mumble around the mouthful.

He chuckles. Sweet little thing.

“Worked so hard on the place, might as well. Don’ care so long as I’ve got my bird, aye?”

“Mm.”

“How ‘bout a kitty, eh? Get ya somethin’ to keep ye company when I’m away.”

You swallow audibly. “I wan’ a dog. Big one.”

He chuckles. “’Course ye do. Aye, love, a big fuck-off dog to keep ya safe.”

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#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #government asset!Soap #asset soap #heavy kink #mind the tags #john soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader

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beefcakekinard · 4 months ago

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"Grab a seat."

Bobby claps Buck's shoulder as he passes on his way into the kitchen. Well - sure, it's got a fridge and a stove, but Bobby's definition of kitchen vs kitchenette leans a little spoiled these days. They can't get out of this rental fast enough.

He comes back with two cups of coffee and sits opposite Buck at the table. He waits as Buck adds a heaping teaspoon of sugar to his mug, glowering at the surface of it while he stirs. He waits as Buck sighs with his whole body and flops back against his chair. Bobby blows the steam from his coffee, takes a scalding sip, and waits. Years of experience have taught him that when Buck's really chewing on something, the easiest way to get it out of him is to outlast his patience.

"I miss Tommy."

It helps that Buck and patience are barely acquaintances.

Buck's continuing the thought before Bobby can even open his mouth. "I can't get him out of my head, Bobby. It's, it's like he's haunting me! Everything I do reminds me of him, even if it has nothing to do with him, and I feel like I'm going crazy!"

Bobby waits. Buck pouts. When it's clear he doesn't have anything more to add, Bobby clasps his hands and leans forward.

"Why do you miss him?"

Buck rears back, looking confused. Bobby spreads his hands.

"You think about him when he's not around. What is it you're thinking about?" he asks. Buck considers the question and flushes. Bobby quickly adds, "Keeping it PG."

Buck scratches his nose, keeping his eyes averted. He takes a deep breath.

"I think... I think about how excited I always was to see him," Buck says to the tabletop. Bobby takes another sip of coffee.

"I think about - how I never had to pretend. Like he saw me, just me, and that was enough. I like, I liked, the way he made me feel about myself." Buck curls in on himself and picks at a thread on his jeans. "I, I miss who I was when he was around."

"Just because Tommy's not around anymore doesn't mean you can't be yourself," Bobby says. Buck takes the bait; he whips his head up to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief.

"No, you, you don't understand, Bobby -" Buck leans towards him, insistent. "I miss how he cares so much about everyone even though he tries to look stoic and casual. I miss how he ugly-laughs at his own stupid jokes. I miss the way he talks to kids like they're adults and I miss how gentle he is with anything smaller than him. I miss how he fills his own dishwasher wrong and I have to fix it every time. I miss him more now than the day he broke up with me, what's wrong with me?"

The only sounds in the room are the ticking of the wall clock and the whooshing in-out of Buck's heavy breathing. Bobby waits until he calms down a bit, until he sits back in his chair again and awaits Bobby's input, looking like he's in anguish over it.

"You know he's not perfect." Bobby feels like he's lobbing a live grenade.

Buck scoffs. "Jesus, Bobby, if anyone knows that right now it's me. But I don't want perfect, I just want Tommy."

The clock ticks. Bobby drinks some more coffee. He waits.

Realization overtakes Buck's face between one blink and the next. "Oh," he says. Bobby smiles, enjoys his coffee, and waits some more.

"Oh!"

There it is.

Buck jumps up, springing to his feet like a cartoon character. "I, I have to go, I gotta - I have to go," he says, all in a rush. "Thanks, Bobby!" he calls over his shoulder before running out the front door, slamming it behind himself. The door opens a crack, just long enough for Buck to call, "Bye Bobby!" into the apartment before he's slamming it closed again. He sounds like a herd of galloping horses running down the hall.

Bobby smiles to himself. He checks the clock - Athena will be home soon, and he feels like whipping up one of her favourites for dinner. He takes the mugs - one empty, one full - into the kitchen and leaves them in the sink while he gets started.

#rose.txt #bucktommy #started writing a post like i wish we could have buck say what he misses about tommy and then went hey wait i can just do that #my fic

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mickyschumacher · 1 year ago

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[APHRODISIAC CHOCOLATES! PT.1]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: they say you should learn something new every day. in oscar's case, he learns he should really read the fine prints. or in which oscar's secret santa gift comes into use. 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄!

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ (minors dni), protected sex (for the 1st time ever here) childhood lovers (bc oscar IS this trope), face sitting/riding + consent, p in v, teasing, oral sex, mutual orgasms, (over)consumption of aphrodisiacs, mentions of spiders :(

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: oscar piastri x gf!fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 3k+

𝐀/𝐍: as usual, proofread-ish. for the majority who thought aphrodisiacs and oscar sounded good... hope you like it! ♡︎

🏎️ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | ⚽️𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Summer cleaning. You did it every January with Oscar when he came back home to Australia. The reasons you did it? Well, it gave you some peace and the pure free time you had with Oscar was limited. It didn't sound that fun but every year, you managed to make the most of it by reminiscing all the old memories you made, the past year or long ago. The bonus side: you kept things clean!

Last January you had both found an old scrapbook of Oscar and you that you had poorly made with the glue sticks that bare stuck no matter how much you slathered onto the paper, various croppings of coloured paper, loose glitter that hung on by a thread, and the cheapest driest markers you had found (you both thought you took them from primary school).

As horrifically it was made, it was sweet, sending you back down memory lane. The part that made the best was the secret confession in the back of it Oscar had written down with his god-awful six-year-old handwriting. Upon seeing 'really' spelt 'rallllly' and 'pretty' as 'pritty', it was safe to say, Oscar rushed to put the book back as quickly as you found it.

"Babe... what happen to cleaning?" Oscar queried, hand resting on the top of step ladder with raised brows as he looked down at you on the floor. He was moving around the books you stored at the top shelf of

You were sprawled on the floor, relishing the cool breeze the fan brought you. "It's 30 degrees, bro. What do you want me to do? I'm tired. The air outside is warm. It's gross," You complained, feeling your skin stick to the floorboards.

Oscar narrowed his eyes at your words, taking careful steps down the ladder now. "First of all, don't ever call me 'bro' again. Because that's fucking gross," He told you, taking your hand and pulling you up from the floor. "Secondly, you are sugar crashing. We probably should've had lunch an hour or so ago."

You pouted at the sound of sugar, slumping against Oscar's shoulder. "Why are we doing this?" You groaned.

Oscar chuckled, holding you tighter against him. "We're doing this so you don't call me in a few weeks and scream about spiders popping up everywhere."

You curled your lip in annoyance, pushing yourself off of him. "You suck," You retorted, walking over to your fridge. You took a moment to savour the cold air radiating from it as you opened the door before searching for something cold to eat. Your heart deflated at the mostly empty fridge. You hadn't been able to go shopping because everyone was either closed or had close early. You didn't even have any ice cream! The sheer audacity...

Your eyes flickered over your options before a red box caught your eye. You gasped, taking out the container and dangling it in front of Oscar. "We still need to finish these!"

Oscar turned his head towards you, recognising the red box quickly. It was part of the pack of sweets Daniel had given him for Secret Santa last year. To be honest, Oscar didn't have that much of sweet tooth. At least, he had nothing on you. He knew the moment he got it, it was going into his suitcase with prayers that it didn't melt in the Oceanic heat during transit.

While spending Christmas with your families, you, his sisters, and Oscar (mostly you) had taken the liberty to consume most of the candy. By the time you had eaten all the candy canes and small bits, the sight of the mere red box of chocolates made all of you feel sick. So you put it inside your fridge, saving it for some other desperate time. And said desperate time had soon come around in early January during your summer cleaning.

While Oscar would've preferred actual food to eat, he too was at his wits ends. When he nodded, he watched you excitedly come towards him as if you were preparing for your sugar rush.

You sat next to him, knee-to-knee. Opening the box without thinking too much, you both began eating the variety of chocolates. They were in various shades of brown and white, topped of with edible glitter or other candy. You were more than halfway through the box before you wondered what the different flavours were. You popped another into your mouth before closing the box to turn to it's back.

Raspberry... hazelnut... cinnamon.... maca root... epimedium?

Wait what?

"Oh fuck." You heard Oscar whisper.

You raised a brow, lowering the box, still finishing the piece in your mouth. "What's wrong?"

Oscar winced, sucking in a sharp breath before turning the front of the box to you, index finger pointing at the fine print underneath the brand's name.

APHRODISIAC CHOCOLATES.

Effects dependent on the amount eaten and the person. Eat at your own risk.

Your eyes widened, hand almost dropping the box. "Oscar... there's like three left."

Oscar's mouth opened to speak but nothing came out. He pondered the gift. No wonder Daniel was smiling so weirdly at him after he received his gift. That plus his incessant texting, asking whether he had finished all the candy. Shit...

A nervous laugh fell from Oscar's lips as his ears turned red. "I mean... it won't work, right? Surely... this is a scam... a gimmick?"

Your mouth was dry. "Let's check online, hmm?" You told him, taking out your phone. Oscar shuffled closer next you, eyeing the screen cautiously. Typing the product name into the search bar, you felt your cheeks become hot once the results came pouring in.

The best chocolates for sex in 2023!

Horny chocolates for horny lovers. See our favourites!

Viral aphrodisiac chocolates reviewed to be really good.

You pressed your lips, clicking on the last link. Your eyes skimmed the page. You could hear Oscar read the reviews, voice getting louder with every passing second. "Was unsure but no regrets... Bedroom was on fire.. more than... t-three rounds?! Be careful how many you consume... effects stronger with more consumption.... lasts up to three hours?!"

You laughed awkwardly. "S-Surely not. I'm mean not that it's terrible but we still have cleaning to do. I'm sure these are fake reviews... you know like to disguise drop shipping." It was a poor excuse slipping from the likes of your mouth but it was an excuse nonetheless.

Oscar nodded slowly. "Right... cleaning! Yes, that's... that's it! We should probably do that," He told you taking the box out of your hands and putting it to the side.

You and Oscar weren't necessarily awkward or shy about sex. You communicated perfectly well. But the concept of eating aphrodisiac chocolates that were given by his co-worker much less a fellow Australian definitely sent the both of you down the lane of uncertainty.

To be honest, you weren't feeling anything anyways... yet.

Together, the both of you had managed to get all the cleaning done. The thought of the chocolates were long gone after you had multiple Daddy Long Legs come out of the attic, half scaring you to death and sending Oscar into a fit of laughter (although he wouldn't admit he was terrified for a brief second).

Having enough and thrilled you were finished, you were both down to take a nap in your bedroom with all the doors closed and the aircon on blast.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Your nap was going great. It was so good you were sure the red lines of your sheets were embedded into your skin. You were dreaming... it was hot and sticky, it was in the shower for a second and the beach the next and Oscar's hands were all over you.

But all goods things must come to an end.

Especially if it means waking up in Oscar's arms, ass pressed against his hard cock and his hips rutting against you.

With sleepy eyes, you tilted your head to capture a glimpse of Oscar who looked wide awake with a sheen of sweat covering his face. His arms around you tightened when he met your eyes. You furrowed your brows. "Os.. did you not sleep?"

A strained sigh fell from his lips, releasing his hot breath onto your shoulder. "How could I? You were moaning my name and these fucking chocolates are killing me here. God, you sounded so good, baby," Oscar whispered, lips ghosting the shell of your ear.

Your eyes closed naturally at his touch. You were sure you were already wet from the dream but the tingling between your thighs was intensifying. "Oscar," You softly whined.

His hips jerked against you, making you both moan quietly. "I need you, sweetheart. Let me eat you out... please," He pleaded, feeling his cock impossibly tighten.

Clenching your thighs together, you nodded frantically. At your notion, you watched Oscar peel himself away from you. You couldn't hide the shock on your face when you discovered he had already removed his pants long ago. He had been grinding into your ass naked. His cock stood straight, skimming the surface of his lower stomach. It looked different. Angrier... harder... not necessarily bigger but it stood as if it was ready to ruin you.

Oscar eagerly spread your legs with both of his hands, cursing when he saw the patch of wet darkness on your shorts. Carefully, he took away your short, leaving in your panties which were fully damp and clinging to every possible fold of yours. "Shit," He muttered, fingers gingerly pulling the front of your underwear so it was tightly pressed against your pussy.

In his peripheral, he could see your legs squirm, getting antsy for his touch. If he was being honest, Oscar could barely think straight. All this aphrodisiac in his system had sent him overdrive. He couldn't tell what he wanted to do first. Whether he should rub his cock against you so the both of you came like two virgin teenagers going at it for the first time... if he should just fuck you to oblivion or whether he should eat you and find every crevice till you were shaking against him and begging for more..

"Ride my face," Oscar simply stated, peeling away your underwear to reveal your bare pussy. He clenched his jaw, restraining himself from taking you right then and there.

You gasped at the intrusion of cold air on your hot folds. Oscar had said something... what was it again? "R...Ride your face?" You shakily whispered. "A-Are you sure? I... don't you need to breathe?"

In any other moment, Oscar would've laughed lightly. But his need for you was far too strong. He nodded, moving to the side so he laid on his back. "Baby, I've never been so sure of something in my life. Trust me. I've got you," He assured, lust thick with his promise.

You sucked in a sharp breath, unable to mull over the proposition because your answer was already clear by the way your pussy was clenching around nothing and your arousal had increased ten-fold. You moved over Oscar's body, hovering over his face. His hot breath sent a shudder up your spine while his hands naturally placed themselves on your hips, slowly pulling you down, legs on either side of his face.

A groan slipped out of his lips. The scent of your arousal was intoxicating Oscar. He could've sworn that he was fucking pussy-drunk.

Your mouth fell open upon feeling his nose against your clit and his warm tongue flat against your folds. "Oh, fuck," You moaned, thighs tensing around Oscar's face.

Oscar lapped at your juices, slurping all he could while he explored every crevice of your folds. His head jutted against your legs, nose sloppily knocking against your throbbing clit.

Your hands flew to his brown locks, tugging at the sheer pleasure running through your body right now. Any tension or worries you had about suffocating Oscar had melted away, hips already leaning in to put as much of your weight on his face as one could humanely allow, rocking your hips to get even more friction.

His tongue dragged up your folds, finding your swollen bundle of nerves as he came up for air. Oscar just couldn't help it. The urge to get a taste of you shuddering against him was overwhelming. But as he sucked your clit gently, his brown eyes of his flickered up to your face and what a sight it was.

You had completely lost yourself.

Eyes clamped shut, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, sweat littering the surface of your skin, nipples hard against your shirt... fuck. If he knew you would feel and look this good, he would've made you ride his face ages ago.

Despite losing your senses, your body still was restraining from putting your full weight on him. Oscar could feel it as you tried to lift yourself in the attempt of self-control, making him chase for your pussy. But the rise of your hips came one too many times and Oscar had enough, fingers tightening around your thighs with an ironclad grip, holding you close to him.

You squirmed against his hold. All those chocolates... you had both eaten them because you were hungry. But Oscar had only become more starved and thirsty as he drank you as though he was dehydrated. You were so wet that his tongue was practically swimming between each fold.

Hips rutting against his face, your head fell back as his lips moved back to your clit, suctioning the bundle of nerves while stars began to invade your vision. You had barely said anything, so lost in the pleasure, forgetting to praise his art. It was like your brain was so dazed that it wouldn't sync up to your mouth, only allowing for your whimpers and moans to join the lewd slurping of Oscar's.

You couldn't care anymore. The stars were so close... you let your full weight rest on Oscar, making him grin against your heated cunt. Your grip on his hair tightened, the coil in your stomach snapping as his movements became sloppy, drool seeping from the corners of his mouth.

Your body is trembling against his face, convulsing around his tongue while the only thing you can manage to let out is a series of broken moans and obscenities under your breath.

Oscar feels you fall limp, muscles tired from tensing and exerting more energy than usual. He slowly lifted you off of him, shifting you next to him as both of your chests heaved with deep breaths. His head fell against the pillow. "I could do that till I die."

You swallowed the saliva that had built up in your mouth, nestling into the pillow. You let out a soft laugh but it slowly died down once the seriousness of Oscar's tone finally registered. Your eyes travelled down his cock, standing angrier than ever, leaking with pre-cum. From what you were seeing, Oscar must've been in pain.

You shifted closer to Oscar, sweaty skin sticking to his own. You peeled off your shirt, sighing at the cold air skimming your breasts. Without a second thought, Oscar's hands were on them, groping and fondling them. Back arching, you fell closer to his touch, pushing yourself into him.

He was distracting you.

"Oscar," You whimpered at the squeeze of your nipple in response. "Fuck me."

Oscar's hands paused, eyes flickering to you. His breathing had gotten quiet all of a sudden while his eyes darkened. "How?" He asked. "H-How do you want me to fuck you?" His voice cracked slightly with the heavy strain of lust–well, partly the aphrodisiacs-weighing it down.

You pulled yourself away from him, sprawling yourself comfortably on the bed. "However you want."

"Fuck," Oscar groaned, eyes closing at your words before pushing himself up to remove his shirt. He moved to hover his body over you. His hooded eyes flickered over you, full with admiration. You looked like a hot mess. His mess... that he made. You were going to kill him.

His brain must of been short circuiting, however. He blinked blankly at you. "Shit, I don't have a–"

You interrupted him by reaching under your pillow, dangling the foil-wrapped packet in his face. Oscar slowly took what he was looking for from your hands, eyeing you with furrowed brows. "You just keep condoms under your pillow now?"

The sudden comment made you break into laughter, making Oscar's struggling to keep his heart at bay. You nodded your head, quietening down. "Yes, specifically for this occasion."

"When a friend gives me sex chocolates?" Oscar raised a brow, voice full of ridicule.

"Yep! Precisely."

Oscar rolled his eyes, shaking his head. You were bad at joking but to him, you were the world's best comedian. He tore the wrapping, hissing at the sudden contact as he rolled the condom onto his shaft. He blew a deep breath from his lips, sweat-ridden hair doing little to move out of his face.

His eyes fell to your still swollen pussy... so enticing... "I don't think I'll last long," Oscar admitted with a grave mumble, a flush of red scattering across his neck.

You smiled softly. "It's okay. You already gave me the most mind-blowing orgasm of my life... you can fuck me till you can't cum anymore."

Oscar's cock twitched against his stomach. He sure liked the sound of that.

His hands darted out to roam your body, embracing the feel of every curve or bump he could get his hands on. He heard your sharp inhale as his fingers danced around your v-line. Me too, he thought to himself.

Oscar couldn't take it anymore. He was practically blue-balling himself at this point. He lowered himself over you, feeling your hot breath envelope him. His cock slowly pressed against your folds, making both of you pause at the warm feeling tingling up your spines. "Shit," he groaned, watching your engorged folds try to grip any bit of his cock. "You're seriously going to kill me."

"A girl's gotta try," You teased, breaking into a small whimper as Oscar dragged the tip of his throbbing cock to your hole, skimming your clit along the way.

Your mouth fell open upon feeling Oscar pushing his hips into you. His cock entered your warm folds, stretching the tight walls of your soaked cunt. Your head lolled back into the softness of the pillows while a high-pitched whimper slipped past your lips.

Oscar grunted as he fully unsheathed his cock, bottoming out as much as he could. The feel of your pussy clenching around him with a vice-like grip was sending over him already. He could feel every part of you, hips flushed with yours while the tip of his cock nudged your cervix.

He began with shallow thrusts, rocking his hips against yours. "Fuck, you feel so good, baby," Oscar swore, eyes fluttering shut momentarily.

You moaned in response, savouring every inch of his cock that came in and out of you. "You fill up so well," You praised, hand travelling to his own to give him an affirming squeeze.

Oscar missed your lips. It felt like he hadn't touched them in a long time even though he had probably spent over half the morning with them today. Sloppily, his lips travelled across your jaw and met your soft pillowy ones. He could hear your muffled moans in the kiss as he rutted into you. Shit...

"Oscar," You whispered with a high mewl upon feeling his fingers roll your nipple in between them. You were going to kill him? More like he was going to kill you.

But you weren't lying. His cock was indeed filling you so well, having you clench around him like there was no tomorrow. You felt so... full... those fucking chocolates...

Speaking of which... Oscar was over these 'aphrodisiac chocolates' or whatever the hell they were. They were making him insane. Every moment he ever spent with you, whether it was on a date or in bed, he always felt like he was being driven insane (in the nicest possible way, of course). But these chocolates... it felt like he was aware of everything. Every reaction... every part of him was on fire... everything was amplified... ten-fold, no, a hundred.

You were both on the crest of your climaxes. Oscar could tell by the way you were gripping him, the sudden reduction of your words, and the dazed look in your eyes. And you could tell by the stutter of his hips and the twitch of his cock.

Oscar bent his head down towards your legs, spitting directly onto your bundle of nerves. Fuck, now your hips were stuttering as well, the familiar feeling of the coil in your lower abdomen unravelling. "Oscar, fuck, I'm going to–"

Oscar doesn't even have the decency to let you finish your sentence, hand rubbing dizzying circles on your clit, hips increasing it's pace, sending you flying into your second orgasm.

"Oh, shit, shit, that's it, baby," Oscar encouraged, fighting to keep his eyes open as the waves of pleasure began drowning him. You were just squeezing his cock so much. Your mouth is wide open as Oscar's hips faltered against yours. He rushed to take his cock out, hand jerking off the engorged shaft to spill every single drop of his hot white cum onto your stomach.

For a moment, it felt like the effects of the chocolates had worn off as Oscar collapsed on top of you without a single thought going through his mind. His chest heavily rose up and down, your chin nuzzling into his collarbone while he soothingly patted your head.

You both laid like that for over ten minutes, saying nothing, just revelling in each other's presence, naked.

"I think we're going to have to thank Daniel," You joked, finally regaining your words.

"Later," Oscar sucked in a sharp breath. "Like three hours later."

You furrowed your brows, looking up at Oscar, only for him to be looking down. Following his gaze, your eyes honed in on the object capturing both of your attention.

"Oh..."

𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄!

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