#(and this piece was a way of working through them)

[erwinsvow]

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don���t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[creeper627]

I’m bored and see this as a challenge. I’m putting in 2nd POV.

The Pot

You’ve been busy. You work three jobs. One part time, on the weekend ends and Friday nights. One full time, Monday through Friday. 7 to 5:30. One is only when you’re called to do work there.

It’s understandable that things in your over-priced apartment have gotten out of hand. It’s okay. You took this whole week off to get everything cleaned up and fresh.

You’ve cleaned the floors, the bathroom, your bedroom no longer has your depression stash of cups and bowls and spoons and forks. All your emotional support water bottles have fresh water in them and have been sanitized. You’ve washed the windows and scrubbed everything. You’ve dusted, done every piece of laundry except what you’ve been wearing for the past three days.

All that’s felt is the dishes.

The mountain of dishes you’ve found around said apartment. The mountain of dishes you keep putting off because you hate the smell of doing dishes and you keep forgetting to get rubber gloves so your hands have to touch the cold food grease water.

Once it’s over, you get to shower. An everything shower. You’ve earned it. You’ve earned a good Hellfire scrub to wash all the grime away. To wash your frizzy and tangled hair. To feel fresh and new. You can even sit and soak in hot water with a clay face mask and a hair mask. Your favorite book to skim through idly as your comfort shower drones on from your laptop. Soft music playing on your phone that also has your favorite fanfic up and ready for you to read and cry over all over again.

You just need to do the fucking dishes.

The dirty, greasy, food covered, slimy…dishes.

You hate dishes. Why do you even have them? Staring at them after this week that has killed your 29 year old knees and hips and back and shoulders…you don’t want to do this. You hate that you have to do this.

But you need to.

There’s no other way. You’re the chosen one. You have no choice. It’s either you wash the dishes or you starve to death and then who else will work themselves to death in your stead? That Roman Catholic guilt needs someone to feed off of. How can you leave it hungry?

So you redo your lopsided and messy disgusting bun. Adjust your oversized shirt to tuck between your boobs that touch your intoned and pudgy belly because you eat nothing but junk and don’t work hard enough to make time to go to the gym.

You gag and shiver in disgust and terror as you dunk your hands into the nasty grey water. It’s like when you’re down the shore just before the season really starts. You get yourself all in the water and then you get used to it. Except you have to yank the trash can you spent thirty minutes cleaning yesterday closer to you so you can have a barf bucket handy.

And it’s only once it open next to you that you remember the absolutely foul practically liquid dump your senior cat took this morning. And that you forgot to take that bag out like you said you would.

So now you have to detour from this task to do that. Your hands are wet and slimy now. Making it nearly impossible for you hold anything. You manage to drag the whole trash out and to the curb to dump it out. Your cat, seemingly completely fine now and in his favorite bed that he pitched a crying fit over you washing it yesterday for him, judges you harshly with only a single glance.

Asshole.

You go back to the sink and stick your hands back in to the water and get exactly three plates done, before you reach back in and manage to stab yourself on that stupid shape knife your brother brought over and left here. Remember. You still don’t have gloves because you are too lazy to just go get them and too poor to DoorDash them.

Also who just DoorDashes rubber gloves? Suspicious much? The social anxiety monster does not approve that all.

There are a few options here.

1: You attempt to bandage this like a normal person and the bandage gets wet and you just to deal with it. Even if you hate the feeling of wet bandages.

2: You stop what you’re doing and go get gloves after properly cleaning and bandaging this. Except you have only just enough gas to get to work and home and you don’t get paid again until the day after tomorrow.

3: You bandage it like your hardworking factory worker father would’ve done which is tuck tape your hand with some paper towel and cling wrap. Might cut off your circulation until you’re done but do you really use that hand for more than jacking it?

4: Risk the infection of just raw digging it and finish then bleach the fuck out of your hand later.

…

Option 4 it is. You power through. Scrubbing, scraping, gagging. You set up multiple drying spots. You are getting this done. You elbow grease your way through cups that should’ve been cleaned last week, the crock pot that you forgot about last month, the pasta pot that has mold on it. You need a better schedule for this shit. Every plate, every Tupperware, every fork and knife and spoon.

Three hours later, as you sob about what your water bill is going to look like and are debating skipping the everything shower and just wash your hair and scrub your entire being with ivory soap and witch hazel…you are finally done.

Finally.

Finally!

It’s like crawling out of a sewer after weeks. Your apartment is clean. It’s spotless. You can finally light that good candle you’ve been hoarding away to feel that satisfaction of finally being done.

And then there’s this nagging feeling. Like you’re forgetting something. Like you’re at the end of a horror movie and the happy relief music drops into silence. And then it’s throbbing, pulsating, humming dangerously. You look over what you’ve done and it sinks in.

Where’s that ugly fucking pot your grandmother gave you when you moved in? The one you use for your best meals but hate because it’s cast iron and you need to clean it the right way or it’ll rust and she’ll come back from the grave to beat you to death with it?

You turn to face your stove slowly. On the verge of a breakdown because you just want to be done. You just want it to be over so you can shower and clean your still bleeding hand. Praying you haven’t contracted some disease like you’re on House MD.

There it sits. Ominously and yet innocently just sitting there with the remnants of last nights chili that you forgot to put away.

The pot.

The agony of thinking you’re finished doing the dishes only to turn around and to your horror: the pot.

[chow0w]

I really liked your scorpion den fashion, so what do you think the differences are between deep palace and summer palace fashion styles? No need for pics, just words

..But who would I be without my pictures?

On a real note, I DID try to answer this with words only, but as I was typing I found myself wanting to sketch some things out. Either way, I do appreciate the invitation to blabber!

So let's get right into it - in order to make this easy for myself, I started by distinguishing between deep/summer region seawings. Deep palace dwellers would likely live in the deep or mid ocean, with brighter bioluminescence and an extra head lantern (I figured they would need brighter marks for hunting aid.) By contrast, the summer palace seawing has bright, tropical colors and patterns resembling coral, sand or seawater in the light. Their bioluminescence would be more for communication than hunting, and dimmer by proxy.

An important thing to consider for both regions is practicality - seawings need to move around relatively fast in order to be both productive and comfortable. Having heavy or extensive decor would reduce streamlining while swimming, and be impractical to the everyday dragon. Of course, Royals and other high ranking seawings would probably have to suffer through the slowness in favor of extreme accessorizing.

in the summer palace teritory, fashion heavily revolves around the environment it is located in. Dragons by a coral reef would accordingly accessorize to match the vibrant atmosphere, while those living on a sandbar or seabed would stick to materials that allow them to blend in. Of course, class is important to consider: affluent dragons would be the first (and only) group to truly over-accessorize, while a working class population will stick to small satchels or trinkets that could provide some sense of use. I imagine the average shallow-water hunter will wrap kelp/other marine herbs around their ears or horns to store and use later... medicinal plants for emergency scrapes, or edible plants to snack on during the day.

Regardless, flamboyance and beauty are much more prevalent aspects of seawing fashion in shallow waters: and the population likely associate vibrant good fashion with good health, prosperity and pride in one's home.

On the other hand, dragons of the deep palace would carry a significantly different view on fashion and its place in society. Terms like 'vibrant' and 'tropical' would have next to no meaning - in such a low-light environment, the prettiest seawings would ultimately be the ones who can best make use of darkness. Of course, there would also probably be a significant portion of the population who live low enough where they don't give a shit what they look like because nobody really sees anyone else..

In terms of the actual fashion, I imagine most seawings make use of the limited resources they have: other bioluminescent creatures, rocks or bones could all act as accessories. Perhaps the biggest and oldest of dragons can even use whalefall skeletons as armor pieces. Either way, the most important aspects of design are the silhouette and the luminescence, given that those are the only things you can guarantee another dragon will be able to see. Seawings may choose to tailor their fins and wings to accommodate this, or diet using other bioluminescent creatures to increase their own glow.

That's all I have! Thank you so much for the question - it was really fun to think about, and sprouted a few other tangent ideas on border village fashion and trade between tribes.

I deeply apologize for bringing this up again, but I am unfortunately kind of required to keep talking about the art competition until it ends. We're seeing a lot of cool WIP submissions in the server! If you want to join and draw some WoF scenes, the link to my discord server is here:

Thank you so much to everyone who's already here, and see you later (o´▽`o)

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hiii would you do Charles with a teen daughter who does a lot of music (piano but maybe other instruments as well) but she plays a sport like basketball and gets a nerve injury in her wrist and really struggles to play music again becusse she’s thinking it but her fingers just aren’t playing it and dad Charles just being super sweet when she gets frustrated and trying to help her? thank you!!

The Silence between Notes

The late afternoon sun poured through the tall windows of their Monaco apartment, casting long golden stripes across the hardwood floor. Yn sat hunched over the grand piano in the corner of the living room, her right hand hovering uncertainly above the keys. Her fingers twitched, reluctant and unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone else. Her left hand rested on her thigh, trembling slightly—not from pain, but from frustration.

Her cello stood silently by the window, its curves glowing warmly in the light, but untouched. Just the thought of trying to play it again made her stomach twist. She had tried two nights ago. It had ended in tears.

She struck a single note on the piano, her finger stumbling. Then another. But when she tried to begin the gentle entrance to Clair de Lune, the right hand lagged, stiff and unsure, and the melody fell apart like a house of cards. She slammed the lid closed, the sound loud and jarring.

“Ugh!” Yn groaned, pressing her palms to her eyes. “Why is this so hard? It’s like my hand forgot how to move.”

She didn’t hear him come in, but she felt his presence—gentle, quiet, always waiting for her to invite him in. Charles leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his soft eyes full of sympathy. He had been listening for a while, resisting the urge to come in too soon. He knew how much she hated being watched when she was struggling.

He finally spoke. “You used to play that piece with your eyes closed.”

Yn looked up, startled. “Papa, I didn’t know you were home.”

“I came back early,” he said, walking over and kneeling in front of her. “I heard you playing—or trying to.”

She looked away, embarrassed. “It’s not working. I can’t do it. My hand doesn’t listen anymore.”

Charles gently reached for her wrist, his thumb tracing over the thin scar that still curved softly near the base. “It’s not your hand that’s not listening, mon cœur. It’s your mind that’s scared.”

“I’m not scared,” she snapped, too quickly. Then sighed. “Okay. Maybe I am. I know the notes. I know the technique. But when I try to play, it’s like—nothing comes out. Like my fingers are... blocked.”

Charles nodded. “Do you remember when I crashed in Hungary? Back in 2021?”

Yn frowned. “Of course I do. You were so upset. You thought you had ruined everything.”

“I didn’t trust the car after that. Even when the engineers said it was fine, even when I was physically okay. I’d sit in it and feel like it was going to betray me again. My hands were ready. But my mind would tense up. And that... that made me slower.”

“Is that what this is?” she asked, voice small. “My brain making me worse?”

He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Your brain is trying to protect you from hurting again. But it’s using fear instead of trust.”

There was a long pause between them.

Then she whispered, “Mom said maybe I should just quit music. Focus on basketball instead.”

Charles blinked, taken aback. “She said that?”

Yn nodded. “She said maybe it’s a sign that music isn’t the right path. That basketball’s more practical, more... physical. That this injury proves I’m better suited to it.”

Charles sighed and sat beside her on the piano bench. “Your mom loves you. But she doesn’t know what music means to you. Not the way I do.”

“I yelled at her,” Yn murmured. “I got so mad. I told her she doesn’t get it. She said I was being dramatic.”

“Alexandra was wrong to say that,” he said gently. “You’re not dramatic, Yn. You’re passionate. There’s a difference. I’ve seen you with your cello. The way you lose yourself in it, how you breathe with every phrase. You don’t just play music. You feel it. That doesn’t just disappear.”

Yn stared at the piano, silent.

Charles reached out and opened the lid again. “Play something simple,” he said. “Forget Debussy for now. Start with something easy. Something you played when you were ten.”

“Why?” she asked warily.

“Because right now your mind is trying to perform instead of play. Go back to where it all started.”

She looked skeptical but nodded. Slowly, she placed her hands on the keys, searching for the old tune. “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” she muttered with a half-laugh.

“Perfect,” Charles smiled.

She began. The first few notes were hesitant. Her right hand fumbled at first, her pinky trembling with effort, but the left hand held steady. Halfway through, she messed up and hit a wrong note.

“Try again,” Charles said gently.

She did.

This time it sounded better.

She stopped. “This is so dumb.”

“It’s not dumb. It’s rebuilding,” he said. “Do you know how many times I went back to karting circuits after a crash in F1? Sometimes, you have to go back to remember why you started.”

There was silence between them again, but it felt softer now. Yn shifted slightly closer, leaning her shoulder against him.

“Thanks, Papa.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m always here, ma chérie. We’ll take it slow. One note at a time.”

That night, she didn’t touch the piano again—but she sat on the floor with her cello, cradling it in her arms like an old friend. She didn’t play. She just held it.

And Charles sat beside her the whole time, not saying a word.

The next day, she tried one note.

And the day after that, she tried two.

And Charles? He never missed a single practice.

Not even one.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-♡○♡

[buckysleftbicep]

letters though time (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!reader

warnings: angst.

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: i love this chapter so much. please leave some feedback or a reblog if you enjoyed it! i tend to forget about tags, please be patient with me, thank you loves. stay safe out there!

series masterlist

You reread his letter so many times the edges began to curl.

He was leaving.

You stared at the letter in your hands, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun history. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to read them again. You already knew.

You knew the date, April 8th, 1944, etched into your memory long before his handwriting ever reached you. You had seen it in textbooks, beneath faded photographs, on a bronze plaque mounted inside the Smithsonian: Sergeant James Barnes, deployed with Captain Steve Rogers to intercept a HYDRA transport in the Austrian Alps.

You knew that mission. Everyone did.

It was the one where he fell. Where the world believed he died.

Except he didn’t.

You knew what came after, how HYDRA had found him in the wreckage and broken him in ways no one should ever be broken.

How their scientists, cruel and methodical, stripped him down to nothing. Rewrote him. Erased him. Until all that remained was a killing machine, sharp and merciless, a ghost with a metal arm and no name.

When you first started working at the museum, you had gone down that rabbit hole, read every article, studied every declassified file, perhaps even the ones you were specifically told not to read.

You had seen the stills, the grainy footage, the Winter Soldier moving like a machine, swift and ruthless, with eyes that held no trace of the man writing you these letters now. The man you had fallen in love with.

And now he was writing to you, sweet, hopeful, himself, without knowing what awaited him on the other side of that mission.

You gripped the letter until your knuckles turned white, heart lodged so high in your throat you could barely breathe. You blinked, hoping the words would change. That maybe this letter would say he wasn’t going, that he had changed his mind. That somehow, knowing you, and perhaps falling for you had altered the path of fate.

But the words stayed the same.

And so did history.

Please wait for me.

Your chest felt too tight to breathe.

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn't.

You sat on the floor beside the cabinet, the old walnut drawer yawning open, its linen lining wrinkled and worn from too many anxious, trembling hands.

His letters were everywhere, scattered like fallen leaves around you. Pages upon pages, thick with ink and hope, with quiet jokes, whispered dreams, and all the soft, unspoken pieces of him that had stitched themselves gently into your heart.

And now history was threatening to take him away.

You couldn’t stop pacing the next morning.

Couldn’t stop chewing at your bottom lip, eyes flicking toward the drawer every five minutes like it would somehow answer you.

When the next letter came, you nearly dropped it from the tremor in your fingers.

April 1st, 1944 Sweetheart, You’ve gone quiet. Did I say something wrong? I hope I didn’t scare you with what I wrote. I just… I need you to know I’m serious. About all of this. About you. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Falling for someone through paper and time. But I have. I’ve fallen for you. And maybe it’s selfish, but I hope you feel the same. I’ll write again tomorrow. Just… say something, will you? Please. Always, James

You sat down that instant and scribbled out a reply with shaking hands.

Bucky, Please don’t go on this mission. I know that sounds ridiculous. I know you can’t just walk away from orders. But something terrible is going to happen. I can’t tell you how I know, it would change too much, but please… don’t go on this mission. You won’t come back the same. If you do come back at all. Please, just trust me. Please.

You folded the letter with trembling fingers and tucked it into the drawer.

So you waited. And waited.

But no letter came the next day. Or the one after that. Or the day after that.

The silence grew heavy, pressing. Like the space between heartbeats stretched too far apart.

By the fourth day, the ache settled deep in your chest—sharp and constant, like something vital was missing. You kept his photo tucked in your wallet, pulling it out so often the edges had started to wear.

You stared at it until the ink blurred behind tears you refused to wipe away. You paced the apartment like a ghost in your own life, whispering his name into the quiet, as if somehow, just somehow, it might find Bucky. Might bring him back.

On the fifth day, you found a letter.

But the paper wasn’t soft with affection, it was creased, angry.

April 4th, 1944 (Y/N), You ask me to trust you, but you won’t trust me to finish this mission. You want me to believe you, about this, about danger, but you won’t say why. Won’t explain. You just beg me not to go. You say I won’t come back the same. That I might not come back at all. Do you know how that feels to read? Like you’ve already written my end for me. Is this all just a game to you? Some story you’re writing? Because it stopped feeling like fiction to me a long time ago. I care about you. I’ve trusted you with more of myself than anyone else in years. And now I don’t know what to think. I need time. - J

You stared at the letter for a long time.

Then you sank to the floor, hands cradling your head.

Tears slipped down your cheeks soundlessly. You didn’t blame him. Not really. You couldn’t explain how you knew what was coming. No, you couldn’t tell him he’d be taken, tortured, frozen. You couldn't tell him that his future was a blur of blood and silence and death.

You couldn’t say it without breaking something sacred.

But still, it hurt. god, it hurt.

You didn’t write back. Not right away.

You told yourself he needed space. That maybe he would feel your silence and understand it wasn’t anger, it was fear. A fear too heavy to put into words.

You wanted to give him time. But you didn’t realise just how little time he had left.

Four days passed. Each one sharp around the edges, like they had been carved from glass. Fragile and ready to shatter.

And still...no letter.

And then, on the morning of April 8th, you opened the drawer and found his letter.

Your breath hitched before you even touched it.

The envelope was different. Heavier. The paper thicker than usual.

You unfolded it with trembling fingers.

April 8th, 1944 Doll, We leave for Germany in a few hours. I couldn’t go without writing you one last time. I didn’t want things to end on anger. I’m sorry I pushed you. I just...it scared me, that’s all. The way you spoke like you knew what would happen, I was shaken, and I don’t like feeling helpless. But I trust you. I do. I told Howard what you said. I didn’t give him details, just that someone I cared about, someone important, warned me something could go wrong. He seemed to believe me, said that maybe time’s not as solid as we think. He told me he’s been working on something. Said he might have a way to pull me through. So if I make it back, if I survive, maybe there’s a chance we would meet. I'll find you. Please wait for me, (Y/N). And if nothing else, just know this, I love you. Always yours, James

You folded the letter in silence, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The ache in your chest made it hard to sit upright, let alone think.

Your hands trembled as you reached for paper, fingers cold and clumsy around the pen. You didn’t write paragraphs, didn’t spill your heart across the page in desperate, sprawling confessions.

There was nothing left to say that could rewrite history. So instead, you wrote only three words, quiet, aching, infinite. Words that had lived in your chest for weeks. Words that felt both like a promise and a goodbye.

I love you.

You placed it in the drawer, fingertips lingering on the edge like a goodbye you weren’t ready to give. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried every unspoken word you hadn’t dared to write.

You closed the drawer gently, too gently, like slamming it might break something irreparable.

And that was the last time.

You never got another letter again.

For days afterward, you couldn’t bring yourself to touch it. Couldn’t even glance at the cabinet without that familiar sting behind your eyes, without your chest tightening like your ribs were trying to hold something broken together.

The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was cruel. Loud in its finality.

You told yourself maybe tomorrow. Maybe the drawer would open and there would be something waiting. Another slanted signature. Another piece of him.

But there was nothing.

And eventually, the ache settled in deep, bone-deep, the kind of grief that didn’t scream but pressed down slowly. You found yourself avoiding the cabinet altogether, skirting around it like it might hurt you if you got too close.

You stopped checking.

Stopped hoping.

Because it felt like mourning someone who hadn’t died, but who had still somehow left you behind.

a/n: i hope you love this chapter as much as i did! thank you for stopping by!

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake @maryssong23 @mgchaser @hiraethmae @coffeecigsandcommentary @iyskgd @silverdoragon @lori19 @counterstr1ke @cyberxlust @throwmethroughawindow @keira-kaz2y5

[mahajio]

I wanted to comment on this lovely artwork, but it kiiiiiinda got of out of hand and no longer fits in a single reply, so I'm putting it in my reblog instead!

First and foremost, describing Marcille's aura as "prey animal" honestly clicked with me more than I was expecting it to. I tried to articulate my thoughts on it, but I couldn't pull it off in a way that makes any sense, so all I have to say on it for now, is that it feels like this post added a vital little puzzle piece of Marcille's character in my mind!

Now then, as for the actual art, it's absolutely beautiful! I really like these game-esque artworks you draw, because they look aesthetically pleasing and just have a certain energy to them that you totally nail in every possible way! I— I'm sounding really vague here, I know! It's difficult to find a way to properly describe what I like about it so much. Anyways, that first drawing looks really good!

Marcille peaking her head through such a small doorway while saying "Come out, come out" made me feel like she was the one hunting, but I soon realized it feels much more like she's trying to find whatever is doing the hunting here before it finds her. Her expression has been drawn masterfully, displaying a perfect mix of worry and fear, with those little tears dripping down her face making for a nice addition as well. I also think you did a great job with colouring and shading her, and the way her Falin doll kind of looks like it's peeking with her is really neat. It's a small comfort as she looks into this marvelously disgusting room, tainted in a green-brownish hue and riddled with an almost indistinguishable mess of foliage and other kinds of matter. With how dark the drawing is, I didn't even notice the border of the first artwork is actually blue until I looked at the second drawing! I think it's a nice colouring choice that goes well with the overall colour scheme of the drawing.

The second drawing is equally as marvelous, and most certainly worthy of some serious praise! Be forewarned that I might be wildly misinterpreting what I'm seeing here, and for all I know those little eyes above her head are just icons to indicate her stress or something, but what the heck, I sees what I sees. I love how the black-and-white background has been detailed with all sorts of books, and the way those three oozing eyes stare at Marcille from behind the upper shelf looks incredibly scary, especially since they pop so much more thanks to the background's colour — or rather, the lack thereof. (WOW, the coloured thing has a more noticeable presence when everything around it lacks colour? Crazy observation.) That little smidge of dark green above the eyes adds a nice tad of shading, too. Something I also noticed is that one of the eyes' ooze dangles in front of Marcille's forehead, which makes it look like whatever is behind her is just about ready to envelop her completely. It looks very unsettling, and it's clear Marcille agrees, if her expression is any indication. Those wide eyes and sweat-covered hands clutching at her dress (love how you drew the creases in her dress where her hands are gripping it, by the way) perfectly demonstrate that prey animal energy you mention in the description. Like a deer caught in headlights. What makes it work even better is that typically, Marcille is loud and expressive, especially when she's scared. But now? She's dead silent. She doesn't look scared; she looks terrified. I love it!

I only just now noticed that the pitch blackness in the background drips over the second row of books too, and it even completely covers the right side, to the point where it's started oozing from the shelf. It further adds to this suffocating atmosphere, as if the second Marcille moves even an inch, she's done for. Also, this is something I com-PLETELY forgot to mention, but that portrait of Marcille's mother is another nice addition, helping to make the background a little fancier! Ah, one last thing I wanted to touch on is the UI, which also looks great. The doll's slumped over nicely, adding to its…'dollness,' (riveting commentary, I know) and the candle just scratches my brain right with how its been drawn. Seriously, I cannot stress enough how much I love the thick lines you use for drawing and colouring. Your art style is quite unique, and it is a joy to look at! Gooosh, and the red text for that totally regular book that her cursor's hovering over further adds to the ominous atmosphere that this artwork's got going for it! Like, I honestly cannot stress enough how much I love this. It really is just marvelous all around.

As an aside, I really like the asymmetry of the cursor/selector thingamajig. I think it adds to the style a lot, and I also appreciate the basic details that you didn't neglect to add, such as that little line in the green bar, the question mark behind the "select" option to indicate the book hasn't been selected juuuust yet, and her 2,5 remaining hit points. It all comes together stupendously! I love this a lot!

Well anyways, I kinda kept rambling on, and now it's midnight! Whoops! So much for maintaining a sleep schedule, me! Ah, anyways, I wish you a stupendous rest of your weekend! Marvelous art!

marcille and her prey animal energy🤞

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part 10 Finale

First contact, take two.

Go check out @keferon as the creator of the AU!

———————————————————————

Prowl stared at the lifeless body on the floor.

Visor dim, chest closed. Were it not for the absolute silence it offered, one might, without listening closely, assume it was merely an unconscious mech.

He ran the numbers again.

Odds of Survival 17%

The edge of his desk pressed a hard line against the backs of his legs and the palms of his servos. A steadily growing back log of frantic comms messages plinked across his processor like marbles rolling down a flight of stairs.

Red Alert: 13 messages and counting.

Velocity: 2 messages.

Elita One: 3 messages. . . 4 messages.

Odds of Survival 15%

Knocking- no, banging at the door. Red Alert, 76%.

Muffled, “Prowl open the door!”

“Answer your comms!”

“What’s happening in there?!”

Red Alert, 99%.

Slowly, Prowl moved his doorwings in a slow arch, quadruple checking that everything in his office was exactly where he needed it to be. Maximizing his chances.

“Open the door. Now.”

Elita (98%) was still speaking to him and not physically breaking into the room by force.

Odds of Survival 20%.

Without looking away from the body, Prowl unlocked the door to his office.

Guarded and cautious, the captain and security officer entered the room. Elita had a weapon drawn, but kept her blaster aimed at the floor, locking onto the body with an iron focus.

Conversely, Red Alert sucked in a vent at the sight, immediately raking his optics over every visible surface, searching frantically for signs of danger.

“What happened-how’d he get in here-who’s he work for-why’d you stop responding-where has he been-WHAT HAPPENED?!”

The mech was practically bouncing off the walls, static crackling with enough excess charge to diffuse the room with a heavy scent of ozone. The only reason Red Alert wasn’t currently tearing the place apart already was the way he looked at every object like a potential improvised explosive.

Ignoring the smaller mech, Elita ordered an answer, “Prowl. Explain. Now.”

His fans were audibly running high. Prowl did nothing to mask the obvious sign of stress. He carefully recited his script.

“Roughly one cycle ago, I rescued an unconscious mech from deep space after he’d fallen from a quintesson gate tear. He was friendly, albeit very unfamiliar with his surroundings. Including some of the very common alien species on board our transport.”

Calmly, Prowl looked up to read the other mechs reactions so far. Elita was remaining mostly focused on the body, but sent a sidelong glance aimed towards the tactician. Meanwhile, Red Alert looked ready to burst, about to interrupt Prowls script.

“You may search my office as I explain.” The security chiefs engine practically growled by the fourth word of being given permission, and dove behind Prowls desk for frantic inspection.

The captain nodded her head for Prowl to continue.

“Over the course of our short time together, I collected more unusual details about this mech. Compiling them in an effort to better understand “Jazz” as he refers to himself.” With a flick, Prowl brought up the conspiracy board for Elita Ones review.

The blue glow helped illuminate the dimmed office interior.

The alternate Functionalist Creation Theory was already deleted, leaving just the alien theory.

“On route towards the pick up location, Jazz, through somewhat clunky common, explained he was built specifically to fight quintessons. This claim immediately became verifiable when we were attacked by a not inconsiderable quintesson force.”

His doorwing twitched another scan.

Without turning around, Prowl knew the exact moment Red Alert discovered Jazz’s shoulder piece he’d stashed in his desk to be found. The sound of sudden disgust followed by a dropped clunk was reassurance enough.

“He then saved my life, multiple times and at significant injury to his own frame, as you are no doubt aware of Captain.” She did in fact look more closely at the fresh welds along the shoulder she’d seen barely clinging on not forty breems ago.

“After sustaining these injuries, I assisted Jazz with some basic field repairs. During which I discovered they had no previous experience with anesthetic and generally seemed to expect significantly harsher treatment than what I would consider “normal or ethical” medical care.”

Prowl vented, nodding towards the screen. “Bluestreak can verify the accuracy of these statements. There are some transcripts of our conversations on the board as well.”

Faintly, Prowl could hear Red Alert mouth the words, “ -don’t always die either, sometimes they just go crazy??” in quiet horror.

Odds of Survival 25%

The increase steadied Prowl slightly as he continued. “On our way to the medbay, Jazz expressed some anxiety over being treated by a professional. He-“

The praxian swallowed.

Prowl couldn’t really act, but luckily he didn’t have to. “He requested not be restrained or sedated, and gave- permission, to use force against him if he did become.. ungovernable.”

For the first time, Prowl released a servo from the desk and used it to gesture broadly to the whole situation.

It fell somewhat limp at his side.

“Velocity preformed the necessary repairs, noting a sudden decline in Jazz’s language capabilities as well as strong evidence for prior medical abuse.”

“Shortly afterwards, Jazz temporarily fled the medbay.”

That eleven letter word was a load bearing component of Jazz’s survival.

Some of the tension returned to the room as they were all reminded of the inciting incident. Prowl had significant practice in withdrawing his emotions, and now more than ever did he need to appear neutral.

“Jazz escaped by utilizing a strong magnetic grip to both damage the locks as well as scale the ceiling through the blind spots of the cameras. He traveled only a short distance into Rune’s office, where the therapist was able to talk him down somewhat. Jazz then sought to “tell me something important” encountering Whirl along the way.”

Red Alert had finished tearing apart Prowls desk, and was now carefully inching his way closer to the body still on the floor. Hesitantly, as if it could strike without warning.

Prowl resisted the urge to tense.

“Both mechs can corroborate the timeline. Shortly after, I discovered Jazz lost in the halls and brought him to the nearest room I had control over. My office.”

Inspecting the frame for subspace pockets it didn’t have, the security chief crackled lightly with frustration.

Snippily, Red Alert snapped at him, “So the oil pot got you alone, in your office no less, under the pretenses of distress JUST like I said he would.”

“Red Alert.” The smaller mech jolted but looked his Captain in the optics. Elita One held a steady, cold Calm over the room. Her field not to be overruled. “Have you found anything yet?”

“Well, no. But I haven’t looked everywhere.”

The Captain silenced him with a raise of her hand. “Then finish your search, and Prowl will finish his report.”

She nodded for them both to resume their parts.

Odds of Survival 33%

The tactician nodded gratefully in return.

“Jazz was behaving irrationally. Nervous. Confused. He made statements that didn’t make sense and given his helm injury, I had strongly suspected he was crashing. Or his species equivalent to it.”

Prowl watched very carefully as Red Alert finished his search, faster than expected. The total lack of any signs of life coupled with the mention of crashing made the mech’s optics go impossibly wide. “Did he- is he?”

Prowl passively waved his servo at the body. “He’s not dead, although by cybertronian standards it may appear that way. This state is relatively normal from what Velocity has noted.”

“So if you thought he was having a medical emergency, why didn’t you call for help?” The captain didn’t quite relax, but did seem to accept Jazz wasn’t going to spring up at any moment.

No no no no. Please god no.

Prowl snapped out of the memory. Once more resetting his optics.

“He. . asked me not to. I chose not to risk agitating him or his injury further.” Prowl’s wings twitched minutely, tracking Red Alerts movement towards Greens habitat.

“And then?”

“He confessed to me he was an alien.” Prowl stated mirthlessly.

For the first time Elita took her eyes off the body, cycling her optics and turning towards Prowl, who could only press his mouth into a thin line.

“Jazz was totally unaware he was completely isolated on an unknown alien vessel. At least until very recently.” Prowl finished.

There was a flicker of some other emotion through Elita’s field. He’s had enough people pity him to recognize the sensation.

A yelp from Green’s habitat had both Prowl and Elita One rounding on Red Alert. The mech was clutching his servo like it’d been lacerated.

“It tried to bite me! It tried to bite me!”

Sure enough, a low throaty hiss emanated from the top of Green’s enclosure. The flyt glared down over the edge of her highest platform at the short mech. Her crest and throat were flushed a dark purple with territorial fury.

“An erratic mech is forcibly intruding on her personal space. The urge to bite is a sympathetic one.” Prowl growled, stood in the center of his completely overturned office.

“Leave the damn flyt alone Red. Prowl, get to the fragging point.” At last, Elita holstered her weapon, glowering at them both.

Odds of survival 45%

The tactician turned back to the captain, “Between the shock, exhaustion and his injuries, I believe Jazz went into his species version of an involuntary shutdown. I have done everything I can to stabilize him from crashing.”

He rubbed his helm where his own would-be crash had wanted to form, “I have the relevant experience.”

Elita One studied Prowls face with a piercing gaze. Narrowing slightly.

“Why did you stop responding to comms for almost a full breem?”

His fans still running on high, helm burning and sensor net itching, Prowl put all his will into suppressing any exhaustion born sass.

“I nearly crashed.”

“You nearly crashed.” Elita reiterated.

Prowl nodded.

The captain considered this for a time.

“Red Alert, I want this ship deep cleaned. Full search and scan from top to bottom. Get the ceilings covered and figure out something for the locks to counter the super magnet situation.”

Optics brightening to luminosity of head lights, Red Alert stammered in reply, “E-even your quarters Captain?”

Elita looked like she was contemplating the taste of a fistful of nails, rolling her optics as she grit out, “Yes. This one time, and you explicitly do not have permission to place any form of surveillance inside.”

Red Alert saluted so hard he left a dent.

“YES CAPTAIN I WON’T MAKE YOU REGRET THIS CAPTAIN THANK YOU CAPTAIN!”

“Go!”

The red mech had his sirens blaring before his tires even hit the ground. Leaving the remaining mechs almost alone.

The sound of Elita One’s peds clacking against the metal floor made Prowl’s wings twitch.

Arms crossed, she stared the praxian down.

“Tell me everything you just redacted.”

Prowl did not immediately respond, still staring down at the body on the floor. His doorwings rotated satellite slow.

Without a word, Prowl took his weight off of the desk, walking up to Greens enclosure, where he gently pushed the flyt aside and collected what was hidden beneath her.

“This-“ Prowl cupped his servos around a small white and blue form, “is Jazz.”

——————

The logic cascade nearly consumed him.

Prowl was holding Jazz’s spark.

Jazz.

The mecha’s chest plate had opened. Revealing only the faintest glow within, washed out entirely by the harsh overhead lights of Prowls office.

Irrationally, Prowls higher functioning stalled out and his processor defaulted to some spark deep coding to make sense of what was happening.

He’s exposing his spark. He’s showing me his spark and he’s still crashing.

He’s going to crash and die with his fragging spark out in my office Oh fragging Primus Not here not like THIS.

A ringing.

Shrill and strangled. A dissonant sting.

An EM field.

Jazz’s EM field.

Faint. Faint but sharp, like an almost invisible shard of glass that only becomes known once it’s lodged itself beneath your armor.

The scream warbled and popped like a blown radio speaker. Some-thing fell forward from Jazz’s chassis.

His spark his spark his spark is falling out of his chest.

Jerking forward on instinct, Prowl cupped his servos and caught what wasn’t a spark- that’s not a spark this is NOT A SPARK.

A body, limp and silent. Tissue paper light in the way only non-metallic life forms can be.

It’s in his servos it’s in his servos it’s in his ser>%$.

Prowl was static. From his mind to his body. Pure static. Frozen yet screaming internally on his knees, staring down at everything that made Jazz alive.

He held the Spark-body-organic-not spark- Spark-SPARK-SPARK-ITS NOT JAZZ-NOT A SPARK ITS \#}>%*!? JAZZ-IT IS JAZ%-IT IS-IT IS- in his servos.

Gently.

Sparks Organics were very fragile.

He knew that. Prowl held onto that. Gently. Very gently.

He slotted the simple equation into place.

How to keep Jazz not-spark alive.

Odds of Survival. . .

——————

The weight in his palms felt imaginary. Too small to be real.

Yet here was Elita One as his witness. Thrown Off was a look seldom worn by the Captain and it was clearly an uncomfortable fit.

“This is Jazz?” She echoed Prowl, reaching out a servo to the unconscious whatever Jazz was.

The praxian stiffened, manually canceling the move to pull Jazz away from the other mechs reach. He didn’t, however, quite manage to cancel his vocalizer, a “Please be careful.” busting out despite himself.

Elita shot him an affronted look, plucking Jazz from his servos. “I know how to not kill an organic Prowl.”

She turned her servo over, using her thumb to roll the alien onto its back. “You let me hold Green.” She muttered.

“Green is much larger and I actually know what she is.” He was hovering, Prowl knew he was hovering and that Elita hated it when people hovered but it was really just a race to see who pissed off who first right now.

“Okay, okay, so what’s wrong with.. this one?”She gestured with the digit she was using to prod Jazz, closely examining the unconscious organic.

Not for the first time that day, Prowl rubbed a servo over his head, “I-I am unsure. It’s incredibly faint but he is breathing. I did mean it when I said I think he fainted from shock and possibly exhaustion. Organics typically require rest and fuel much more frequently than us and Jazz was extremely active for a highly extended period of time.”

Prowl cleared his vents, “At least, compared to a flyt. I do not have many other data points for comparison.”

Considering this, Elita frowned at the aliens inorganic casing and then at the motionless mecha on the floor. Definitely an aesthetic match. She considered something for a moment, frowning.

“Do you- Ew, ew, it’s twitching. Take it. Take it back.”

Not quite panicking, Elita effectively half-tossed half-dropped the alien back into Prowls anxious servos.

For several long and ancient clicks, neither mech moved, holding perfectly still as the alien shifted in Prowls servos.

Holding him like this, Prowl can feel Jazz’s field again. Faintly, like the sound of rustling branches on the edge of conscious hearing, the field tickled his palms. Unlike the mecha, Jazz’s visor wasn’t opaque, allowing Prowl to see the faint scrunch of his face and the way it smoothed out again once back in Prowl’s care.

His field dropped back into a near silent whisper.

Prowl made a ball of his servos, sealing off Jazz from anything else that might happen.

“We can set them up in a holding cell or something.” Elita said quietly, flicking her hand in exasperation. “Maybe under a glass bowl. I’ll arrange for someone else to handle questioning.”

The praxian straightened up at that, looking back to his captain, “Sir, I am the best suited to question Jazz.”

Arms crossing, Elita One gave Prowl an appraising look. “You said so yourself that you nearly just crashed. Why can’t anyone else do it?”

Nodding in understanding, Prowl pitched his counter argument, “As it stands, I have the best rapport with him. The only other mechs Jazz has met is Bluestreak, Velocity and yourself.”

“Jazz gets along with Bluestreak, however my brother is not well suited for interrogations.” Which wasn’t entirely true, Prowl kept to himself. Subjecting detainees to Bluestreaks small talk for several groons frequently made said individuals much more receptive to questioning by subsequent officers.

That currently didn’t help however.

“Velocity is a medic, which Jazz is terrified of and has zero experience with interrogations.” The knowledge of where this chaos began was still fresh. Fresher still was Prowl’s memory of Jazz pleading to not wake up on a table.

“And I mean no offense captain, but the last time Jazz saw you, you had threatened to rip off one of his arms and beat him with it.” Elita shrugged and gave Prowl a “Fair Enough” look.

“Statistically speaking, Jazz is most likely to answer honestly to someone he considers an ally. Regardless of how others may view my reputation, Jazz did specifically choose me to explain himself to before he lost consciousness.”

Venting, Elita considered the facts and stepped slightly closer. Prowl held his posture as formally as he could despite how his servos were positioned. The harsh look in his captains optics softened only slightly hearing his fans continue on high power.

“Are you sure you can handle this? Medically speaking?”

In a rare break of form, Prowl let his doorwings sink to a less physically taxing position. “The initial shock has passed. I will not crash.”

Probably. 67%.

Breaking eye contact, Prowl stared at the mess of data pads now scattered on his office floor. 85% of which was commissioned work directly from Megatron.

“I do not know how long it will take for Jazz to wake up. I do know I will not be very effective at my job until this is resolved.”

Finally stepping back, Elita had the look of someone using comms. “Officially, I’m putting you on medical leave for the next couple cycles. Megatron will have to make his own poor decisions for awhile.”

She paused by the body. “What do we do with this?”

It was heavier than it looked. Prowl knew now from experience. The mechs needed to remove it would add to the list of possible loose ends to an already sensitive situation.

“We can leave it for now. I will not allow Jazz access to it until I am more certain of his intentions.”

She hummed in response. Eyeing where Jazz was currently contained, Elita made her way to the door, “I need to go do damage control, alert me the instant their condition changes. Yours too.”

“Understood. And thank you. For listening.”

Awkwardly, Prowl looked anywhere but the captain, and Elita wordlessly waved him off. Both mechs quickly abandoned the moment of mutual care and thankfulness in favor of their usual personas.

Soon enough, Elita was gone.

Cracking open his hold, Prowl peeked at his alien charge.

Still sleeping.

Almost imperceptibly, Prowl could make out the slight rhythmic expansion of his chest. Limbs tucked close, Jazz was loosely curled on his side into a ball, showing no signs of waking.

Odds of Survival 63%.

The gauntlet was over, now it was all up to Jazz.

——————

Prowl lay slumped over on his desk.

His arms fenced in a pile consisting of every instant cold pack he kept in his office, which were currently arranged to completely bury his head.

After two and a quarter groons, the packs were mostly room temperature but the way they blocked out most light and sound was nice.

The door to Green’s habitat was left open. It was a risky move but a pleasant surprise that the flyt chose cuddles over consumption in regards to the small alien. Prowl hadn’t counted on her getting protective over the fellow organic, but it was certainly a relief.

Placing Jazz back in Greens nest seemed the safest option at the time. Soft but contained. Green certainly had no qualms and arranged herself as she saw fit. Prowl figured she must know more than him about this and let her be.

Currently, the flyt had started trilling happily. Prowls doorwings twitched. Scanning the room for the umpteenth time before relaxing again.

The only other sounds were the noises the Lost Light usually produced and Prowls own body functions.

It was quiet. As quiet as his office normally was anyways. The flyt continued her quiet song.

Actually, Green was trilling very loudly right now.

Then, Prowl picked up on a second, much stranger pitch.

Speech. Specifically speech in the tone of cooing.

Rising from his mountain of maladaptive coping, Prowl lethargically turned his helm to the habitat. The cooing continued unawares.

Standing now, Prowl looked into Greens nest to see what was going on.

The flyt had her beak almost tucked against her belly, forehead pressed against Jazz’s chest.

Awake, and lying on his back, the alien was reaching around the flyts comparatively massive head to scritch and scratch at the back of her neck. Paying special attention to the crease where Green’s crest met her head, causing the flyt to trill like crazy.

All the while, the alien matched her vocal tone, speaking absolute nonsense in his native language. {D’aww you like that big guy? Yes you do! You’re just a giant love bug aren’t you?}

It took a couple tries, but after several resets Prowl believed his optics were working.

The alien noticed him at last and smiled at him from around Green. “Oh hey Prowler!”

“Are-“ his voice clipped.

Resetting his vocalizer this time, Prowl tried again, “You are remarkably calm right now.”

Not stopping his ministrations, Jazz hummed nonchalantly, “Well yeah, s’not like this is real.”

Prowl felt he had underestimated Jazz’s capacity to screw with his head.

“What.” He searched for any signs that he had fallen into defrag. Finding none.

“You think this isn’t real?” Prowl asked incredulously.

Jazz raised an eyebrow, smiling at the tactician.

“Prowl. Babydoll. I’m petting a {dinosaur.}”

He said with the most “you serious right now?” look reserved for only the most ridiculous of questions.

Prowl, might, kill Jazz himself.

Very hide-able body.

Very feasible.

He’s hidden bigger.

Instead, Prowl schooled his emotions. He would not, under any circumstances, allow himself to loose control like he did during Jazz’s confession.

Bringing his servos together as if he was a praying mech, Prowl calmly asked, “Why do you think this isn’t real?”

Jazz shrugged, “I mean, which is more likely? That I fell through a space spanning portal only to be rescued by some handsome alien who’s entire species just so happens to look exactly like mechas? Or that going through that portal permanently damaged something in here?”

The alien pointed at his own head for emphasis, carrying on, “And this is all some end of life {hallucination} my brain came up with where I’m actually fine, dinosaurs are pet-able and robots turn into cars.”

Prowl stopped Tacnet before it could take the prompt. Because it would calculate those odds, it would agree with Jazz, and then Prowl would crash for real this time.

“Well then can you at least pretend this is actually happening?” He was getting angry. He was getting angry again and he needed to stop before he did any more damage.

His doorwings and servos shook from how tightly he was holding them. He would stay calm. He would stay calm.

His field was seeping out again, but Prowl now knew from experience that trying to stop it now would just cause whatever hold he had on it to break loose.

[PROWL]: Jazz is awake. I am handling it]

[ELITA-1]: Keep me appraised]

[ELITA-1]: If Jazz turns out to be a liability he’s gone, and you’re going to scour the outside of the shop for all those “listening devices” Red Alert is now freaking out about]

The cold packs had done wonders earlier and Prowl was about to undo all the good they’d done.

He let the anger stay but cool into something usable. “Listen to me.”

Prowl leaned in just close enough to feel the bare hint of Jazz’s field. It was still incomprehensible but maybe he’d understand Prowl’s.

“My boss is currently demanding to know what you and your intentions are, and if I can’t provide a satisfactory answer we’re both going out of an airlock.” Prowl hissed.

Jazz stilled.

He looked over Prowl again, then back to Green. A melody Prowl hadn’t been aware of juttered to a stop, and that reedy dissonant sting reappeared. The alien looked down wide eyed at Green, slowly raising his hands away from the massive animal.

“Oooooh Fuck me this is actually real.”

The wonderful scritches having suddenly stopped, Green clicked unhappily and shoved her forehead more forcefully against Jazz’s chest.

The alien wheezed as all the air in his body was forced out, eyes bulging and panicked. Jazz began rapidly tapping Greens head, trying to speak without breath, “Help. Help help help help help.”

“Green! To me!”

The flyt thankfully followed the hurried command, only needing to flap once to clear the distance between her nest and Prowls pauldron. The sudden gust of wind had Jazz jerking into a ball at the gale force buffeting.

Lightly keeping one servo on his flyt, Prowl leaned in close as he could to check Jazz over for damages.

No bodily fluids leaking, no screaming, still breathing. Good.

Jazz uncurled slowly, making intense eye contact as he pulled air back into his body.

He coughed, “Uh, hi.”

“Hello.” Prowl unconsciously copied the motion, clearing a vent, “Are you hurt?”

Jazz patted his chest in a few places, “Nothing broken. A little dizzy but I’ve felt worse.”

A little bit of relief went a long way right now, and Prowl pretty much sagged with it. “Good. Right. Now, if you could describe what insane circumstances resulted with you, inside of that, I would greatly appreciate an explanation.”

Prowl waved his free servo over to the mecha still on the floor. He didn’t miss the way Jazz’s eyes lit up seeing it and the following look of concentration as he suddenly realized how high up he was.

“Right, right. Okay, I’ll try.” Jazz swung his legs over the side of the nest, needing his arms to keep himself upright.

Idly, Prowl pet Green to keep her content on his shoulder, as Jazz centered himself to try and bridge the gap of misunderstanding.

———

About a decade and a half ago, my world started to end.

Giant fuck-off aliens descended across the Earth, destroying everything in their paths. They didn’t know the difference between cities and savannas, just plowed on through from one to the other. Maybe they actually did but it just wasn’t a difference that mattered.

That all changed once we fought back.

Conventional weapons worked at first, but then they started sending bigger, faster and meaner motherfuckers. The first wave didn’t care, just dug around in random places.

But the second wave?

We were fucked.

The biggest problem was that the thing’s barely cared what was attacking them. Civilian casualties skyrocketed. Fighter planes couldn’t keep their attention and tanks couldn’t maneuver well enough through the shattered landscape.

There was one thing the fuckers never seemed to ignore though.

Statues. Big ones.

Christ the Redeemer, The Statue of Liberty, if it was huge and human shaped the invaders would B-line for them.

One day some genius pitched the idea of J-Boy and Lady Libs bitch slapping some aliens, and most of the world was at the “Fuck It” stage anyways.

Next thing we know, there’s this, gigantic, fuckin’ robot stumbling around the West Coast.

The first ever mecha.

Built from hopes and dreams and I think a couple decommissioned battle ships, the Vanguard had one real job.

Draw away the invaders, take hits and probably blow up.

Story goes that one of the pilots decided this wasn’t going to be a suicide mission anymore.

They fought, and they won.

San Francisco. The first city to have more living than dead after an attack. My home.

After that day? The mecha program was officially formed. More mechas were made, more pilots were trained, and ten years later we’ve fought the invaders to a standstill.

Someone finally suggests taking the fight to them, and bada bing bada boom ya boy Jazz is getting shot into space.

———

“Then a, what was it, a quintessential showed up.”

“Quintesson.” Prowl corrected through his servos.

“Thank you! I kicked it in the face, we fell through the tear into some kind of command center. Everybody freaked out, somebody reactivated the portal machine thingy and well, you know the rest!” Jazz at last stopped emoting with his hands, letting them come to rest on his lap. His story complete.

Prowl had to get a chair halfway through.

He was not going to crash.

He fragging wasn’t.

The fact that his face was buried in his servos and that Green was anxiously trying to preen his chevron meant nothing.

He listened to Jazz say one insane thing, and put a pin in it. He then heard a second insane thing, and added a second, larger pin.

And so on.

There where quite a lot of pins at this point and Prowl wasn’t entirely sure how to grab just one without poking himself on another.

His fans were on again.

The tactician wiped his servos down his face, “Who- who are your allies? How many planets does your kind control?”

Meeting his gaze, Jazz frowned. “Do you mean alien allies? Cause no, it’s just us. One people, one planet.” He said holding up a solitary finger.

Currently Jazz was sat on the floor, leaning against Greens nest. Earlier, the pilot had tried to stand briefly but nearly collapsed. Waving off Prowl’s concern with an “I’m fine! This is normal.”

One. More. Pin.

“Hell, you’re the first alien I’ve ever met that didn’t want me dead.”

Shaking his helm in disbelief, Prowl started cutting back logic branches that’d surely result in a cascade. “This, this is a lot to process.”

Jazz had the audacity to laugh, “Hey, you’re tellin’ me.”

Eyes roving Prowl’s frame, Jazz sat up a bit straighter as they realized something.

The alien rubbed the back of his neck, “Uh, I’d like to also apologize. For what happened earlier.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, the space around Prowl’s optics tightened, “Yes. Well, I did not behave in a manner I will ever be particularly proud of either. I assure you I do not usually loose control like that.”

“I hope you can forgive me.” Staring at the floor between his peds, Prowl’s doorwings fell low in apology. He was so caught up in his own self righteous rage he’d screamed down at a mech who’d needed him. Who trusted him.

Jazz however, just seemed confused. “What? You didn’t do anything wrong, I was the one getting all handsy on the bridge.”

The praxian snapped up straight.

“Right. That. I also, yes. That.”

“In my defense,” Jazz raised his hands and bowed his head, “I thought you were a guy in a suit like me. Didn’t know I was actually grabbing the real you.”

Resetting his vocalizer, he spoke much more quietly. “Yes, well. It was an understandable mistake.”

“Still would though.”

“What?”

“What?”

They stared at each other in silence for several clicks.

For all his expressiveness, Jazz had a way of totally shutting off any visible tells the second he wanted to. The only tell of any kind was a practiced deceptively neutral smile beneath his visor. His mouth twitched.

The silence finally broke when Jazz growled.

Immediately leaning back defensively, Prowl wrinkled his nose when Jazz started laughing like crazy, snorting a bit before finally loosing steam.

Taking deep breaths, Jazz closed his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t directed at you. My stomach does that when I haven’t eaten in a while.” He rolled his head over to look at Prowl, eyes peeking back open. “Could’ya help me back to my mecha? I’ve got some rations in there.”

Prowl was already moving his servo inside before he could think better of it. From there, Jazz did not so much climb as he did roll over onto Prowls open palm. Sitting crisscrossed.

Something faintly like a pleasant hum touched his field.

Once out of the enclosure, the tactician studied the now conscious creature curiously. Bright eyed and without hiding it, Jazz studied him as well. A melody he didn’t recognize played against the pulse of his wrist.

He found that if he turned Jazz just the right way, the light from the theory board would turn his visor opaque. Every time he turned Jazz back, the visor cleared, and the subtle shock of sudden eye contact had him repeating the motion. Prowl got lost in trying to find the exact angle where Jazz was halfway between hidden and revealed.

Every time he did, Jazz would shift almost imperceptibly. Hidden and revealed again at his own discretion.

They stood there together, longer than either had expected.

Eventually, it was Prowl’s turn to break the silence, “You trust me. Why?”

Finally moving towards the mecha, there must have been some proximity sensor on Jazz’s person that triggered the chest plates to open.

Wings fluttering, Prowl subconsciously averted his gaze as Jazz scooted off his servo and into the cavity. The sound of tiny boots clanking.

Still not looking, he heard Jazz answer, “Breaking it down into three layers, there’s number one: I don’t exactly have any other options.”

A quick doorwing scan revealed the incredibly complex interior of Jazz’s suit, which somehow felt even more inappropriate than openly staring. Prowl pinned his wings together and stared resolutely at the ceiling.

“Number two: If you were going to kill me, you would have by now.” The sound of Jazz rustling around in their mecha abruptly stopped as the pilot spoke to Prowl more directly. “Hey, you good?”

Determined not to address this right now, Prowl simply shook his head. “I’m fine. Continue.”

He could almost hear Jazz thinking at this point, “Oooh right, the open chest cavity is probably pretty gross for you huh?”

Prowl squinted harder at the ceiling, “Not. Exactly.”

Jazz made some sort of noise of interest but thankfully choose to leave it for now. Instead, Prowl felt him clamber back onto his servo and heard the chest plates close back up.

Prowl finally looked back down at the human who’d gathered a backpack full of supplies. He carried him back to his desk and sat, releasing the small alien and leaning down low to look him in the face.

Jazz smiled back at him, “Reason number three: I like you.”

Prowl reset his optics and swore that made Jazz smile even harder. “Why?”

“Beats me.” Jazz shrugged, pulling out some ration packages.

“It’s probably a bunch of little things all added together. Super smart, fun to piss off, likes animals, can hold down a job, didn’t freak out and squash me like a bug. Hard to say for certain, but yeah, I like you.”

That was an exceptionally rare opinion to hear.

Gradually, Prowl began to feed all the information Jazz had provided into Tacnet in an effort to focus on more productive things.

There was an alien species capable of monumental destruction currently at war with the quintessons. Jazz liked him. Jazz held a favorable opinion of Prowl and could possibly be convinced to view Cybertronians in general with similar affability. Jazz was a fantastic ally on the field. There were multiple other fighters like Jazz on his home planet. They might also be convinced to “like” cybertronians.

The entire reason Prowl had been in deep space that cycle was because he was on a mission to find potential allies with other alien civilizations.

On the transport back, Prowl had written the mission off as an abject failure. Organics generally either hated Cybertronians, or feared them to the point of uselessness.

And yet.

Prowl crossed his arms on the table, getting more comfortable.

[PROWL]: My original mission has become a tentative success]

[PROWL]: Jazz has been cooperative so far, and if we can verify everything he’s told me, we could potentially form a highly favorable alliance with his people]

[ELITA-1]: He’s not freaked out about being tiny and squish-able any more? How’d you get him to talk?]

[PROWL]: I simply listened. He’s a shameless flirt]

[ELITA-1]: What]

[PROWL]: I will elaborate later. I am technically on medical leave still]

[ELITA-1]: Prowl what]

A rare sense of smugness filled Prowls field. He watched as Jazz played keep-away with Green for his limited rations. To give him some peace, he recovered the flyt, and Prowl set his mind to finding this Earth as soon as possible.

———

Jazz folded his hands behind his head, staring blankly at the star map.

“So?” Prowl prompted.

The human looked relaxed, maybe almost disinterested, however that dissonant ringing sting was back in his field. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Fine. Fine. This was fine.

The map probably wasn’t formatted in a way Jazz was used to viewing. Prowl skipped around through a few other maps, landing on some deep space photographs instead. “Okay, well, what’s the farthest your species has traveled into space?”

“Our planets moon.” Jazz smiled in a tight-eyed sort of way with too many teeth.

Prowl stalled out, “I- How?!? How does your species have the technological development to create drivable weapons shaped like people but you lack the technology to reach past your own moon? What method of space travel are you using where the moon is the limit?”

“Big missiles.”

The tactician slowly raised his servos to his face.

“Jazz.”

“Yeah Prowler?” He said with faux casualness.

“When you said that you, and I quote, “got shot into space.” Prowl took a long deep vent. “You were being literal?”

At the very least Jazz had the decency to look sheepish. Risking a glance, he saw Prowl’s irises spinning like crazy again.

The tactician brought his chevron back down to his most used pillow, his desk. He crossed his arms over his helm for good measure, willing his helm to not explode.

What kind of demented species was so overly specialized for combat that projectile explosives were considered a reasonable form of transportation?

. . .The same kind that can hold off a Quintesson invasion by themselves.

He needed Jazz. The whole Decepticon movement needed that alliance with his people. They were spread too thin. Too many enemies. Not enough support.

Megatron barely approved Elita-one’s proposal to attempt to establish trade relations with known organic civilizations. And only under the condition that the trade heavily favored the Decepticons.

But these were fellow combatants. For all the high command’s xenophobia, they at least respected exceptional acts of violence.

It was a solution just out of reach.

Earth was presumably located on the edge of the Quintessons territory. Given the necessity of using rifts to approach the planet, there was likely a dedicated Quintesson Gate Station somewhere within the Human’s solar system. When asked to describe the type of Star his planet orbited, Jazz answered with a less than helpful “Yellow.”

If roughly 18% of the average galaxy had yellow stars, then that would still be around 80 billion stars. Even excluding stars without Earth sized planets, that’s easily still twenty billion different stars in just one galaxy. If they could somehow accurately survey up to 8 planets per breem, it would take a little over 761 Vorns to finishing sweeping one galaxy under Quintesson control.

Assuming the Quintessons didn’t kill them first that is.

He’d need to find another way.

The human blew a raspberry after Prowl didn’t move for a good forty seconds. “Are you calculating our “Odds of Survival” again?”

Peeking through his forearms, the praxian squinted at him, Tacnet whirling away, “No. Just yours.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Jazz, who was feeling much better after eating properly, expertly slipped past Prowls barrier a breath away from his face.

“Is it more than zero?” He said leaning back against Prowls arm.

“It’s a decimal point.” Prowl muttered. “With many, many zeroes before the point.”

And now those damn sounds were back again.

It had to be Jazz’s field, there was no other correlation.

It was always on the edge of perceptibly, like a song playing in another room. Prowl had to constantly check he wasn’t imagining things, because EM fields did not make sounds and yet here was Jazz, breaking everything he knew about what was possible.

Currently, the field brought to mind a steady smooth hand on a bowed instrument. A couple notes plucked in a major key.

“Then I’ll survive.”

Scrunching his brow, Prowl pulled away so he didn’t go cross eyed looking at the little impossibility. “That’s not how this works. Your odds of survival are microscopic, Jazz.”

“Buuut there’s a chance yeah?” Jazz pulled himself up to sit on Prowls forearm. “It’s more than zero, and I’ve worked with zero.”

Prowl tapped his digits, “We’ll have to convince the captain and her crew to keep you aboard.”

“I’m effortlessly charming.” He winked.

“Everything will be dangerous for you here.” Prowl pointed out.

“Everything already was.” Jazz shrugged.

He wiped a servo down his face, not even sure why he was arguing with him, “It’s going to be statistically impossible.”

“Prowl.” Jazz stood, “I am impossible.”

The silence ran to the Earth and back.

Neither broke the eye contact, waiting for the other to break first. Desperately, Prowl needed something to keep Jazz from making him crash. This could not become a pattern.

Quickly, he considered every data point he’d collected on the pilot, and compiled it into an extremely temporary equation.

<< Jazz + [Odds of Survival] = 99% >>

Something in Tacnet wound down finally, and Prowl actually relaxed. It was a lie. But it was a lie that Tacnet didn’t need to know about. For now.

Automatically, Prowl held out a servo and Jazz hopped on.

“Finally believe in me?” He said, lightly grasping his thumb as a hand hold.

“No, but it will literally kill me if I don’t try.”

Prowl turned down the hall, trying to ignore the subtle auditory hallucination of an energetic leitmotif. Picking up a little speed despite himself.

“Before anything else can be done, we need to make our case. Are you ready Jazz?”

“This is something straight out of a TV show Prowler. Hell yeah I’m ready.”

Together they would face the music.

———————————————————————

Coda

———

Humanity’s Finest: “Yeah we don’t know why but for some reason these things just fucking hate giant metal people.”

Jazz, being introduced to Cybertronians: “I have a theory.”

1 Breem = 8 minutes

1 Groon = 320 minutes or 5.3 hours

1 cycle = 16 groons or 3.5 days

1 vorn = 50 years

Well how about that. What was started as a four parter evolved into ten.

This’ll be where I’ll leave Jazz and Prowl off for a time. Other stories wait in line.

Thank you to everyone who’s followed along for this and a special thank you to @keferon for laying the groundwork for the story and for @glitchgh0sty’s absolutely amazing fanart of Odds of Survival.

Still crazy to me how much talent and care random folks can put into things to share with one another.

Also huge shoutout to the people who leave comments! You guys are awesome and hearing about all the stuff that sticks out to you or made you go crazy really does help me as a writer! I learn things! Woo!

Thank you all for reading, and I wish for each of you a very high Odds of Survival.

-SSTP

<- First

[daycourtofficial]

Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one - part 9

Pairing: Eris x Azriel x Reader | WC: 5.8k | warnings: um attack gargoyles, fighting, cunty Eris

Summary: Eris is onboard with the plan you and Azriel have crafted to make everyone think you and Eris are mated. A show stopping dance in the Hewn City is all the two of you need to make a grand spectacle.

Author’s note: I couldn’t wait another week to post this I was too excited 😩 hopefully this was worth the wait!!

Previous part | Masterlist

After the two of you had formed your plan, Azriel had returned a few hours later, Eris’s scent blanketed over him. His face was flushed, the tops of his collar just not enough to cover a developing bruise and what looked like a scratch. His lips were pink with excitement, hair slightly disheveled. His lopsided grin made you want to laugh.

“Eris was all for the plan. Minor tweaks,” Azriel had said, over and over again. “I believe his exact words were ‘if the Night Court cunts think I’m foolish enough to fall for any females they present to me, it can only work in my favor’.”

You laughed, able to hear the remark in Eris’s crisp and clear intonation, his sense of superiority coming through.

“Az, what happened with Nesta?”

His smile shrunk a bit, never fully going away, before he looked at you, assessing how much you knew from the oldest Archeron.

“It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it.” You wouldn’t give him an inch, wouldn’t allow for any excuse to keep the truth from you. You had made it clear to him that you were in, but only as long as he could let you in. He blew out a breath before reaching up to tug at his hair, pushing back dark curls, delaying the truth.

“Rhys thought he could offer Nesta to him. He thought that Eris was so power hungry he’d lap at the chance to have such a powerful female at this side.” Azriel’s face darkened, the planes and grooves of his face marked now with anger and something akin to territorialism. “Eris played along. He acted the part they expected perfectly until Cassian interfered. He shut it all down.”

“Rhys really will do anything to have control over Eris,” you said quietly, the realization darkening your view on Rhysand. To use your own family as pawns in your game, to offer them on a platter to a fae you believe to be so terrible…

Azriel nodded, closing his eyes in resignation. His throat bobbed, the strain of the memory agitating him.

“You have no idea.”

The pieces began clicking into place. If it had gone through, if Cassian hadn’t intervened, Azriel’s world would have imploded. He’d either never see Eris again or Nesta would have discovered their mating bond. What would have happened? Would Azriel be the chess piece beneath Rhys’s fingers? Or would the shadowsinger have left his family behind in its entirety?

“It’s late - you should sleep.” Azriel softened at the way your jaw flexed, regret lingering in his eyes for how harsh his tone had been. Softening a bit, he cusped the back of your neck, placing a soft kiss to your temple. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We can go to the Rainbow.”

It wasn’t until you were laying in bed, Azriel’s scent still lingering in the room, when you realized the cold bite of jealousy at his appearance never came.

—

The next few days went by in no discernible order- you never confirmed to Rhys you would go through it, Azriel doing so on your behalf. If you thought too much about it, it made your stomach churn with anger and that was the last thing you needed now. Azriel relayed messages between you two, acting as a mediator.

You had gone shopping with Nesta, the only female in the Inner Circle who wasn’t acting as if they were preparing for your funeral. She helped you pick out a lovely gown - a rich, black bodice that slowly melted in reds at the ends of the skirt, the folds in the fabric full of shadow. The bodice had intricate red beading sewn into it, and the skirt fell perfectly around your legs.

Dark and beautiful, the red details were only visible in the light. From Azriel’s stories of the Hewn City, a city in a mountain, shrouded in darkness, you were sure the dress would glow with movement.

Now you stood in your room, clasping the necklace you had chosen from Feyre’s collection around your neck. Why the Night Court, so fond of blues and black and violets, would hold onto such a bright stone was beyond you. The necklace fit perfectly around your neck, flush against your skin, but not constricting. You felt it with every breath, resting perfectly snug, able to kill you at any moment.

It had been fourteen nights since your agreement with Nesta. You hadn’t forged a bond, hadn’t made any kind of magical agreement. But magic was crackling in the air around you, nearly whispering go, go, go. You had convinced her your secret was being mated to Eris, a lie so far from the truth you couldn’t believe she bought it.

Then again, the actual truth had left your head spinning for days, unable to make sense of it all.

Were you really going to do this? Abandon your medical practice, the life you had built from scratch in Velaris for what? To be a cover for Eris and Azriel?

You blew out a breath, disturbing the still air around you. You knew why you were doing this.

Azriel’s the first thing to truly be mine.

Eris’s words made your throat tighten, some deep guilt over the competitiveness that overtook you when it came to him.

And now that’s not even true.

Why you would go to such great lengths for a male who barely tolerated you, you couldn’t quite pinpoint. You were a fool for this, to agree with this. What happens when no one can scent the mating bond between you and Eris? What happens when, Mother forbid, someone tries to harm you and Eris doesn’t display that territorialism mates do?

What happens when Azriel’s all alone, surrounded by his family in love, knowing both of his mates live separate lives from him?

The first thing to truly be mine.

You couldn’t help the stab to your heart as you thought of Eris. Not even this sham engagement will be his - some half baked scheme concocted by Rhysand to get a hold over the Vanserra.

Eris was practical and pragmatic. Surely he always knew a marriage would be more for show than for love. But shouldn’t he have gotten the opportunity to pick his fraud wife?

A lone shadow drifted below the door, twirling up and under your skirts, playing with every layer of fabric it could. A knock was quick to follow, Azriel’s large body sliding inside your door after a come in from you.

His eyes roamed up and down your body, taking in the dark fabric, no doubt thinking of Eris with the minor pops of red. You took the moment to look over him - usual leathers traded out for an embroidered tunic, the blue thread in beautiful fleur de lieus contrasting with the black background. The siphons on his hands now placed into bracelets to resemble more of a gemstone setting than his usual gauntlets. His curls were styled perfectly, swept just enough off his face to see his eyes, but draped over his forehead just enough to add to his mystique.

“You look nice.”

“Thanks. You look nice as well.” Nice was beyond an understatement, but you bit your tongue.

“Are you ready?” He asked the question with such sincerity it took you by surprise, as if you could just drop out of this ridiculous plan and everything would be fine.

Maybe he’d make it fine.

You obfuscate his sincerity instead, chuckling before asking, ��do you know how you’re going to make this up to me?”

“I could spend a hundred years groveling and you still wouldn’t have deserved everything that’s happened.” He held your chin with his thumb, tilting your face up at him. All his face held was more sincerity, his hazel eyes full of warmth and openness that was so unlike the mask he wore the sight nearly made you dizzy.

“That might be true, but I think you would look exceptionally pretty on your knees.” His wings fluttered at the compliment, practically preening at your words. The tips of his ears grew pink, causing your heart to flutter at the boyish sight.

“In the next few weeks, we can iron out all the details.” He looked over you, his scrutinizing gaze checking every piece of your costume before stepping behind you. His fingers were delicate as he fixed your corset, the stays not nearly as neat by your own hand. You barely felt him as he tightened and straightened the ribbon, scarred hands taking extra care for everything to be just right.

“But tonight, when we get back, I don’t see why the two of us can’t enjoy the evening between ourselves.” His voice became husky, dropping into a deeper tone by the end of his sentence as his breath caressed the shell of your ear. You couldn’t help the shiver that ran through you at his tone.

“What of Eris?”

He took your chin between his fingers again, this time a bit firmer, moving your face in the light, ensuring you to be the perfect doll for the evening ahead. His eyes scanned every inch, assessing the tiniest details for error. A spymaster’s work is never finished. Satisfied, he nodded, not letting go as he held your face, tilting up at him.

“Let me prioritize you for once.”

Your breath hitched at how close he was, the briefest glance at his lips enough for you. If you pushed forward even a little bit, your lips would be on his plump ones. So many questions ran through your mind, each of them easily answerable.

Are they as warm as Eris’s? Would he be delicate? Or would he be rough and controlling, dominating the kiss?

No matter how curious you were, you couldn’t let yourself step forward. You weren’t sure he could prioritize you, no matter how he spoke. You pushed back an inch, but it was enough for the spell to break and Azriel to straighten. He only nodded before holding out an elbow for you to take.

“My mate awaits us.”

-

The Hewn City was dark and dreary, stagnant air making it even more stifling. Large gargoyle esque statues lined the courtyard, ominous beings that were amalgamations of several ferocious things. They reminded you of the painting Feyre had once done of Rhysand’s beast form - unsettling and haunting, intended to leave you uncomfortable.

A chill ran down your spine, feeling their marble eyes follow you. You clutched Azriel’s arm, a slight breeze from his wing covering your back protectively.

You took a steadying breath, your confidence in this plan faltering for a split second. Could you handle the pitying stares and comments from your friends? How they’ll whisper behind closed doors about how terrible a fate you had been dealt? How Azriel will have to listen as they tie yours and Eris’s names together for eternity, his own omitted?

But then your mind drifted to the cabin. You weren’t sure where it was, not sure what court it resided in. But its warmth flooded you, the faint scent of Azriel and Eris mingling perfectly, clinging to the furniture in an attempt to leave parts of themselves in such a safe place.

You searched the crowd, no sign of the redhead yet. Your hand clenched tighter to Azriel’s arm, needing even an ounce of his stoicism to get you through the night. Azriel had been your chosen escort - Rhysand agreed that Azriel would be the perfect candidate, that Eris would gladly move in on what he thought was Azriel’s, their feud fuel for the possessiveness Eris’s mating bond should be feeling.

Oh the irony.

Your chest fluttered at the light caress of the bond. You didn’t look at him, but lightly squeezed his arm, holding tight to the luxury fabric draped on his forearm. Azriel usually wore his leathers to such events, acting the role of guard dog. His role was different tonight, one Azriel wasn’t used to: bait.

The time to dwell on it came and went as you felt the moment Azriel spotted Eris, your chest warming with his affection for the male. You found him in the crowd, his amber eyes already on the pair of you. His mouth contorted into a grimace, but through Azriel’s side of the bond, you felt even more affection.

“Calm down or else everyone’s going to smell you.”

You studied him carefully, trying to crack that facade he wore here, but not sure if your joke would be taken well. His hazel eyes glared back at you, a silent reprimand at attempting to bring joy into this hellscape. Keir stood across the room, glaring at the two of you at the top of the steps. Azriel followed your line of sight, staying perfectly still as he met the male’s eye. The slight warmth that had come back to him at your teasing is gone, replaced with an icy rage.

“He’s a prick.”

Azriel’s obsession with Mor was a farce; the perfect misdirection for his nosey family. His romantic inclinations were performative, but he held real care and affection for the striking blonde. His face was full of hatred as he looked over Mor’s father. Long blonde hair, lighter than Mor’s, more ethereal, cascaded down his back. His brown eyes stayed on the two of you, arms crossed over an elaborate jacket as he stood in the far corner.

Fixated on Keir, out of the corner of your eye you catch the flash of red climbing the steps, Eris’s back straight as he stopped short of Rhysand’s throne. He bowed before standing at his full height, giving you the chance to look him over. A lush red jacket covered his shoulders, the color deep with hints of purple bleeding into the garment. Reflective gold threads made for beautiful work on his lapels and cuffs, the occasional light making it almost blinding.

Eris was the best dressed male in any room and this lifeless place was no exception.

He cut a glance at you and Azriel, his lip twitching in a sneer you could feel was fake, before turning back to Rhysand. He stood proud before the High Lord, his nose turned up slightly, somehow looking down on Rhysand despite being several feet below him.

“Rhysand, Feyre, a pleasure.” From the corner of your eye you caught Cassian balling his hand into a fist, the siphon on his chest glowing brighter for a second. You desperately wished to look over at Azriel, to see the mask he wore in all its glory as he observed Eris. This night would be better suited for a masquerade ball, exchanging out the icy masks for ornate, decorative facades.

“Eris, how delightful you could make time in your busy schedule to join us.” He stressed the word busy, a snippet of some conversation between Azriel and Rhys coming to the forefront of your mind. You had only caught a few words as you passed the study, but Rhysand seemed exceptionally annoyed about Eris’s schedule. Now you wish you had caught more of the conversation, at the time too worried about Azriel catching you listening in.

Eris looked to the ceiling, searching the cavern for where the darkness ended, acting as if he didn’t know it began and ended with the male at your side. He grinned, a look that should have been polite but was more cutting as he narrowed his focus on the High Lord.

“And here I thought only trolls from the storybooks for younglings dwelled in caves. Pardon me for being so forward, Rhysand, but if this is truly the heart of the Night Court, perhaps receiving guests would be unwise.”

You resisted the urge to laugh, forcing your muscles to stay impassive and bored. You felt Azriel stiffen, urging the bond in your chest to tell you exactly how he felt about it. Rhysand picked at an invisible lint on his jacket, flicking nothing into the air, avoiding Eris’s eye.

“Surely something here can catch your eye.” Rhysand winked, leaning back in his chair, lounging casually. The match was set and you could only hope Rhys believed himself to be winning. He raised his glass, toasting the air, a signal for the orchestra to begin.

“What kind of party is silent?” Rhys asked no one in particular before finishing his goblet of wine. The violins came from the bottom of the stairs, a fast song starting to kick off the celebrations. From your vantage point, the orchestra was impossible to spot. What must have been dozens of instruments and players completely hidden from view, filling the cavern with their melodies. The musicians used the enclosed space to their advantage, using the echoes to produce counter melodies that folded into the song seamlessly.

Eris left Rhysand’s audience, making his way over to you and Azriel. You tried to hide the shock from your face, confused at how quickly things were kicking off. Azriel had discussed with you waiting several songs before Eris stepped in, the three of you making a slight scene on the floor as Eris intruded on your dancing.

Eris didn’t say anything as he extended a hand out, the bands of his rings catching the fae light. Azriel tightened his grip on you, exaggerating his movement to be seen better, but the pressure was becoming painful, feeling too real for this scene.

Eris ignored Azriel and bowed, a customary greeting for a dance. You reciprocated before pulling your arm from Azriel’s, leaving the shadowsinger’s side to slip your hand into Eris’s outstretched one. Azriel growled lowly, baring teeth at the Vanserra.

For someone used to the shadows, he was putting on quite a show.

Eris’s palm was warm, his fingers enveloping yours as he led the two of you to the dance floor, his stride never breaking in spite of the hundreds of eyes on the pair of you.

Thunder crackled in the sky above the two of you, somewhere above the mountain you all were trapped inside. You were sure the lightning was bright in the sky, lighting up the Night Court.

Eris bowed before you while you curtsied to him, so low you almost lost your balance. His hand made its way to your waist, his other gently guiding your hand into the air.

Up close he carried the familiar scent of smoke that clung to him, the scent more intoxicating when it had been mixed in his sheets. You hadn’t seen the male since the two of you had sex. Not a trace of awkwardness could be found from either of you, but rather an air of casualness colored this odd performance, easing your anxieties.

Eris took the first step, leading you into the first dance. He moved you across the dance floor with ease, his long legs carrying you in every direction you needed to go. It was nothing short of a miracle you hadn’t tripped on your dress, the steps to the dances buried deep in the recesses of your youth. Despite the occasional awkward movement, you kept up fairly well.

“Funny. When they offered Nesta, this was her chance to showcase her skill and power.” He spun you, a half second you unsuccessfully spent trying to find Azriel’s eyes. Your cheeks warmed at his observation and your forgetfulness to even practice a waltz before this evening.

“Is my dancing inferior?”

“Yes.” You blinked at his bluntness, not faltering in your steps as he guided you across the floor, his head raised in pride. Your eyes found Azriel’s from across the floor, his shadows writhing around his body in agitation.

“Nesta is a grace on the dance floor. Reportedly they spent weeks preparing her for this.”

What he wasn’t saying was enough to know how stuck the two of you were here. They thought they knew of a mating bond and surely Eris couldn’t let his mate go when presented with her.

The double standard was so clear to you. Elain was allowed to keep Lucien at an arm’s length, break the bond, do whatever she wanted. No one forced her into anything with him. Lucien was a nobody to them, a dog they knew would do anything they asked.

But Eris was complicated. Not an ally, nothing close to it. The only relationship they had with him was by mutual disgust over Beron. What would happen if Eris was successful in killing Beron? Would they have helped someone who would turn out worse?

It was a risk they couldn’t take, they needed him in their back pocket.

And Azriel was the risk you and Eris couldn’t take.

The two of you moved across the floor, two pieces in a multi-dimensional chess match, unknowing who was winning or who even was moving the pieces.

“Azriel and I spoke the other night.” His words were matter of fact, unknowing of the train of thought you had just gone down. You don’t feign surprise, and if he was expecting you to, he doesn’t show it.

You looked to find the shadowsinger again, likely still as a statue in the same place, but Eris was spinning you too quickly to find him.

“Perhaps it is a convenient way to have the mate we both want. Make me a larger villain to them, convince them you want to bring Azriel as a guard of some sort.”

“Do you really want me to be the one warming your bed, Eris?”

“Azriel’s a large male, I wouldn’t even have to see you over his body. My bed’s large enough, you could slip right in beside him.”

“Eris Vanserra, don’t let the Night Court hear you. You’ve gone soft.”

“I have not. I’m willing to tolerate much more than you think when it comes to my mate.”

A truth you weren’t quite ready to come to terms to for yourself. This whole mess had begun with you and Azriel, a tangled web that ensnared Eris somewhere along the way. You had no plans to be a backup, some secondary interest for Azriel when Eris was busy or mad at him.

But would you tolerate it for him?

You locked eyes with one of the statues, unable to stop the chill that swept down your arms at the sight of it.

“If you come to Autumn, you must know there will be expectations of you, of us.” The gargoyle’s trance was broken, your eyes finding Eris’s once more. His amber eyes reflected something like openness, some vulnerability he wasn’t quite saying.

“I have never taken this plan lightly.” You had initially, not even considering the kinds of expectations Beron would place upon the two of you. He would surely expect the two of you to live together, to produce an heir.

“Won’t he get suspicious when a bond doesn’t snap between us?”

“My father doesn’t have to know. Let me handle him - if I can convince him someone high ranking from the Night Court was foolish enough to throw themselves at my feet…” his words trailed off, not finishing the thought. You swore one of the gargoyles had moved, its large, pointed ears in a different position than they were before. Your eyes stay trained on it while trying to focus on Eris’s words.

“Would he get suspicious after everything with Morrigan?”

“He might have some suspicions, but if we play it correctly, make you seem like a lovestruck fool, he may accept it as a gift.”

Another spin around the room, everyone else a blur of color and shapes before you’re back against Eris’s chest. You don’t have a chance to worry about Beron or Autumn, Eris’s strong chest more than enough to support you for the moment. His eyes twinkled with a touch of mischief, making him look so youthful.

Eris picked up his tempo, your feet dragging behind, unable to catch up, when suddenly they’re not on the floor anymore. He had somehow lifted you into his arms, his hand splayed across your back to hold you up as your skirts twirled around the two of you in a waterfall of reds and blacks.

You squeaked, trying to contain your surprise at the display. Once he set you back down, he hardly gave you a moment’s respite before taking your hand once more.

“You’re ridiculous,” you spat, attempting to be harsh, your voice not landing right with the breathlessness from dancing. “I can’t believe you’d do that. Are you trying to make me look ridiculous?”

“No, it seems you do that all on your own.” The words were reminiscent of the Eris of several weeks ago, but they held no harshness, much more akin to a light fondness. Your ribs ached, something pulling deep in your chest, as you fought to catch your breath.

“You’re such an asshole.”

His lips curled at the ends, the closest he’d come to a smile while playing his part. It caused your heart to squeeze, struggling to beat again despite the vigor of the dance.

“Did I leave you breathless, my little spitfire?” The words send a thrill down your spine, a slight smile curling up your mouth.

“I have a nickname now? I thought I was just a thorn in your side.”

“Are you incapable of being multifaceted?” Eris’s accent was different from the ones of the Night Court, adding to more of his otherness than before. Each word was crisp and concise, wanting every word to be clear and understood.

Azriel’s accent was a bit rougher, some words sounding similar but having completely different meanings. Gruffer, his sentences inflecting at different spots than Eris’s would, fixating on different words. Eris spoke to be heard, wanting every word remembered. Azriel spoke to get his point across and be done with it.

No one in all of Prythian sounded like either of them.

Your dancing ebbed and flowed with the song changes, steps speeding up as the music did, movements turning long and graceful in slower sections. Eris was an incredible lead, following his movements felt natural despite his comments.

This whole plan was conflicting - you expected the bond in your chest to be screaming nonstop at the idea of leaving the Night Court. You didn’t want to leave Azriel, some deep well inside wanting him around all hours of the day.

Standing chest to chest with Eris, swaying across the floor, every touch shot heat through you, reminders of how his body felt on yours.

Maybe this could work temporarily. Let the Inner Circle see you with Eris before eventually Azriel tells them the truth.

Would he ever do that, though? In the time he’s been with Eris, Prythian has changed greatly, large addendums to the history books added constantly. Would he ever tell them? Would he ever tell them about you? How far do the secrets from his family extend?

Maybe getting away and getting clarity would be good. You could keep journaling, let your own thoughts be written out. Maybe even share them with your mate.

Your face must have shown an ounce of the regret and confusion you felt, because Eris squeezed your hand, bringing your attention back to him. If you had known him better, you might say he looked almost concerned looking down at you.

The song was coming to an end, and you knew you would be getting off the floor soon. Rhysand and Feyre wanted you in Eris’s orbit long enough to dangle the carrot before him, hoping he’d be more rash. One last spin about the floor was all the two of you had before everything would change. You had never seen yourself as a court wife, much less the wife of a High Lord’s heir.

Halfway through the circle, a violin bow harshly strung the wrong chord, an eerie dissonant sound that had everyone on the floor stopping the revelry. A high-pitched scream came from next to you, a female in a long, brown gown slowly backing away from you and Eris as her partner began screaming, pointing at the walls.

The gargoyles descended from their perches, stone talons gripping into the wall as they crawled down. The mountain shook with their movement, dust spreading through the air. Removing themselves from their perches, stone fell from the walls, causing the ground to shake. All of the gargoyles were moving - some leaping, some climbing, but all of their heads were fixated on you and Eris.

Eris’s arm swept out, pushing you behind his body as they moved toward the pair of you. They had a cat-like quality as they moved, their heads swiveling and twisting, searching for something. Their faces were hog like, with long tusks coming from their mouths. Flames sprouted from Eris’s hands, waving them back and forth in front of his body, trying to scare the beasts.

Shadows rolled across the floor, Azriel’s or Rhysand’s, you weren’t sure. They moved like snakes, trying to ensnare the gargoyle’s long, deer-like legs, but it wasn’t working. The stone legs just rose above the darkness, stomping on the dark tendrils.

Slowly, Eris backed the two of you into a wall, the pack of gargoyles silent and assessing as they stared the two of you down. They made no sound, but their long, pointed teeth were bared, ready to attack.

“Enough.” Rhysand’s voice was deep and low, reverberating off the walls. He started descending the steps, Cassian and Azriel hot on his heels. The three together posed a daunting force, a wall of Illyrian muscle and wings ready to pounce.

“Keir, order them back,” Rhys growled. He was gaining ground on the male, almost close enough to throttle the ruler until a gargoyle stepped in front of Keir, blocking his path.

Rhysand’s eyes turned dark as black tendrils came from him, looking as if they were biting and scratching at the gargoyle. Keir just smiled, looking smug and joyful at the chance to fight Rhysand.

Several gargoyles flanked Cassian and Azriel, each Illyrian having at least three of the statues circling them. In unison they unsheathed their weapons, dark metallic Illyrian blades glinting in the fae light as they attacked.

You caught a glimpse at the top of the stairs - Feyre and Nesta left, likely back in Velaris to protect Nyx. Mor was a beacon of power, closing her eyes and whispering words you couldn’t hear, speaking some truth to the universe before it granted her a gift. Gold light extended from her hand, taking the shape of a sword, looking natural in her hands.

Whatever truth she spoke must have been important.

Eris had now made a ring of fire around the two of you, just barely fending off the dozens of statues ambling toward both of you. The flames made a barricade waist high, the heat licking up your neck, a trickle of sweat falling down your back. Two statues barreled through the fire, burning to ash as soon as they crossed the threshold. The rest stayed back, halting their running, attempting to stop. One wasn’t fast enough, its hoof crossing the fire and half of him disintegrated, the other half bucking and kicking in pain.

All at once, six gargoyles had rings of fires appear around their necks connected to a long, flaming lead tracing back to Eris. He yanked on the tethers, smashing the heads and bodies of several of the statues into the ground.

Across the room, the Illyrians dealt blow after blow on the stone, chipping away bit by bit at the strange creatures. Every piece of rubble that fell off would tumble away, packing itself into neat piles. Once the piles got large enough, they began moving, tumbling, trying to knock anyone out of their path.

Was Keir always this powerful? The way Azriel and Rhysand spoke of him made him sound like a petulant child, whining in his cavernous city.

Your eyes kept cutting between the gargoyles circling the two of you and the ones circling Azriel. Flashes of blue and red light cut through the gaps in the stone bodies. Rhysand was locked in some mental battle with Keir, the two males snarling at each other but you were too far away to hear what they were saying.

You could make out the familiar outline of Truth-teller as it would occasionally rise above the tide of bodies, coming down quickly to take out the opposition. You couldn’t feel any tether to Azriel, the bond quiet as he focused on the task at hand.

Most of the guests had fled, turning over tables and leaving chaos in their wake.

“Eris.” You nearly screeched his name as you looked to the side, several gargoyles scaling the walls to make it past the ring of fire. The ones not battling the Inner Circle were fixated on you, trying to make their way to you.

Eris turned at your yell, his eye catching yours momentarily. The moment felt never ending, holding his gaze as his flames warmed you. The flames surrounding the two of you suddenly shot skyward, growing several feet, nearly encapsulating both of you out of sight.

Eris looked in the direction you had last seen Azriel, a flicker of remorse taking over his face before he grabbed your hand. The world shifted and spun, your body free falling as it crossed through planes of existence, your stomach somersaulting across dimensions. You finally stopped moving, bending over your knees to tamper your nausea.

After a moment, the world stopped spinning and you straightened, trying to get any bearings. The room was dark, wood paneling coating every wall. A massive four poster bed sat in the middle, a plush green comforter on top. A hound sat in the corner, curled up in a bed, her slumber disturbed at your intrusion.

She stood, padding over to the two of you. She moved almost like Azriel’s shadows did, watching her move felt otherworldly. She had a peculiarly long snout and she emitted a soft smokey smell. She nudged at your hand with her nose, trying to twist your palm to pet her head.

“This is Clover.”

You stilled, your heart leaping from your chest, closing your eyes to prepare yourself for the revelation that is about to come. Swallowing hard, you found the courage to ask, “Eris, where are we?”

Eris leaned down, petting Clover on the rump, not looking at you as he spoke.

“I brought you home.” He paused, running a hand down his face, not wanting to accept the weight of what just happened. “To Autumn.”

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Only, only, only taglist pt. 1: @paleidiot @becstersworld @seasonallyapril @buttermilktea11 @wolfbc97 @carmenadkins78 @shadowsingercassia

[figmentera]

I was going to just tag briefly and move on but then I started thinking of all the methods I use and why and when, so —

First off, I’m protective of my books. I have never dog-eared a page in my life. That’s the only full no from the quiz options. If it’s a flexible enough paperback I’ll put a book on its face or close it around my phone for a few minutes while I walk away to do something, but if I’m done reading it is being fully closed. Similarly, I will mark with the dust jacket flap for about the first and last 10% of the pages, but outside of those ranges we’re not risking the dust jacket by stretching it that far.

Second, once a book has something to mark its pages, they’re pretty much bonded for life. I absolutely can’t remember the last time I’ve taken a bookmark out of a book and used it for another book. Either a book gets a bookmark the first time I pick it up to read it (or before!) or it doesn’t and probably never will. Books without markers are more common in my collection than those with, and for those I either read them in close to one sitting, or memorize their page number when I put them down. Page number memory won’t work very well if it’s a book I read at a slower pace, with more breaks in between, so longer classics are more likely to get a bookmark paired with them.

Also, I think I have a full collection of bookmarks that were never assigned to a book and live in storage. Should probably find a solution for that.

On to the list of types of bookmarks!

The purchase receipt. If I got a book or a set of books in person, it keeps its receipt forever. Probably usually assigned by the salesperson — I don’t think I move it from that book if there were multiple in the bag. It’s a little memory of where I got it, what others came with it, etc.

The Half-Price Books bookmark. They just pre-assign a bookmark to your book for free! And I used to shop there a lot, with my parents.

Little metal “book darts”. A relatively recent addition. Essentially, a paper clip designed to hold one page without folding it. I got a little box of a hundred of them for Christmas a few years back, so they’re still being assigned over time. Hard to spot so I don’t know how many books have them!

Sticky tabs. My go-to for college reading assignments, but I still use them on occasion. The one facing upward indicates where I am in the book, and moves as I go. The ones parallel with the text are usually transparent, and are essentially a way of highlighting particular lines.

Ribbons. Obviously most of these are the ones that came attached to the spine of fancy books or notebooks — but I think I have just used cut-out yarn or ribbon in the past.

A simple piece of paper that says “poets and writers” with a URL at the bottom, and space for notes in between. I don’t have any memory of where this came from, or when it was paired with my Night Watch book.

A large paper once used to display my name in a class, folded into the reading for the class. I honestly think this is more blending the memories than tracking pages. It’s got two versions of my name on either side, and when I opened the fold, I found a set of quotes that meant a lot to me at the time, copied out.

A little bookmark that says “Thank you!” And has a note about appreciating my contributions, but nothing I could see about what those contributions are to. I think I got the book it’s paired with at an in-person event I half remember.

A fancy metal bookmark. I think this one did move from book to book for a while, and is probably currently living in storage with other unassigned bookmarks.

A lovely green bookmark that was a gift from a friend and bears a line from a song we sang in choir together a hundred times. Paired with Johnathan Strange & Mr Norrell, which I never finished reading — the only one on this list that I remembered before seeing

I’m sure I missed several while poking through books, but this was a lovely look through memories!

[ilianasbruce]

“Morning love,”

word count: 2,570

summary: some morning loving with your husband ♡

warnings: fully +18 content. minors do not interact, please.

notes: well, hello, hello!!! ♡ i am back after constantly listening to “DC High Volume: Batman” with the feature of incredible Jason Spisak as Bruce and i couldn’t stand to waste any amount of time without having all those thoughts about Bruce. well, here we are now!! i highly recommend you to listen to that if you love voice acting as i do and mr. Spisak’s voice for Bruce will apply to this one too. and again, this is the ‘early years of Batman’ Bruce, because there are not enough fictions about him; i’ll be writing about the early years of Bruce as much as i could. this piece of the scene is for the female reader since i can only write nsfw content with the female reader; but you can check my other works if you’re interested in the gender-neutral reader since i tried to keep a balance in them. my ask-away box is open and you can talk your ideas through it, though!! ♡

“Stop,” you managed to murmur with the laugh in your throat. His slightly stubbled cheek was pressed on yours as he tightly hugged you. It was the earliest hours of a frozen December morning in Gotham and it had been a maximum of two hours since Bruce came from his nightly patrol. And he seemed quite content with his two hours of sleep schedule.

“Stop what?” he retorted. “Hugging my legal wife? Hm?” he nuzzled to your cheek before placing a kiss on the skin. “Or stop to kiss?”

You woke up to his sleepy kisses and ended up with his arms tightly wrapped around your body. Bruce was inclined to be affectionate when he saw for the first time how you were loving toward him — both physically and emotionally. That eased him in the edges and made him more comfortable with the physical affection. Now he was giving you some sweet time in the morning.

“You are supposed to leave the bed and get ready for your meeting.” you murmured with closed eyes. “Am I?” he asked half-sleepily. “Are you forcing me to leave my own bed? What a rude girl you’re.”

His morning voice and mix of his slightly Gotham accent were enough for you to flush prettily. You loved everything about him but him in the mornings after being beaten up by the Gotham was the other kind of thing that made you confused. You weren't sure to kiss him or chide him.

“Bruce,” you sighed as you tried to escape his unshaven cheek and bruised arms. He took advantage of your clumsy attempts and in a quick move, he was on top of you. That earned a soft gasp from you.

He just gave you a half-sleepy smile with a glint in his blue eyes. “You’ll be late again.” you said as your eyes locked in his blues.

“Will I?” he muttered as he leaned on to kiss your lips but you turned your head which made the kiss end on your cheek. He groaned before he attempted to kiss you. This time, he was successful.

“They have been doing that for years,” he murmured between the kisses. “They can handle without me. I am not in the mood for that.”

One of his hands found on your throat, slightly pressing while his thumb slightly caressing your jaw. “We can do better things together.” he muttered as he gave you hooded eyes.

“Yeah, baby?” he slipped his leg between your legs before pressing his thigh to where you ached. That made you let a breathy moan to his lips. A curve of a smile formed on his mouth before he caged your face between him and your pillow.

“But-”

You were about to but he didn't let you even start; his lips were on you instantly, leaving you to do nothing but him to take the lead. Bruce loved to have his time with you, specifically in the mornings. Since his nights were reserved for the Gotham — actually, he had found ways to satisfy you in the night also, —, the mornings were meant for you.

Only you.

He pressed his thigh to your cotton panties again, which made you softly moan to his mouth. God, how he loved to play with you. He could use his moves and hands like a grandmaster on the chess board. Very precise, very sharp, very winning. And you melted every single time. How could you not?

How could you not when he looked like that? When there was darkness under his eyes from the short sleep schedule or his post-freshly washed, messy hair after every patrol, looking at you as if you were something to be devoured every day? You were, in fact, something to be devoured but Bruce loved to take his precious time on you. You were his forever and he wanted to make sure to have you to himself until you two were goners.

He was just obsessed with you. His precious girl, just as sweet and lovely, as he saw the first ever thing when he opened his eyes. What more he could want? He needed to fulfill his hunger until to the next unholy morning, only God knows when, before he got cockblocked by Alfred.

His lips went from your lips to your cheek. You were so drunk on him, intoxicated after how he usually kissed you when he was needy. He, once more, pressed his thigh your now damp, clothed pussy to both hold you on your spot and to tease you while his mouth tasted you as the first thing in the morning. His lips pressed kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, and your ears when he finally murmured something.

“Let me, baby.” he murmured before slipping his fingers into the waistband of your panties. You didn't even realize his hands were under your thigh-length — his favorite — lacy, whiteish nightgown after being hungrily kissed by him. “Will you, pretty girl?” he went on as he started to kiss your neck.

You just retorted with a whimper when he skillfully pulled out your panties from your legs. He tossed them somewhere in the room, not even bothering a look at them as he bit your neck. Your hands gripped his shoulders when his long, calloused fingers slipped between your wet folds to gauge you. You sighed in ache, earning a humming from him.

“Yet, you want me to leave.” he muttered as he dipped his two middle fingers in you. You let out a sigh at the sensation, closing your eyes, and feeling the thickness of his fingers. He slightly moved them in a languid pace for not to overwhelm your morning body. Then, he quickened his fingers.

Nothing excited Bruce more than seeing your pretty face and your neediness for him when his fingers were fucking you. His blue eyes were hazy, both with sleep and lust, fixed on your face. You let out the sweetest sounds to his lips as his fingers worked on you. There was nowhere that Bruce wanted to be; you and his king-sized bed, him being between your thighs and your hands gripping his one-bruised shoulders. He knew how to fuck you with his body since he learned your spots by heart; with his fingers, his lips, and his cock.

He shifted some things slightly. His free hand pulled the straps of your nightgown, dragging the material from your shoulders to your ribs. His lips pressed a few more kisses to the valley of your breasts. Then, his hand hooked your leg over his waist as it gave him a good angle of you, thus his long fingers made your toes curl in a perfect way. He stole your moans with his kisses on the lips again, so damn needy and affectionate.

“Is it good, my love?” he murmured to your lips. You just shook your head, filled with his fingers. “Hm? Use your voice.” he continued as his lips found your flushed cheeks.

“Y-Yes,” you breathed out.

“Pretty girl,” he muttered as he fastened the pace of his fingers which made you press your face to his throat.

“Don't be shy now, let me see you.”

He sighed before biting your earlobe. One of the things about Bruce is that he did not have patience. However, his two years of Caped Crusader adventures made him to be more patient. And he loved to have his patience on you during the sex. Even though he was hard, even he was glowing with pure excitement in his own way, even though his tip would be pre-leaking the cum.

After your marriage with him, he was tending to learn and ease through many things. And psychical vulnerability was one of them. You were young and flourished by love. And you gave your love to him unconditionally which made Bruce spiral into your love over and over again. Your love encouraged him both consciously and unconsciously, boldened by your acceptance of his own kind of love he gave to you. He wasn't repressed — maybe he was, that's a question that doesn't matter. He had you as his Sun and he was thriving for you.

Bruce was gentle with you, even when he came home frustrated. He held himself, his vexation with his blurry mind. His actions during sex were the embodiment of his thoughts about you: filled with love and adoration. He made love to you, every single time. And every single time, he made you ache for him again — sweetly. But sometimes his frustration would slip off, most of the time when he was inside you, letting his thrusts be rough when you were face-to-face.

Before you reached your high, his fingers slowed down. You sighed and he kissed you. Bruce, as a a small trait, when he was needy, he loathed to waste his time with trivial moves. He could give you more, couldn't he?

After stretching you out perfectly, he pulled his fingers out of your core. You watched him with hazy eyes in the eerie darkness of your bedroom. The room was still dark but a small glow of early morning light from the slightly ajar drawn curtains was coming through. You could see his messy hair, his focused blue eyes under his thick eyebrows.

Handsome. And all yours.

He was always focused when he was needy, always intense. You could see his focus when he easily got the condom from the nightstand. He, in the seconds, freed his shaft from his bedpants and deftly put it on his throbbing cock. You could see that blurred since your room was blinded by the darkness.

He gave you a kiss before he slipped into you, but not fully. You let out a soft ‘Bruce.’, feeling the thickness of his cock. He gave you a kiss with a murmur of ‘I know, baby, I know.’ and gave you a few seconds to adjust to him. You sighed against his lips as his eyes silently watched you. When your eyes found his for a ‘yes, please.’ he continued to enter you. When he was fully inside you, he let a satisfied groan, feeling the tightness of your walls as your pussy wrapped him fully. Then, he slowly started to thrust his hips into you.

Your fingers went to the nape of his neck. You loved to play with his hair there, sometimes being awake when he slipped into the bed, curling his locks sleepily when he lay on top of you after a long patrol. Now, you were dizzy with his warmth and thick cock.

He let his leaned-back head drop down and pressed his forehead to yours as he moved at a steady pace, earning every moan, sigh, or whimper as a reward. “Fuck,” he gritted his teeth as he cursed. “I can do this all day.”

He kissed you, devoured you while hitting every spot perfectly. He was precise at his job as well as he was as the Caped Crusader of Gotham. And when it came to making love to you? Fucking you so good that made your head dizzy? Making you wrap yourself tightly around him with your legs around his waist and arms around his neck, skin-to-skin? Only calling his name with love?

Oh, you knew the answer. He knew the answer too. That's why he played with his pace. Bruce loved to keep you on your toes but when he heard the knock and Alfred’s ‘Master Bruce, I hope you are awake.’, he muttered to your lips.

“I can't even do this in peace.”

Before you whisper anything to him, he sped his pace up and kissed you as if it was his last, ever time loving you like this.

You were caged between his body and the sheets, his one hand on your leg around his waist and the other pressed next to your ribs on the mattress, preventing him to crush you with his body as he fucked you at a sped-up pace. You were too hot, like two flames.

You two occasionally broke the kiss for a breath. When your aching sensation started to pool in your stomach, you just whispered his name and it was enough for him that you were close. His hand next to your ribs went between you to find your clit to stimulate you. He pressed his fingers there and when you let out a breathy sound, his lips found your ear.

“C’mon, sweetheart, come for me.”

His lips found the sensitive area below your ear. He repeatedly kissed you there as his fingers pressured your clit. Your nails scratched at his upper back, creating a series of marks like a spider web along with his own scars.

“That’s my good girl, yeah?”

He muttered, encouraging you further which left you a few seconds later to come heavily. You let a strangled gasp to his neck, letting your head press to his skin, still being so close as you climaxed. It felt so good, so perfect, mixed with his warmth and your sleep-filled dizziness. When you saw the stars, he managed to follow behind you with a few deep thrusts, letting his face pressed to your cheek with a groan in his throat. God, wasn't he so perfect?

You two gasped for a breath. Pressed to each other, fitting perfectly, burning under the quilts. He kissed your lips before he got a good amount of air while you were still dizzy and breathless.

“Was I harsh on you?”

He murmured between the kisses he took from you as if he was already missing you after today’s ‘will-be’ events.

“No,” you murmured to him. “You were perfect.”

He gave you a smirk and kisses for the last time before he slipped out of you.

“Get some sleep, baby. I’ll see you later.”

“I love you.”

You whispered as you watched him with half-lidded eyes, in the semi-darkness as much as you could. He murmured an “I love you.” with a peck on your lips. You unwrapped your arms around him and he gently did your legs. After discarding the condom and getting out of bed, he reached for his nightrobe. Your eyes felt heavy when he disappeared through the personal bathroom door.

You melted to your pillow in seconds after pulling the strands of your nightgown to your shoulders. He couldn't have time to discard it from you. You listened to the silence for a few mintues before sleep slightly lured you. A few hours of morning slumber would be enough for you as always. What could you do when he was needy just like this? Guess you knew the answer already.

thank you so much for reading, i love you!! ♡

[weeping-treee]

A Desperate Man- Part 2

Part 2 for this

Part 3

Simon is so desperate for you, and he can't bring himself to care.

My pwincess

You're halfway through the final suture when you meet his gaze once more. His gaze is a weight, heavy and unrelenting—like it might pierce right through you. But it's not discomforting. Quite the opposite, really. It's warm, curious.. almost reverent.

"You always this quiet?" you ask, meeting his gaze head on, gloved fingers expertly tying off the last stitch.

Ghost looks at you as if you asked a dumb question, but then again you've never met him in order to know.

"Only when I've got nothing good enough to say," he finally says, voice low and deliberate.

You smirk. "Guess I should be flattered then, I've rendered you speechless."

"You have," he replies before he can stop himself.

The air between you crackles with silent intensity for a second too long. He shifts on the bed, his gloved hands once again twitch against his thigh. His eyes stare ahead, lost in his thoughts and the complicated mess inside his head. He's never been good at this—whatever this is.

But you? You don't look away. Don't brush him off or retreat back into the professional surgeon you should be upholding. You meet his gaze squarely, even as you peel off the latex gloves with a small snap and discard of them.

"Alright, big guy. You're patched up and good to go," you say, clicking your pen and scrawling something quickly on his chart.

Ghost doesn't budge. As if he's waiting for more. As if he's waiting for permission to move.

"Need me to walk you out, too?" you ask, a small smirk tugging at your lips as he stares at you.

His eyes narrow, amused. "No, but I might come back in a few days, you know, in case this gets infected."

"It won't," you retort with mock authority.

"Still, might be worth checkin'."

You chuckle and shake your head. "Since you're hellbent on seeing me again, come back in a week and I'll see about taking the stitches out."

"Alright," he responds quickly. If he got any more eager, it would almost be pathetic.

"You're shameless, huh?" you say, amused, softly shaking your head in mock disappointment.

He stands slowly, towering over you. The faint tang of antiseptic clings to him, mixed with something else, like gunpowder or maybe cologne. "Only with things worth the shame," he says matter of factly.

You have nothing to quip back with. You just look at him—really look at him. This man made of shadows and silence, draped in darkness and sharp edges, awkwardly trying to flirt in his own jagged way. And there's something there—beneath the tactical gear and balaclava—something honest. Something unpolished.. and almost.. hopeful.

"I'll see you around.. Ghost," you say gently.

He pauses on his way to the door, gloved hand on the frame. "Yeah," he says, voice low. "You will."

He gets back to his quarters, and replays the interaction. Over and over again.

He paces his room.

Tugs his hoodie off one shoulder, careful with the injured side. The stitches catch on the fabric before letting go. Clean, neat work.

Her work.

He stares at them for a long time in the bathroom mirror. Fingers hover. Never touch.

"Guess I should be flattered then, I've rendered you speechless."

He exhales sharply through his nose. The memory burns. Not in a bad way. But not in a good one, either.

She didn't look away. Not once. Not when she peeled her gloves off, not when she smiled, not when he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

"You have,"

He mutters a curse under his breath. Does he regret flirting?

Not exactly.

It just leaves him—vulnerable. Lays him bare. And vulnerability? That's not something he's built for.

He lies in his bed, staring at the cieling. Trying to push it out of his mind. But he fails.

He pictures her face. The way she looked at him like he wasn't some tall monster in a mask.

Like he wasn't broken pieces that seemed impossible to glue back together.

Like she saw every piece—and didn't flinch.

That.

That is what scares him the most.

[after-avenging-hours]

Pollinators Beware: Dante x Reader

Summary: While traveling with Dante and slicing through the roots of the Demon Tree, you accidentally cut through a flowering bud that sprays you with demonic sex pollen. Dante rushes you into a nearby, abandoned building and helps you burn the pollen out of your system.

Word Count: 13,844

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Explicit Sexual Content, Dante's Devil Trigger, Sex Pollen, Dubcon-ish

Author's Notes: I started writing this while playing DMC5 when it first came out, and then never finished it. The new anime inspired me to pull it out of my drafts, and now we're here. Enjoy this absolute filth.

I do try to establish consent before the pollen sets in, but some might still consider this dubcon. Read at your own risk.

Additional Notes: Takes place during the beginning events of DMC5, before Dante's first battle with Urizen, so he's still in his normal Devil Trigger. Although, I've got plans for a Sin Devil Trigger follow-up to this }:]

“It’s a good thing we don’t have a garden,” you huff, jamming your sword into another glowing red section of the giant, demonic root. “Because I would probably burn the whole thing to ash after dealing with this damn demon tree.” You twist and shove the hilt of your sword, cutting a deep slice into the root. The color of it changes to a sickly grey before the whole thing turns to ash.

“Don’t think you could keep a cactus alive, let alone a whole garden,” Dante quips back, thrusting his own blade into the weak spot of a different root.

“Hey! I’ve managed to keep you alive this long. At least a plant won’t talk back.”

His mouth tilts to the side, beginning to form that devil-may-care grin he’s known for. He grips Rebellion’s hilt with both hands, jerking the blade to the side to create a horizontal gash down the length of the root. He pulls the sword back out right before the Qliphoth root turns to ash as well. He swings the blade upward, resting it casually against his shoulder as he saunters toward you.

“Tell you what… When we get out of this mess and kill whatever sorry excuse of a demon is lurking up in that tree, I’ll get you a plant and you can decide if you want to keep it or light it up. I’m sure it’ll be therapeutic for you either way.”

Your lips split into a matching grin. “I appreciate you saying when we get out of this and not if.”

He lifts his free hand up and shrugs his shoulder. “When have you ever known me to be lacking in confidence?”

“Good point,” you laugh.

The two of you make your way down the city street and turn the corner, only to find a whole other series of roots tangled together and blocking your path.

“Damn it,” you groan. “Better make it something cheap, because it’s getting more and more likely that I’ll torch the damn thing.”

Dante chuckles lowly. “Don’t tell me you’re gettin’ tired.”

You tighten your grip on your sword and make your way to the closest root. “Not tired. Just annoyed with how repetitive this is getting.” You raise the sword high above your head, and swing it straight down. You pierce directly through the weak spot and slice the root into two separate pieces.

Once the root has turned to ash, you find that three Riot demons have been waiting behind it for you. The tails on their reptilian-like bodies swish from side to side as they immediately begin to close in. Razor-sharp claws click against the pavement with their every step.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Dante tells you with an amused smirk.

“What, this?” you smirk back. “This is just foreplay.” You shoot him a saucy wink before jumping right in and taking on the first demon to reach you.

You and Dante work together seamlessly, dispatching the demons and sending them back to the hell from whence they came. Dodging swipes of their claws and the swings of their tails, the two of you make quick work of them, along with the three others that spawn during the fight.

Dante finishes off the last one as you approach the next Qliphoth root.

“Well, this is new,” you mutter to yourself. Instead of glowing red, this root is glowing green and it has flowering buds growing off of it. Without much thought, you square your stance and raise your sword. “Let’s see if you come apart just as easily as the others.”

You dart forward just as Dante looks over. His eyes widen when he sees what you’re about to do. “No wait!” he shouts in warning, but it’s too late.

Your blade has already pierced directly through the middle of one of the flower buds and deep into the root. In an instant, the bud bursts from your attack and bright yellow powder shoots directly at you.

You gasp in shock, immediately inhaling a lungful of the sickly-sweet smelling powder.

“Shit!” you can vaguely hear Dante’s curse. He uses a burst of demonic energy to dart toward you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you back.

You cough and hack for breath, but the yellow dust is all over your face and stuck to your hair and clothes. Dante grits his teeth, smelling the scent of it. His eyes dilate, and his mouth waters.

“Fuck, that’s not good.” He mutters under his breath. He takes a quick glance around the empty street before lifting your body into his arms and kicking the door down of a nearby building and carrying you inside.

It’s an empty bar. Dante quickly deposits you on the cushioned seat of a booth against the back wall. He then bee-lines straight for the bar, easily hopping over it, rather than going around. You continue trying to cough the powder from your lungs as he riffles around behind the bar.

When he comes back to the table, he sets down a bottle of expensive whiskey and holds a damp wash cloth in his other hand.

“What’s that for?” you question around your coughing.

“This is for you,” he raises the wash cloth up and sits next to you on the bench, reaching over to wipe the dust off your face. “Close your eyes,” he instructs. His touch is unusually gentle as he swipes the wet cloth over your features. Across your forehead, over your brows, down the slope of your nose. He’s close enough that you can hear his shallow breaths. It sounds like he’s intentionally trying not to breathe too deeply.

After he’s wiped the dust from your eyelids and cheeks, your eyes flicker open, catching the concentrated look on his own face as he finishes with a swipe over your chin and a light tug against your lips. He stares at your mouth for another moment, his blue eyes smoldering, before his gaze lifts to yours.

When he realizes you’d been watching, he swallows thickly and shifts back, tossing the cloth onto the tabletop. “This is for me,” he continues, grabbing the bottle of whiskey and uncorking the top. He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes several long gulps.

His actions are a slight cause for concern. “Dante… what did I just inhale?” you ask, feeling your heartrate picking up slightly.

His face pulls into a grimace. “Fuck,” is all the response you get before he slams the bottle back onto the table and pushes himself out of the booth. He starts to pace back and forth, looking lost in thought as he absentmindedly runs his fingers through his snowy hair and across the stubble on his jaw.

“Dante.” You say again firmly, trying desperately to keep a level head, even when you feel the panic building inside you. “Am I going to die?” you ask, point blank. You weren’t exactly one for sugar coating and wanted to know exactly what you were up against.

Dante comes to a stop, releasing a long sigh and placing his hands on his hips. “No, you’re not going to die,” he informs you, finally meeting your gaze once more. “But you might feel like it.” His gaze remains serious as it holds yours, watching for your reaction. “You just inhaled a shit ton of demonic sex pollen.”

It takes a second for his words to register in your mind. Once they do, you release a shaky breath as you start to realize all that entails. “Well, fuck.” You reach for the bottle of whiskey and take several swigs of your own. The liquor burns even more than usual with your throat already raw from coughing up the pollen. You slam the bottle back down and wipe your lips with the back of your hand. “How long before it sets in?”

“Not long,” Dante shifts his stance from one foot to the next. “Which is why we need to come up with a game plan before it does.”

You furrow your brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Dante gives you a flat look. “Babe, you’re about to be hornier than a werewolf in heat. You will do and say just about anything to find some relief, so before that starts impacting your decision-making skills, I need to know now if you want me to, you know… get involved.”

You stare at him blankly, pretty sure that his implication may have short-circuited your brain.

He grimaces again, running his hands through his hair once more. “Look, I know I’m an asshole, even on a good day, but I’m not about to take advantage of you when you’re hopped up on sex drugs. So, before the pollen takes effect, you gotta give me something.”

“Yes.” You manage to choke out, embarrassment making your face hot.

“Yes, what?” He coaxes, needing there to be absolutely no doubt.

“Yes, you have my permission to… help.”

“Okay,” he nods once. He holds your gaze for a long moment before moving back and stepping toward the next booth. He pulls Rebellion off his back and sets the sword down on the table. He shakes his head slowly and releases a long sigh, “Damn, this is not how I imagined this going.” He unholsters Ebony and Ivory next, setting the dual pistols down on either side of his blade.

“Imagined what?” you ask, desperate to keep him talking, to keep your mind distracted from what’s about to happen to your body.

He unsnaps the fastenings on the back of his leather gloves. “You and me finally breaking the sexual tension that’s been brewing since we started partnering up.” His eyes meet yours as he lifts a hand to his face. His lips soon part right before his teeth sink into the worn leather of the glove, and he uses that to leverage it free. He maintains the eye contact as he does the same with the other glove.

You squeeze your thighs together when a throb develops between them from watching the erotic sight in front of you. You’re the one to break the connection and look away this time, letting out a dry scoff. “I think you may be exaggerating that a little,” you play off. “As I recall, there was a good amount of hostility brewing in the beginning there.”

Dante shrugs his shoulders casually. “That’s because someone has an authority complex and can’t take orders for shit.”

You can’t help but smirk at that. “I’m glad to hear you can admit that about yourself now, Dante.”

He rolls his eyes, but is inwardly relieved that you seem to be falling back into your usual banter. He was fairly good at hiding it, but internally he was completely freaking out. He’d only had one other previous encounter with sex pollen in his life and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience. He’d also only inhaled a small fraction of what you’ve been exposed to. He had no idea what to expect from this.

“But seriously,” your voice startles him from his thoughts. He hadn’t even noticed that you had moved and were standing right next to him. You place your hand gently on his shoulder and meet his gaze. “There isn’t a single person on this earth that I trust more than you, Dante. You know that, right?”

He looks deep into your eyes, feeling your sincerity pour down into his soul. “I know,” he confirms.

You push lightly on his shoulder to get his body to turn to face yours. He does so without protest, watching as your other hand moves up to cup his cheek. His stubble tickles your palm as you cradle his jaw. You run your fingers over the coarse hairs for a moment before you begin to guide his face to yours.

You release another shaky breath right before your lips press to his. Dante’s lips are soft and warm. A contrast to the scratch of his stubble against your smooth cheeks, but even that is a pleasant sensation. It sends prickles of awareness through your whole body.

You feel his hands grip your hips and he begins to respond to your advances. He kisses back long and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world. You feel your heartrate pick up, your body lighting up under his touch. You release a whimpering moan and pull him even closer.

You arch your back to knock your hips against his and rub up on him like a cat. You’re pressed close enough that you feel the erection beginning to form in his pants. A jolt of excitement runs up your spine, right before you feel a pang deep in your belly.

You pull out of the kiss with a gasp. “Dante,” your hands fall from his face to his shoulders, where you then grip the lapels of his coat. Another painful twinge rips through you. Your legs buckle as you hiss a breath through gritted teeth.

“Whoa! I’ve got you.” Dante pulls your body into his before you have the chance to fall. He grips the back of your thighs and lifts you up, guiding your legs around his waist. He quickly moves back to the next booth, gently placing you on the empty tabletop. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips pressed to your temple.

“God, that hurts like a bitch,” you release a low whimper as another pang builds up. It feels like menstrual cramps on steroids. “Is it supposed to hurt this much?”

“Unfortunately, yeah.” Dante quickly shrugs out of his signature red coat and tosses it onto the next booth with the rest of his belongings. “But that’s what you’ve got me here for.”

You reach out for him, trailing your fingers down the worn fabric of his black Henley and slipping them beneath the bottom hem. You drag your hands back up, over the hardened contours of his abs. “Take off your shirt,” you urge, wanting to explore him with more than just your hands.

He releases a low chuckle. “Yes, ma’am,” he complies, gripping the back of his collar and pulling the garment off in one fluid motion. “Now, don’t you think you might be a little overdres- Holy Hell!” His hips jerk forward, rocking against the juncture between your legs as his body reacts to the feel of your tongue licking a long, wet stripe from his collarbone and up the side of his neck, while your nails simultaneously rake down his pectorals. He blinks down at you in shock for half a second before a sly smirk tilts his lips. “Not sure if I should be getting turned on by that, but I’m totally into it.”

“I’ve kind of always wanted to do that,” you admit, your filter beginning to malfunction as the pollen takes even more effect. “God, you smell so good.” Your eyes close of their own accord as you breathe him in. The scent of his musky cologne, combined with leather and gun powder, makes your head spin. “Ah!” you cry out as another pang hits you, more powerful than the others. “Dante! I need you now!”

His smirk quickly falls and his hands move up your sides to rest on your waist. “Lay back and let me take care of you.” He guides your body down onto the tabletop.

You writhe on the hard surface, back arching as the pain and blistering need pounds between your legs. “Dante!”

“I know,” he soothes, lifting your tank top up enough to access the front of your pants. He works quickly, popping the top button and dragging down the zipper. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs them halfway down your legs. “Oh fuck,” a jolt of electricity surges through him when the scent of your arousal hits him. Pulling back the denim reveals the significant wet patch that has developed in your panties and if he wasn’t hard before, he certainly was now.  He’s never smelled anything so divine.

He yanks off your boots and finishes removing your pants, tossing them quickly to the side. You spread your legs shamelessly, the cool air actually feeling somewhat nice against your heated flesh. Your hips jerk up of their own accord, feigning a sort of humping motion. “Dante, please!” you whine pitifully.

“I’m here,” he assures you, gripping your hips and dragging your ass to the edge of the table. “I’ll make you feel good. I promise.” Without wasting time, your panties are the next to go, getting flung somewhere behind him before he falls to his knees and guides your legs over his shoulders.

The table puts you at the perfect height, so he doesn’t have to strain his neck or hunch over you. This is normally the part where he would start teasing you with little nips and kisses on your thighs, but he knows that you’re in no state for getting teased. You need relief fast before you start getting sick from the pain.

So, he dives straight in, using the flat of his tongue to drag over your slick folds, getting his first taste of your wet heat. The two of you groan in unison, Dante from the taste of your sweet nectar on his tongue, and you from the first shred of relief coursing through your body. He continues to lave against your dripping entrance, back and forth, side to side.

You’re not normally this sensitive in that area, but with the pollen in your system, it feels like he’s painting a masterpiece with his tongue and your body is the canvas. Each brush stroke adds a burst of color and more wetness to the piece. “Oh God! Dante, don’t stop!” you plead. You lift your head to look down the length of your body.

Dante’s gaze flicks up to meet yours. His cerulean eyes seem to glow despite the dim lighting of the bar. The sight of him buried between your legs is enough to get another surge of wetness out of you. It’s a sight you’ve only been able to imagine so far. Dreams so filthy, you almost couldn’t look him in the eye when you saw him the next day. None of it compared to the real deal.

Your head falls to the table once more, eyes rolling back when Dante’s tongue moves up to your clit. He swirls his tongue around the tight bundle of nerves in languid strokes. You can’t help but rock your hips against him, your body begging for more. He’s more than happy to oblige, his grip tightening on your hips.

He feasts on your body like he hasn’t eaten in years. Lapping up your slick like it’s the only source sustaining his life. His hands slip down your hips to grip the tops of your thighs. With light pressure, he guides your legs open just a little more, while still keeping them pinned to his broad shoulders. This allows him to push his face that much closer, his prickly cheeks brushing right against the apex of your sex.

You reach down, weaving your fingers into his silver locks and grip them firmly. He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he practically purrs with the scratch of your nails against his scalp. You thrust your hips against his tongue, guiding him to where you need him most. Your body thrums, soaring to heights you didn’t even know existed. Yet it’s still not quite enough to push you over the edge. The higher you seem to go, the more desperate you become for release.

“Dante. More! I’m so close!” you cry.

He focuses his mouth on your clit while one of his hands slips off your thigh. You feel the press of his fingers to your entrance. He circles the pad of his middle finger around and over your folds, collecting your arousal to slick the long digit. Your whole body quivers in anticipation before he slides his finger inside you. You release a low whine, hips jerking into his touch until he’s pushed completely into the knuckle.

“Damn,” Dante chuckles deeply. “If this is how tight you’re squeezing my finger, you’re going to absolutely strangle my dick.”

“Don’t stop,” you urge, tightening your grip on his hair in order to shove him back where you want him.

“Wait. Hold up,” Dante resists the pressure you’re putting on him. You lift your head back up to protest, but stop when you see the concerned furrow of his brow. His nostrils flare as he takes in a deep breath. His pupils then completely dilate for one second before they shrink down into two thin, black, demonic slits. “Babe, you smell like-” he cuts himself off when he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His lips twist into a smirk. “Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on a guy when he’s going down on his lady?”

You look back at him, confused, before you hear the low growl of a demon nearby. You unweave your fingers out of Dante’s hair and push up onto your elbows. Sure enough, three large humanoid-looking demons carrying dual meat-cleavers, and two grim reaper-type demons have appeared inside the bar. Hell Antenoras and Hell Cainas. The Antenoras swing their giant cleavers to knock tables and chairs out of their path. While the Cainas follow in pursuit, their scythes raised high and at the ready.

Dante begins to extract himself from between your legs, a dark grin splitting his face. Your body grieves the loss almost instantly. “Sit tight. I’ll make this quick.” He winks, licking your slick from his middle finger. He stands fluidly, quickly re-holstering his guns and grabbing rebellion. He moves to stand defensively in front of you, his jeans hanging low on his hips and his back muscles tensing to ready for the fight. “Like hell am I going to let any of you near her.”

He darts forward, straight at one of the Antenoras. It swings one of its cleavers in anticipation of the attack, but at the last second, Dante drops to his knees, sliding against the floor underneath the swinging blade. As he slides past, Dante uses his own sword to slice at the Antenora’s legs.

It falls forward as Dante stands back up behind it. He jams Rebellion straight through its back and unloads Ebony into the back of its head until it’s defeated and sent back to hell.

Dante yanks Rebellion back up and turns just in time to block the falling scythe from the Caina behind him. Watching Dante fight was always a sight to behold. His movements are so effortless, smoothly transitioning between his blocks and attacks. It’s almost like watching a dance. Hypnotic on its own, but watching him fight shirtless had you salivating.

The clench and release of his muscles, strengthened by years of battle-hardened labor, draws your attention. The veins bulge in his arms and his abs tighten when he braces for an attack. Then his back muscles flex as he parries before he launches his counterattack.

You want to memorize every single inch of him. First with your eyes, then with your hands, and follow that up with your mouth. Everything from the tops of his shoulders down to where that V at his waist cuts into his jeans.

You’re so enraptured by him that it takes you a second to notice one of the other Caina demons has been approaching. The tip of its scythe drags against the wood flooring, leaving little curls of wood shavings in its wake. The jaw opens to its skull-like face and some sort of black liquid begins to ooze out of its mouth. Your face scrunches in disgust when you realize that the demon is drooling.

“Not in a million years, Pal,” Dante’s voice comes from directly behind the beast. You barely see the flash of metal as Dante cuts through its neck, detaching the head from the body in one quick swipe.

He meets your gaze as the demon falls and returns to hell. A light coating of sweat now dampens his skin and adds a slight sheen to his already defined muscles. “Dante, hurry,” you whine, your hand slipping between your legs to flick your engorged clit as another pang builds up inside you.

Dante's gaze darkens, and the bulge in his pants grows uncomfortably tight. “You heard the lady,” he announces, turning to the last two demons. “Time to wrap this up.”

He takes them both on at the same time. Shooting at one with one hand while parrying and attacking the other with Rebellion. He strikes a series of rapid jabs at the Antenora, not giving it enough time to block with its cleavers before jumping above the Caina and landing a harsh blow with his blade from above.

The two, even attempting to fight together, are no match for the legendary demon hunter, and soon they have both joined their friends back in hell. Dante wastes no time in making his way back to you, a determined march to his steps as he quickly sets his weapons aside once more and begins unbuckling his belt.

“We need to make this first round quick, because you’ve got this whole place smelling like a she-devil in heat and it’s only a matter of time before more demons come to investigate.”

“Wh-what? What does that mean?” Nearly delirious with need, his words are almost beyond your comprehension.

Once Dante is back in front of you, he grabs your hips and drags your ass back to the very edge of the table, wrapping your legs back around his waist. “Those demons came here to mate with you.” Dante looks deep into your eyes to make sure you’re listening. “And the only way to stop more from coming is to cover your scent with mine.”

There’s some tiny part deep in the back of your mind that knows the idea of mating with demons should disgust you, but you’re so fucking horny, all you can focus on is the fact that Dante wants to cover you in his delectable scent. You breathe in deeply once more and your eyes glaze over. “Yeah… I like your scent.”

His serious features melt into his devil-may-care grin. He knows it’s the pollen that’s making you more candid, but his ego still perks up at the praise. “Take off your shirt.”

You comply immediately, gripping the bottom hem of your top and peeling it off your body. Dante’s hands are already working at the clasp of your bra before you even had a chance to toss your shirt to the side. Both articles of clothing are thrown carelessly against the bench seat of the booth.

Dante’s hands press gently against your back until your bare front is molded against his. “Stay close. Wrap your arms around me. We want as much body contact as possible.”

You happily do as instructed, wrapping your arms around his neck and arching up into him. His hands leave your back to unfasten the buttons down the front of his pants and push the denim and his boxers halfway down his thighs.

He releases a sigh of relief, now that the strain of confinement has been lifted from his aching cock. “I had no idea how painful fighting with a hardon could be.” He gives himself a few smooth strokes before lining up with your entrance.

The pollen is truly starting to set in, making your blood run hot, while your core weeps with need. With a steady pressure applied against your entrance, Dante slips the head of his cock inside you. He intends to take things slow, wanting to give you time to adjust to his size, but you’re so fucking wet and ready for him that there’s practically zero resistance.

Unbeknownst to the both of you, it’s the pollen that’s made it so easy to get him exactly where it wants him. You’ve been perfectly primed for getting him in deep without struggle, like bait set out for prey. Before he even realizes, his hips have become flush with yours and he’s pushed in to the hilt, but like a spring-loaded trap, your walls suddenly clamp down on him from all sides.

“Holy shit,” Dante’s entire body shudders, not expecting that to have happened. You immediately begin swirling your hips in little circles to better feel his thickness inside you, which is devastating to the last shreds of his self-control. Your walls contract and flutter around his overly sensitive cock, squeezing and pulling at his length. “Babe,” he grunts, squeezing his eyes shut. “Shit. Honey, you gotta ease up a little, or else I’m gonna-”

His hands tighten around your waist, but it’s not enough to stop your frenzied movements around his cock. Especially not the movements happening inside you. He huffs out a strained breath when one particular twinge of your walls hits him just right and sends him reeling. “Fuck! Fuckkk,” he tosses his head back, jaw slack as his cock twitches and fills your body with his sudden release.

His hips jerk against you for a few more seconds, the muscles in his jaw and neck straining.

Your movements halt, a brief flicker of clarity breaking through the desperation. “Dante, did you just…” you question, unsure if that really just happened.

“Come in two seconds flat like a teenage boy at his first strip club? Yeah,” he confirms through gritted teeth. “Damn that’s embarrassing.”

You can’t help the primal grin that you flash up at him. “I’ll take it as a compliment. The great Dante, brought low by some wet ass pussy.”

One of his hands gently cradles the back of your neck. There’s humor in his eyes when he speaks, “Just don’t hold it over my head, or I’ll say it was because of the she-devil pheromones you’re giving off. On the bright side, at least my early release should help with our demon problem. Nothing quite says ‘this one’s taken’ like a pussy full of cum.”

You have to fight your amused smile as you tighten your arms around him. “How romantic,” you quip sarcastically.

He grins openly. “Ain’t nothin’ romantic about sex pollen. We’re gonna fuck like rabbits until you pass out. If you want romance, you’ll need to take me out to dinner first.”

“Promises, promises, Dante. When are we getting to the ‘fuck like rabbits’ part?” your walls clench around his cock, more than ready. Your body very quickly starts to remind you that it has yet to reach its own climax.

Dante’s grin turns wicked. “You’re lucky half-demons don’t have much of a refractory period. I’m like the fucking Energizer bunny.” To prove his point, Dante snaps his hips against you, his rehardened length dragging against your walls and squelching back into your cum soaked cunt. “And besides, I’ve now got a reputation to salvage.”

“Oh yes!” you moan as he sets a brutal pace and the pangs in your core finally begin to ease. The steady thwack of his balls hitting your ass fills the empty bar, along with your panting breaths and heady mewls of pleasure. He fucks you hard, fast, and deep. It’s everything your body has been craving. “Yes! More. Dante, I need more!”

“I’ll give you everything I’ve got,” he vows. He keeps one arm tightly bound around your waist to keep your torso flush with his. The other moves to thread his fingers into the hair at the back of your neck. He cradles your head before slamming his lips over your own. He devours the decadent sounds that are coming out of your mouth like they’re lifesaving ambrosia.

He swallows your moans, tongue slipping between your parted lips. He explores your mouth with languid strokes, much like he had when his head was between your legs. Your hands desperately grip the back of his shoulders while you pull your body as close to his as physically possible. Even with him filling you from both ends, it still doesn’t seem to be enough. You still need more. More of him on you. More of him in you.

You’re not entirely sure if you want to completely consume him or be completely consumed by him; all you know is that you never want this to stop.

His hand at your neck slips down, fingers ghosting over your fevered skin before his palm closes around your breast. He molds the supple flesh with his whole hand then pinches your budding nipple between his thumb and forefinger. A helpless whimper escapes from your throat as the erogenous zone in your breasts seem to have become amplified tenfold by the pollen. His thumb swirls around the stiff peak and you feel the jolts of pleasure in your core as if he was directly stroking your clit.

Your entire body quivers and shakes, utterly helpless to the bombardment of pleasure that Dante is unleashing upon you. He continues to rut into your sopping wetness, like a man possessed, tongues battling for dominance, and hand fondling your breast. The pleasure builds like a snowball rolling downhill, growing in both speed and size. With a carefully timed tweak of your nipple and an angled slam of his cock into your g-spot, that giant snowball plows into you like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

Your mouth rips away from his when you throw your head back and you release the most carnal sounds you’ve made in your life. You can’t tell if they’re words, praises, or just incoherent ramblings from your utterly fucked out mind. You moan, and writhe, and scream, and pant, all while your orgasm shakes you to the core.

The gush of arousal that leaks out of you allows Dante to keep pounding into your pussy, despite the vice-like grip it has on his cock. The scent of wet, sloppy sex, along with the sounds coming out of you, are enough to push him back over the edge. Just a few more thrusts after you’ve come, Dante suddenly pulls out and grips the base of his cock while thick white spurts of cum splash against your thighs and stomach. He strokes himself until his cock is spent.

The next few seconds are blocked out by the blood rushing in your ears until you start to come down from your high. You meet Dante’s lidded gaze, both of your kiss-swollen lips parted and panting for breath. You release the grip you have on his shoulders and lean back enough to look at the mess he’s made across your skin. “Marking your territory?” you question, swiping a finger over a thick white glob before slipping that finger into your mouth.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Dante breathes, watching you suck his cum off the pad of your finger. He can’t help but imagine that pretty mouth sucking off his dick and drinking that cum from its source. Any softening that may have started to his cock is immediately reversed. He tries valiantly to push the thought out of his head, reminding himself that your needs and well-being come first. “How are you feeling now?”

You pull your finger out of your mouth with a wet pop and look back down at the mess between your legs. A steady, throbbing heat is still going strong inside your core and you’re just as wet and ready as ever. “Now?” you start, lifting your gaze back up to meet his. “Now I want you to cum all over my ass.”

With that, he’s definitely back to full mast. “That can be arranged.” He kicks off his boots and fully removes his pants and underwear, then he scoops your body back into his arms and moves to the bar. He sets you on your feet next to a plush barstool. The floor is surprisingly clean, though you’re certain it won’t remain that way for long.

With a gentle press to your back, Dante guides you in place until your torso is draped over the cushioned stool and you’re up on your tiptoes. He widens your stance with a slight kick to your ankles before he settles between them and sinks back into you from behind. The wet, greedy squelch of your body accepting his once more should embarrass you, but it only turns you on even more.

The tightening of his hands on your hips is your only warning before he’s pounding into you again. Balanced on your toes, there’s not much you can do other than just take the full force of his thrusts. He ruts into you like a beast in heat, which drives you wild. There’s nothing sweet or gentle about it, only carnal desire in its rawest form.

Dante watches your pussy stretch around his cock with every thrust and knows this sight will be seared into his memories for the rest of his life. The lights behind the bar reflect on the wet sheen covering his length before it disappears back inside you. He feels a hot trail of his earlier cum dripping down his balls before it splatters to the floor between your spread legs. Where he should feel guilt over the mess you’re both making, he only feels anticipation and excitement, wondering how much more of a mess there will be by the time you’re both done.

The steady thwack of his balls slapping against your clit becomes even faster as Dante works himself up into a frenzy. He’s spent so long wanting you and now that he has you, he doesn’t want to waste a single second. Your body feels like it was made for him, so hot and wet and supple and perfect.

He’s so wrapped up in how amazing you feel around him that he realizes too late when his balls have pulled in tight and the first spurt of cum is already shooting out of him again. He pulls out with a startled jolt and hurriedly jacks off the remaining shots of milky white cum over the globes of your ass.

“Dante…” his name comes out as a needy whine, tinged with disappointment. Your empty cunt throbs angrily, not even close to her next release.

“Fuck, babe,” he releases a low groan. “I’m so fucking sorry.” How the fuck has he already come three times when you’ve barely had one?

He normally prides himself on his stamina, but the tiny dose of pollen he got seems to have absolutely destroyed his ability to hold off his climax. Whereas you seem to be having the complete opposite problem, and the pollen has pushed your limits so far out, it’s getting harder and harder for you to reach them. You press yourself back up to standing and turn to face Dante with a determined gleam in your eyes.

“Get up on the bar.”

His eyes widen at the order, but he complies without a fuss. You follow him up onto the polished wooden surface and push his chest until he lays fully back, then you’re instantly straddling his thighs. As promised, it only takes a few jerks of your hand around his cock before he’s fully hardened once again. You line yourself up and sink back down onto his length. Once fully seated, you steady your hands on his chest and begin to slam your hips up and down.

You ride him like he’s a prized stallion and chase after that pleasure that continuously flutters just out of your grasp. He grips the back of your thighs and meets you thrust for thrust. You might be the one on top, but he’s not going to make you do all the work. His tongue darts out to moisten his lower lip as he watches the way your tits bounce. “You’re so fucking sexy,” his head has become clouded with such overwhelming pleasure, and apparently three mind blowing orgasms are all that’s needed for him to open his mouth and start spilling his deepest secrets. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this? How long I’ve wanted you?”

You continue bouncing on his cock, lips parted to release your panting breaths as you hold his gaze. “How long?”

You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows thickly. A tiny part in the back of his head can’t believe the confession he’s about to make, but any inhibitions that might have stopped him before seem to have completely flown out the window. “Ever since that time I stole your demon bounty and you got so pissed, you kicked me in the chin and I bit my tongue hard enough it started bleeding.” It’s a struggle to get the full sentence out while you’re relentlessly fucking yourself above him, but he manages it through clenched teeth.

Your bouncing slows before coming to a complete stop as you stare down at him. Surely, he can’t mean what you think he means. And yet, even after all these years of knowing each other, it’s unmistakable what time he’s referring to. “Dante… that’s literally the first day we met.”

He swallows once more. “I know.” There’s a flash of uncharacteristic vulnerability in the depths of his crystalline gaze that makes your heart skip a beat. His hands squeeze your hips like he’s scared you’re about to extract yourself from him and bolt out the front door. “And I spent nearly every day after that trying to figure out how I might get you to like me back.”

You release an incredulous laugh and raise a brow. “You were an insufferable asshole for months after we first met.” Your fingers trace the lines of his abdominals, an unconscious gesture of reassurance to let him know you’re not going anywhere.

He gives you a tilted half-grin, “Never said I was smart about it.” He waits with baited breath for your full response to his confession. It’s impossible for him to build up any sort of defense when neither his heart, nor his cock, fully belongs to him in this exact moment. You have full possession of his most sensitive pieces and all he can hope for is that you won’t break them. Break him.

You run your nails over the coarse, silvery hairs on his chest while you begin to swirl your hips torturously around his cock. “Wanna know how long I’ve wanted you?” A sultry smile slides languidly across your lips

Dante grits his teeth to prevent his eyes from rolling back while you tease him relentlessly with your rolling hips. He’s both desperate and terrified of the answer to your question. “How long?” he huffs out eventually.

You move to place your hands on either side of his head and lean down until your nose is nearly brushing his. Mercifully, your hips still their movements so that Dante can hear your own confession without any distractions. “Ever since the first time you apologized by taking me to get strawberry sundaes.”

His gaze flickers between your eyes while he takes a moment to process your words. It’s not hard to trace back to what time you’re referring to. In fact, it’s quite easy. “…That’s also the first day we met.”

The look of pure, tender affection on your face makes him forget how to breathe. “I know,” you respond before leaning the rest of the way down and pressing your lips to his. He grips the back of your head and kisses you back, moaning deep and low when you start moving your hips again.

This time, it’s a little less hurried and a lot more sensual, your bodies pressed together and moving as one. You feel the hair on his chest tickling your nipples. The hard cut of his hips flush against yours. Every place where you meet, flesh against flesh, burns with awareness. Years of secretive pining, aching longing, and pretending not to want each other have culminated into this very moment. The line has been crossed, and there would be no going back.

Dante’s free hand grips your ass while he rocks against your movements. A zing of pleasure jolts up your spine when your clit catches against the ridge of his pelvic bone. Your mouth rips away from his as you release the most delicious sounds he’s ever heard. “That feel good, babe?” he questions, rocking his hips the same way again.

Your breath shudders next to his ear, as the stubble on his jaw scrapes against your bare cheek. “Dante…” You can no longer think, yet alone formulate a response. All you can do is feel. Feel the heat coming off of him. Feel the brush of skin on skin. Feel the rush of blood in your veins. The stretch of your pussy around the cock that’s practically tattooed inside of you at this point. “Oh, Dante!” You find that spot that makes your clit go haywire and you grind into it like there’s no tomorrow.

“That’s it, babe,” he encourages, both hands gripping your ass now. “Use me. I wanna make you feel so good.”

“Right there. Ah!” you release a breathless whimper, hips circling even faster. You can feel the pleasure building in your system, but the peak still flutters out of reach. “Dante, I’m so close!”

“Touch yourself,” he grunts from the back of his throat. “Show me how you like it.”

You sit back up and with his assistance, start bouncing on his cock once more. Your middle finger swipes through the mess of cum still splattered across your lower stomach to use as a lubricant against your aching clit. You rub yourself in quick feverish circles, too keyed up to even consider any light teasing stokes. You use your thumb to push back the hooded skin, exposing even more of the rosy bud to the onslaught of your touch. “Fuck!” you cry out, the sensations in your clit so intense, they’re nearly painful.

“So fucking hot.” Dante doesn’t know how absolutely everything you do could be such a damn turn on. Watching you pleasure yourself while riding his cock is so fucking sexy, he’s going out of his mind. “Fuck yes! Just like that. Wanna feel you come around my cock.”

Your heart is pounding, your thighs are burning, and your clit throbs, but you don’t let up. You’re so fucking close! Dante’s hands grip your ass even tighter and he slams you down so hard onto his cock that it has you seeing stars. “Oh fuck! Dante!” you scream his name as you’re finally catapulted into your release. The fire that had been growing low in your belly explodes into an inferno, consuming you from the inside out.

Pleasure licks up your spine in waves, causing you to shudder and writhe above him. It’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. Just a few more thrusts up into you and he’s following you over the precipice. The sensations of your climax are too much for him to ignore and he’s soon filling you with even more cum from his aching balls.

The muscles in your body strain against your heady orgasm before losing their strength altogether as soon as it starts to ebb away. You collapse forward onto Dante’s chest, both of you panting and heaving for desperately needed air. The sweat on your bodies has your skin nearly fusing together, but neither of you seems to mind. You hear the rapid beat of his heart with your ear pressed to his chest. The sound of it is grounding, along with the rise and fall of his chest with every breath.

“That… was pretty damn incredible,” he mutters as soon as his thoughts begin to function again.

You hum in agreement, watching your fingers as they trace feathery patterns across his chest. They follow the line of his collarbone and down the middle of his pectoral muscles before diverting course to circle around his nipple.

He sucks in a breath and shifts slightly beneath you. “Okay, I know I said earlier that I’m like the Energizer bunny, but I think I need a ten-minute breather after that last round.”

You swirl your fingers around him once more before lifting your head and sucking that nipple into your mouth.

“Oh fuck!” Dante’s hips buck of their own accord. “Okay, just like 5 minutes and I promise I’ll be good to go,” he all but begs for mercy.

Your tongue flicks over the hardened bud. “Dante…” you coo his name so disastrously tempting.

“Two minutes!” he counters. “Just two and I swear-”

“Dante… I want to fuck your demon cock.” You sit back up and look down at him with a molten stare.

That sure as hell shuts him up. He gapes, slack-jawed, at you for a long moment. “Come again?” Your comment has completely fried his mental circuits, that he doesn’t even notice the double entendre behind his question.

“Fuck me in your devil trigger,” you tell him in a way that can’t be misinterpreted.

He blinks once before releasing a heavy breath and moves to sit up. His hands are firm but gentle as he lifts you off of his lap, his soaked cock sliding out of you and landing against his thigh with a wet thwack. He reaches behind the bar for a clean hand towel and presses it between your legs.

“You have no idea what you’re asking me.” There’s no trace of humor on his face and he won’t meet your eyes, instead choosing to focus on cleaning the cum off your skin.

“Yes, I do,” you insist. “It’s not just the pollen talking.”

He finally meets your gaze with a dubiously raised brow.

“Okay, fine,” you admit with a sigh. “Maybe the pollen is influencing this, but I absolutely know what I’m asking here.” You cup the sides of his face with your hands to keep his gaze locked with yours. “I may not have as much demon fighting experience as you, but I know my own body. It feels like an itch so deep under the skin that no amount of scratching can reach it. What we’ve been doing is providing temporary relief, but it’s not the treatment. There’s a reason why I’m giving off she-devil pheromones and why those lesser demons came running. We need a demon’s essence to counteract this demonic pollen.”

He reaches up to pull one hand from his cheek and places a stubbly kiss to your palm. “This sounds like a really bad idea. I know I’ve done a lot of stupid shit before, but this is a bit extreme, even for me. Honestly, I don’t even know if I can,” Dante tries to get you to see reason. He laces his fingers between yours and holds your hand in his firm grip. “I know you’ve seen me in that form, it’s not like there’s anything dangling between my legs. And even if I could, it would be so fucking easy to lose control. Not only could I hurt you, I might accidentally end you. That’s not a fucking risk I’m willing to take.”

“Dante, I know you would never hurt me.” You try to argue, but you recognize the stubborn glint in his eyes.

“Not intentionally maybe, but even if it wasn’t on purpose… I would never forgive myself.” The thought of causing you pain is more terrifying than facing a thousand demons.

You want to continue arguing, but then you notice the distress hiding behind the stubborn tilt of his jaw. You decide to relent. “Okay,” you turn your joined hands and place a kiss to his knuckles. “Then we’ll just keep doing what we’re doing and wait it out.”

Dante releases a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. You wiggle your hand loose from his grasp and jump off the bar top. “Where’re you going?” he asks, following your movements with his eyes.

“Ten-minute breather, right?” You glance at him over your shoulder before moving across the room. “I’m gonna clean up a bit in the bathroom. No offense, but wiping me down with a dry cloth isn’t really-” You’re cut off by a pained gasp and stumble against the wall while your hands clench your abdomen. Rippling pain and heat claw at you from the inside.

“What the hell?” Dante is by your side just in time before your knees give out. “What’s wrong? Fuck, you’re burning up!” As Dante lifts your body into his arms, he can feel how hot to the touch your skin has suddenly become. “Hey, look at me,” he urges, using the wall to help keep your body propped up, but your eyes are unfocused and your head lulls to the side. “No. No, stay with me,” he cups your cheek, rubbing his thumb back and forth to keep you awake. He realizes that the pollen must be hitting its peak potency and it’s too much for your body to handle. If he doesn’t do something fast, you’re going to pass out from the pain.

“Fuck! Okay. You win. I’ll fucking do it. Just stay the fuck awake.”

“D-Dante?” his voice sounds far away, and you can’t entirely understand what he’s saying. Your vision goes hazy for a moment and you’re seeing two of him. You blink slowly and try to shake your head, but it takes too much effort. When you open your eyes, the silver-haired man you expect to see is no longer the being in front of you. In his place stands a hulking figure with dark, leathery skin and glowing red eyes. You gasp, eyes widening in shock, before you realize it’s still him.

He towers an extra foot above you, the heat rising off his body rivaling your own feverish skin. The scent that wafts over you isn’t what you expect. Where before he smelled like fire and brimstone, now he smells like burning incense, warm spices, and smokey oud. You’re tempted to press your nose to the orange glowing center on his chest and inhale a lungful of the tantalizing scent.

You realize that the pollen must be playing some sort of mental trick on you, because you’d never considered yourself a monster fucker before, and you’ve fought by Dante’s side a long time without ever thinking about how attractive his devil trigger is… and yet, here we are. Your hands reach out, ghosting over the horn-like protrusions along his jaw. They then fall from his face to his chest, just to either side of his molten glowing center. His skin, though tough, is smooth like aged leather stretched taught over something very solid and very warm.

“You still with me?” he asks, leaning gently into your touch.

You swallow the mouthful of saliva in your mouth before responding. “Yeah.” Were you seriously about to drool over the idea of fucking Dante’s devil trigger? You mentally scream to get a hold of yourself, but your body is in full demon seduction mode. It seems to recognize the nearness of a potential demonic mate, as the pain temporarily eases. A part of you wants to mention the “I told you so” about needing demonic essence to fight against the pollen, but that would start another argument and be counterintuitive to your current end goal.

“Babe, you know I can’t keep this up for long, so we need to figure out how to do whatever it is we’re going to do and quick.”

You meet his dragon-like gaze, “Do I still smell like a she-devil in heat?”

His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. You notice the black slit in his eyes dilate. “Yeah, you sure fucking do. But you also smell like me, which is making the primal part in the back of my brain go crazy.”

The corner of your mouth lifts in pure female satisfaction. “Good. Focus on that.”

One of your hands immediately falls to the armored plating over his groin and you start exploring. “Fucking hell!” he exclaims, rocking into your touch. You feel around for a few seconds before you find the hidden slit tucked between two plates of armored skin. His wings flutter anxiously behind him, but the rest of his body goes perfectly still.

You sense the tension rising in him, so you stop your probing and look back up at him. “Dante, do you want to fuck me?”

His entire body shudders. “I don’t know, but this is making me feel really fucking weird.”

“Dante,” your fingers start moving over his slit again, coaxing whatever might be tucked inside. “Are you going to fuck me?”

He makes a tortured sound from the back of his throat. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he reiterates, but his hips are still grinding into your touch.

You feel something move beneath the skin, something hard and thick. “You’re not going to hurt me,” you say with a confidence you’re not entirely sure you can back up now that you’ve got the barest hint at what you might be working with. Your other hand tilts his chin down so you can place a chaste kiss against his lower lip, being careful not to cut yourself on the sharp teeth peeking out from the permanent grimace on his demonic face. “I trust you, Dante. I know you’ll stay in control.”

One clawed hand slams into the wall above your head, rattling the trinkets and pictures hanging there. He releases a long exhale that almost feels like steam from how hot it is. “Fuck. You’ve got me quite literally in the palm of your hand,” he admits right as you feel the slit open against your fingers and something begins to poke through.

The head of his cock glows the same glowing ember color as his chest before tapering to a dark leathery red and then to black at the base. His veins pulse with that same glowing light from root to tip. He’s fucking massive and if it weren’t for the pollen in your system making you salivate at the sight, you might have actually turned tail and ran. You hope that all your previous rounds with him have made you loose enough to take in this new girth.

He makes a sound at the back of his throat that’s both pained and relieved once the whole of his length has been unsheathed. “Gotta admit, staring at my own demon dick was not on my bingo card for this year.”

You scoff out a dry laugh and then hike up one leg to rest it atop his thigh. The dragon-like scaling over his leg feels hot against your bare skin, but is otherwise smooth. “Less staring and more shoving,” your patience is growing thin.

His hand quickly moves to support your lifted leg, being mindful of his claws. “First of all, there will be no shoving. Only a nice, gentle insertion of the very tip-”

With a quick hop, you’re wrapping your other leg around him. “Dante, if you don’t put that inside me right now, I’m going to climb you like a tree and ride you till the cows come home.”

He pins you to the wall with his chest before you have the chance to fall. “Whoa, slow down there, cowgirl.” He gets that you’re eager for this, but his mind is still wrapping around the fact that he actually has a cock in this form. Yet alone that it’s a weird ass retractable cock.

You reach down and touch a finger to the liquid pre-cum dribbling out of his tip. It has a luminescent-orange sheen that sticks to your fingers like honey. You spread that wetness across the glowing head of his cock and Dante nearly loses the will power to stay upright.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “That’s really fucking sensitive.” He knows that his senses get dialed up to eleven when he’s triggered, but just the simplest touch from you seems enough to bring him to his knees.

If you weren’t in such a hurry to get him inside you, you’d thoroughly enjoy taking your time exploring every inch of him, but your body knows what it wants, and there’s no time for leisure explorations. You tilt your hips and drag your dripping folds against the underside of his cock. “Oh fuck, Dante!” your entire body shivers in delight. The bulbous head of his cock catches against your clit and the glowing fluid coming out of the tip evokes a tingling sensation where it meets your tender flesh. Your clit pulses with renewed vigor and the need to get him inside you becomes the very core of your existence.

“Holy fuck!” An animalistic growl escapes him, five clawed indentations piercing through the plaster of the wall where his hand rests above your head. His steaming breath wafts across your face as he leans in a little closer.

You glide the head of his cock between your folds, mixing your slick with his own fluids and delighting in the way that tingling sensation spreads. “I need you,” nearly delirious with desire, you rub yourself all over his cock.

“I can’t,” he grunts, claw marks dragging down the wall. “If I move right now, I’m gonna fucking rip you open.” He’s barely hanging on by a thread. Your pussy is so close, so inviting, so wet, and it’s right fucking there, ready for the taking. But his control is slipping through his fingers like fine sand, and soon there will be nothing left. “You have to do it. Guide me inside you. But please… be fucking careful,” he begs with the last shred of his humanity.

You don’t have to be told twice. Gripping the base of his shaft, you keep him steady and align his tip with your entrance. You sink down and feel the stretch instantly as your folds spread wide to accommodate the larger cock. There’s a bit of resistance, but the pollen has prepped you enough that soon the head of his cock slips passed your pulsing muscles and is finally nestled into your velvety softness. Your eyes roll into the back of your head at the feeling of being breached by something so massive, and yet somehow, it’s not horribly painful. You certainly feel like your cunt is stretched to its limit, but it’s so fucking good!

It feels so incredible, in fact, that you find yourself shifting your hips back until you’re empty once more, just so you can immediately slide back down to feel him penetrate your walls all over again. The warning growl that rips out of Dante’s throat stops you from doing it a third time. Although a part of you wants to ignore his warnings and keep teasing at the head of his cock, a bigger part of you is more eager to see how that stretched feeling of fullness will increase once he’s fully seated as deep as your body will allow.

You hook your ankles around his back and brace yourself before steadily sinking further and further down his ribbed length. “Oh fuck!” you whine, your pussy stretched so taut that a fleeting flicker of panic manages to push past the sadistic need from the pollen. You slap three fingers over your clit and rub so frantically that your hand nearly vibrates. The tingling fluid from Dante’s cock has made your clit so engorged and sensitive that the ripples of pleasure from your touch are able to get your muscles to relax just enough that he sinks in another inch without tearing you apart.

You continue in this manner until he’s completely sheathed inside your body and you’re fully seated against the valley of his thighs. You’re both panting heavily, but for entirely different reasons. You’ve never felt so full in your life. It’s like your insides have been rearranged to make room for him, and you practically feel him settled against the base of your throat. His cock pulses and thrums inside of you and he’s so hot. The simmering heat of your core is like a flickering candle compared to the molten heat of him.

Meanwhile, Dante isn’t entirely sure how he’s remaining upright. You’re so fucking tight! Every clench and tug and squeeze from your cunt can be felt all along his length from base to tip. Every single inch where he’s buried in you is in both pleasurable agony and devastating ecstasy. The muscles in his neck, arms, and abs are all tensed, bracing against the instinct to rut into you like a wild beast. He wants to fuck you so bad. He wants to fuck you so good.

“Dante…” The way you say his name is utterly ruinous. “You’re so fucking big!”

He can’t help the single shallow thrust that follows. Pure male pride is like kerosene to the blazing inferno heating his blood. “Don’t fucking say shit like that right now,” the threat of the destruction he will wreak upon you can be heard in his voice.

But you’re too far gone. Too high on lust and pollen and demonic sex pheromones. “I’m so full with your cock! You’re so deep! Fuck me, Dante! I need to feel you wreck my pussy.”

The growl of a monster pushed past its limits reverberates throughout the entire bar, making glasses clink and liquid ripple within their bottles. Flecks of paint and drywall powder flutter to the floor as Dante extracts his claws from the wall and moves to evenly grip both globes of your ass. You feel the very tips of his claws against your skin, not enough to cut or draw blood, but the promise of danger sends a thrill through you.

“I told you to shut the hell up.” No more warnings, no more sifting sand, no more threads of control.

His hips snap back until only the head of his cock is still notched within your quivering heat. You’re given no time to brace before he’s surging forward and filling you once more. A frame clatters off its hook, glass shattering as it hits the floor. You hardly notice. Dante doesn’t stop, continuing to pound you against the wall as more objects come to a crashing end. Pictures of celebrities, various trophies and medallions, signed jerseys from the local sports teams, everything clatters one by one, worked loose by Dante’s brutal thrusts into your supple frame. His leathery wing flare before those clawed tips right at the first joint hook up into the already ruined wall. They serve the purpose of entirely caging you in while simultaneously protecting you from any of the debris showering down.

The screaming voice in the back of his mind begging him to be careful with you, that you’re so fucking tiny compared to his massive frame, is so far away, it might as well be a whisper. Primal instinct and carnal desire are all that drive him right now. The need to fuck. The need to claim. The need to breed. There’s no stopping now. Not until he’s filled you with his seed. Filled you with his spawn.

The thought should horrify him. God knows he’s already got enough family drama that just the idea of bringing in another fucked up, part-demon kid into this world should be more than enough to kill his libido. It should be kick-starting his common sense. And yet, his demon lizard brain wants what it wants, and instead of slowing down, he starts rutting into you even faster.

You’re not fairing much better. If someone with their logic and reasoning still intact were to suddenly switch places with you, they would probably be worried about their spine shattering from the destructive onslaught of Dante’s thrusts. But all you can do is moan and wail and scream your praises about how good he’s fucking you. “Ah! Yes, Dante! Wreck me with your massive demon cock. Filling me so good! So fucking deep!”

The ridges of his cock grind against your g-spot with every frenzied thrust. Feral, raw, untethered pleasure clouds every single one of your senses. Dante’s own demonic mating pheromones start mixing with the ones coming from the pollen. It’s a volatile cocktail of savage cravings and endless appetite. The heady scent of burning incense and warm spices is so thick, it coats your tongue. It compels you into wanting to taste even more of him.

Your hand reaches up, fingers clasping around one of the devil horns protruding past his temple and you angle his face closer to yours. He yields to your touch until your scattered breath tickles his cheeks. Your tongue darts out, licking a wet stripe across his lower lip. He purrs at your boldness. You slip further into his mouth, the tip of your tongue flicking over the sharpened point of a fang. With a steaming exhale, his jaw opens and his own tongue slides out to greet yours. It’s thick and rough and wet as it slips passed your parted lips.

Your moan is muffled against the thick appendage now exploring your mouth. Dante’s already proven that his tongue is rather dexterous, but this one is almost prehensile. It seems to wrap around your own and fills your mouth in ways you didn’t know were possible. He fucks your mouth with its unimaginable length. There’s no battling for dominance between you, just complete and utter subjugation. The conqueror and the conquered.

Dante has taken the direct source of your body’s pleasure and has crushed it within a clawed fist. It feels like a lightning strike shooting through you before your entire body starts to convulse. Pure, white-hot ecstasy fills you from head to clenching toes. Your hips buck wildly against the ruthless assault of his thrusts into you. Your breasts scrape against the rough, leathery armor of his chest. Drool slides down your chin, and your eyes lose their focus. Your mind has been fucked into oblivion.

Dante pulls his tongue out of your mouth when your jaw goes slack. He takes in the mindlessly blissed out expression on your face before a flood of fresh wetness soaks his cock. He looks down and realizes you’ve just cum so hard; you’ve squirted all over him. Your walls squeeze him so tight, he’s almost forced out of your tight hole.

His eyes blaze with determination as he fucks you through the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. He pounds into your drenched cunt, the sounds too obscene to describe. Choked cries of pleasure leak from your raw throat every time he slams home. He’s so fucking close. All the blood and heat and energy in his body seem to concentrate at the very base of him. It pulses and throbs and grows until it’s too much for him to contain.

With a mighty roar, Dante hits his final release. Energy explodes out of him, knocking over tables and chairs, shattering glass, and splattering the walls with various types of liquor. His wings stretch and twitch with every spurt of his cock as he empties himself into the deepest parts of you. Your womb fills with his demonic seed until you’re so full that it starts to force its way passed the cock that’s blocking your entrance. Golden and luminescent, it’s thick like molasses and sticks to your skin rather than running down it.

From your understanding of higher demon biology, you know that fertility is rare, so you figure the extra sticky cum must have evolved as a way to boost the chances for fertilization. You realize a bit too late that you’re not sure how well your birth control will fend against demonic sperm. The thought gets pushed from your mind as a wave of heat envelops Dante’s body, and then he’s back in his human form. His legs immediately lose all remaining strength, and he sinks to his knees, your body still connected, sliding down the wall with him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, holding his shuddering body close. Damp tendrils of white hair brush at your cheeks when he rests his forehead against yours. His cock is completely spent, though it continues to twitch from overstimulation inside you. His balls are pulled in so tight, he’s almost afraid they’re about to shrivel up and fall off. His arms barely have the strength to leave the curve of your ass before they’re curling around your back and are crushing you against his chest.

“Please tell me you’re okay,” his words are barely a whisper, ghosting over your lips, mere inches away.

“I’m okay,” you respond immediately between hastened breaths.

His eyes blink open, the blue so bright it’s like the skies after a heavy rain has cleared all the haze away. He takes in your features. Swollen, spit soaked lips. Cheeks flushed with heat. Hair sweaty and tangled all around you, sticking to the wall and your face. You’re a god damn mess, and yet, still so devastatingly beautiful. “Are you sure?”

A single breathless laugh is like a balm to his soul as you reach up and push his own sweaty bangs off his forehead. “I’m sure.” Tomorrow you might feel like you’ve been hit by a semi-truck, but for now you’re good. Well and truly satisfied. “The she-devil has been satiated.”

His own huff of amusement feels cool against your heated cheeks. “Good,” he remarks, nose brushing playfully against yours. “Because I’m completely tapped out.”

You release a low hum, feigning disappointment. “We might need to ask the Energizer Bunny for a refund.”

His laughter is lighthearted in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. “When we’ve finished dealing with this damn demon tree, I’m gonna take you home and make you eat those words. Let's see how long you last against me when you’re not all hopped up on sex pollen.”

You meet his challenging stare with a vicious grin. “I’d rather you make me eat your cock.”

The smirk slides right off his smug face. “Fucking hell, babe. Can you please have some damn mercy on me?!” His dick twitches valiantly inside you before going flaccid. It’s like the final death rattle of the last remaining soldier to die on a battlefield.

He can feel your joy as you laugh against him. “Sorry!” You don’t sound apologetic at all.

You’re too damn beautiful as you look up at him, eyes sparkling in post-coital bliss. He doesn’t even bother to resist the urge to slant his lips over yours and kiss that beautiful look right off your pretty mouth. You moan helplessly against him.

He pulls away and you find yourself chasing after him until your eyes reopen. “What was that for?” you ask blearily.

“Because I wanted to.” He grins at the surprise widening your eyes. “Because you’re fucking beautiful.”

Your hand grips the back of his neck to pull his mouth back to yours. He complies without fail, kissing you long and slow. It feels so damn good to be able to do this with you that he can’t believe how long he’s resisted it. How much longer would he have gone ignoring his feelings for you? How long denying himself from the privilege of getting to cradle your body between his arms?

His lungs feel tight with emotion and the need to breathe when he pulls back once more. He could spend the rest of the day within this bubble of bliss you both have found yourselves in, but he knows there are more pressing matters waiting beyond these four walls. He summons the strength to stand, still cradling you close. When he’s sure that he’s not going to immediately collapse back to the floor, he steps uncaringly over the bits of broken glass and splintered frames to take you back to the table where all of your things are. He sets you down on the polished wooden surface before finally pulling his limp cock out from between your legs. Your thoroughly abused cunt gapes open for a moment and he can see how full you are with glowing golden cum.

His brain seems to short-circuit and all he can do is stare until you clamp your thighs together. Embarrassment prevents you from being able to look him in the eye. “Somehow, I don’t think a wet washcloth is going to be enough for this, Dante.”

His gaze softens immediately, and he reaches a gentle hand out to lift your chin. “I’m still going to do the best I can.” He leaves a parting kiss on your lips before moving back behind the bar. He fills a large bowl with warm water and grabs a stack of towels. You try not to count how many need to be used in order to get the both of you at least somewhat decent.

Once you’re feeling mostly human again, you hop off the table and start shuffling back into your clothes. Dante does the same, keeping one protective eye on you the entire time. When you’re fully dressed, you move to grab your sword where it was haphazardly left when you both busted in here, but Dante reaches for your outstretched hand instead.

“Why don’t you head back to the shop?” he asks, his voice a little too steady. “You can use my shower to finish washing up. Power’s on, so there’ll be hot water.”

You stare at him incredulously. “Dante, what the hell are you talking about? We need to go after Urizen.”

His fingers tighten around yours, the only sign of his desperate plea. “I’ll rendezvous with Trish and Lady at the tree. The three of us will be enough to take him out.”

You square your shoulders and your gaze turns icy. “Don’t do this. Don’t start pulling some over protective bullshit just because our relationship has changed. You know we fight better together. We always have.”

“Fuck…” he mutters under his breath and then drops all pretenses and steps closer. His hand cradles the side of your neck, “I swear I’m not doubting your abilities. I know how fucking badass you are. But this guy is different. He’s going to be like nothing we’ve ever faced before. The moment he smells my demonic essence on you, he’ll see it as a challenge and will hunt you down without mercy.”

Your hand lifts up to cup over his. “If that’s true, then shouldn’t both of us go home and shower?” you ask dubiously.

He laughs without humor. “Doesn’t quite work like that. A claimed female is much more appetizing than a claimed male.”

Is that what happened here? Did you claim him? And did he claim you? In a way, you guess that maybe you have…

“Okay,” you relent just enough to try to come up with a compromise. “I’ll run home, shower really quick, then meet you back at the tree.”

He releases a low sigh and drops his forehead to yours. His actions make you feel like you’re not going to like his next words. And he knows it. “I need you to intercept Nero.”

You try to reel back, but his grip on your neck keeps you in place. You grab a fistful of his shirt instead and yank threateningly. “Are you seriously planning to keep me completely out of this fight?”

His gaze flickers between yours. “You know what he’s like. He won’t listen to me, but he’s sure as hell not strong enough to get involved in this. You’re the only one I can trust to keep him safe. You know what the kid means to me.”

“Fuck you, Dante.” Your words might be harsh, but he can tell his request is pulling on your heartstrings, and you’re starting to sway.

“Just this once,” he begs. “Stay out of the fight just this once and protect Nero.”

You bite your lip to stop the words you want to lash out at him. You understand exactly where he’s coming from regarding Nero. He may only be 1/4 Sparda, but he’s just as stubborn and blockheaded as the lot of them. “Damn it,” you huff, already feeling yourself giving into him. “Promise me you’ll be okay.”

If you weren’t staring at him so closely, you might have missed the relief easing some of the tension in his brow. He grins in that devil-may-care manner you’ve grown all too familiar with. “Haven’t come across an opponent that could beat me yet.”

You roll your eyes. “I just did about 10 minutes ago.”

He huffs out a short laugh, his forehead rocking against yours as he shakes his head. “Doesn’t count when you’re already my ultimate weakness.” And you realize that this is what Dante’s request is truly about. He scared. Not because he thinks you’re weak, but because you make him weak. You are the chink in his armor. The second Urizen realizes this, he will exploit that weakness until it becomes Dante’s undoing.

“Fine,” you release with a long breath. “I’ll stay out of the fight with Urizen. But as soon as this is all over, you and I are going to have a much longer conversation about this new dynamic. And we will be setting some ground rules.”

“Sounds like a wonderful conversation to be coming home to…” he mutters sarcastically.

“Dante, I’m being serious.”

“Oh, I know,” he responds lightly. “And I’m seriously going to be reimagining what it feels like to be inside of you, the entire time we’re apart.”

You make a sound of disgust and shove him away from you. “Ugh, you’re a pig.” He releases a low chuckle as you finally take hold of your discarded sword and attach it to the holster on your back.

He’s still smirking to himself while he finishes reholstering his own weapons.

Once the two of you are fully geared up, you move to the door and step back out into the hellscape that has become of Red Grave City. You look toward the giant demon tree looming in the distance. You know that whatever’s waiting up there… It’s going to bring one hell of a fight. Then you turn and look back toward the direction you’d come. Toward the direction of home. You clench your fists but resolve yourself to following Dante’s request.

You turn your gaze once more to find him already staring down at you. His gaze is carefully neutral, but there’s an anxious tick in his jaw as he waits to see what decision you’re going to make.

“You’ll come back to me, right?” you finally ask.

His shoulders drop slightly with released tension. “Always.”

You nod your head once, then turn a final time and begin heading back to the shop. Dante watches your first few steps, then turns and begins walking in the opposite direction. Neither of you looks back. You have no idea what the future has in store, but you trust Dante to give it his all. If he says he’s coming back, then by Hell or high water, he will. And you’ll be there, waiting for his return.

[gimmethatagustd]

paint me naked | jjk

After the mysteriously hot guy in your university class starts taking an interest in you, should you really trust that he’s not like all the other college fuckboys? Especially when his best friend is the guy who broke your heart?

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader (past Taehyung)

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: College AU, friends to lovers, fluff, smut, light angst

Word Count: 17,025

Content Warning: Self-esteem issues, alcohol, marijuana (of course, it's a jai fic), brief mention of drug dealing, it's very "hehe I have a crush" y'know, kinda YA of me jshdfks rip, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, can you tell I was a depressed poetry student in college??

A/N: This ended up being my most popular fic back in the day (lol like a year ago). I'm ngl, I don't think of it as highly as I do the other fics I've written, but this was I think the second fic I ever wrote?? Back in 2022. Crazy times. So y'know, growth and whateva. The funniest part is that probs 85% of this fic literally happened to me sjdfks. Except the "Jungkook" was only my friend and we just got stoned and vibed, and instead of painting a naked woman, one time during our studio sessions he painted an abstract rendition of my "soul" but it really just looked like a thumb I'm ngl. All my friends said he was in love with me cuz who paints portraits of someone's soul??

Soundtrack: Paint Me Naked - Ten

“Jungkook, I don’t think this is gonna work.”

“Let me try.” 

Your eyes strained to see the boy standing in front of you, but the room was pitch black. It was good, though. You’d purposefully blocked out as much light as you possibly could. It had been a surprisingly difficult feat, mostly because the two of you hadn’t thought this through very well. A rolled up towel was shoved against the bottom of the bedroom door to keep the light from the hallway out. Blackout curtains had already been drawn over the windows when you got there, so that made the window problem easier. Luckily, you’d remembered to unplug the digital clock sitting on the nightstand next to the bed, the last piece of light you could have some control over putting out. 

To make things weirder, you were in Jungkook’s parents’ room. 

“It’s the darkest room in the house!” he’d insisted and you hadn’t objected because, well, it seemed on brand for the way the entire night was going. 

With arms stretched out, your fingers pressed into something bumpy and hard. You could hear Jungkook’s breathing beside you and a light laugh alerted to you that he was much closer than you’d initially thought. After a quick prod, fingers gliding slightly upward, you realized you were grabbing his abdomen. The hard ripples you’d felt were his toned abs beneath his thin t-shirt. 

“Sorry,” you whispered, though there was no need to be quiet. Jungkook’s hands wrapped around yours and took the objects you had clutched between them: scissors and an undeveloped film roll. 

Drawing your hands back to your side, you waited in silence. The sound of metal scraping against plastic was the only sound in the room aside from the quiet rustle of wind blowing through leaves outside. You don’t think you’d ever felt silence before until that moment. It was electric, a pulsing sizzle that sparked up your fingertips and jolted into your heart as you stood beside Jungkook. The harmony your breathing had fallen into made the moment feel far more intimate than you’d expected. Why was standing in the dark with someone so intimate? 

“Fuck,” Jungkook muttered, and you heard what you imagined was him stabbing the scissors into the film. 

“Oh my god, please don’t cut yourself, okay? I don’t know where the hospital is from here.”

His only response was another quiet laugh and you knew from the sound that his nose was doing that scrunched up thing that it always did when he was making fun of you. After only a few months of knowing Jungkook he was certainly very comfortable teasing you. He was pretty comfortable with you in general, you were beginning to realize. 

And why were you here? Standing in the dark with a boy you barely knew from a shared university class, one who towered over you in height as well as being much larger than you physically. Trying to pop open film because Jungkook somehow thought you could actually develop this film without having access to a real darkroom. Sure, all throughout high school you’d taken film photography classes. You had the development process memorized by heart, from the length of time the film needed to soak to the different types of chemicals needed and what order you were supposed to submerge the prints in. You’d even emailed your old high school teacher to double check. 

But doing all of that in Jungkook’s parents’ house? You knew it wasn’t going to work, but the guy had insisted on you helping him. Was it concerning that he had all these chemicals stored in a plastic tub in his closet? Maybe. And was it the safest decision to use scissors to pop open the film instead of the proper tool (which Jungkook had forgotten to order off of Amazon in advance)? Absolutely not. 

On top of that, no one knew where you were; you’d simply told your roommates that you were going to hang out with the guy from your university poetry class. 

“Jungkook? The weird one with all the tattoos and piercings?” Your roommate, Amiriah, had asked.  

“He’s not that weird.” 

“Y/N, he wrote a poem about eating pussy for a class assignment. You said so yourself. Please tell me how that’s a normal thing to do.” 

“And didn’t he have to read it outloud to the class because he turned it in late?” Now it was time for Courtney to pipe in from her position lounging on the couch, an episode of Love Connection paused on the TV screen. 

“Okay, yes, he did do both those things. But I swear he’s actually really sweet. He’s just misunderstood.” 

Courtney had launched a pillow at you, though the object zoomed past your head and landed against the refrigerator, knocking down multiple of Amiriah’s magnets. Much to her dismay. 

“Maybe we should take a break.” 

Jungkook’s voice brought you back to reality, or at least some semblance of it. You couldn’t understand how someone could have such a soft voice. Listening to Jungkook speak was like floating on a cloud. His cadence was a gentle caress against your skin, a sound that could easily flutter your eyes and lull you to sleep. It didn’t matter what he was saying; everything sounded better coming from Jungkook’s mouth. 

You nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see you. A few moments and a bit of shuffling later, the lights sprung on. Your eyes instantly shut and slowly pried open again from the blaring brightness. 

The poor film looked like it had been mauled by a bear, but it was still somehow intact. Jungkook slipped it into his pocket for safekeeping and turned to look at you. He had this thing about eye contact that really made you uncomfortable. When he met your gaze, he looked straight into your eyes, as if he was looking into you rather than at you. 

“Do you want a drink?” 

His question caught you off guard, but he was already picking up the towel from the floor to open the bedroom door. Without answering, you followed him through the house and into the kitchen. You stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of you, eyes following his large frame navigating the kitchen cabinets. 

“All my parents have is rosé, is that okay?” 

He uncorked the chilled bottle and poured each of you a glass. Then he did something that your roommates could add to the list of weird things they’d developed for him. 

He sat on the floor. 

You stared at him with your lips slightly parted, unsure if you were supposed to follow him. There was an entire kitchen table with multiple chairs. Why was he sitting on the floor with his back leaned against the doorframe? Bottle of rosé sitting on the tile next to him. He looked up at you with impossibly soft doe eyes and you couldn’t just stand there with your glass. So, you slowly sank to the floor, your shoulders brushing against each other as you sat next to him. 

“Y’know, I just realized the film you have is color film.” You spoke slowly, hating that you were about to burst his bubble. “You wouldn’t be able to develop it at home, anyway. The chemicals you bought are for black and white film, and color film has to be developed using heat.” 

“Damn.” Jungkook tipped his head back to take a very deep drink of his wine. 

“We gave a valiant effort, though.” You flashed him a small smile and the grin you got in return made your face grow hot. 

Your roommates weren’t really wrong. Jungkook didn’t have the best reputation on your university campus. There were rumors that he sold drugs (marijuana and acid, specifically) and had gang affiliations. He was quiet, kept to himself, and didn’t seem to have a whole lot of friends aside from a few guys who were equally just as questionable. Yes, you knew he’d gotten arrested the day before spring break started for getting into a fight with a guy on campus, but based on what your friends had told you, it was definitely the other guy’s fault. 

You’d also heard he had great head game, but that was a whole other thing. You just had a really hard time believing all the bad things people said about him, even when he’d admitted to a lot of the rumors being true. 

“A gang tried to recruit me when I was fresh outta high school, but I like selling on my own. Can’t trust people for shit.” 

He’d said it so casually, and you wondered what was wrong with you for finding a conversation about dealing drugs attractive. 

The thing your roommates, and a lot of other people, didn’t understand was that there was more to Jungkook than whatever dumb rumors got spread around (real or not). He was an exceptional writer. His poetry weaved in elements of hip hop, almost sounding like eloquent and lyrical rap lyrics rather than your typical stuffy poem that other students in your class tried to pass off as profound. He didn’t shy away from writing about mental health, sex, relationships, and loss. Everything he put down was raw, and you liked that it made other people in the class uncomfortable. Jungkook wasn’t afraid to be himself. Wasn’t that what art was supposed to be all about? 

And he was artistic in every way. Not only did he write well, but he was obviously into photography, and he also dabbled in multimedia sculpture. But the most impressive was probably his paintings. You’d seen the work he’d posted on Instagram, and during one of your hangouts he’d told you about how he’d been commissioned by the city to work on a public mural with another local artist. 

Very few people knew these things about Jungkook. They saw the tattoos, the piercings, the occasional blunt wedged between his lips, and they painted him in a way that was so distorted it annoyed you. 

“Thanks for helping me, though. I appreciate you.” 

You bit your bottom lip into your mouth to suppress another smile, instead opting to simply nod your head and cover up any expression by taking a drink. 

At this point, the two of you had been hanging out at least once a week. Usually you just sat outside on his parents’ front porch and smoked and talked about life. His parents seemed to always be out of town, and although Jungkook lived across the hall from you in the university dorms, he stayed at his parents’ house a lot to take care of their dog. 

It felt weird, though, hanging out with Jungkook. It was like all your interactions could only happen during those moments; otherwise, he didn’t talk to you when you saw him around campus. Even in your advanced poetry class, he would lock eyes with you across the room, but he never said a word. 

And it didn’t help that he was best friends and roommates with Kim Taehyung, the campus casanova who’d fucked you like you were the only girl in the world for an entire semester until you saw him cuddled up at a party with some other girl who didn’t even go to your university. The next day he was standing at your dorm asking for his skateboard back, weaving some lie about how summer break was the time to be single and have fun, but that he would “never forget” the fun times you’d had. 

Then Taehyung got a girlfriend. 

So maybe you were a little bit bitter over how things ended with Taehyung (and maybe you’d spent the entire summer crying yourself to sleep at night and aimlessly scrolling through Tinder, looking for anyone who might replace him and finding nothing). But the worst part was knowing that Taehyung had probably talked to Jungkook about you, and you had no idea what he might have said. 

“Hopefully the film is still okay,” you said after a moment, trying to pull yourself out of the cyclical negative thoughts you were often consumed by. 

You finished your glass, shaking your head at Jungkook’s offer for more rosé. He nodded, pushing himself up to stand and reached out to take your empty glass. 

You watched him from the floor as he washed the glasses in the sink. Your eyes lingered just a bit too long on the way his forearm muscles flexed while he cleaned, a few veins popping out along the back of his hands and the inside of his arm. Tattoos and piercings hadn’t ever been your thing, not that you didn’t appreciate the allure of body modifications. You’d just found yourself going after boys who looked polished, good boys to take home to mom. Jungkook had been the one to initiate your friendship, asking to hang out while you worked on your poems or read the many poetry collections due for class. You’d be a liar if you said his sudden interest in you hadn’t sparked your own interest in him.

Just one glass of wine was enough to make you a bit lightheaded, and Jungkook was a heavy pourer, apparently. 

“You good?” 

You blinked and stared into Jungkook’s face. He was drying off his hands now, watching you with an amused look on his face. 

“Umm, yeah. Just a lightweight,” you said with a breathy laugh that sounded a little too forced for your liking. Jungkook didn’t seem to notice. 

“You wanna go to my studio with me? The one on campus?” 

You looked down at your phone, a few text messages popping up from your roommates demanding to know where you were. Swiping to clear the notifications, you looked up at Jungkook and gave him a small smile. 

“Sure.” 

-

“That thing so fire baby, no propane. Got good pussy, girl, can I be frank? To keep it 100, girl, I ain’t no saint.” 

Music came blaring out of the car’s speakers at an alarmingly high volume, causing you to exhale a startled shout. Jungkook quickly lunged to turn down the volume and accidentally honked the car’s horn when his shoulder leaned against the steering wheel. 

“Shit, sorry.” 

“Talk about fucking sensory overload, fuck,” you mumbled, heart still dazed in your chest. 

“It was actually nice outside for once. I was whippin’ with the windows down, so the music’s gotta be louder.” 

All he was getting from you was rolled eyes and the sound of your seatbelt clicking into place. 

Jungkook turned around to look over his shoulder as he backed out of the driveway. He grabbed onto the back of your seat to position himself; once again, you found yourself eyeing his arms, exploring the exposed tattoos. It kind of pissed you off how hot it was when guys drove backwards. What was evolutionarily advantageous about that attraction? 

“If you wanna change it, I got a couple CDs.” 

Jungkook motioned to the middle console. You flipped through them, finding the album that was currently playing. You’d recognize it anywhere; he was one of your favorite musicians. 

“Bryson Tiller?” You turned the CD case over in your hand, eyes scanning the tracklist on the back. “You listen to sex music while you drive? And off a CD instead of Bluetooth, no less?”

Jungkook barked out a laugh, all teeth and crinkled eyes that you could just barely make out as the streetlights streaked over his face. 

“Yeah, I guess I do. You got a problem with Bryson?” His fingers lazily tapped against the steering wheel to the relaxed beat of Don’t - which happened to be your favorite song on the album. “This car is twenty-one years old. You’re lucky we’re not sitting here listening to cassettes.” 

“Who doesn’t like Bryson Tiller? That’s the baby-making music of our generation,” you said with a laugh. “Honestly, I can’t believe this song came out in fuckin’ 2015. Why does that feel like such a long time ago?” 

Jungkook sat in the driver’s seat with his legs spread as much as possible; this position was what had made you realize just how thick and nice his thighs really were. Plus, he drove with one hand on top of the steering wheel, left elbow bent slightly. He usually let his right hand rest against his thigh, though sometimes he held onto the gear shift in between the two of you. 

There was rarely any traffic in your college town, and especially not at 10pm on a Tuesday night. The two of you fell silent, Bryson Tiller’s soulful lyrics swirling through the car in the absence of conversation. Jungkook was typically a man of few words. You’d grown accustomed to carrying the conversation. With most people, that would have bothered you, but with Jungkook it was different. You knew he was paying attention when you talked; you could see it in the way the corners of his mouth twitched when you said something dorky (which was, apparently, all the time). 

And when he did have something to say, it was always worth the wait. 

“You’ve got good taste,” Jungkook said after driving a few blocks. “Guess I should probably add him to my sex playlist.”

Before you had time to process his comment Jungkook was pulling into the east parking lot of your university, the part of campus that was off to the side and only held art-related facilities. 

He led you to an unmarked backdoor of the building closest to the parking lot. Pushing the door open, he held it for you with a sweep of his hand. 

“Ladies first, noona.” 

Scowling at the honorific, you still obliged, entering a long hallway. The walls were bare, just an eggshell white, a few black scuff marks here and there, as if someone had been carrying something large and struggled to fit it through the narrow space. Jungkook maneuvered past you to lead the way to another unmarked door. 

The studio was a lot larger than you expected. One side of the room had a large rack of painted canvases to dry. You turned to inspect the left side of the room, finding multiple easels with additional canvases of varying sizes, most blank or seemingly half-finished. A rather worn-looking couch was placed in the middle of the room. Beside it was a coffee table and a Bluetooth speaker. (So Jungkook did know about modern technology.) Paint-covered tarps protected much of the concrete floor, and there were paint buckets and other supplies scattered in every corner. The entire room was pure chaos, but it seemed like there was an organization to it that only Jungkook knew. 

“So… yeah. This is my studio.” Jungkook closed the door behind you and locked it. 

Your heart skipped a beat at his action, but you swallowed down the spike of fear that had threatened to bubble up inside of you. You’d spent plenty of alone time with Jungkook. There was nothing to worry about. 

“I had to practically beg the school to let me have my own space since I’m not an art major, but they eventually let up,” Jungkook continued with a shrug. 

You were impressed, honestly. Jungkook wasn’t known for being the most reliable student academically; it was surprising they’d given him such privileges. 

“I like it,” you said simply, eyes still roaming the space. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do now. Studio art wasn’t really your thing, poetry was. 

Luckily, Jungkook had a knack for reading your mind. 

“You can sit on the couch if you want. I got a project due tomorrow morning, so I’m gonna work on it. But if you wanna paint, just lemme know.” He scrolled through his phone as he spoke, and eventually more R&B music started playing from the speaker. 

“Tomorrow morning? JK, it’s fucking 10:30.” 

You stared at him with your head tilted to the side in disbelief, but you were only met with another shrug and a grin. Living on the edge. King of Procrastination, Jeon Jungkook. You were already getting secondhand stress. 

With a quiet hum to himself as the music took over, it was clear to you that Jungkook had switched to his serious side. He began prepping one of his easels with various paint brushes and paints. Dragging a heavy-looking but small filing cabinet next to the easel, he used the surface to store his supplies while he worked. 

You flopped onto the couch, adjusting so you could have a clear view of Jungkook. He looked cute in his jeans and black hoodie, a blunt pencil tucked behind his ear. His lips pouted slightly as he planned what he was going to do with his painting. Occasionally the pencil would be plucked from his ear and a few sketches appeared on the canvas, too light for you to see what they were from your position on the couch. 

The vibration of your phone tore your eyes away from Jungkook’s figure. It was no surprise that your roommate group text was blowing up. 

Courtnayyy 😘 [10:00] BITCH WHERE ARE YOU A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:01] pls tell me the weirdo didn’t murder u Courtnayyy 😘 [10:04] If he did can I have your Mac Miller poster?  A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:15] court how tf would she approve of that if she’s dead? she ain’t gonna see this shit Courtnayyy 😘 [10:18] Ouija board A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:25] stfu 🔫 A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:25] Y/N you better answer ur fucking phone right now A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:40] hellooooooooooooooooooo

You let out a sigh loud enough for Jungkook to look over at you, eyebrows furrowed. 

“My roommates think you killed me.”

Jungkook grinned and turned back to his easel with a shake of his head. You’d expected him to say something, but then the reminder that Jungkook was… unconventional slithered into your mind. 

[10:45] I’m alive. Can you pls stop blowing up my phone now? 💀 Courtnayyy 😘 [10:46] FUCKING FINALLY  A Mili Amiriah 👑 [10:47] what are you doing?? [10:50] We’re just hanging out at his studio. I’ll probably leave soon

You tossed your phone next to you on the couch and lifted your arms into the air to stretch. It was rather warm in the studio and the smooth music of whatever playlist Jungkook had on was making you feel sleepy. What kind of lame college student were you? 

“I was serious about what I said.” Jungkook didn’t look at you while he painted, too focused on mixing the right shade of brown. 

“About what?”

“You can paint if you want. All the paint and brushes are in the cabinet.” 

You chewed on your bottom lip, eyes flitting from the filing cabinet next to Jungkook to the easel off to the side with a blank canvas. What if whatever you painted looked like shit? You had no idea what you were doing. 

But when did you ever get to paint in your adult life?

Pushing yourself off the couch you approached Jungkook to start rummaging in the drawers for supplies. You were stopped in your tracks, however, the moment your eyes landed on his painting. Considering that much time hadn’t passed, Jungkook was far along in his work. You came face to face with a woman, or at least the naked body of a woman. She was painted in soft earthy tones, curves accentuated by what looked like a gold silk ribbon that wrapped around her. The painting was certainly abstract because she was missing a head and her limbs weren’t finished, but just having her strong torso and thighs, and a long regal neck, somehow made her feel complete. 

“That’s beautiful, JK. She looks so realistic… How can you do all those little details so quickly?” You spoke quietly, desperately wishing you could touch the canvas. 

“Painting nudity is easy.” Another classic Jungkook shrug. “That’s why it’s so overdone. There’s nothing more beautiful than humans in their purest state, right? We’re the original art.” 

You would have never considered nudity to be pure, but you liked Jungkook’s analysis. Society saw nudity as all about sex. Despite his depiction of breasts and genitalia, Jungkook’s painting was a reflection and appreciation of a body. 

You wondered if it was anyone’s body in particular. 

The thought soured your mood a bit, and you quickly returned your focus to finding the supplies you needed. Satisfied, you took up the easel beside Jungkook. What the fuck were you going to paint? Especially now that you had this beautiful work blooming next to you. 

“Don’t think about it so much. Just go for it.” 

There was Jungkook reading your mind again. 

You weren’t sure how much time passed with the two of you working silently. At first you’d considered doing something abstract, but eventually you felt compelled to do something a bit more realistic. You’d retrieved your phone (ignoring your roommates’ texts again) to pull up a photo for reference as you painted. 

After a while Jungkook lifted his finished painting and carried it to the rack to dry. By the time he had completed his painting, you were putting your final touches on yours - one that was far more simplistic. You found it entertaining, though. 

“Who is that?” 

You’d been so absorbed in getting those final details perfected that you hadn’t noticed Jungkook standing right behind you. You jumped slightly and that elicited a chuckle from the boy. 

“It’s a portrait of Bad Bunny.” Your greatest celebrity crush. 

“He’s cute. You did a good job considering you looked so scared to start.” His comment left your cheeks burning. You’d hoped it hadn’t been so obvious, but Jungkook was too observant for his own good (and for yours, too). “Maybe I should hire you as my assistant.”

“Thanks. It’s not as good as yours, though.” 

Jungkook waved you off and the action made him realize he had a good amount of paint on his hands. Rather than find a towel, he simply rubbed his hands against his thighs. You watched him, eyes lingering on the way his thighs stretched the tight material of his jeans. Looking up to return to his face you were met with a smirk. You were doing a real shitty job at being subtle, apparently. 

You chose not to say anything and focused your attention on finishing your painting, not wanting Jungkook to be waiting for you longer than he needed to. He sat down on the couch, now distracted by his phone. 

“So,” you spoke as you lifted up your finished painting, following Jungkook’s instructions to put it on the drying rack. “What was the inspiration for your painting?” 

Was it a bold question? You were trying to play it off like you weren’t going to cling to whatever his answer was. 

Jungkook patted the space next to him to encourage you to sit down. Once you were sitting next to him, your body turned slightly to face him, Jungkook leaned forward. His face was mere inches from yours and you could feel his breath tickle your cheek. He watched you with those brown doe eyes, such an innocent feature on an otherwise devious-looking face. The smirk that formed on his lips strongly contrasted the sweetness of his eyes. 

Jungkook’s tongue poked out to play with his lip ring before he answered your question. It was impossible to look away from his lips, and you thought you felt your heart stop. 

“The deadline.” 

The smirk grew deeper as he pulled away, running a hand through his hair. You were more than disappointed, feeling yourself deflate and finally realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your shoulders slumped slightly, but you managed to mask the reason for your disappointment by pretending you were disappointed in him. 

“Boy, you need to work on your assignments earlier so you can come up with something good,” you huffed, crossing your arms against your chest. 

“Was it not good?” He grinned, a cocky twinkle in his eyes, no longer doe-shaped but narrowed in mirth. “Come on, let me drop you off. It’s almost 2.” 

“Fuck, I have an 8am.” 

With a quick check on your phone you saw that it was indeed almost 2am. How had you spent almost four hours in the studio without realizing it? Nevermind the fact that you’d spent another three or four hanging out with Jungkook before you’d even gotten to the studio. 

“I’d skip if I was you.” 

Jungkook led you through the art building and to his car, making sure that the music didn’t startle you half to death when he started the car this time. 

“Unlike you, I’m a good student, thanks.” 

It wasn’t a terrible dig because you knew Jungkook enough to know he didn’t give a shit. All he’d do was give you a small smile and melt your heart with the confusion of how it was possible for someone to look both so soft and so dangerous. 

Your dorm was on the other side of campus, so the drive over was quick. But rather than drop you off at the sidewalk, Jungkook pulled into the parking lot, much to your surprise. 

“I thought you were staying over at your parents’?” 

Jungkook kept the car running, but he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned back in his chair.

“Me and Tae are gonna go smoke. I got this new strain of indica we wanna try.”

He didn’t look at you when he spoke, instead facing forward to peer out the window. Once he brought up weed, you realized you could smell the remnants of weed smoke in Jungkook’s car, partially masked by air freshener. 

At the mention of Jungkook’s roommate you felt your stomach drop. The feeling was only intensified when you followed Jungkook’s gaze to see a figure with long legs and broad shoulders make their way down the sidewalk, heading right in your direction. You felt ice shoot through your veins and panic settle into your chest. 

“Oh,” you squeaked out. You needed to escape, but you couldn’t force your hands to unbuckle yourself and open the door. 

“Do you wanna come with us?” Jungkook took your lack of movement as a desire to get high. 

You looked at Jungkook with an open mouth, but nothing came out. And even if you could speak, Taehyung was already flinging the car door open. 

“Oh, shit, Y/N. I didn’t even see you there.” Taehyung leaned against the car door, eyes sweeping over your small figure as you attempted to look as relaxed as possible. 

Did he lick his lips or were you just imagining that? 

“Want me to sit in the back?” 

Taehyung leaned down so he could poke his head into the car and talk to Jungkook right over you. The position gave you a perfect view of his neck and his collarbones peeking out from beneath the silk button-up shirt he was wearing, the first few buttons undone as usual. His cologne smelled like cedar and you could faintly smell something fruity, likely the strawberry-flavored vape he smoked. 

All of that was enough to send you mentally screaming into the void. 

“ThanksJungkookIgottago,” you sputtered, doing your best not to touch Taehyung as you moved around him to get out.

“Y/N!” 

You ignored Jungkook’s call, not daring to look back. Despite your exhaustion you took the stairs two at a time until you made it to your dorm, nearly dropping your keys as you unlocked the door. The kitchen and living room were dark, so you knew your roommates were asleep - or at least in their own rooms. You didn’t even bother to do your nighttime routine, opting to strip down to your underwear and collapse into your bed face-first. 

Darkness and silence brought you no solitude; quite honestly, they had the opposite effect. All you had in your head was Taehyung’s face… in your ears, his voice… in your nostrils, his smell. 

Groaning, you flipped onto your back and grabbed your phone to put on your favorite thunderstorm white noise playlist. In the middle of picking the perfect sound, your phone buzzed with a text. 

Jungkook (Poetry) [2:15] you good?

You bit your lip, not wanting to leave him hanging so late, but also knowing if you went down this rabbithole you’d never fall asleep. 

[2:16] I’m fine

Your phone vibrated almost immediately, but you forced yourself to put it away. Whatever Jungkook had to say could wait until the morning. Or until never, because right now you never wanted to speak to another human ever again.

-

Jungkook (Poetry) [2:16] you don’t have to lie to me Jungkook (Poetry) [3:02] lying destroys our intrinsic value as human beings by corrupting our ability to make rational choices and have free will Jungkook (Poetry) [3:03] immanuel kant said that

You didn’t realize you’d be hit with a philosophical lecture the moment you woke up, but then you remembered that Jungkook had gone smoking with Taehyung. The two of them got all philosophical when they were high, as if they really could achieve some kind of superior knowledge. 

They were idiots. 

“Oh my god, when the fuck did you get home last night?” 

Anyone speaking that loud and harshly so early in the morning was an assailant. You glared at Courtney, brushing past her to get to the bathroom. You shouldn’t have been surprised that the girl stayed outside the bathroom door as she waited for you to finish. 

“It was definitely after 1am ‘cause that’s when we went to bed,” she kept on talking even when you turned the shower on. “What could you guys have possibly been doing that whole time? Did you hook up?” 

“No.”

“What?” Courtney strained to hear you over the sound of the high-pressure water. 

“I said, no!” 

It was ridiculous that you were standing there, rubbing your naked body down with lavender exfoliating soap, while you discussed your alleged hook up with a guy you barely knew. 

You thanked the Lord Almighty that your schedule didn’t line up with your roommates on Wednesdays, or else you would have had to suffer Courtney and Amiriah’s interrogations the whole day. 

Instead you sleepily dragged yourself through two morning classes and a work shift at the university library before you’d eventually have to face Jungkook head-on. 

-

Your Advanced Poetry class was small enough that all the students could sit around a large table together. The small, intimate class size made it easier for collaboration and made workshops feel a bit less ruthless. You’d gotten to the point that you could read anonymous poems from each of your classmates and know exactly who wrote what. You were like a little family who met every Wednesday evening for two hours and poured your thoughts, dreams, fears, and goals into each other with every written piece. This class was going to be what broke your heart when the semester was over; you could already feel yourself missing it. 

“Alright, y’all, we’re going to workshop the imitation poems from the exercise last week.”

You felt your heart drop to the pit of your stomach. Whatever else Professor Mendez was saying didn’t compute; she sounded like she was speaking underwater and all you could do was shift your eyes to look at Jungkook across the table from you. You hadn’t expected him to be already looking at you nor for him to hold your gaze until you quickly looked away. 

The poem you’d written for the exercise was about Taehyung. 

You’d thought only your professor was ever going to see it. And now she was calling on you to read yours aloud first. No one else would know who it was about, but you knew Jungkook would know. 

“Y/N?” 

Professor Mendez looked at you, her star pupil, with an encouraging smile. You swallowed, avoiding Jungkook’s gaze though you felt him staring. If you kept the piece of paper on the table in front of you, you wouldn’t risk showing everyone that your hands were slightly trembling. And then you opened your mouth. 

I SAW YOU ONCE IN A FEVER DREAM  (After Kaveh Akbar) I saw you once in a fever dream shirtless  swaddling me in a hammock hanging from cedar trees   When you smoke it gets stuck   in your hair Save it for later The smell of marijuana   and strawberry vapes     lingered in my clothes     In another fever   dream you were my mother The doctor asked if I am  allergic to any medications and I should   have said yes but it is only you   I have felt love flow through me I have never felt   it given My friend once told me  there is only so much you can do   At what point am I the problem   Sometimes I stare at the wall and peel the nails  off of my fingers for every time you broke me  Somehow it feels better this way  

It was depressing, pathetic even. Sure, you’d imitated Kaveh Akbar’s unique writing style to a T, but now you looked stupid for writing about a man you’d never even dated, who had unofficially “dumped” you last spring semester. Jungkook had to know. Unless he was completely oblivious (which was honestly likely, when you really thought about it). And maybe you were being too cocky, assuming some guy who you meant nothing to would care or even pay attention to the fact that his friend had fucked you into a broken heart. 

You sat with tight lips as the class discussed your poem, a few people put off by your use of space on the page, others praising your unique way of formatting the stanzas. Jungkook never spoke, but he never did until the end of class when Professor Mendez called him out for being silent. Then he would provide feedback for whoever had gone before him, his opinion usually directly contradicting whatever your professor said. She knew he wasn’t being defiant, and she welcomed his creative challenge of the status quo. But sometimes he was a bit much. 

“Well, Mr. Jungkook. Let’s hear yours.” 

You could feel the entire room both tense and lean forward, as if scared but also unimaginably eager for whatever it was they were about to receive. 

“I didn’t finish, but I can read what I have. It’s a prose poem.” 

UNTITLED I met her in the evaporated residue of a midnight bong rip. Among glimmers of artificially-simulated worlds, of over-saturated hues. Hurried hues of a purple-pink bruise, bloom, slippery between thighs. Tongue flicks. Slide. These things only happen behind closed doors. An eternity of almosts, she likes to wear my hand as a choker. Drag me whole into desire, into pink folds and broken promises. Drip slick slow stroke glide and move inside, eat feast thrive. Beat it up every time. Pulsate. Pulsate. Own it. My hands on your hips. Blindfold over your eyes. Selfish fuck. I am a decomposing mind; her body whispers otherwise. 

Jungkook could have written a poem about dog shit and the way he recited it would have been breathtaking. It didn’t matter that his lines were verging on pornographic for an academic setting; simply the way the alliteration flowed like honey from his mouth was enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine. The words came out like a gentle lullaby of filth, a smooth mantra, a promise of sin. It was no wonder the classroom fell silent. Even Professor Mendez stared at Jungkook with an unreadable expression on her face. 

“Thank you, Jungkook,” she said after a moment. 

He nodded politely and slouched into his seat again. 

Professor Mendez looked around the room for the first volunteer to take a stab at critiquing Jungkook’s poem. Only a brave soul could manage, and you were determined to keep your mouth shut. You could already visualize the way your classmates were going to gossip about this once class was over. You wondered how long it would take for Courtney and Amiriah to find out. 

“Who would like to go first?” 

It appeared the class had very few critiques, likely because no one wanted to dive too deeply into the abstract and overtly-sexual writing that had been. 

Professor Mendez went on a mini rant about the importance of knowing how to keep the flow of a prose poem that somehow derailed into a story about her new puppy. Perhaps someone had gotten her going to kill the last few minutes of class until it was 8pm and she was forced to let the group of you go into the night. 

You always managed to be the last person leaving the classroom every Wednesday night. Usually it was due to your prolonged conversations with Professor Mendez, the two of you gushing over a new poetry collection or the latest episode of a TV show. Jungkook, on the other hand, was typically the first to leave. Likely to go find his little crew of delinquents to do drugs with or whatever else they got themselves into. 

Except apparently not today. 

As you waved a goodbye to Professor Mendez, you headed down the empty hallway fully aware of the second pair of shoes echoing in the silence along with yours. Your insides were still scrambled from the series of exceptionally unfortunate events that had involved Kim Taehyung in the past twenty-four hours. You had no desire to entertain Jungkook, especially not after him staring you down all of class. And reading that fucking poem. 

“Are you really gonna ignore me?” 

You squeezed the straps of your backpack and stopped in front of the door to leave the academic building. If you acted bothered it would make you more suspicious. And it would let Kim Taehyung continue to rule your mind. You were better than this… 

So you turned around to face the doe-eyed boy and tried not to imagine his hand squeezing your throat. 

“I’m not ignoring you.” You cocked your head to one side in feigned confusion. Jungkook met your look with a small pout. 

“I’m sorry if I did something to upset you yesterday.” 

So, he didn’t know. Either that, or he was lying. But didn’t Immanuel Kant say lying is bad? You did everything in your power not to scowl to yourself. 

“I’m fine, Jungkook. I swear.” You let out an irritated sigh, casting a glance behind your shoulder as you heard thunder ripple through the air outside. You’d obviously forgotten to check the weather that morning, looking down at your t-shirt and shorts. 

“Okay…” He eyed you skeptically, but he didn’t want to push you further and threaten pushing you away completely. “Can I walk with you?” 

“Of course.” He lived literally across the hall from you. You could open your door and be face-to-face with his. 

“Okay… Can I give you a hug?” 

You rolled your eyes so far and deep inside your skull it was a surprise they didn’t detach and disappear somewhere. It wasn’t fair that you were taking out your frustrations on Jungkook simply because your ego was hurt. That self-awareness was what made you nod your head with your arms outstretched. 

Jungkook enveloped you in his large frame, the side of your face pressed against his chest. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, and he held the back of your head in his free hand. There was something about Jungkook’s closeness that caught you off guard. Perhaps it was because this was the first time you’d ever hugged each other; you’d never been this physical with each other at all, actually. You weren’t much of the hugging type, anyway. 

Jungkook’s warmth made you settle into his embrace for much longer than you’d expected. He felt soft, safe. Even the chemical smell of paint that had seeped into his hoodie was welcoming. Despite the rumbling of a heavy thunderstorm outside, you could still hear his heart beat beneath you. Something about that realization made you pull away from him suddenly. It was just too… close. 

He stared at you with a wrinkled brow and the pout was slowly coming back, but he stayed silent. You couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“Ready?”

 With raised shoulders you braced yourself for the downpour. 

By the time the two of you had sprinted across the courtyard, you were completely soaked. You felt your earlier frustrations melt with the water droplets gliding down your arms as you leaned against Jungkook’s equally-soaked body. He was nearly doubled over in laughter, shoulder pressed against the wall next to the front door of his dorm room. 

“You look like a wet cat,” he teased. 

“Oh yeah? Well you look like a wet dog.” Your poor hair was going to get embarrassingly frizzy if you didn’t take care of it immediately. 

Jungkook flashed you an evil grin and violently shook his head, sending water spraying all over. 

“Jungkook, stop!” you hollered, giving him a shove. “I feel so gross already.” 

You twisted around to fish out your dorm key from your backpack, but your fingers scraped the bottom of the pocket. No key. 

“Fuck,” you cursed, setting your backpack on the ground to search through more pockets. Giving up on that possibility, you checked the pockets of your shorts. Nothing. 

Unlocking your phone, your thumb hovered over your roommate group text, unsure if you should interrupt Amiriah and Courtney. It was a little after 8pm… Both of your roommates would be in their weekly sorority meeting that usually lasted at least an hour, if not two. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I… locked myself out.” What a fucking rookie mistake. What was this, freshman year? “I’m pretty sure I left my keys on the kitchen table.” 

Now you were stranded in your hallway, cold and soaking wet. You could go downstairs to ask your RA to let you in, but she was a bitch. 

“You’re a mess. Come on, I’ve got clothes for you.” 

He didn’t give you the opportunity to protest; instead, he stepped inside his dorm without even so much as a look over his shoulder at you. 

Apparently your desire to be warm and dry was stronger than your fear of entering the Dorm Room from Hell. You’d never been in Jungkook’s dorm before, mostly because you didn’t want to run into Taehyung. 

The layout was the same as yours: full kitchen with adjacent living room, long hall with individual bedrooms that ended with a bathroom. The decorations practically screamed “guys who smoke weed” considering the giant marijuana leaf tapestry hanging in the living room and the multicolored string lights that hung on the ceiling casting a psychedelic glow throughout the dorm. An incense that smelled interestingly like the ocean was burning on the coffee table. 

You were pretty sure burning incense wasn’t allowed on university property. Then again, neither was smoking weed in the parking lot, but Jungkook and his roommates did whatever they wanted. 

“Are you just gonna stand there or…?” 

Jungkook led the way down the hall, you trailing a bit behind him as you continued being nosy. As you passed the first bedroom, the door suddenly swung open, causing you to yelp when you were face-to-face with a rather grumpy looking man with shockingly green hair. The bleary look of his eyes told you he’d been asleep. 

“Why the fuck are you wet?” 

You did a double take, shocked at the roughness of the question from a stranger. Before you could answer, Jungkook was pulling you forward by the wrist. 

“Hyung, I went to the grocery store today. There’s tangerines on the counter.” 

The green-haired roommate grumbled a thank you and shot straight to the kitchen. 

“Just ignore Yoongi,” Jungkook whispered, stopping in front of his bedroom. “He’s a fifth-year senior and probably ready to burn the entire university down.” 

Jungkook’s bedroom was the exact opposite of what you’d expected. After seeing the chaos of his art studio, you’d thought his bedroom would be much of the same. Instead you were met with a simple, organized room. No clutter, no mess. Everything had its place, not an art supply in sight. Peaking over his shoulder, you saw even his dresser drawers were organized, each article of clothing neatly folded. That was likely why Jungkook was able to quickly pick out a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts to hand you. 

“Oh, and this,” he tossed you a towel, as well. “You can use the bathroom. I’ll be in here.” 

“Thank you,” you said with an appreciative nod. 

The skin on your fingers had wrinkled up from the rain and you pressed them into the towel to find some relief. Who knew the feeling of wearing dry clothes would be so sweet? You took your time in the bathroom, rubbing down every inch of your body. Unfortunately, even your underwear and bra were soaked. If you put on dry clothes over them, the water would surely bleed into the fabric. So you opted for going commando, to your dismay. At least Jungkook’s t-shirt was baggy enough that your chest wasn’t on full display, and it wasn’t like anyone would know you weren’t wearing underwear. 

You caught a look at yourself in the mirror and laughed at how ridiculous you looked. It was like you’d come out of a really bad hip-hop music video from the early 2000s, literally drowning in baggy clothes. 

“Hey Jungkook… Do you have something I could put my clothes in?” You stood in the hallway in front of Jungkook’s bedroom, wet clothes in your hands. The door was closed and you were afraid of opening it if he was still changing. 

“You look cute.” 

You instinctively squeezed your bundle of clothes, turning your head to the side at the sound of that Mother. Fucking. Annoying. Ass. Voice. 

Taehyung raised an eyebrow at you, probably utterly confused as to why you looked the way you did, standing there in his dorm. You were determined to give him absolutely nothing. 

“So, you and Jungkook, huh?” 

A small smirk twisted at the corners of his mouth. By the way he was standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, it was clear that he wasn’t planning on walking away. 

“We just got back from class,” you said matter-of-factly. 

You focused on a spot on the wall to the right of his head when you spoke; it made it easier to look at him without having to stare into his eyes. Even though you found absolutely nothing about your statement funny, Taehyung started laughing. It was a low chuckle that brought that stupid smirk out even more. 

“Were you coming back from class at 2 o’clock this morning, too?” 

His eyes glinted with something that made a shiver shoot down the length of your spine. 

Luckily, Jungkook’s abrupt presence swinging the bedroom door open gave you and Taehyung someone else to focus on, and you could safely escape the fact that you didn’t have a witty comeback to shove in Taehyung’s face for teasing you about Jungkook. There was nothing there with Jungkook.  

He just gave nice hugs. And you respected his creative mind. And he had great taste in music. And you felt a little bit bad for him because people didn’t seem to give him the chances he deserved. And, wow, he was standing in the doorway of his bedroom wearing form-fitting gray sweatpants that sat low on his hips and you could tell that they sat low because he was shirtless. And your eyes were skipping down the path that his happy trail was leading from his belly button down to the strings of his sweatpants that hung down just on top of where you could make out a slight bulge in the fabric. 

“Y/N?” 

You quickly tore your eyes from Jungkook’s crotch to look at his face, not missing the way Taehyung’s smirk was growing even wider. You opened your mouth, then looked down at your clothes, then back at Jungkook. 

“She wants something to put her clothes in,” Taehyung admitted once it was clear you weren’t going to cooperate. “I’m going over to Natalie’s. Oh, and I dipped into your Trojan stash. Yoongi hyung didn’t have any and you have too many.” 

He flashed Jungkook a grin and pushed himself from his leaning position on the wall. 

“Have fun,” he offered over his shoulder as he walked away, heading to go fuck his girlfriend’s brains out. 

You were going to throw up. 

“What a fucking asshole,” you breathed through gritted teeth. 

Rather than be surprised at your cursing, Jungkook gave you a sympathetic look as he took your wet clothes from you to put in a small duffle bag. 

“I’m sorry…” he said after a moment, gesturing for you to step into his bedroom. He closed the door behind you and hopped onto his bed. Just as he’d done in the studio, he patted the space next to him to get you to sit with him. 

“C’mere.” 

“Jungkook, I don’t wanna bother you anymore. You’ve had to deal with me a lot the past 24 hours.” 

“Do I look bothered?”

You gave the boy a tight shake of your head and clambered onto the bed beside him, careful to sit hunched over a bit so your chest wouldn’t be too obvious. For once, he no longer smelled like paint. Instead your senses were overwhelmed by the strong scent of his laundry detergent, something akin to the ocean breeze of the incense the roommates were burning in the living room. He leaned his back against the headboard, but he turned at an angle to look at you from the side. 

“He told me about you two…” 

You felt your body stiffen at his confession and Jungkook rushed to finish his thought. 

“Not the details or anything. But just that you were hooking up.” 

Great. This was perfect. Leave it to Taehyung to treat you like a secret yet blabber to his friends. You hadn’t even told any of your friends about Taehyung. To this day, Courtney and Amiriah had no idea. And could you even trust Jungkook when he said the details were spared? Didn’t boys love to talk about their sexual conquests? 

“I’m sorry he’s such a fuckboy.” 

“Oh, like you aren’t, too?” 

“What?!” 

Jungkook stared at you incredulously, shocked by your sudden aggression. But you couldn’t stop yourself. The anger you’d let fester in you from countless boys quite literally fucking you over was all spilling over the top. It was just unfortunate that Jungkook was there to bear the weight rather than Taehyung; but you didn’t think he was wholly innocent either. College boys were entitled and selfish. Even though Jungkook had never done anything to you, you’d seen how some girls followed after him like he was some kind of mystery meant to be solved. He never explicitly talked about his love life with you, but you only took that as a bad sign. 

“Oh don’t act brand new, Jungkook. You literally make everything about sex. Literally all your poems are about eating pussy. You made that fucking painting of a naked women. And what the fuck is that?” 

Your arm shot out to point at a painting hanging on his wall that looked vaguely like an abstract rendition of a vulva. It somehow felt like the icing on the fucked up cake. 

“It’s called artistic appreciation!”

“You’re just as gross as Taehyung and all the other guys who just use women for their bodies and don’t give a fuck about how we feel or-”  

“Stop it.” Jungkook’s voice hit you like ice. You dropped your arm down and whipped your head back around to look at him, lips falling open at the harshness of his tone. 

“Don’t compare me to Tae. You don’t know what I’m like. You barely know me at all.” 

“That’s not-” 

“I said stop, okay?” he interjected again and the glare he sent you was enough to shut you up for good. Being scolded wasn’t exactly high on your list of favorite activities, especially not from someone you considered to be a friend. Your cheeks felt like they were on fire and you struggled to swallow down your words, shame creeping up your face in waves.

“I’ve spent the last four months in that poetry class watching you write about feeling broken and alone and misunderstood. And you know what I do? I invite you over to do homework ‘cause I know none of your other friends are studying English. And I asked you to go to Morgan Parker’s book reading with me ‘cause I knew you didn’t have anyone else to go with. And I invited you to my studio ‘cause you said you wish you were good at art and I wanted you to see that you could be good if you tried.” 

At this point his cheeks had turned bright pink and his hands were bunched up into fists in his lap. As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t look away from the fire in his eyes. 

“I’m not trying to make you feel like you owe me anything or to get some kind of recognition, okay? But just don’t fucking compare me to Tae when all I’ve ever tried to do is make you feel less alone. I like you, a lot. And I don’t even care that you’re not into me and you’re still caught up on him. I genuinely just want you to be happy.” 

With his monologue over, Jungkook turned his head to stare down at his hands, leaving you to peer at his profile with your mouth hanging open. 

It was the most you’d heard Jungkook speak, ever. It was also the most expressive you’ve ever seen him. Despite his passion for art, Jungkook was a very level person; he was collected even in the most stressful situations. To see him visibly shaking as he raised his voice was upsetting. 

“Jungkook…” You reached out to touch his arm and your heart broke into a million pieces when he flinched. 

“It’s whatever.” 

But it wasn’t. 

You felt like shrinking into the smallest version of yourself and disappearing. You’d spent so much time aching over the wounds Taehyung had left that you hadn’t considered what you might be missing out on, or how you might have been hurting someone else. Your head was lost in the dark cloud hanging over you; your heart couldn’t see anything in front of you. Blinded by your own pain, healing long overdue. 

You were so fucking stupid. 

“JK…” you started again. Lifting your hand, you brought your fingers to his chin and encouraged him to turn his head to look at you. “I’m so sorry. I really am. I just… It hurts? I don’t know what to do with the hurt.” 

From Taehyung and every other reckless boy. 

You let go of his face and waited, holding your breath until your lungs burned. Much to your disappointment, Jungkook maintained that cold stare, his eyes boring into yours so deeply that you felt like he was seeing something inside of you that even you didn’t know. You were afraid to look at him, shame making it difficult to hold your head up.  

“Give it to me.” 

“What?” It was your turn to cast your eyebrows down in confusion. 

“Give me the hurt. You don’t have to hold onto it anymore. I can take it.” His large hand enveloped your own, thumb running figure 8s into your skin.

You tried to speak, but you couldn’t choke out even a whisper as his words repeated in your head. Give me the hurt. Your hands shivered beneath his and you looked away quickly, feeling that horrid prickling in the corner of your eyes. You were not going to lose it just because you were touch-starved and never once in your life had someone so soundly declared their desire to take on whatever pain it was that you were feeling. You liked to keep your pain a secret, only letting out emotions through your poetry. And even then, you wanted to separate yourself from it. Writing was like putting down your emotion, letting it exist outside of you, so you could live free from it. But that didn’t always happen the way you wanted it to. 

You blinked quickly, losing focus on Jungkook’s face until you felt something hot slip down your cheek and you realized you were crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, embarrassment flooding your chest as you tried not to hiccup. What kind of emotional disaster were you? As Courtney would say, it wasn’t very girlboss of you. 

“I can take it.” 

This time the embers had gone out in his eyes. Instead, his irises were pleading with you. You tried to cover your face with your hands, but Jungkook held them down. He brushed your cheeks dry with his thumb, cradling your chin in his palm. 

“You deserve better, okay?” 

It was difficult to believe, but the soft gaze Jungkook held made you want to think maybe he was right. But how could it be possible for someone to want to carry your burden for you? He had no reason to. 

“I’m good now,” you said after a moment, the tears dried and your breathing returning to normal. You wanted to give him an out, let him have the opportunity to feel like he’d done his part in case he didn’t really mean what he said. You refused to let yourself fall for anymore bullshit. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“You don’t have to lie to me…” 

There was that familiar line. You felt your eyes instinctually roll and you couldn’t stop the next snarky comment from slipping past your lips, using biting humor as a defense mechanism to cope. 

“Okay, Immanuel Kant.” 

Jungkook snorted, matching your eye roll, but he gave you a smile that reached his eyes. A classic Jungkook grin that had you giving a small smile in return and making your stomach flip like a fucking gymnast. It made you slowly float back down to reality and you remembered you were sitting in a shirtless Jungkook’s bed, his body leaned forward out of concern for you, his face mere inches from yours. Hand still cradling your chin. 

“Jungkook…” 

Your voice got caught in your throat with what little breathing you could manage. Then you watched his eyes drop to your lips as you whispered his name, and the melancholic look he gave you when his gaze returned to yours made you squeeze your eyes shut with guilt. He’d confessed his interest in you and you’d completely glossed over it. Not on purpose, but somehow you were making your feelings the priority once again. And now he looked at you like you were already gone. 

“Yeah, Y/N?” You opened your eyes at his call. 

“I…” 

You wanted to tell him how you felt, you really did. But life had taught you that in relationships there was always someone who cared more, and that person always got hurt the most. You just couldn’t keep being that person. 

Jungkook studied your face for what felt like an eternity. If he was expecting you to finish your sentence, he was certainly being patient. But it was the way his mouth turned downward into a small frown and his eyes traveled off somewhere behind you that told you he’d lost hope. 

Until he was staring at you once again and his grip on your chin tightened so subtly you almost didn’t notice. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

His voice came out low and thick. The tone sent a shiver down your spine and made goosebumps rise along your forearms. You’d never heard his voice drop so deep before, nor had you seen his eyes darken the way they had now. A spark of desire fluttered in your stomach and you felt nearly lightheaded from the way your body was hitting a peak level of anxiety over his question. If you said yes, were you just giving into yet another boy who would ruin you? And you believed Jungkook could ruin you. He was an artist; they were always trouble. 

But there was no denying the fact that your nervousness was merely a physical response to your interest in Jungkook that had grown exponentially over time. You were weak, and he was right. You did feel broken and alone and misunderstood. And you knew that sometimes Jungkook felt that way, too.

Just when Jungkook began to pull away with a look of rejection written across his face, you nodded. Unable to speak, you watched Jungkook’s tongue swipe across his bottom lip as he leaned in even closer. 

You were prepared for something much more lewd than what Jungkook gave you. Though your lips were parted, he didn’t invade your space. Instead of tongue and lip biting, you were met with a chaste kiss. His lips were soft and gentle, and the way his hand cupped your face made you feel secure, just as you’d felt when he hugged you. You’d never felt a sense of security with someone from a simple kiss. 

And then he was ending the kiss just as quickly as he’d started it, finally dropping his hand from your face. 

“Sorry,” he sighed, no longer meeting your eyes when he spoke. “I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want you to feel like you had to agree to that…” 

It was your turn to shut him up. Maybe it was the remaining hormones swirling in your brain from having cried so much, or the adrenaline from being kissed by a man you’d tried to shoo out of your mind, but you felt bold enough to take his chin in your hand as he had done to you. You pressed your lips against his, this time forcing his mouth into a faster, deeper rhythm. The kiss was heavy and more desperate than the first. It was what you’d initially expected Jungkook to give you; a makeout that went hard and fast from the beginning, 0 to 100. That was what fuckboys did, wasn’t it? Anything to get their dick wet the quickest. 

It was what you were used to.

Your small hands found the tops of his shoulders, fingers running along his smooth, warm skin before you pushed him against the headboard. Swinging your leg over his, your knees sank into the soft bed as you straddled him. You adjusted slightly in his lap and the shift made your core press directly on top of the bulge in his pants that you’d admired earlier. This realization made the sudden heat between your legs melt like lava, and you ground your hips into his in a smooth but firm motion. 

The movement elicited a deep groan from the back of Jungkook’s throat, another sweet sound you’d never had the pleasure of hearing fall from his lips. With his lips parted from groaning, you took the opportunity to slip your tongue inside of his mouth. His hands pushed up the hem of your shirt just enough to allow him to reach the skin of your waist, gripping you hard as your body moved against his. 

“Y/N, wait.” 

Jungkook pulled back to lean his head against the bed’s headboard and you were met not with lust-filled eyes as you expected, but eyes that looked so deeply pained you almost wanted to avert your gaze. 

“I don’t wanna be a rebound. I want this to mean something, or else I can’t do this.” 

Jungkook’s voice came out hoarse, and it trembled. His eyes still held that undeniable sadness that reminded you that, once again, you had failed to see how your own fear of rejection had made you ignorant to the feelings you were instilling in him. Here he was, willing to give himself over to you, holding back because he was afraid that you would hurt him.

Once again, shame flooded your face as you frantically searched for a way to show that you needed this to mean something, that in just a few months he had become the most constant person in your life, the person you were most comfortable with even when all you often did was just sit and talk about life. 

There was an obvious way to fix this, but you still had that gnawing feeling holding you back. 

“I like you, too, Jungkook.” Squeezing your eyes shut, you spoke just barely above a whisper. If you didn’t look at him, the vulnerability of the moment would be easier to manage. “You’re kind and smart even though you’re always toeing the line of academic probation.” 

Your words came out rushed, the last comment making you let out a laugh that sounded more like a short burst of air, and you held onto his shoulders for dear life. 

“And you’re the most creative and imaginative person I’ve ever met, but you’re so lowkey about everything. You deserve more than you give yourself credit for,” you continued, eyes still closed. “And… I guess you’re kinda hot…” 

With that you slowly opened one eye to peek at Jungkook’s face. It was embarrassing to say that the grin he wore made your heart soar and it was only then that you noticed the way his fingertips were running along your sides, tracing invisible designs onto your skin. 

“Only kinda hot?” 

“Oh shut up.” 

You gave him a playful slap against his chest. You let your hand linger there, palm pressed against him to feel the strength of his pec muscle. With your bottom lip pulled between your teeth, you ran your hand down the length of Jungkook’s chest and along his abdomen until you reached between your bodies to access the hem of his sweatpants. 

Without warning you gripped his cock, palming it over his pants. You felt it twitch beneath your fingers, already semi-hard and warm even through the fabric. Jungkook let out a low groan, hips slightly bucking into you. Suddenly aware of how painfully clothed you are, Jungkook slid his hands back up your sides, pushing his t-shirt off of you in the process. Ruining the orderly look of his bedroom, he tossed the t-shirt and brought his attention back to you. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he hissed, realizing that you weren’t wearing a bra. 

You shuddered at the gentle way he ran his fingers up your sides once more and you leaned forward when his tattooed fingers lightly pinched one of your nipples until it went hard. Then he moved onto the other one, tweaking it slowly. 

After a moment you let go of him and reached for the hem of his sweatpants, waiting for him to lift his body so you could pull them down his legs. 

He’s big, bigger than you’d expected. You’d imagined he would have a nice dick, purely because it seemed like the most mysterious, standoffish guys always did. They didn’t have to compensate by being boisterous and arrogant; they knew what they were packing and that was enough. But Jungkook was quite possibly too much. You were a small person, for fuck’s sake. 

“We don’t have to do this. If you’re not ready, we can stop.” 

There was Jungkook reading your mind, yet again. How was it possible for him to know exactly what to say every single time? Were you just that expressive? If so, no one else in your life read you so well. 

“Stop talking,” you repeated his earlier command, but you didn’t look him in the eyes. Instead you were focused on how heavy and soft his cock felt in your hand as you admired him. You ran your fingers along the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, then you glided your thumb along the tip to smear the bit of precum that was already leaking. The action made Jungkook whimper and the sound sent a jolt straight into your core. 

But just before you could lower your head down to give him what you knew he wanted, Jungkook’s hand was cupping your chin once again. He pulled your face upwards to guide you back to his. 

“I’m fine, Jungkook. I want to do this,” you assured him, but he slowly shook his head. 

“You’re going in so fast, and you don’t have to. I’m not some asshole hookup. The point of all this isn’t just to get me off and make you put in all the work.” He leaned forward to kiss you on the tip of your nose and you’d never felt more wanted in your entire life. “You deserve to feel good for once.” 

Snaking his arm around your waist, Jungkook gently flipped you onto your back. Spreading your legs apart with his knees, he kneeled over you as he began laying hot kisses down the length of your neck, pausing only to suck at the soft skin where your neck and collarbone met. 

“Jungkook…” you sighed, squirming underneath him once his mouth began to travel further down. 

He flicked his tongue against one of your nipples, drawing a circle around the erect mound. He let out a deep hiss of approval when you moaned, arching your back to push yourself against his mouth. While his tongue was busy exploring your chest, Jungkook took his sweet time pulling his basketball shorts off of you, those too flying across the room. 

When he moved back into a comfortable position between your legs, his thigh brushed against your core and he let out a moan loud enough you were sure his roommates would hear him. 

“Fuck, Y/N, you could’ve warned me you weren’t wearing any underwear,” he groaned, his thigh now glistening with your arousal. 

“Sorry I didn’t think to tell you while I was crying.” 

“So dramatic.” 

You covered your face with your hands in embarrassment that bore even deeper into your soul when a pathetic whimper escaped your lips the moment you felt Jungkook’s hand slip in between your thighs. 

“You’re so fucking wet,” he sighed, effortlessly sliding his fingers along your folds. He ran his fingers up and down slowly as if he were memorizing each crevice and the way your legs jumped when he hit a certain spot, especially once he began stroking your clit. 

He was exploring, you realized. He was learning your body and there was nothing more embarrassing. All you could think about was the fear that Jungkook might not like what he saw. Or that he was comparing you to his past fucks. Or that Taehyung had told him things about your sex life. 

“Why are you hiding from me?”

You felt your hands being pried from your face and lifted over your head. Jungkook pinned your wrists above you, his face now inches from yours. You could see a restrained wildness in his eyes, but his eyebrows were knitted together in frustration. 

“Why?” he repeated. 

You shook your head, but another irritated call of your name made you question your decision to defy him.

“I just don’t want you to be disappointed…” you whispered, avoiding his gaze. 

“Does this seem like disappointment to you?” Jungkook rolled his hips into you, his now rock hard cock sliding against your dripping folds. 

“Ahh, n-no,” you gasped, wiggling under his hold. 

“Okay, so don’t hide from me. Let me take care of you.” 

Letting go of your wrists, Jungkook got off of the bed. You watched him with confusion that slowly melted into a mixture of anxiety and sweet anticipation as he hooked his arms around your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed. Falling to his knees, Jungkook let your legs rest on his broad shoulders. You could feel his breath against your skin and it took everything in your power not to begin squirming again when you felt his tongue lick a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh. 

“I want you to watch me while I eat you out,” Jungkook murmured, his dark eyes locking with yours as he leaned forward to plant a kiss against your lower lips. “Okay?” 

You had no choice but to nod in compliance, propping yourself up on your forearms so you could get a better view even though everything in you was screaming to break your gaze. You could hardly believe it was Jungkook staring at you through his bangs from between your legs. Not to mention you were usually very shy when it came to being sexually pleasured - mostly because it rarely happened. Guys were always expecting you to do them favors, not the other way around. You couldn’t even remember the last time a guy had gone down on you. 

But there was no time to be shy when Jungkook abruptly plunged his tongue into your folds. You let out a loud yelp and immediately slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the remaining squeals threatening to slip from your parted lips. Jungkook chuckled at your response and the vibration made your cunt throb. 

Still, you kept your gaze locked with his as he lapped up your juices, no matter how dirty it made you feel to have those blown out pupils bore into yours. Your eyes only fluttered when his lips found your clit and began to suck on it while his tongue flicked a steady rhythm against it, the two sensations proving to be almost too much for you to handle. Your breathing became ragged as you felt your abdomen tense up. 

“Jungkook,” you whispered a moan, hands gripping the bed sheets so tightly your fingers started to hurt. 

“Hmm, baby? You’re gonna have to speak up.” The new nickname made you whimper. 

As if to encourage you to find your voice, Jungkook slid two fingers inside of you as he returned to pleasuring your clit. The sudden stretch immediately ripped a strangled moan out of you and your hips involuntarily bucked into Jungkook’s face. 

“I’m sorry,” you quickly apologized, but Jungkook only fucked into you harder, expertly curling his fingers at just the right spot to make your legs start to shake. 

“Don’t apologize. You can fuck my face all you want,” he lifted his head up to lick his lips, sending you a wink that made your heart stop. 

He could sense your orgasm coming soon by the way your walls were clenching around his fingers, but he was determined to make it as mind-shattering as possible. Fitting a third finger inside of you, he continued to suck on your clit, tongue swirling to the rhythm of his fingers. 

“Ohh, oh my god,” you sobbed, tears pooling in your eyes as you finally reached your climax. You let out a loud cry, fingers tangled in Jungkook’s hair as you struggled to still your shaking legs. 

Licking a final stripe up your lips, Jungkook lifted his head from your thighs and gave you a satisfied grin. He was truly a sight for sore eyes with his mouth soaked in your arousal and his hair a mess from your fingers running through it. You fell flat on your back, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. 

“You good?”

“I’m going to die.”

Your eyes were on the ceiling but you heard him laugh and you felt his strong arms lift your legs back onto the bed, adjusting you so you were comfortably in the center of the mattress again. 

“Damn, I didn’t realize I was gonna make you tap out so fast,” he teased, lying down beside you. He pressed a kiss against your throat. 

“Everyone says you have great head game and I should’ve taken them more seriously.” 

“Who says that?!” 

You turned onto your side to face him, already rolling your eyes. “Don’t you know the rumors that get spread about you?” 

Jungkook gave you a small shake of his head. “I don’t worry about people. I’m only worried about you.” 

The warm fuzzy feelings his words gave you were too much for you to bear, so you pushed them away by pulling him closer, crashing your lips into his. Jungkook wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush up against his chest. You could feel his cock still hard against your leg and it reminded you that this whole situation felt so foreign to you. Never had you been pleasured by a man who expected nothing in return.

“You are art, you know that? A fucking masterpiece,” Jungkook sighed against your lips, pulling away to nuzzle against your neck. 

“Jungkook.”

“Yes, baby?” There was that fucking nickname again making your pussy flutter back to life. 

Instead of answering him, you reached down to grab his cock. He groaned against your throat as you gave him a few slow pumps. He’d taken care of you just as he’d promised, and now you hoped he’d let you take care of him. Not because you felt obligated to, but because you genuinely wanted to. 

Wordlessly, Jungkook rolled you onto your back so that he was hovering over you, his forearms on either side of your head. 

“I want you so bad,” he growled against your ear, hips rolling into your open legs. 

“What are you waiting for?” you whispered. 

“Fuck…” 

You blinked and he was no longer on top of you. Instead he was rummaging through the drawer of his nightstand, eventually pulling out a shiny square packet. For someone normally so calm, Jungkook’s fingers were shaking with need as he rolled the condom on. 

“Is this okay?” He returned to his position between your legs as you laid on your back. Your heart stung at his thoughtfulness, shocked that he was asking you what position you wanted him in. You nodded, spreading your legs wider for him. Jungkook ran his fingers along the inside of your thighs, his head dipped down so his bangs fell forward, partially obstructing your view of his face. 

You gasped when you felt something wet hit your cunt. He’d spit on you. You could feel the extra lubrication slide down your folds and the lewd act made you shiver. Sure, maybe that was fairly tame for some people, but it had your head reeling.  

Holding the base of his cock, Jungkook rubbed the tip along your folds, further smearing his spit and your arousal together. 

“If you want to stop, just tell me,” he said hoarsely, and that was the warning you got before he was sinking his cock into your entrance. 

Despite how relaxed and turned on you felt, the stretch was considerable. You tensed for a moment and Jungkook froze, his eyes meeting yours. With a nod of approval from you, he pushed himself in further, finally bottoming out and holding the position as he waited for you to adjust. You felt so unbelievably full with him inside of you and the pressure of him against your walls was enough to make your legs shake once again. 

After giving you a bit of time, Jungkook began to move his hips, starting with slow but long strokes that got increasingly deeper. 

“Oh god,” he moaned, head hanging down so he could watch his cock disappear into your cunt over and over again. After a while he lifted one of your legs to rest it on his shoulder so he could adjust his angle to thrust into you that much deeper, and the next slam of his body into yours that had his cock make direct contact with your g-spot made you scream. 

“Shit, Y/N, Yoongi’s gonna kill us if you keep screaming like that,” Jungkook said with a grin that very much made it seem like he wouldn’t mind dying for such an offense. 

“You… just feel s-so g-good,” you cried out, your nails clawing at Jungkook’s arms as you searched for something to hold on to. 

He couldn’t possibly have been concerned considering he only thrusted into you even harder. The thing about Jungkook, though, was that he was going hard but he was going slow. He was savoring every time he slid into you, savoring the glisten of his cock as he pulled out. Turning his head to the side, he kissed the leg he’d draped over his shoulder, one hand running down the smooth skin while his other held on tightly to your hip to keep you in place. 

“Fuck, yes baby,” Jungkook groaned. He pressed his fingers against your mouth, gently prying your lips open to stick his thumb in your mouth. The action surprised you, but you obediently sucked on his thumb until he was pulling away again. Reaching between you, he pressed his now wet thumb against your clit and began rubbing circles as he fucked you. 

You whined at the sudden stimulation, your walls fluttering around his cock as your breathing turned into panting. “I’m gonna…” you let out another moan, your walls clenching around Jungkook’s cock. “I’m gonna come again.” 

“That’s right, come on my cock for me, baby. Let go for me.” 

How could Jungkook make dirty talk sound so alluring? So supportive? It was just like his writing, a gentle lullaby of filth. From the look he’d given you earlier, you knew there was a less tame side of him you’d yet to tap into. The memory of his poem flooded your mind, daring you to take things a step further… she likes to wear my hand as a choker…

Reaching out, you grabbed the hand that was holding onto your hip and brought it to rest on your neck. You saw that same wild look flash in Jungkook’s eyes once again, and you knew the action had affected him because his thrusting faltered for a moment. With your lips slightly parted, you tilted your head back slightly to expose more of your throat for him. Jungkook wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a sight more beautiful. 

“Shit, you keep acting up like this I’m gonna fall in love,” he grunted, biting down hard on his bottom lip as he opened up his palm to get a firm grip on your neck. As he resumed his rhythmic thrusting, he squeezed your throat. At first, the decrease in oxygen had you gasping in your body’s natural drive for self-preservation. Once your body and mind adjusted, though, you succumbed to the way your body tingled with excitement. When you moaned, your eyes fluttering and rolling back, Jungkook applied even more pressure. 

You’d never imagined you’d have another orgasm somewhere inside of you so soon after the first, but you were convulsing around Jungkook’s cock just as he asked you to, calling out his name in the sweetest song. 

It wasn’t long before his thrusts became sloppier and his grip on your throat became almost too tight. The string of profanity he growled in your ear as he came made you shiver. Was it really possible that you affected him so deeply? 

Jungkook hovered over you for a moment, attempting to catch his breath. 

“I think that’s the hardest I ever came in my life,” he said weakly, finally mustering up enough strength to pull himself out of you. He left the bed to throw away the soiled condom, you musing at his cute little butt as he sauntered away. 

“You’re welcome,” you said with a grin, though the hoarseness of your voice startled you. You pressed your hand against your throat and winced, not because your throat hurt, but because of the way Jungkook looked at you with deep concern. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asked softly, climbing into bed beside you. 

“Please,” you sighed, snuggling against Jungkook’s chest. “You did me too good.” 

“I’ll fucking do you again, too, if you don’t stop rubbing your thighs against me,” he murmured in your ear, causing you to chuckle lightly. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

A loud knock on the door made you jump, your arm instinctually covering your chest though you knew Jungkook had locked the door. 

“What the fuck,” he whispered, silently willing whoever it was to go away. 

The knocking continued, this time a bit more aggressively. 

“Open up, bro, the light’s on. I know you’re in there,” Taehyung complained from the other side of the door. “You’ve still got my pen.”  

Your eyes grew wide as you looked at Jungkook. 

With a groan, Jungkook got out of bed once again. Grabbing the basketball shorts you’d been wearing, he pulled them on and snagged Taehyung’s vape pen from where it sat atop his dresser. He didn’t bother to put a shirt on or fix his sex hair. 

“Wait,” you whispered. “What about me?” 

“I don’t give a fuck,” Jungkook spoke at a normal volume as if to demonstrate how serious he was about not caring if Taehyung saw you there. 

“Seriously, JK?” Taehyung clearly thought Jungkook’s comment had been directed towards him. 

You quickly grabbed Jungkook’s t-shirt and pulled it on seconds before Jungkook swung the bedroom door open. 

You watched Taehyung’s eyes slowly scan over Jungkook’s appearance. His mouth twisted as though he were about to speak, but then he locked eyes with you where you still sat in Jungkook’s bed, probably looking just as fucked out as Jungkook did. 

“Here.” Jungkook dropped the vape in Taehyung’s open palm. “Need anything else?” 

Taehyung’s eyes made their way back to Jungkook and whatever snarky comment he’d been prepared to make before was now gone. 

“Nah, that’s it, thanks.” 

-

After a week of being exclusive with Jungkook, you felt the need to loop your roomates into the whole situation. Courtney and Amiriah were your best friends, after all. The three of you had been your own Golden Trio since day one freshman year, ending up in the same peer mentor group. The first time you’d all hung out together you’d gone to an off-campus frat party. Barely an hour in and Courtney had been throwing her guts up right into the pool. Needless to say, the three of you had never gone back to that house. As horrifying as it was, you felt like it painted the perfect picture of your relationship. You were all in it for the long haul, no matter how messy. 

But now you had to tell them you were dating the weird guy. 

You kept looking at your phone, checking the time. The two should have been out of their sorority meeting by now, which meant they could arrive at your dorm at any moment. Waiting was nerve-racking. You gnawed on a hangnail, only pulling your gaze from your phone when you felt Jungkook’s strong arms wrap around your waist. He pulled you into his lap on the couch and leaned into you, lightly brushing his lips along your neck, making you shiver. 

“Why do you act like you’re having me meet your parents?” he asked with a small chuckle. 

“Courtney and Amiriah are important to me,” you started, trying to find the correct words to explain your friends. “They’re also really… judgmental, but because they care about me. And they don’t trust men.” Which was fair. You did your best to look out for them as well. 

Jungkook hummed in response but didn’t speak. That didn’t surprise you. A man of few words, you knew he liked to have time to decide how he felt or what he wanted to say about things. 

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you announced, standing up. Jungkook nodded and leaned back into the couch. Was it a good thing that he didn’t seem nervous? 

Of course the moment you entered the bathroom, Courtney and Amiriah came bustling through the front door. Their loud chatter quickly halted when their eyes fell upon Jungkook lounging on your couch, legs spread and tattooed arm draped across the back of the couch. 

“Hey,” he greeted them with a grin and a nod of his head. 

“Oh, um, hi?” Courtney’s greeting was more of a question. 

“Where’s Y/N?” What Amiriah wanted to ask was how he even got into your dorm, but she didn’t want to be rude. 

“I’m here!” You shuffled into the room, giving your friends a little wave. “Jungkook wanted to hang out here for a change.” 

The boy quirked his eyebrow at you and gave you an amused smile, noticing how you’d made it sound like it was his idea when it most certainly had been yours. Not that it bothered him. If anything, he wanted you to deflect onto him. He’d told you he could take anything you needed to give him, and he’d meant it. 

Jungkook got up from his seat and walked over to the three of you, hands in the front pockets of his jeans. The pose made his biceps and chest more prominent, and you couldn’t help but stare for a moment. God, he was too pretty. 

“I feel bad it’s the first time I’m finally meeting you,” he said in a warm voice. “Y/N never shuts up about how great you two are. Pretty sure I’ve heard the story of The Great Edible Debacle at the Dolph concert about fifty times.” 

You were shocked by how charming he was being. Really laying it on thick. 

“That is a horrible story to be telling people, Y/N! What the fuck,” Amiriah said with a laugh. “We’re only a little bit insane.” 

“And stupid,” Courtney chimed in. 

The four of you continued your bantering as you lounged around the living room, snacking on some food your roommates had brought as leftovers from their sorority meeting. Jungkook fit into the conversation rather neatly, talking a lot more than you’d expected, but still knowing when to sit back and let the girls dominate the conversation. He sat with his arm around your waist, keeping you close but not dipping into any PDA, knowing it would bother you if he did. 

The conversation came to a pause when Jungkook’s phone began to ring, all three pairs of eyes pointed in his direction. 

“Ah, fuck. Tae’s calling me,” he mumbled. “I’ll be right back.” As he stood up, he cupped your face for a moment, running his thumb across your cheek before he was bringing his phone to his ear. 

“Hyungie, what’s up?” Jungkook stepped out into the hallway, closing the front door behind him. 

“Girl, are y’all fucking?!” Amiriah leaned forward with a harsh whisper, excitement dancing in her bright eyes. 

“We’re dating, actually.” 

Courtney let out a squeal, bouncing on her knees where she sat on a pillow on the floor, wrapped in a fluffy blanket. “I knew it, I totally knew it.” 

“I’m gonna admit, weird or not, that man is foine now that I’m seeing him up close.” Amiriah loudly sucked her teeth and shook her head. “He’s got that snatched little waist. And those thighs? He could smash a watermelon.” 

“Okay, okay, but we gotta ask the REAL question here.” Courtney was now plopping down on the couch between you and Amiriah, blanket still in tow. “Did he eat it right?? In the words of Nicki Minaj, do he got good form??” 

You slapped Courtney on the arm in protest, but you were grinning as you spoke. “I almost started crying, it was so good.” 

“WHEW girl, stop it,” Amiriah grabbed your arm and shook it. “Are you willing to share? For charity?” 

Before you could scold your friend for trying to get her hands on your man, Jungkook returned. The shift in the room’s atmosphere was palpable, and the way Courtney and Amiriah watched Jungkook with new interest was almost too obvious. 

He gave you a confused smile as he squeezed onto the couch next to you. 

“So, Jungkook,” Amiriah began and you prayed to God she wouldn’t say anything stupid. “You said you heard stories about us, but we didn’t talk about all the fun things we’ve heard about you!” 

You shot your friend a glare but she was already on a roll with Courtney on her heels. 

“Yeah, we’ve heard all about your poetry,” Courtney added. 

You don’t think your roommates were prepared for the low chuckle that rumbled from Jungkook nor for the dark look in his eyes as he turned to you. He grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers, and you silently pleaded with him to behave. 

“Yeah, I was trying to give Y/N a preview of what she could be getting.” 

“Jungkook,” you gasped and your friends started talking all at once, but all you could focus on was the way your boyfriend was smirking at you, his tongue playing with his lip ring how he knew you liked. 

He leaned into you, his lips ghosting your ear and sending goosebumps up your arms as he whispered, 

“Just wait until you come over tonight.”

Living with Jungkook meant living with the constant smell of paint. Sure, you only just moved in together less than a week ago, but that was certainly long enough to know. And you were already finding little splatters on the floor and in the kitchen sink.

Living with Jungkook also meant that you were required to use the word magnets on the refrigerator to write him a poem every morning, just like he was going to write one for you. This was established as a house rule while the two of you discussed whether it would be a good idea to live together.

You thought the rules were going to be about who does the laundry, but you had to remember, this was Jungkook.

You tiptoed around the cardboard boxes full of all the stuff you two moved in with, but had yet to unpack. The hardwood floors glistened in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the flimsy blinds. Specks of dust glittered the air.

Jungkook was laying out a tarp in the entranceway of the apartment. An array of paint cans were placed around the tarp to hold it down.

“JK, what are you doing?” you inquired with your hands on your hips.

“Painting,” he said with a simple smile before turning back to his work. It was then that you noticed a large tray with fresh paint, and a variety of brushes sticking out of Jungkook’s pockets. 

“Here? This wall is the first thing people see when they walk in,” you pointed out. Leave it to Jungkook to start on a project before he’d even unpacked all his underwear. 

“That’s the point.” He didn’t look at you as he spoke, instead focused on mixing the color he wanted. 

You let out a small sigh. This man… 

“What are you going to do? Please, I beg of you, please do not paint genitalia of any kind.” It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy your boyfriend’s artwork. You were obsessed with his creativity, actually. It was part of what made you fall for him. But there was no denying that he was… unconventional in his taste. 

Jungkook let out a chuckle, his nose scrunched up and his cute front teeth exposed. It was the laugh that meant he thought you were being ridiculous. 

“It’s gonna be something even better.” 

That was not reassuring at all. 

“Jungkook, my parents are coming to visit in a week!” 

Setting his brush down in silence, Jungkook extended his arm to hook a tattooed finger through the belt loop of your shorts. You begrudgingly let him pull you forward until you were pressed against his chest. Your arms circled his tiny waist and you forgot you were supposed to be annoyed with him when he started caressing your head, careful not to mess up your hair. 

“I’m gonna paint a mural of my muse,” he said in the wispy tone his voice took on when he was thinking through his plans. “That’s you, in case you didn’t know.” 

You lifted your head to look up at him, your chin resting on his chest. “No.” 

“What?!” 

“You are not putting up some kind of shrine for me in the middle of the apartment.” 

“Why can’t I let everyone know that I worship you?” Jungkook whined, letting go of you. You weren’t prepared to be set free, though, and you stumbled backwards. With wide eyes, Jungkook grabbed a handful of your shirt to stop you from falling, but it was too late. Your foot stepped directly into one of his open paint cans. 

“JUNGKOOK!” you shrieked, lifting up your foot to see gloopy red paint drip from your toes.

Jungkook’s cheeks grew puffy as he tried to hold in his laughter while he searched for his towels. It was a failed attempt, though, and you were glowering even harder as you watched the laugh come bursting from inside him. 

“I’m-,” Jungkook wheezed, holding out a paint-stained towel for you. He was laughing so hard his hand shook. “I’m s-sorry, baby, I-” 

He abruptly shut up when he felt your hand swipe his cheek and a thick liquid rolled down his neck. 

“That’s what you get for laughing at me!” you said with a wicked grin, admiring how you’d smeared paint all over the side of his face. 

Your grin slowly fell as you watched Jungkook lean down to drag his fingers through his tray of baby blue paint. 

“Don’t you dare,” you warned, pointing your finger at him. 

“What? I’m not doing anything.” Jungkook gave you the sweetest smile and reached for your legs. You felt his wet hands slide down your bare thighs and you shrieked again as he threw you over his shoulder. 

“Put me down! Kookie, you’re going to get paint all over the floor.” You gently beat his back with your fists, but your laughter made your actions less convincing. 

“Me? You’re the one ruining my painting area.” He tried brushing his bangs out of his eyes, but ended up smearing paint across his forehead and into his hair. “Now I have to clean my baby up.” 

You could hear the pout in his voice as he carried you down the hallway to the bathroom, dripping red and blue paint. The two of you were certainly going to leave your mark on this place.

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap

[cup1drul3z]

★ — All That's Left Between Us

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3 : ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴᴛ ɢᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪꜱꜱ ᴍᴇ

ꜰᴀʀᴍʜᴀɴᴅ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | 6.5ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Southern sevika, childhood bestfriends, Ex's to lovers, homophobia mentioned, internal hatred, cowboy sevika, farm owners daughter reader, size difference, breeding kink

A/N : hes gone

Summary : Late at night on the farm, tension lingers between you and Sevika after an almost-kiss neither of you can stop thinking about. A wounded animal and a quiet storm bring the two of you closer, forcing old feelings to surface in the silence and space you share. But by morning, heartbreak hits from a different direction—leaving Sevika watching you fall apart, wishing she could be the one to catch you.

The house is dark and still, the kind of silence that only settles after everyone’s gone to bed and the world has stopped pretending it’s okay.

You’ve been tossing and turning for hours, tangled in sheets and thoughts that won’t settle. Every time you close your eyes, you see that guy’s face. The way Sevika hit him. The sound of her breathing after. The way her eyes locked on yours like it meant something.

And then—creak.

The front door opens.

You freeze.

But only for a second.

Because of course it’s her.

You sigh, roll out of bed, and pad quietly to the bathroom. You grab the Neosporin and a clean rag from under the sink, your hands already moving before your thoughts can catch up. You don’t even need to think about it. You just go.

When you step onto the porch, the air is thick and cool, the stars peeking through clouds that still linger from the storm the other day.

Sevika’s sitting on the porch steps, elbow on her knee, cigarette glowing between her fingers. She glances at you, just once, but doesn’t speak.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” you say softly, settling into the chair beside her.

“I started after you left,” she says, voice deep and quiet. She exhales, the smoke curling into the night.

Your heart pulls at that.

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, setting the supplies down beside you.

“Give me your hand.”

She doesn’t move at first.

But then she grunts and shifts, holding it out—rough, bruised, still smeared faintly with dried blood.

It’s massive compared to yours.

You wet the rag and dab the Neosporin on gently. Her skin twitches under your touch. She winces once, and you raise an eyebrow.

“Baby,” you tease quietly, trying to soften the moment.

She huffs.

You keep working in silence.

Then you speak, without looking up.

“You shouldn’t have done that. I had it under control.”

Sevika bites the inside of her cheek. “No guy should touch a girl like that. Especially you.”

Your hand pauses.

You look up.

She’s already looking at you.

And just like that, the world narrows.

There’s only the porch. The soft creak of wood. The heat between your knees. The way her eyes are darker in the moonlight. And the unspoken thing you’ve been carrying since you got back.

You lean in.

So does she.

Closer.

Closer.

Your lips are just about to touch—when you stop.

“I—I shouldn’t…” you whisper, breath shaking.

You both freeze. Inches apart.

Then you pull back.

She turns her head, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

“It’s just—Jared, you know?” you sputter, trying to fill the silence.

“Right,” Sevika says quickly, nodding. “Jared.”

You both look anywhere but at each other.

The air between you is still thick, charged, but neither of you moves to cross it again.

You stand awkwardly, wiping your hands on your thighs.

“Um—I'm exhausted. I’m gonna go to bed.” You nod to her hand. “Please bandage those.”

She nods, eyes still on her knuckles. “Yeah.”

You don’t look back as you walk inside.

And neither of you says what you're really thinking.

But both of you are flushed red, hearts beating way too loud for how quiet the night is.

The morning is already warm, sun high and golden as you duck into the chicken pen, basket in hand.

The hens cluck and scatter lazily, the smell of straw and feed thick in the air. You move slowly between them, scooping warm eggs into the basket, brushing feathers off your boots. The heat makes the lace of your camisole cling to your skin under your dark denim overall shorts, and the little red heart on your mother’s necklace rests just above your collarbone, catching the light each time you lean forward.

A soft breeze lifts the ribbon in your hair.

You hum under your breath, not thinking—just doing.

At least until you hear boots behind you.

Heavy.

Familiar.

You don’t look.

Not yet.

But your back straightens as the gate creaks and shuts again behind whoever just entered.

“Didn’t peg you for the farmhand type,” Sevika says, voice rough from sleep or smoke—you can’t tell.

You glance over your shoulder.

She’s in a faded black tank and old jeans slung low on her hips, hair pulled into a loose bun. There’s a cigarette tucked behind one ear. Her eyes—those sharp, dark eyes—flick over your outfit before she can stop herself.

“I grew up here, didn’t I?” you say, forcing a smile as you gently slide another egg into the basket.

“You left here,” she says, but there’s no bite in it.

Just that same rough edge she’s always had when she doesn’t know what to say.

You shrug. “Doesn’t mean I forgot how to get eggs.”

She leans against the side of the coop, arms crossed. “That necklace new?”

You glance down at the little red heart. Your fingers brush over it.

“It was my mom’s,” you say. “She gave it to me before—before everything.”

Sevika nods once. The silence stretches again.

Neither of you says what you really want to say.

About the porch.

About the almost.

She shifts, rubbing the back of her neck. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

“You?”

“Sure.”

Another beat.

You both know it’s bullshit.

You both remember how close you got. How your breath hitched. How you almost kissed her like no time had passed at all.

Her eyes flick to your lips for half a second.

Yours do the same.

And for a moment—it’s there again.

That unbearable, electric pull.

The air thickens. The hens seem to scatter. The sun presses hotter against your back.

She takes a slow step forward.

So do you.

And then you catch yourself—both of you do—like you remembered at the same exact time how bad of an idea it is.

You inhale sharply and take a step back, tucking the basket into your hip. “I should get these in before Betty starts wondering if I ran off with the rooster.”

Sevika clears her throat. “Yeah. Sure. Don’t drop any.”

You nod once, heart pounding.

She doesn’t move.

You don’t look back.

Not even when your boot scuffs on the edge of the step and you stumble a little.

Because if you do—you know.

You know you won’t leave that chicken coop without doing something you’ll regret.

You’re almost to the back steps of the farmhouse when something low and fast darts in front of your boots.

You stumble, clutching the egg basket to your chest, and let out a breathless laugh.

“Hey there,” you murmur.

One of the cattle dogs—scruffy, sun-drenched, and way too happy to see you—sits squarely in your path, tail thumping wildly against the dirt. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth as he drops something at your feet.

A sun-bleached chew toy. Half a rope. Probably older than you.

You blink.

“Oh my god, you still have this?”

You crouch down slowly, setting the basket of eggs safely in the grass beside you, and reach for the toy. The dog’s whole body wiggles with excitement.

“Alright, alright, one throw.”

You toss it across the yard.

He takes off like a shot, kicking up dry grass and dirt behind him. He comes back seconds later, triumphant, and drops it at your feet again with a happy bark.

You laugh.

“Okay, maybe two.”

You throw it again. Then again.

The third time, he drops it and looks at you with such bright, eager eyes it makes your chest ache a little. You don’t remember the last time you smiled like this—just for yourself.

But then—

He stops.

Ears perked.

His whole body stiffens as his head jerks toward the west pasture.

You pause, following his gaze.

You don’t hear anything.

Just birds. Wind. The faint creak of the barn door swinging.

But the dog lets out a sharp bark and bolts, tearing across the yard toward the lamb pen. You hear more barking as he reaches the fence, kicking up dust as he circles, nose to the ground, then up again, hackles raised.

“Hey!” you call, standing up quickly and grabbing the basket. “What is it?”

The dog’s still barking—loud, sharp, alert. His paws scrape the fence, body pressed close to the slats as he growls low in his throat, tail stiff behind him.

The sheep inside the pen shift nervously, bleating and clumping together at the opposite end.

You feel your heartbeat pick up.

The sun’s still shining. The sky’s still clear.

But something feels off.

Like maybe the dog heard something you weren’t supposed to.

You hesitate for only a second.

Then you're moving, basket in hand, boots crunching over the gravel path as you head toward the lamb pen. The eggs rattle gently against each other with every step, and you tighten your grip, holding them close against your side.

The dog’s barking gets sharper the closer you get.

The sheep are restless, crowded in one corner of the pen, some pacing, some bleating nervously. Their hooves kick up little clouds of dust as they shift in place, ears twitching.

The dog paces along the fence, body tense, barking toward the far tree line—nothing but golden grass and sun-bleached brush beyond it. You squint, shielding your eyes with your free hand.

Nothing.

But the hairs on your arms rise anyway.

“Hey,” you call softly to the dog, your voice low. “What is it, huh? You see somethin’?”

He stops barking, panting now, eyes still locked on the tree line. A low growl rumbles in his throat.

You glance at the brush again.

Still nothing.

But something in your gut twists.

Maybe it’s just a coyote. Or a fox. Something small. Something normal.

But the silence out here isn’t the usual kind. It’s still in a way that feels wrong.

You take a slow step toward the fence, clutching the basket tighter.

Your voice is a whisper now. “Okay. Let’s not get crazy.”

You scan the treeline one last time, then turn your eyes back to the dog.

His ears are still up. His body still rigid.

And suddenly, you wish you hadn’t come alone.

The closer you get to the pen, the more you notice it—one of the lambs isn’t moving like the others.

The little body is curled near the fence, shivering slightly. Its side is smeared with something dark. You blink hard, heart kicking up a beat as you carefully set the egg basket down near the fence and step closer.

The dog whines low, circling protectively but not getting too close.

“Shit,” you whisper, crouching down.

The lamb bleats weakly. Its back leg is slick with blood, matted and muddy, fur torn near the joint. The wound isn’t massive, but it’s raw and fresh—like something got in through the fence line and tried to drag it out before being scared off.

You stand quickly, eyes wide. “Sevika!”

Your voice cracks across the field.

She’s there in seconds.

Jogging up from behind the barn, boots thudding heavy, hat forgotten, tank damp with sweat from whatever chore she was mid-way through. She slows when she sees your face—then her eyes drop to the lamb.

“Shit,” she mutters, crouching down beside it.

You step back, heart still hammering.

“Go get Harold,” she says, already inspecting the wound with practiced hands. “Now.”

You nod. “Okay.”

You grab the basket, cradling it awkwardly in your arm as you half-jog back toward the house, trying not to spill a single egg as the sun pounds against your shoulders and your boots slam against the dry grass.

You push open the back door, rush into the kitchen, and set the basket on the island—eggs rattling in their straw bed as you call out—

“Dad!”

Nothing.

You move fast through the kitchen and out the front, catching sight of him and Betty near the drive, crouched beside a patch of disturbed earth. He’s squinting at something.

Small. Light. A trail.

“Dad!”

They both look up.

“There’s a lamb down by the pen,” you say, breathless. “It’s hurt. Sevika’s with it. She said to get you.”

Your dad’s already on his feet, nodding. “Ill go see whats going on,” he tells her, then takes off in the direction you came from without another word.

You turn to follow him—your legs moving before you can think better of it.

But not before you hear Betty mutter behind you, frowning at the dirt, “Reckon that might’ve been a fox…”

By the time you make it back to the pen, your chest is tight and your legs ache, but you slow your pace when you see them already there—both of them.

Your dad’s crouched beside the fence, talking low and steady, unwrapping something from his canvas first-aid pouch. Sevika’s right next to him, one knee in the dirt, her massive frame hunched over the small, trembling lamb.

You stop just a few feet away, fiddling your thumbs

And you watch.

Sevika’s movements are slow, precise, like she’s trying not to scare it further. One hand rests firm against the lamb’s side while the other dabs gently at the blood-soaked fur near its leg, guiding your dad’s hand when needed.

She murmurs something under her breath you can’t quite hear, her fingers trailing lightly between the lamb’s ears, and the sound that leaves its throat is soft, almost comforted.

You’ve never seen her like this.

Not in high school. Not last night. Not ever.

There’s no wall in her shoulders. No cocky smirk on her face. Just focus. Care. A kind of gentleness that doesn’t seem like it should fit a woman built like her—but does, somehow, perfectly.

“She’s stabilizing,” Harold mutters, voice low and relieved. “Gonna need stitches, but we’ll get her through it.”

Sevika nods, still petting the lamb. Her hands are stained with blood now, knuckles scraped from yesterday, sleeves pushed up, and sweat sticking loose strands of hair to her temples—but she looks calm.

Still.

She hasn’t noticed you yet.

Or maybe she has and just hasn’t looked.

You stand there a few seconds longer, not wanting to break whatever fragile peace exists in this moment.

Then your dad glances over his shoulder and spots you. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything good?”

You nod slowly, voice caught somewhere behind your ribs. “Yeah. im fine- is he-”

Harold smiles faintly, distracted. “Hes gonna be okay”

You hesitate, eyes drifting back to Sevika—who finally looks up.

Your eyes meet.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk.

But something softens in her face.

And it’s enough to make your heart ache.

You give a small nod and step away.

The moment might be over.

But it’s not gone.

And you’re not sure you want it to be.

The sun’s lower now. Late afternoon light filters gold through the barn slats, catching dust in the air like glitter. It’s quieter than usual—most of the animals fed, chores done, your dad taking a well-earned break in the shade out back.

You find Sevika alone.

She’s in the tack room, oiling one of the saddles, a faded rag in one hand and a jar of something that smells like leather and lemon in the other. She doesn’t look up when you step inside, but her body stiffens just enough to let you know she hears you.

You hover by the door for a second, unsure. Then:

“Hey.”

Sevika grunts in acknowledgment. “Hey.”

You glance around. The place is exactly how you remember—organized in her weirdly meticulous way. Bridles hung by size. Saddle blankets folded into perfect squares. Her jacket from this morning slung over a hook, still damp with sweat.

You cross your arms loosely. “Dad says the lamb’s gonna be okay.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, still wiping slow circles across the saddle leather. “I know.”

You nod. “I saw you. With her.”

At that, she does look up. Just a little. Just enough to glance at you through her lashes.

“You were good,” you say, voice soft. “Real good.”

She shrugs. “It’s just a lamb.”

“It’s not,” you say, almost before you mean to. “You don’t get it. You—”

You stop. Bite your lip. Shift your weight.

Sevika sets the saddle down gently and wipes her hands on the rag before tossing it aside. “Why are you here?”

The question hits you square.

Not why are you in this room. Not why are you talking to me. But why are you here.

Back on this farm.

Back in her orbit.

You swallow. “I don’t know.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, you do.”

You look down at the dirt-covered floor, at your boots, at your hands. “I just… I wanted to see home again. The real kind. Not palm trees and concrete. I thought maybe—”

“You thought what?” she cuts in, voice low but sharp. “That we’d play nice and forget the part where you left?”

Your chest tightens.

“I didn’t forget,” you whisper.

Sevika stands, towering over you now. Her brows knit together. “Then why does it feel like you did?”

The air between you crackles—thick with things you haven’t said and things she hasn’t let herself feel.

You don’t say anything.

She stares for a second longer before shaking her head like she’s mad at herself. She moves to step past you.

You catch her wrist.

It’s a stupid impulse. But it’s the first time you’ve touched her since—

She stops cold.

Your fingers wrap gently around her forearm, just above a dried scrape on her knuckles. You glance up.

“I didn’t forget,” you repeat. “I couldn’t.”

Sevika’s jaw clenches.

But she doesn’t pull away.

And she doesn’t say a word.

Sevika doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull away.

And for a moment, there’s just silence—the kind that hums warm in your chest instead of cold.

Your hand stays on her arm, thumb brushing instinctively over the worn muscle there. Her skin is warm, a little tacky from the long day, but real. Steady.

You look up at her.

And she’s already looking at you.

Her expression isn’t angry anymore. Not exactly. It’s something else now. Something fragile.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” she mutters, almost too quietly to hear.

“Like what?”

“Like I didn’t break your heart.”

You swallow thickly. “Maybe you did. Maybe I broke yours too.”

Her jaw twitches.

But her hand shifts, just slightly—until her fingers ghost over your wrist, her touch featherlight, like she’s scared you’ll vanish if she presses too hard.

“You still wear that necklace,” she says, voice low and strange.

You blink. Then your fingers rise, brushing over the little red heart resting just below your collarbone.

“My mom’s,” you say softly.

“I know.” Her voice catches. “You wore it the first time you kissed me.”

You laugh—small and breathless. “You had straw in your hair.”

“You told me I smelled like a barn.”

“You did smell like a barn.”

A pause. Your smiles fade, not from discomfort, but because it’s sinking in—how long it’s been. How much was left behind.

Sevika takes a slow breath. “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

You nod. “Me either.”

And even though you’re not touching anymore, it feels like you are.

Like her heartbeat is echoing against yours.

Like if either of you moved a single inch closer, it would all come rushing back.

But instead of kissing you, instead of saying something cruel or clever, Sevika does the most unexpected thing of all—

She reaches up, tucks a strand of hair gently behind your ear, and says, “You should come by the barn later. I’ll show you how to wrap a wound.” eyes flicking down to a cut on your thigh you didnt even know you got 

Your breath catches.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I will.”

Then she steps back. Walks out. Leaving you in the tack room with your heart pounding and your mother’s necklace warm against your skin.

The sun’s dipped low by the time you make your way back out to the barn.

The heat’s softened into something easier, the sky painted with that dusky gold that always makes you ache a little. You pause outside the wide open doors, heart thudding harder than it should, and you’re not even sure why.

It’s just Sevika. Just the barn. Just a lesson.

But your hand still trembles a little as you push the door open and step inside.

She’s already there.

Leaning against one of the support beams, sleeves rolled up, an old first aid kit opened on a workbench nearby. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes flick to you the second you walk in.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” she says.

You shrug. “I said I would.”

She nods. Pushes off the beam and gestures toward the table.

“Come here,” she says. “Gonna show you with gauze and wrap first, then I’ll let you try.”

You step up beside her, keeping your distance. Kind of. Not really. It’s already closer than it should be. The bench is narrow, the air too thick.

She pulls out a roll of gauze and a bottle of antiseptic, setting them down with steady hands. “This is what we use for cuts and scrapes—not deep wounds, just surface stuff.”

Her voice is calm. Controlled.

But you feel the heat of her arm next to yours. The brush of her sleeve against your skin when she leans forward.

Your breath catches.

“So first you clean it—like this.” She demonstrates on a rolled-up towel. “Then you pat it dry.”

You nod, lips parted just slightly. Trying to focus.

But all you can think about is how good her hands look. How she smells faintly of hay and sweat and the lemon-saddle-oil from earlier. How this all feels a little too much like being taught how to kiss again—slow, step by step, her voice low and patient.

“Your turn,” she says.

You take the cloth from her, fingers brushing.

Her eyes don’t leave yours.

You try not to shake as you repeat her movements, clumsier than you mean to be.

“Gentler,” she murmurs.

You adjust. She watches.

“That’s better.”

Your throat’s dry. “You’re a good teacher.”

She smirks. “I’ve had practice.”

You don’t ask who with.

But your chest still aches.

You finish the wrap and step back. “Like that?”

She nods. “Close enough.”

The air stretches between you—taut. Shimmering. Fragile.

“I think I get it,” you whisper.

She looks at you for a second too long. Her jaw flexes, her brows twitch like she’s fighting a thought. Then she clears her throat and steps back.

“You should head in,” she says, voice a little rough. “Storm might roll in again.”

You nod. But neither of you move.

Until finally—she turns.

Leaves you there in the barn with your hands still warm from her touch.

And that night?

You lie in bed with the window cracked open, the soft creak of the barn door drifting in from across the field.

Sevika’s in the guest room just down the hall.

And your hand slides under the waistband of your shorts like it always used to when you were seventeen and full of longing.

But it’s different now.

Because this time, she’s here.

And when you come, your hand muffling the sound against your own mouth, you whisper her name into the dark like it’s a sin.

And Sevika?

She’s wide awake in the next room, eyes open in the dark, fists clenched, trying not to imagine what that sound was.

Trying harder not to imagine what it would feel like to make you say her name out loud.

She can’t sleep.

Hasn’t even tried.

Just lying there on her back, one arm slung over her forehead, the ceiling fan above turning slow and useless in the humid air.

The sheets are kicked halfway off her legs. Her tank top is sticking to her chest. Her jaw’s locked so tight it aches.

And then—

That sound.

It’s faint. Barely audible above the crickets and creaking wood of the old house. But it cuts through her like a hot knife.

A breathy gasp. A soft whimper. Then silence.

Sevika’s eyes fly open.

At first, she tells herself it’s the wind. A dream. A memory crawling back into her ears.

But then it happens again.

A muffled moan—low and desperate—like someone trying not to be heard.

Her whole body tenses.

She knows that sound.

She knows your sound.

She’s memorized it. Every pitch and variation. Every little broken sob you used to make when her hand was between your thighs and you were trembling under her palm.

It’s different now. Softer. More restrained.

Lonelier.

She grits her teeth.

The walls are thin in this house. You’re just across the hall. Maybe twenty feet away.

She turns on her side, facing the wall. Covers her ears with the pillow like that’ll fix anything. Like that’ll erase the image forming in her mind.

You. Your legs spread. Your head tipped back. Your voice breaking as you whisper a name.

Her name.

Because she heard it.

Just barely.

But it was there.

That breathless, aching "Sevika…"

Her eyes squeeze shut.

And still—she doesn’t move.

She doesn’t get up. Doesn’t storm across the hall. Doesn’t press you into the mattress and ask why the fuck you’re pretending to be happy with someone else when your body is still singing for her.

She just lies there.

Fuming.

Burning.

Breathing too hard.

Jaw clenched so tight it might crack.

And in the silence that follows—when you’ve gone quiet again and the house settles back into its creaking stillness—she finally mutters one thing under her breath:

“…fuckin’ Jared.”

Then she flips over onto her stomach, face buried in the pillow, and tries not to imagine your hand between your thighs again.

Fails.

Miserably.

You wake to sunlight pouring in through your bedroom window, your body heavy and slow beneath the sheets. Your thighs are still sore—from sleep, from tension, from last night—and the memory of your own voice echoing back to you in the dark makes your face burn.

You groan into your pillow and roll over.

Down the hall, you hear the low thud of boots. The creak of the stairs. Sevika’s up. Already moving.

You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

You force yourself out of bed, tugging on a tank top and slipping your arms through a soft flannel. No makeup. Hair in a clip. You look like someone who didn’t sleep well.

You didn’t.

You shuffle down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Betty is flipping pancakes and your dad is pouring coffee like nothing in the world is wrong.

“Morning, sugar,” Betty calls over her shoulder. “You want some?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice scratchy. “Please.”

You take your seat at the table, and seconds later, Sevika walks in.

Freshly showered.

White tank clinging to her frame. Flannel sleeves rolled up. Her face unreadable.

She doesn’t even look at you.

“Morning,” your dad says.

“Morning,” Sevika grunts, grabbing a mug and pouring herself some coffee.

She sits across from you like it’s just another day. Like she didn’t hear you say her name with your hand between your thighs. Like she didn’t lose her mind all night staring at the ceiling, jaw tight and fists clenched.

You try not to look.

But of course you do.

Her knuckles are still raw from the fight. Still unbandaged. You want to reach for her hand. You don’t.

“Sleep okay, hon?” Betty asks, setting a plate in front of you.

You hesitate. Glance up. Sevika finally glances back, just barely—her eyes flicking to yours before snapping away again.

You clear your throat. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Storms might roll back in tonight,” your dad mutters behind his mug. “Best get the big animals in early.”

Sevika nods. “I’ll handle it.”

“No, I’ll help,” you blurt out. “I—I want to.”

Everyone looks at you.

Sevika raises a brow, suspicious. “You sure?”

You nod, already too deep to back out.

“Alright then,” your dad says. “Y’all can handle the horses first. That old gelding spooks if he hears thunder.”

You and Sevika lock eyes for one second longer than necessary.

And that’s how your day starts:

Tension coiled under your skin.

A breakfast you can barely eat.

And the knowledge that you’ll be alone in the stables with the girl who still makes your chest ache every time she says nothing at all.

The first drops of rain started as a whisper on the barn roof.

By the time the last chicken was safely shut in and the tack room doors were latched, it had picked up—slow, steady, soaking everything in its path. You barely made it to the house before the downpour came in full, the kind of sudden, slanted rainfall that made the porchboards groan under your boots.

Inside now, the house glows soft with warm yellow light. The storm rumbles in the distance, but the power—mercifully—is still on. The living room smells like fresh coffee and hay. The old fan creaks softly above.

Harold and Betty had gone to bed hours ago. A miracle, honestly.

You’re standing in the kitchen, arms crossed loosely, your damp flannel hanging open over a faded tank. The window fogs slightly with the difference in temperature, and you press your finger against the glass, watching the droplets chase each other.

“How can they sleep through this?” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head as thunder rolls low across the fields.

“They’ve lived through worse,” Sevika says behind you.

You turn.

She’s stretched out on the couch, legs spread, one arm resting across the back, the other bent at the elbow as she finally wraps a fresh bandage around her bruised knuckles. The cut looks cleaner now. You can tell she’s taking your earlier advice seriously, even if she didn’t say it out loud.

You lean against the counter, just… watching her.

“You could’ve let me do that,” you say.

She shrugs. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’ve never cared about bothering me before.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes flick up to yours, sharp and unreadable.

“I’m trying,” she says simply. “To give you space.”

You blink. “Oh.”

A beat.

“I didn’t ask for space,” you say, softer now.

“Didn’t have to,” she mutters, tying the bandage off tight.

The thunder crashes louder this time. You flinch—not from fear, exactly, just from how close it feels.

Sevika leans back against the couch cushions, her head tilted up toward the ceiling. “You’ve been following me around all day.”

You freeze. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Your face heats. “I wasn’t— I was just trying to help.”

“You were tryin’ to pretend nothing’s changed.”

That hits you in the chest.

You push off the counter and move closer, arms crossed, your voice barely audible. “And what if I was?”

Sevika doesn’t answer right away. She just looks at you, eyes dragging over your face like she’s reading something only she knows how to translate.

“Then you’re not the only one pretending,” she finally says, voice rough.

The room falls quiet again.

Except for the storm.

And the way your heart’s thudding in your chest like it wants to say something you won’t.

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around your arms. Her words echo in your head— Then you’re not the only one pretending.

You take a few slow steps closer, close enough now that you can hear the quiet breath she lets out through her nose, like she’s annoyed with herself. Or with you. Or both.

“Then why are we doing this?” you ask.

“Doing what?”

“This.” You gesture between you. “Acting like we’re just… strangers who happen to have a history. You’re sleeping down the hall, Sev. We’re playing house, and no one else even knows what we were—what we are.”

Her eyes flicker, and you see it—that flash of vulnerability she always hides beneath a bite or a glare.

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to remember,” she says. “Not with that boyfriend of yours always calling.”

You flinch.

Her voice turns colder. “What’s his name again? Jason? Jordan?”

“Jared,” you say quietly. “And he’s not—he’s not what you think.”

“No?” Sevika leans forward now, resting her elbows on her knees. “So you don’t say ‘I love you’ into the phone every night when you think I’m not listening?”

You freeze.

Her lip curls, not in a smile. Something more bitter. “You still say it the same way. The way you used to say it to me.”

Your voice cracks. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” she mutters. “It’s not.”

The silence that stretches between you is raw and ugly and real.

And then you break it.

“I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

She looks up at that. Her jaw tightens, her nostrils flaring like she’s holding something back. Maybe a laugh. Maybe a sob.

“You don’t get to say that,” she says lowly.

“Why not?”

“Because you left. You left and never looked back. You built a life without me and just… erased us.”

“I didn’t erase anything,” you shoot back. “I buried it, Sev. There’s a difference.”

She stands now, and you can’t help but take a step back at the sudden rise of her body.

“Feels the same from where I’m standing.”

Your throat tightens. “You think it was easy for me?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” she growls. “Except that I’m still here. And you’re still pretending like I don’t matter.”

“You matter,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “God, Sev… you matter more than anything.”

She’s breathing hard now. Hands clenched at her sides. You can feel the heat radiating off of her.

And then—her voice cracks.

“Then why do I feel like I’m still not enough?”

That does it.

You reach for her before you can stop yourself—grabbing her wrist, pulling her in, your forehead nearly against her chest.

She doesn’t touch you at first.

But she doesn’t pull away, either.

You breathe out shakily, tears finally slipping down your cheek. “I don’t want Jared. I don’t want California. I don’t want anything that isn’t you.”

She exhales like she’s been holding it for years.

Slowly, gently, she brings a hand up to your hair. “You don’t get to say that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” you say. “I always have.”

You look up at her.

Her hand cups your cheek now, fingers warm against your skin.

And for a moment—just one—you both let the mask drop.

It would be so easy to kiss her.

But instead…

Sevika sighs and presses her forehead to yours.

“We’re not ready,” she says quietly.

You nod.

Your chest aches, but you nod anyway.

“I know.”

And for now, that’s enough.

You can’t sleep.

Again.

The fan buzzes overhead, casting slow-turning shadows across the ceiling. Your body’s too warm under the sheets, your brain too loud to let you drift off. So you reach for your phone.

Your thumb scrolls absently through TikTok—goats in pajamas, a trending dance you’ll never learn, a girl talking about heartbreak like she invented it.

Then your phone buzzes.

A text.

Liv 🤎: “Are you up?”

You blink at the screen, brows pulling together.

You: “Yeah, what’s up?”

No reply. Not right away.

Then—

Liv 🤎 sent an image

You sit up slowly in bed, heart doing that cold, confused skip.

It’s a photo.

Jared.

Grinning in some bar. His arm draped around a girl with straight blonde hair and a crop top you don’t recognize.

They're laughing. He’s kissing her cheek.

The timestamp is from last weekend.

You freeze. Stare.

Your mouth parts like you’re about to say something—but there’s no one to hear it.

Another photo comes in.

Different girl. Different day. Still him.

Then another.

And another.

Your screen lights up in a blur of betrayal.

Liv 🤎: “I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought maybe it was just a one-time thing, but… he’s been doing it for months.” “I’m so sorry.”

You blink hard, but the tears come anyway.

Silent.

Hot.

Your breath stutters. Your chest tightens.

You try to type something back—anything—but the letters blur beneath your thumbs.

Then the sob hits.

Quiet, at first. More like a gasp.

You slap a hand over your mouth as the second one rises up.

It hurts more than you thought it would.

Not because you loved him. But because you were trying so hard to be normal. To be safe. To pretend you weren’t still haunted by someone else’s hands. Someone else’s name.

And even that—you couldn’t get right.

The screen goes black as your phone times out.

And all you can do is sit there in the dark.

Shaking.

Alone.

The hallway was already filled with noise when Sevika cracked her door open early morning rays from the windows spilling out onto the hardwood floors—muffled sobs, shuffling feet, the sharp edge of panic riding through the old farmhouse.

She rubbed a hand down her face, her knuckles still tender from days ago, and followed the sound barefoot down the hallway.

Harold was standing stiff just outside your room, arms crossed, face creased with helplessness.

Inside, Betty sat beside you on the bed, one hand rubbing slow circles on your trembling shoulder as you curled in on yourself like a child.

“How could he do this to me?!” you cried, voice raw, words tripping over each other. “How— how could he just—like I meant nothing?”

Sevika’s chest tightened. She hadn’t heard you cry like that since you were sixteen.

Betty hushed you gently, brushing your hair back with that practiced, motherly touch of hers. “He’s just a stupid, selfish boy, honey,” she murmured. “Come on now. Let’s go run you a warm bath, alright? You don’t need to sit in this like it’s your fault.”

You sniffled, eyes red and swollen. “Okay,” you whispered, voice barely a thread of sound.

Sevika stood there frozen as Betty helped you stand, her arm around your waist, guiding you toward the bathroom at the end of the hall.

You passed Sevika slowly, your gaze flicking up and locking with hers for just a second—tear-streaked, shattered.

She didn’t even have time to say anything before you were gone, the bathroom door clicking shut behind you.

Sevika turned to Harold, jaw clenched. “What happened?”

Harold sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I’m not entirely sure. Betty was already in there when I got up. Girl was sobbing like her heart’d been ripped out. Only thing I caught was something about Jared. And a blonde.”

Sevika’s stomach dropped.

Her mouth went dry. “Oh no.”

Harold looked at her, confused. “You know something?”

But Sevika didn’t answer.

She just stared at the bathroom door, hands curling into fists at her sides, heart hammering loud and guilty in her ears.

Because she knew.

She knew this would happen eventually. That some mask would slip. That some crack would finally show.

She just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

Like she was watching you break all over again—and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

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[inseobts]

Hey Princess End

zoro x fem!reader

part 4

you find freedom, love, and a true family among pirates—only to risk everything, even your life, to protect them from the chains of your past.

words count: 3.5k

tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, banter, mystery backstory, angst and fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The moment your body hits the cold marble, everything blurs.

You don’t hear Zoro scream anymore, or Nami crying your name, or the clatter of something your mother was holding and now falling to the floor in slow motion.

All you feel is the pressure in your chest. The burning. The sting of every nerve ending screaming from the inside out.

And then footsteps. Heavy. Rushed.

“Move—out of the way!”

It’s your father.

The king. The one who once said you weren’t meant for this life. The man who tried to trade you like a jewel, own you like a crown. He falls to his knees next to you, not in anger this time, not with scorn, but panic.

“Y/N. Y/N! You idiot, I told you not to—! You weren’t supposed to actually—!”

His hands are shaking as he pulls a thin syringe from his coat, the needle already glinting, prepped, filled with an amber-colored serum. He plunges it into your arm without hesitation.

“This will stop it,” he mutters, half to himself, half in prayer “It’ll break the signal inside. It’ll destroy the chip. No surgery needed. It’ll fix it... just... just hang on, okay? Please hang on.”

Zoro can barely breathe. He’s pressed against the bars of the cage, his fingers bloody from trying to tear through it.

You’re on the ground. Still. So still.

And then that man... your father... when he rushes back in, for one second, Zoro thinks it’s just for show. Another performance. Another lie of his.

Until he sees the panic in the man’s face. The way his hands tremble. The way he cradles your head, muttering things Zoro can’t hear.

Then the needle.

Zoro stiffens.

Sanji narrows his eyes “Oi! What is that? What are you doing to her now?”

The king doesn’t answer anyone. He’s too focused. Too desperate.

And then, slowly... your fingers twitch.

Zoro freezes.

“…She moved” he breathes “She moved her fingers.”

It takes a moment.

Like waking from a fever dream underwater. But the pain is gone, washed away like smoke clearing after a fire. Your vision sharpens, breath returns to your lungs, and you gasp like you’re alive for the first time again.

Your father exhales so hard it’s nearly a sob.

You blink at him, disoriented “Wha… what did you do? Why?... How?”

“I stopped it,” he mutters “I injected the deactivator. It destroys the chip from inside. No need to cut it out. It won't work again even if you use the remote.”

“So there’s a way to destroy them… without hurting the host.” Robin says darkly from the cage, piecing it together fast.

You slowly sit up, dizzy but aware. Your father is still crouched by you.

“Why…” your voice croaks “Why help me now? You didn't care before.”

He looks at you, and for the first time in your life… he doesn’t look like a king.

Just a father who almost lost his daughter.

“Because you were willing to die for them” he says “And I realized—if that’s what they mean to you…if they means life to you... if I let you die like that… I’d lose you for good.”

The weight of it sinks in.

You look down at your arm, the chip’s signal light on the remote is dead. Silent.

And the solution is real.

This is what you needed. This is how you’ll save Zoro. And Chopper.

You look toward the cage, your heart aching, swelling, breaking all at once.

“Zoro! Chopper!” your voice chokes as you meet their stunned gazes “I can fix you now.”

Zoro stares at you like he doesn’t believe it yet. Like he wants to believe.

But all he can breathe out is “…You’re alive.”

And in that moment, that’s all that matters to him... you.

You’re still clutching your arm where the needle went in, where the chip is now no longer a chain around your soul. You look up at your father, breath shaky but full of fire now.

“Give them the same injection. Right now.”

He doesn’t argue. Not this time. Not when he saw the light leave your eyes three minutes ago. He gives a nod to you and then a nod to one of the guards “Call the royal doctor. Bring more serum. Two doses.”

Then he nods at the guards without saying another word, and they rush off. A moment later, the royal doctor enters with two more syringes of the same serum he used on you. He doesn’t ask questions. He just does what he’s told.

The guards move to the seastone cage, unlocking the heavy latch. It swings open slowly with a loud creak, and the sound feels like oxygen in your lungs. Chopper stumbles, weak, sweat dripping down his fur, but he’s already trying to stand on his own. Zoro keeps a steady hand on him, jaw tight, eyes flickering toward you and your father.

You’re about to step forward to check on them when...

“Don’t move!”

Everyone freezes.

You turn your head slowly, pulse pounding.

It’s the prince.

He’s pale. Sweating. Trembling, but trying to look brave as he steals a rifle from one of the nearby guards. The moment it leaves the soldier’s hands, the man backs away, like he wants no part in this.

The barrel of the gun is pointed at your chest.

“You’re my fiancée,” the prince snaps “You can’t just walk away from this like nothing happened. I don't care about your little family here, your chip stopped right? Then come back here, to me. We are getting married, if you like it or not I don't care... I'm done with this little rebellious phase of yours, Princess.”

You stare at him. You died three minutes ago and came back. A trembling prince with too much hair gel and a gun? He’s nothing. You don’t even flinch.

“I’m not yours. I never was. Not even for one fucking second.”

Your voice is steady. Cold.

The tension is thick in the room, but it snaps in a blink.

Zoro moves like lightning. He doesn’t even unsheath his sword. His fist crashes against the prince’s jaw with a sharp crack, sending the rifle flying and the prince straight to the ground with a groan. The guards don’t move. No one does. No one dares.

Zoro glares down at the prince, voice low and calm “You breathe near her like that again, and I won’t stop with one punch.”

He turns to you, eyes softer now “You okay?”

You nod, heart still racing “I’m fine.”

Chopper, now injected and visibly recovering, takes a slow breath and lets it out “The chip’s dead… I don’t feel it anymore.”

The rest of the crew is quiet, but every eye is on you, wide, stunned, proud.

Your father runs a hand down his face, defeated “So this is what it takes… you fighting with you all for your freedom.”

You look at him, then at the crew, then Zoro.

“No,” you say “This is what it takes to protect the ones I love.”

Zoro’s expression shifts at that word love like he wasn’t ready to hear it, not out loud. But he doesn’t look away. And neither do you.

Your words hang in the air like thunder after a storm, quiet, but impossible to ignore. The prince groans from the floor, too stunned or humiliated to even speak. Your mother still hasn’t said a word. She stands off to the side, stiff and unmoving, like she doesn’t even recognize you anymore.

But you don’t care.

Not anymore.

You step closer to Zoro and Chopper, helping the reindeer steady himself, your other hand brushing against Zoro’s arm... just a touch, just enough for him to feel you’re really there.

"I'm sorry you had to go throught all that for me. I'm really sorry."

Zoro turns to look at you with his angry face "No need fo you to apology, I'd go to hell for you damn Princess" he whispers trying to not let anyone there hear him.

You smile at him and look at his lips as if you'd like to kiss him right there in that moment, in front of everyone. Until Chopper hugs your leg saying "It's not your fault Y/N, you actually saved us. Thank you."

Your father speaks again, softer now, older than he’s ever sounded “You were willing to die… for them.”

You meet his eyes “They’re the ones who let me live in the first place.”

He nods, slowly. Exhausted “I won’t try to stop you anymore.”

Your mother finally finds her voice, sharp and cold “You’ll disgrace this family—”

You don’t even let her finish “Then I’ll carry that disgrace with pride.”

She falls silent again, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. But she doesn’t try to reach you. And she doesn’t try to stop you when you turn your back.

Zoro is quiet beside you, but you feel the heat of his gaze. When you glance at him, his mouth opens just a little, like he wants to say something else… but he doesn’t. Not yet.

Sanji mutters behind you, “Could’ve warned us you were gonna do something that reckless…”

But there’s no anger in his voice. Just relief.

Luffy, now free of the seastone, stretches with a lazy groan like nothing happened, though there’s something more serious in his eyes than usual “You’re really one of us now, huh.”

You smile... really smile “Yeah. I think I always was.”

Franky wipes under his sunglasses with the edge of his arm “Suuper proud of you.”

Brook hums a gentle note, one bony hand over his heart “A lady as brave as you deserves the freedom of the seas.”

Jinbe nods deeply “Let’s get out of here before they change their minds.”

You walk toward the exit together, the palace behind you now only a memory.

As you near the gate, you pause.

You turn back to your father, who still stands in the same place, arms slack at his sides.

“I meant it,” you say “About the love.”

Zoro stiffens beside you, but still says nothing.

You grab his hand and keep walking. Because now, you’re going home.

As you step through the palace gates, still holding Zoro’s hand, a quiet weight lifts off your chest, like chains you never noticed fully until they were gone. The city outside the palace is just beginning to stir from the chaos, whispers passing from house to house about what happened inside those pristine walls.

You don’t care.

You’re not a princess anymore. Not to them.

But to the crew, you’re you. Fully, finally. And they’re waiting for nothing else.

The walk to the ship is strangely quiet, but not heavy. Sanji carries Chopper on his back, still complaining loudly about being denied the chance to kick that sorry excuse of a prince. Brook hums a melody under his breath, and Luffy... well, he’s back to grinning like a maniac and tossing pieces of bread from who-knows-where into his mouth.

But behind the energy, there’s something deeper... pride. Respect. Love.

Zoro stays close beside you, hand still laced in yours. He hasn’t said a word since the fight ended, and you haven’t pushed. But when the Thousand Sunny comes into view and the salty breeze brushes your face, you feel his grip tighten just a little.

You stop right at the ramp leading aboard.

He stops too.

You turn to him, brows raised slightly “Are you gonna say something, or just keep brooding like it’s your job?”

Zoro exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half a scoff “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

You smile “So... you’ve mentioned.”

He looks at you now “You meant it, back there. What you said.”

You nod slowly, not breaking eye contact “I did.”

Zoro shifts on his feet. He’s never been the best with words, especially not when they matter.

“I didn’t know how I could protect you, what to do to protect you... if I could protect you.” he mutters “And it nearly killed me.”

You soften, stepping closer “But you did. And you still do.”

His jaw works for a second, like he wants to argue, but instead, he says something quieter “I love you.”

It’s barely above a whisper.

Your heart skips. Maybe two beats.

“I know,” you say “Took you long enough.”

He huffs again, almost grinning now “So you gonna say it back, or…”

You reach up, brushing his face, thumb against the scar by his eye “I love you, Zoro. I think I did before I even admitted it to myself.”

His lips are on yours in the next second, no hesitation, no fire this time, just something slow and honest and deep. A promise without words.

The rest of the crew whistles and groans from the deck. Luffy yelling something about “Ew, gross!”, while Nami grins like she knew it all along.

You pull back just slightly, nose still brushing his “Guess this means I can take ‘fall in love with a pirate swordsman’ off the bucket list officially now.”

Zoro smirks “You’re gonna need a new one.”

You squeeze his hand.

“I already have one,” you whisper “Live free. With all of you.”

And together, you walk aboard your ship, your home, where your real story finally begins.

Months later

The sun shines lazily over the Sunny, rocking gently on calm waters. Laughter echoes across the deck. You and Zoro are at it again.

“Could you move? Some of us are trying to train, Princess.”

You roll your eyes, arms crossed “Could you maybe use your brain just once, Mosshead?”

Franky whistles from the side “Get a room already.”

Sanji drops to the floor like he’s been shot “Why, why, why wasn’t it me?!”

Brook’s violin strings follow his fake death “Yohohoho! Love is pain, Sanji-san!”

Nami sighs into her orange juice “At least they’re not trying to kill each other now.”

Chopper giggles, perched on the railing next to Robin, who hides a smirk behind her book.

Everything’s back to normal. Well, your new normal. The normal you chose. With the crew that saved you and who you saved back.

It’s been months since your escape. Months since you walked away from that version of your life for good. You’re no longer a princess by title. But somehow, you’ve never felt more like yourself.

And tomorrow… tomorrow’s your birthday.

They don’t say anything about it. Not really. You assume they forgot. You’d told them once that you never celebrated birthdays properly, just cold dinners with royal guests and talks about marriage. A countdown, not a celebration.

So you don’t expect anything.

But when the sun rises on the next day, and you step out of your room...

“Happy Birthday!!”

The whole deck is decorated. Streamers, lanterns, glowing orbs from Usopp, even heart-shaped balloons that are definitely Sanji’s doing. There’s a huge cake, food covering every table, a banner with your name on it written in messy but sweet handwriting.

You blink, speechless “You… remembered?”

Luffy grins with frosting on his face “Of course we did! You’re part of the crew!”

Nami throws an arm over your shoulder “Now sit, eat, and cry later.”

Sanji places a plate in front of you, beaming “The whole menu is your favorite! Made with love! Love that only I can give to you, my love.”

Brook plays a birthday song, Robin hands you a flower crown, and even Jinbe claps with a warm smile.

Usopp sets a pile of wrapped gifts in front of you.

Zoro stands off to the side, arms crossed but eyes watching you closely.

You’re still giggling when Nami nudges you “Open them!”

One by one, you unwrap each gift. A bracelet from Robin, flowers pressed into the leather band. A tiny chopper plush from Chopper. A firework orb from Usopp. A sunstone hairpin from Nami.

Then you reach the last one.

Zoro’s.

You glance at him “You said to wait and open it later.”

He shrugs, not looking at you “They’ll make you open it anyway.”

They do. All watching, eyes wide with curiosity.

Inside is a wooden box, hand-carved, smooth but rough in places. You open it carefully.

Inside is a small, perfectly carved figurine. Of you. In one of your fighting stances, cloak billowing. And opposite you, another figurine: Zoro, in his classic pose, smirking. Your weapons clash mid-air, frozen in time.

You gasp.

Under it, a small plaque “For my Princess. – Z”

You don’t mean to cry. You don’t even realize you’re crying until Sanji hands you a napkin, tears forming in his own eyes.

You clutch the gift to your chest, looking around at all of them “Thank you… I’ve never felt more loved than I do right now.”

Zoro finally looks at you “Good. Because you are.”

You laugh through the tears, walking up to him and placing a kiss on his cheek “You’re annoying.”

He smirks “Takes one to know one, Princess.”

And this time, the nickname feels like home.

Later on you go sit on the deck, legs tucked under you, the sea calm and the stars brighter than ever. A soft breeze brushes your hair as you tilt your head up to the sky, a quiet smile blooming across your lips.

Today… was perfect.

You’ve never felt so seen. So loved. So… home.

“You smiling alone now? Weirdo.”

You jump slightly, turning to find Zoro standing a few feet behind you, his usual lazy grin tugging at the corner of his lips. He drops down beside you with a soft grunt, arms resting on his knees.

You scoff, brushing your hair behind your ear “Better alone than listening to your dumb comments.”

“Tch,” he mutters, side-eyeing you with a smirk “Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll take the gift back.”

You roll your eyes “You wouldn’t. You made that with your own hands.”

He shrugs “Guess I’ll just carve a better one. One that actually shuts you up.”

You nudge him playfully with your shoulder “Wow, romantic and rude. What a combo.”

Zoro leans slightly closer, his voice low “You liked it, though.”

Your smile softens “I loved it. Really.”

His expression shifts just a little, like something proud and tender flickers in his eyes before he quickly looks away, like always.

You shift to face him more “I should thank you properly.”

He raises a brow “You already did.”

“No,” you whisper, leaning in “Not enough.”

You kiss him.

Soft at first, tentative even. A kiss full of warmth and gratitude, of everything words couldn’t say earlier.

But it deepens quickly, your fingers curling into his shirt as you shift onto his lap, straddling him without breaking the kiss. His hands instinctively settle on your hips, gripping you firmly as he groans low in his throat.

When you finally pull back, breathless and teasing, he looks up at you with a lazy, cocky grin.

“So… should we celebrate this day in your room?”

He leans in, his voice rough and quiet “Alone?”

You nod at his words, that sly smirk still playing at your lips “Alone sounds exactly like what I had in mind.”

Zoro raises an eyebrow at the shift in your tone, but the glint in his eyes matches yours. He tilts his head, eyes lazily scanning your face, and then down to where you’re still comfortably perched on his lap.

“You really love staying on my lap, don’t you?” he mutters.

The second it leaves his mouth, his eyes widen just slightly, realizing how that sounded.

You burst out laughing “Wow, really, swordsman? That what we’re saying now? Pervert...”

Zoro’s face flushes faintly “Tch. That’s not what I… you were on my lap when you first kissed me. Remember?”

“Sure,” you cut him off with a teasing glint in your eye “Guess why, greenie.”

He groans in exasperation, but his smirk only grows “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are. Still letting me sit here.” You raise an eyebrow smugly.

He leans in, his nose brushing yours “Maybe I just don’t want you to get off.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by the low, husky edge in his voice.

“…Okay,” you whisper, suddenly breathless, “that was actually smooth.”

Zoro smirks, wicked and knowing, then in one swift motion he rises to his feet, effortlessly lifting you with him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“You were taking too long,” he mutters as he starts walking “Time to celebrate that birthday properly.”

You bury your face in his neck, giggling “You mean passionately?”

“Same thing.” he says, voice rough against your ear.

The night unfolds with whispered teasing, breathless kisses, and slow-burning touches that grow into a fire neither of you hold back. It’s messy, warm, intoxicating, and full of all the love you’d never dared to imagine you’d have.

When morning comes, you wake curled up against his chest, your legs still tangled over his lap, sunlight peeking through the curtains. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, one hand lazily stroking your back as if to silently promise that he’s not letting go.

You look up at him, still half-asleep, and murmur against his skin, “I wish this could last forever.”

Zoro opens one eye and looks down at you, voice gruff but gentle “…Then let’s make it.”

Tag List: @onepiecestarry - @shunkaidojetblack - @mydearlybeloathed

[mwahgo]

TOUCH ME

— Trafalgar Law x Fem!Reader (One Piece)

[+18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+]

: ̗̀➛ Summary: You can't help but stare at Law's hands.

: ̗̀➛ Word Count: 1.6k words

: ̗̀➛ Content Tags: Fingering, oral sex (fem!receiving), teasing, hand fetish, begging, nipple sucking

Mwahgo's Notes: Can you guys tell I love Law's hands????????

You walked down the hallways of the Polar Tang while carrying a couple of binders in your arms. You were assigned by your captain, Trafalgar Law to deliver him the personal medical files of every crew member to be examined and compiled. As his medical assistant, it is important for Law to monitor his crew’s health, so that they can be in tiptop shape as they sail the seas. You were lucky you were part of his crew, you were just a nurse living in a poor country with no proper medical supplies. The government ignored your shouts of pleas as many people died in your hometown. The Heart pirates found you, crying out loud because you couldn’t help the people dying.

They invited you to their crew and although the idea of being a pirate never crossed your mind, but who is there to stop you? All you wanted is to help people, make them feel better and heal their sickness. Law welcomed you to be his medical assistant and warned you the dangerous life of a pirate but you didn’t care, you just wanted to fulfill your goals.

So here you are, standing in front of Law’s office, binders in hand as you raised a hand to knock but it started opening and Law stood at the other side, “Oh, you’re here. And here I thought you got lost..” He said, “.. Again,”

You chuckled awkwardly, remembering you got lost in the first day in the Polar Tang and you ended up getting locked inside the storage room. Thankfully, Law was able to get you out with using his devil fruit powers.

You entered the office as Law takes his place back on his chair. His weapon, Kikoku, leaned by the wall as you placed the stack of binders on the desk, “Thank you, (Y/N)-ya,” He mumbled as he immediately grabbed the first binder and flips it open.

You took a seat in front of him to start helping him sort through the medical files. Pens writing on paper, the crisp sound of papers flipping, the small thump of the binders being placed aside—the familiar sounds you would hear when you’re working with him. Your eyes trailed over the sentences of words, reading the symptoms before jotting down some notes when your eyes caught a glimpse of Law’s free hand.

Being thruthful to yourself, you were attracted to your captain—his calm demeanor, sharp features and deep voice made you weak in the knees. The way he calmly fights in the battlefield or stressing over battle plans makes it even harder to focus, so staring at his hand, wasn’t an unfamiliar thing you do.

His tan skin accompanied by the dark ink of his tattooes, his long, slender fingers tapped softly on the desk as you can see the callouses on his fingertips from all of his hardship. His fingernails perfectly manicured and you must’ve noticed some small dust of hair on his forearms.

Law felt the sudden, unusual silence as he looked up from his paper and noticed you were staring at something, “(Y/N)-ya?” He called.

You flinched at his voice, “A-Ah! Y-Yes, Captain?!” You exclaimed.

Law furrowed his eyebrows, “You’re spacing out, everything okay?” He asked.

You gulped nervously, knowing that he caught you in the act, “O-Oh.. uh yeah, everything’s fine.. hehe,” You chuckled. Law’s frown deepens as he didn’t press on the issue anymore before continue writing. You sighed quietly as you try to focus back on writing reports.

Eventually, you went back to staring at his hand again—watching how it grabs the stack of papers and arranging them at the stack beside him as you wondered how big his hands are. Law notices the sudden quietness again, but this time, he didn’t called you out. Instead, he followed your line of sight and realized you were staring at his hand.

Law doesn’t think to himself as a “hot guy”, he believes on small minded people labels themselves as such. He thinks he’s average looking, often times, he doesn’t care what people think about him and his physical looks. But seeing you staring at his hand gave him a sense of entertainment.

Experimentally, he moved his hand to the corner of the stack of papers as his fingers played between the flaps. He heard your breath hitched as he smirked to himself. His fingers slipped between the paper corners, fidgeting and folding it.

You bit your lip, watching his fingers played with the paper as you clenched your thighs together, preventing your wet pussy from leaking arousal. His fingers sliding between the papers almost made it seem like he’s playing with a woman’s wet folds.

“Are you enjoying this, (Y/N)-ya?” He spoke making you snap out of your daze.

“H-Huh?” You stammered as Law smirked knowingly. He dropped his pen before getting up from his seat and approaching you. You blushed nervously as he placed his hands on your shoulder, “Did you enjoy seeing me play with those papers?” He whispered.

You opened your mouth to defend yourself, but all the words came out are stuttering as he chuckled darkly, “What’s so special about my hands, (Y/N)-ya?” He asked.

His hands ran down from my shoulders down to my chest—grazing over my breasts as my breath hitched in anticipation, “Is it the way they fondled the papers?” He whispered seductively in my ear, “Or is it the way they caress your skin?” He added as his fingers played with the strap of my tank top.

The rough texture of his palms slithered down my arms, giving me goosebumps as they landed on the hem of my tank top, “Answer me, (Y/N)-ya,” He asked.

You bit your lip, the sexual tension ramping up as the room became too steamy for the two of you, “P-Please, Law,” You mumbled.

He only chuckled before pulling your tank top, rendering you topless as you breasts spills out. Law licked his lips before cupping your breasts as you whimpered. His fingers played with your erected nipples—rolling them between fingertips. You moaned quietly as you felt his teeth nipping your ear, the arousal pooling in your panties.

“Let’s get you on the table, yeah?” He said as you mustered up a nod.

He carried you in his arms as he cleared away the papers before laying you down on the table. He proceeded to strip off your pants along with your panties. He sighed at the sight of your wet pussy—your arousal clung to your inner thighs. You bit your lip when he trailed his fingers on your soaked folds, teasing your clit.

“L-Law, please..” You begged.

A smirk appeared on his lips, “Oh really now? You haven’t told me what’s so special about my hands, (Y/N)-ya,” He taunted.

You whined, just anticipating him to fuck you with his fingers, “Law, please! Fuck me!”

He chuckled, “Oh, you wouldn’t get your way like that, (Y/N)-ya,” He said as his hand gripped your cheeks, “.. Now tell me, what do you like about my hands?” He asked again.

His fingers played with your clit as you grumbled, “I like how.. they’re very slender and long..” You trailed off, “I think about… how are you gonna fuck me with it.. I can’t do it myself, L-Law,” You whimpered, pathetically.

He only chuckled as he slipped his middle finger inside, making your back arch. His fingertips brushed against your g-spot, “O-Oh it feels so good, Law!” You moaned.

He smirked as he started thrusting his finger, in and out of your pussy. Law bit his lip as he watched your arousal dripped on the surface of the table. His lustful eyes trailed up to your breasts, watching your chest go up and down as you panted heavily.

You moaned loudly as you felt his mouth sucked on your left breast. His tongue swirled around your nipple as another digit entered your wet pussy, “Ohhh my god, Law..!” You moaned.

The squelching noise of your pussy along with your sweet moans echoed in the office as Law pulled away from your nipple, “I wanna fucking taste you,” He groaned.

He leaned down to your pussy and wrapped his lips around your sensitive clit as your eyes rolled back in pleasure, “O-Oh shit! Law yes! It feels so good!’ You yelped.

He continued to suck on your clit and fingering your pussy. You threw your head back as your hands grabbed his messy hair, pushing him closer to your pussy. Slowly, you felt a coil bubbling inside your stomach as you screamed, “Oh god, Law! I f-feel like.. I’m cumming!”

“C’mon, give it to me, (Y/N)-ya,” Law quickens the pace of his fingers, fucking your pussy roughly as you squealed loudly, your climax erupting. Law gasped as he sucked on your arousal, your hips stuttering from the sensitivity. After you came, your body slumped down on the desk—panting heavily as Law got up and looked down on his wet fingers.

You looked at him and gasped as you watched him licked and suck your arousal off his fingers. You blushed heavily as he leaned down, “Did I fulfill your fantasy, (Y/N)-ya?” He smirked.

You nodded, still exhausted from the intense climax. Law leaned down and kissed your lips—you tasted yourself from his lips as he grinded his harden cock on your senstive pussy. He was about to unzip his pants but you both jumped at the knocking from the door, “Captain! We need you to check on the maps!” Bepo called from the other side.

Law sighed in defeat, “Another time, yeah?” He said as you nodded.