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illyrianbitch · 2 months

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One Summer

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: One beach house. One festival. One summer to fall in love.

Warnings: brief mentions of alcohol and recreational drugs (weed!), two friends with a past, a budding crush

Word Count: 4k

authors note: i’m excited to get this out hehe so pls ignore any mistakes/typos that i missed! 🫶🏻 happy end of summer!

Series Masterlist

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It took you a second to register your surroundings.

You knew the house was bound to be nice. After all, Rhysand’s family was loaded. You’d seen it in pictures from previous vacations, in the ones Mor had sent you over past summers when you’d gone back home. But even then, you still hadn't prepared yourself enough. The house wasn't only large and fancy. It was cozy– lived in. And it was absolutely beautiful.

There were little touches everywhere—- knick-knacks and seashells, photo frames, and soft rugs that felt like clouds under your feet. From somewhere deeper in the house, you heard Feyre and Rhys laughing. They had arrived a few hours earlier, settling in and preparing the house for the rest of you. At least, that’s what they told you all.

You and Mor had your suspicions that their reason for such an early arrival was more about having an empty house to mess around in before the rest of you came. You could still hear Mor’s conspiratorial whisper in your ear, teasing about how Feyre and Rhys probably took advantage of the quiet to enjoy some uninterrupted time together.

"They probably wanted to get all the best spots first," Mor had joked on the drive over, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. You laughed, agreeing silently that Rhysand and Feyre's early arrival was likely more for their own pleasure than out of any noble desire to prepare the house.

From outside, the crunch of gravel under tires announced the arrival of Azriel and Cassian. You heard the low rumble of their car engine idling before it was cut off, followed by the slam of car doors and the muffled sound of laughter.

“C’mon, let me show you your room,” Mor said, placing down a few of her bags and gesturing with her perfectly manicured hand.

You followed her up a set of stairs, taking in the walls lined with art and framed photos. Each frame was unique, from sleek, modern designs to ornate, vintage styles. The artwork ranged from abstract paintings to intricate sketches— and interspersed among the art were photographs capturing various moments. It was easy to spot the ones Mor was in, her blonde hair standing in stark contrast against the raven black of Rhysand and his sister and the dark brown of Azriel and Cassian.

You stopped at one in particular, a photo of Rhys, Cassian, Azriel and Mor standing around a small, circular wooden table. You laughed.

Mor turned around at the sound, a frown on her face as her gaze flickered between you and the gallery before you.

“Oh my god,” she said, quickly backtracking a few stairs down. “Do not look at that.”

But it was too late. You leaned forward to inspect the photo more. Rhysand had braces, Cassian was sporting a terrible haircut, Azriel looked too tall for his frame, and Mor was mid-laugh, a piece of pizza hanging onto the metal outline of her own braces. You let out another laugh, cooing out a sweet Aww at your best friend.

She huffed beside you. ”I’m going to kick you out of this house if you keep staring at it.”

You flashed her a grin. “Aw, c’mon. I love it.”

Mor only gave you a blank look in response. She stayed still, raising an eyebrow impatiently as you grinned, eyes flickering between her and your newfound favorite photo. You reached into your back pocket, fingers grasping the edge of your phone. You itched to have the photo in your camera roll, to be able to send it to Mor as a joke whenever she failed to return your texts.

She registered the movement quickly, letting out a small sound of surprise.

"Absolutely not!”

Mor grabbed your arm before you managed to take a proper picture, pulling you up the stairs behind her as you laughed.

“You realize I can just take a picture later?”

”I’m taking that damn thing down,” she grumbled, “You’re enjoying it too much.”

You let her drag you along, still chuckling as you absorbed the surroundings. The house truly was a perfect blend of comfort and luxury, with wide hallways adorned with art and mementos, and an abundance of windows that flooded the space with natural light. It felt clean– dreamlike, even.

Turning a corner, Mor stopped, opening the door with a large gesture. You stepped inside, eyes widening at the open space. Sunlight poured in from the large windows and a small sliding door framed the ocean view perfectly.

”Oh my god,” you breathed. A sense of peace washed through you.

“I knew you’d love it,” she said with a satisfied grin. “Wait for the best part.”

She walked over and gently slid open the small door, your vision quickly registering the balcony connected to your room. You stepped out, the fresh ocean air hitting you immediately—bringing with it the soothing sound of waves and the tangy scent of salt. The view was breathtaking: an endlessly stretching out horizon with water sparkling under the midday sun.

You closed your eyes, reveling in all of the senses. You could almost feel the stress of the past few weeks melt away, a tangible sense of release rolling through your limbs. You didn’t need to think about grad school applications now, didn’t have to worry about buffing up your resume.

When you opened your eyes, you turned to find Mor watching you with a satisfied, giddy expression. “It’s like a little slice of paradise.”

“More than a little,” you mused as you took in the view before you. “Does everyone have a balcony?”

”Nope,” she replied, “I preferred the nicest shower. But Rhys and I figured you’d want easy access to outside for the same reasons Azriel picked his room.”

She mimicked bringing something to her lips and taking a drag.

You rolled your eyes but a laugh left your lips in spite of yourself. It took you a few seconds before her final words registered and your eyes trailed to the balcony beyond her shoulder, where another little door connected to the space.

Mor followed your movement.

”That’s Az’s room,” she clarified. “You share the balcony.”

”Oh,” you said. Mor gave you another smile. “Cool.”

She let out a small shriek of excitement, grabbing you in a quick hug. “God, I’m so excited for this summer. I get to tan, listen to some music, hang out with my favorite people and get pissed faced drunk.”

”All of your favorite things.”

Her grin grew on her red-painted lips. “Exactly.”

She paused, eyes widening as she dropped her hands from around you, taking a step back as she said, “We need to get drinks!”

Without another word she darted off, calling out for Feyre as she turned the corner and disappeared from your viewpoint.

Your gaze lingered on your open door for a moment before you turned around, walking closer to the edge of the patio. You leaned over the balcony, taking a deep, calm breath. The horizon stretched out before you, waves rolling in a rhythm that seemed to sync with your heartbeat.

You’d always loved the beach, loved the sense of peace that came with being near the ocean. Something about it felt so new— felt so refreshing and lively.

The sound of distant laughter filtered into your ear, and you easily recognized the boisterous cadence of Cassian’s voice. You followed the sound, glancing over towards the glass door of the adjacent room. Through the sliver of his room’s open curtains, you watched as Azriel dropped a bag on his bed, a small smile on his face at something said to him.

You angled your head further.

A nagging voice in the back of your mind reminded you that it might seem odd to be peering into someone else’s space, even if they were your friends. But, they were your friends, weren’t they? It wasn’t weird to be interested in what they were up to, especially when you were all sharing this space for the summer. So you pushed aside the fleeting feeling of unease, convincing yourself that you were simply being sociable and observant.

Azriel lifted his head. You blinked, quickly looking back to the view in front of you in an effort to avoid catching his gaze. You grimaced to yourself, a rush of heat flowing to your cheeks.

Smooth.

You shook your head, gently tapping the balcony railing as you turned around to head back into your room. You made sure to keep your gaze down, to fight the urge for your eyes to flicker towards Azriel’s door.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

All of the windows in the kitchen were open, filling the space with the fresh scent of ocean breeze. You gave Rhys and Feyre a quick greeting, walking towards one of the opened back doors. The urge to explore the beach and feel the sand beneath your feet pulled at you, calling to you like a siren to a sailor, but you stayed still. The drive here had been lengthy and, as a result, your deep-seated exhaustion weighed heavy on your limbs.

“Thinking of going and looking around?” Feyre asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Later, definitely. I’m feeling a bit too tired right now to be in the blazing sun.”

Feyre offered you a knowing nod. “Makes sense.”

The sound of footsteps drew your attention and you turned to see Azriel and Cassian entering the kitchen. The latter's eyes immediately found yours, a grin breaking out on his lips as he walked towards you in three long strides. He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side.

”God, I missed you,” Cassian said. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at the comment, knowing full well that you all had met up before making the drive to ensure that you had everything needed. But Cassian always had a flare for the dramatic. So, instead, you just gave him a small laugh and wrapped your arms around him in return.

He pointed to Azriel. “He’s such a bore, dude. He wouldn’t play any games on the road.”

Your gaze flickered over to Azriel. He rolled his eyes.

“Because your games involved me removing both hands from the wheel.”

Cassian shrugged, the movement redistributing the weight of his arm around your shoulders. “So?”

”So?” Azriel retorted. He opened his mouth to say more, but with a quick scan of Cassian’s face led him to closing his mouth and offering another eye roll. Azriel then turned his attention to you, holding your gaze as he offered you a smile.

”Hey, Y/n.”

His voice was much softer than a few seconds ago, a different tone than that he had used with Cassian.

You smiled back. “Hi, Az.”

You weren’t sure what to do next, torn between wanting to give him a small hug and the presence of Cassian’s arm around you. Az held your gaze for another moment before he walked past. You took in his figure, briefly noticing the change in his attire from this morning when you’d seen both him and Cassian. His long, black pants were now replaced by black shorts, instead. Before your stare could linger, Mor entered from the opened porch door, kicking off the sand-covered shoes she wore as she stepped into the house’s threshold.

”Oh great, you’re all here,” she said, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “Cass, are you ready to go?”

”Yup,” Cassian responded excitedly. He separated himself from you, casting a quick glance down at your form. “Wanna come?”

”Where are you guys going?”

Mor and Cassian answered simultaneously, “Liquor store.”

You raised an amused brow. “Have we become too fancy to just go to a grocery store?”

Mor shrugged. “I like my options.”

From across the kitchen, Rhys wrapped an arm around Feyre's torso, a cheeky grin on his face as he leaned forward to place his chin on her shoulder. “And yet, Mor, you always manage to return with a bottle of wine and a pack of white claws.”

Mor offered him a scowl. ”Shut it.”

”Actually,” Feyre hummed, “While you guys are out can you grab some groceries? I have a list. I can text it to you.”

Mor and Cassian exchanged a glance. “Sure, but it might take a while.”

Feyre arched an eyebrow. From beside her, Rhys rolled his eyes. “Why?”

It was Azriel who responded to her question, “Because they’re probably planning to 'taste test' everything they buy. So then they'll be sitting there and waiting it out until they can drive again."

You glanced over at him, watching as a sly smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. The hazel of his eyes were bright now, more visible with the sunlight pouring through the windows. There was a glint of amusement in them as he met your gaze.

Morrigan let out a sound of mock offense. Cassian grinned. You laughed, giving him a playful swat with your hands. It only made his grin grow further.

”I can grab it, Feyre,” you said, “Cass and Mor can go on the alcohol run alone.”

She gave you a grateful smile, but a flicker of concern furrowed her brow. “Are you sure? It’s kinda a lot for one person.”

You frowned. “How many things are we buying?”

“I figured we should make as many meals to counterbalance the amount we’re spending on drinks.”

You clicked your tongue. “Smart.”

She tossed a glance over her shoulder, meeting the studying gaze of her boyfriend. “I can go with you.”

Rhysand instantly frowned and mumbled under his breath, but you failed to catch his words as Azriel’s voice chimed in behind you.

”I can go.”

He stood next to you and you looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a fleeting second. He smiled.

“And I can drive.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The list Feyre had given you was indeed a lot— and all over the place.

Az trailed after you, pushing the large shopping cart as you slowly scanned the shelves in front of you. The car ride with him had been quiet, but it was the type of quiet you often yearned for— the comfortable kind that made you feel at home. He'd opened your car door for you, a gesture so casual and natural that you hadn't fully registered it until you were sitting in his front seat, pulling your seatbelt on. For some reason, the act had yet to leave your mind.

"What do you need?"

Azriel' braced his forearms on the cart's handle, leaning forward as he waited for your answer. Your gaze fell to the silver chain that dangled from his neck, now freed from its usual place hidden underneath his shirt.

"Y/n?"

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Azriel's brows furrowed slightly and he straightened his posture, pushing the cart closer to you. "Feyre's list," he clarified, "What's on it?"

You let out a small oh of realization, offering Azriel your phone in order for him to read off Feyre's comprehensive list of groceries. You switched places, Azriel maneuvering around the cart to look around the store. Your phone looked so strange in his hand and you suddenly regretted offering it to him instead of forwarding the text. You grimaced to yourself, mentally praying that your parents didn't message you— that no strange, unpromising alert flashed across your screen as he held it. The feeling that now flushed your body was the same cold, unrealistic panic that you felt when you traveled— when you'd go through airports and suddenly stress yourself into thinking you'd accidentally packed a live firework or a bomb.

Azriel had made it across an aisle by the time you reeled your thoughts back in. You let yourself fall behind his steps, observing him as he walked along the various cereal boxes.

There was a time where you'd believed that you and Azriel could be more than friends— back in freshman year when you'd first met. It was an instant spark, something so electric even Mor had felt it, had spent weeks making jokes about your crush. And months later you'd found yourself in that room with Azriel, inches away from his face on halloween night, lips still tasting of the fruity drink Cassian had made for you.

But nothing happened— not then, not after.

Two years had passed since and so much had changed. Not only within your life, but with Azriel himself.

He looked different now. His hair was longer— still cropped enough at the sides to show that dangling dagger earring you'd always loved— but long enough on top where his curls were on full display. He'd grown those out in the past two years, had stopped cutting his hair too short for them to show. He was tanner now, too, his golden brown skin holding an even darker sun-kissed glow— but you attributed that to the summer sun rather than the years.

It all fit him so well.

Azriel turned to face you, two large boxes of cereal in either hand. You straightened yourself, fixing your posture as hastily as a child caught watching something they shouldn't have been. If Azriel noticed anything, he didn't make any indication, opting to ask you about which cereal the others would prefer.

You both managed to switch again, Az taking his place pushing the cart as you examined the various boxes on the shelves in front of you. There were only a few more things left on Feyre's list and it felt like an internal fight to find all the items before the grocery store's white light lured you to an eternal sleep— or a well needed nap.

"You excited?"

You looked over at Azriel, meeting his hazel eyes instantly. While his face seemed neutral, you could see the hint of enjoyment that danced in his eyes, a golden-hued green that made you smile instinctively. "Yeah," you said, "It'll be a fun summer.”

Azriel made a sound akin to an appreciative, agreeable hum. The aisles felt narrower the more you walked alongside him, feeling the ghost of his touch as you brushed against him with every step.

"And for the festival?" He asked.

Your smile grew larger at this.

The festival was actually one of the things you were most excited for this summer—aside from the general premise of being with everyone, of course. Summit Pulse was three days of live music, featuring over 80 artists across multiple stages. From indie bands to electronic DJs, Summit had been a dream of yours to attend since freshman year—the same time you'd first learned that Mor and Rhys had a beach house in the same city it was hosted.

"Very," you tossed him a glance before you pulled out three boxes of instant Mac n Cheese. "And I can imagine you are too."

You were sure of it. Your shared love of music was one of the things you and Azriel had bonded about originally. You still remembered the first time you'd hung out with him outside of your Intro the Philosophy class, sitting on the couch in the apartment he shared with Cassian and Rhysand. You'd spent most of the night looking at each other's music— analyzing your saved playlists and talking about the various concerts you'd been to.

Az's smile grew, a single dimple appearing on his cheeks as the corners of his eyes crinkled. "You'd be correct," he replied. A small pause followed before he said, "I think I just need to get the energy for it."

You laughed, stopping in place to turn around and look at him. "Me too," you admitted. The exhaustion from early had started to rear its ugly head again and your legs still ached with the long car ride. You let out a small tired sigh, running a hand along your face. Azriel's eyes traced the movement.

"I am really excited,” you said, “But god, I'm so exhausted. I'm glad we have a few days for me to mentally prep."

Az raised a brow. "I can imagine. You've had quite the semester."

You titled your head in response, brows falling into a subtle, confused furrow.

"Mor told me how hard you guys were working, that your professors weren’t very accommodating.”

You raised a single brow at his wording and the corners of Azriel’s lips twitched upwards. “Alright,” he added with an amused shake of his head. “She said your professors were assholes who needed to get laid.”

You let out a small snort at this, an unintended response that you would’ve felt embarrassed about had it been anyone but Azriel in front of you. His smile seemed to quirk up further.

"Mor was right. It was a rough semester to say the least.”

For more reasons than you'd been willing to let on. Yes, your coursework had gotten a lot more demanding, but it wasn't just schoolwork that tired you out. Mor and Feyre had already started their grad school applications, spending nights in the libraries making pros and cons lists for every school each of you were interested in. Their plan was to find places close enough to one another, to settle in one city and get a large apartment together. Your grad school applications had remained untouched— you had no schools in mind. No programs. No connections.

"I can also imagine your breakup didn't help with it all," Az said. His voice was quieter now, as if he was unsure of the words he was speaking. You held his gaze as he looked at you. "I'm sorry about that, by the way."

You shrugged. "I'm not."

It was the truth. Eris had been a great boyfriend, sure, but you weren't overtly heartbroken over the breakup. You’d met Eris in a Political Science class and despite your initial impression of him, he’d grown on you fast. He was a sweetheart at his core but you simply didn’t mesh as well as you once thought. The breakup was inevitable in the same way that it was amicable, mutual, and very much needed.

Something flickered across Azriel’s face and his gaze darkened. He straightened himself, his posture now emphasizing the height he held over you. "Why?" Azriel said, voice low. "Did he do something?"

His response made your mouth go dry for a fleeting second. Azriel and Eris always had a long-standing hatred for each other that you’d never truly understood. It traced back to some events that had transpired during their high school years, this you knew, but your knowledge stopped at that. Your relationship with Eris had definitely distanced you from your friends— Mor and Azriel to be specific, but now that things were finally beginning to feel normal again, you didn’t want to ruin it.

"No, no," you quickly clarified, offering him a reassuring smile. His shoulders seemed to relax at your answer and you swallowed as you took in his face again, gaze still entirely focused on you.

You cleared your throat before turning yourself around to examine the shelves once more with new interest. "He was a good boyfriend to me. But it wasn't going anywhere and I felt like he was distracting me from more important things."

Reaching up, you attempted to grab a box on the top shelf, recognizing it as the last of those granola bars that Mor used to hoard in her cupboard. The box remained out of reach with every stretch of your hand.

"So no more distractions for you?"

Before you could respond to his question, Azriel was behind you, leaning over you to effortlessly grab the box from the shelf. He wasn't touching you, his chest still a respectable distance away from your back, but you felt the warm presence of him on your skin all the same. Your stomach did a small flip and you found yourself releasing a breath you hadn't realized you'd sucked in.

Azriel offered the box to you. You looked up at him, gently grabbing it with pinkened cheeks. You chose your next words carefully.

"Only meaningful ones."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

summer is slowly coming to an end so i present to you.... the fluffiest lil summer romance i shall ever write!!!! this series is entirely planned out and its just #vibes. everyone thank @milswrites for pushing me to actually start this.

as usual, thank you for reading <3 and lmk if you'd like to be added to the tag list <3

one summer tag list 🫶🏻:

@velarisnightsky444

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii

azriel tag list 🫶🏻:

@thisiskaylin @serrendiipty @acourtofsteelandthunder

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euphemiaamillais · 8 months

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money, power, glory - coriolanus snow

on the night of your victory party, president snow decides that he wants a little more than a kiss from his victor—after all, don’t you ought to show your president just how patriotic you are?

cw: 18+//dub-con//age gap (reader is 18+)//abuse of power//mentions of exploitation//objectification//blowjobs//piv sex//coercion//loss of virginity//creampie//district 7 victor!reader and president!coryo

the party is all for you; the gaud and festivity, the fountains of alcohol, the ridiculously clad guests. you won, they tell you—but it’s a reminder of the children you killed as you fought tooth and claw in that arena. it feels wrong, to be put on display like this when twenty-three children lay dead in their districts. the celebration of murder—it’s as if you’re the prize animal at the circus.

you had been primped and preened by your stylist drusilla all afternoon, gritting your teeth as every part of your body was plucked and waxed, as she pulled your hair back into some elaborate hairstyle, the pins now digging into your scalp. that pain—the dull ache of it—ironically served as a reminder of the pain you had to endure in the games. you only survived because you slit the throat of that boy from two, watching the blood trickle out of his neck as you practically limped away.

you’d since been repaired, though many a time you felt that familiar ache in your ankle—the one that had been broken—and supposed it was punishment for the cruelty of your actions. but put twenty-four helpless children in an arena and ask them to fight to the death, and you learn that the ‘inherent goodness’ in human beings is nothing but a thin veil maintained by law and order.

‘enjoying the show?’ you hear the familiar, cut-glass voice of drusilla, who’s currently festooned in a garish purple gown covered in feathers—with a hairpiece to match.

you shrug, taking a sip of the expensive champagne, feeling the bubbles fizz down your throat as you swallow. it’s all so much, the noise, the people—as if you’re being smothered.

‘you’re being awfully quiet,’ she sighs, brushing your shoulder with her perfectly manicured hand. ‘isn’t there anything to tempt you?’

drusilla is more sympathetic than most in the capitol; she’d listened as you’d told her about your family back in seven, the trees that spanned for miles, how you often lay under their green blanket and daydreamed of a world beyond this one. but still, she would never understand what being a victor was like, there were scarce few in panem who did. many turned to morphling or alcohol upon their return home, and you’d heard horror stories whispered about victor’s being sold for certain services.

‘i’m just tired, that’s all,’ you murmur, reaching for another glass of champagne as a waiter walks past.

drusilla cocks a thin brow, a suspicious look glittering in her eyes. the throng of people is dizzying as you down your second champagne, but you feel your nerves ease, and pray that this night will become more bearable.

‘come, they all want to see you—their victor,’ she grins, pearly white teeth glistening under the golden light of the strings of lanterns.

you take her hand, and she pulls you through the crowd. it’s a vertigo-inducing sea of rainbow; hands clasping together in applause, rich cheers from their panted mouths. you feel your own lips twitch into a smile, but your eyes are somewhere else; far away from this. you can smell the soil back home, see the larks that fly through the trees that reach to the heavens. there’s a dreadful pang of homesickness thrumming in your heart.

and yet you cannot return home, not when they’re all watching you, waiting for the pretty victor to make a witty remark, or to make bids on who will get to have her first. you’re acutely aware that your pink dress is practically see-though, it’s gauzy fabric not leaving much to the eye. your feet ache from the heels they’ve put you in, and you know no matter how much they primp and preen at you, you’ll always be district. an outsider among those in wealthy excess.

among the throngs of people, you spot him—president snow. your breath catches between your lips. you’ve seen him before, obviously. his touch has always strayed a little too much when he’s been around you, but of course, you’d never say anything. you wonder how such a young man—he’s only 24 after all—rose to such power. nobody can deny how attractive he is, piercing blue eyes and platinum blonde curls. if he hadn’t put you in these games, maybe you’d even be persuaded to like him.

drusilla pushes you to him, and you stumble a little, the champagne causing a heady, floaty feeling in your body as you make an attempt to make yourself presentable. you hadn’t expect to be thrust towards him so soon, but the way he’s staring at you is as if he’s been expecting this.

‘don’t be so nervous, you look gorgeous,’ drusilla reminds you as you come to a halt before president snow.

he’s wearing one of his finely tailored suits; this one the crimson shade of red you’ve so often seen him wearing. you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and feel the absence of drusilla’s hand from your back. when you crane your neck—only slightly, so as not to seem rude—she’s disappeared into the throng of brightly clad partygoers.

‘my favourite victor,’ president snow reaches for your hand and presses a kiss to it. his lips are strangely cold. not that you knew what to expect, but somehow it makes sense. his demeanour is like ice.

‘president snow,’ you lean back into curtsy, your bad ankle aching as you do so.

he smiles, icy eyes flickering over your form. he can practically make out your undergarments in that dress; they’re a shade of peach and of such a sheer satin that you can nearly see right through, but it leaves enough for the onlooker to be left wondering what lies underneath. your eyes follow him, and you clutch at your arms shyly, as if half of the capitol hasn’t seen you dressed so scantly.

‘shy tonight, are we?’ he inquires, edging close enough to you that you can make out the slight five o’clock shadow on his jaw.

‘i’m tired, that’s all,’ you mutter, flinching as one of his hands grips at your waist.

‘i would’ve thought you’d enjoy this spectacle, seeing as you made quite the circus out of the arena,’ he leaned in close to your ear, in what you assumed was an intimidation tactic. in spite of being hardened by the arena, deep down, president snow terrified you. ‘the way you killed that boy from two—brutal. but you made yourself the star of the capitol…’

his touch strays further, grasping at the thin fabric that surrounds your ass. one blonde brow arches in surprise, and his lips flicker into what you assume to be a smirk. if he was anyone else, you would’ve pushed him away, but he’s your president. one word and you’d be good as dead; and after enduring the games, you’d rather not come face-to-face with that sort of confrontation again.

‘how pretty,’ he muses, fingers tracing lightly against your form. ‘did you wear this just for me?’

your lips purse, but your body propels you to give a swift nod of your head. ‘do you like it?’

president snow smiles, eyes dancing at your quick wittedness. the girls he has are usually stupid whores who he pays to suck his cock—you, on the other hand, are a precious prize. intelligent, obviously, and startlingly beautiful. and you’re the first female victor since mags flannagan, not that he has any say over her because he was still crawling his way up under dr. gaul then.

‘oh yes, i think you know why,’ he drops the fabric, and takes a few steps away, a blasé look crossing his features.

he watches as your cheeks turn a pretty pink, and you cast your gaze to the ground. how charming; you feigning bashfulness. he’d seen you at your most primal, knife dragging along the jugular of that boy. you couldn’t charm your way out of this one.

the silence pierces the air, and you are prompted to speak—anything to change the topic. the stagnancy between you two has wrapped it’s suffocating arms around you—and you don’t want to choke.

‘i must thank you, president snow, for the festivities,’ you gesture to the ridiculous amount of decorations; the blaring music and the light show.

‘i’m glad you like it,’ he remarks, but his eyes are still trained on you. he wants something from you, and you’re not sure what. ‘i had to celebrate my favourite victor, after all.’

you stifle a scoff; his flattery is sickening. he’s never this charming among company. he’s cold, calculating—you can see it in his eyes, still, but he so obviously needs you wrapped around his little finger. and of course, you can’t resist. who would disobey their president, after all?

‘you flatter me, sir,’ he swallows thickly at the appellation. god, he’d love to hear you call him that as he bends you over one of his expensive armchairs. he wonders if you’d beg him to stop, or if you’d take it. he can’t figure out which type you are, just yet.

‘there’s nothing wrong with flattery, don’t you think?’ he is close to you again, breath fanning your cheek. ‘especially when it comes from your president.’

you feel your body freeze up. there’s something so intimidating about him, and although you want to outsmart him, the way he makes your knees buckle turns you into another one of those bumbling capitol fools.

‘now, if you’ll excuse me, sweetheart. i’ve got a few matters to attend to,’ he backs away, leaving in a flourish of red.

you have to blink a few times to register his absence, and reach for another glass of champagne as a waiter holds out a decadent tray to you. why not? you think, taking time to sip elegantly at this one. there’s no harm in imbibing if you have to make it through this hellish night.

—

drusilla taps you on the back as you’re shoving an expensive vol-au-vent past your painted lips. when you turn around, she’s shocked to see your mouth full of the pastry, cheeks rounded out as you attempt to swallow it. the hunger pangs had grown considerably, and when you finally gulped it down, the effects of the champagne made you giggle.

‘oh honey,’ she shakes her head, reaching for a pristine napkin to wipe at the flakes of pastry by your lips.

the night had drawn on, and you’d been left with an anxious feeling after your encounter with president snow. everytime somebody so much as brushes against you, your head had whipped around as you searched for a head of perfectly-set blonde curls and a crimson coat. to your luck, it had only ever been waiters, carting more champagne. you reckoned you were drunk enough now that you didn’t care how you acted.

let them think you were a fool, you’d be heading home tomorrow anyways.

‘how much have you had to drink?’ she inquires, and watches as you furrow your brows in thought.

‘six, no—seven glasses,’ you admit, and drusilla scolds you with a clucking tongue, her pink curls bobbing as she shakes her head.

‘president snow won’t be very happy with that,’ she remarks.

your mouth turns into a curious pout, watching as her face falters into some sort of cryptic, far-away look. you run the soft fabric of your dress through your fingers as you let the words settle. no, it doesn’t make sense.

‘why would he care?’ you asked, a little piqued by the thought that he’d even be remotely interested in whether you were sober or not.

drusilla’s purple lips are drawn into a thin line, and she bends in close as if she’s ready to tell you a secret. your throat’s gone dry, the anxiety prying at you with it’s cold hands.

‘look, sweetie,’ her golden tone is laced with a little condescension. ‘president snow won’t like that you’re drunk. it won’t make the situation ideal for him.’

your brows quirk into a look of confusion. situation? drusilla sees your loss of words and takes it upon herself to inform you of the events. how naive you are, that you’ve got no idea just what he wants with you.

‘you’ve been asked to stay the night at the mansion,’ her eyes flicker to search for any eavesdroppers, and then she continues. ‘look, i’m sorry if i didn’t tell you earlier, but he’s asked to keep quiet about it. what with the others being jealous—’

‘others?’ your voice falters.

‘well, sweetie, you know how desirable victors are. president snow just wants to make sure nobody else gets their hands on you. that’s why he’s keeping you here, under close guard.’ drusilla bites her lip, revealing that she’s worried for you. she didn’t have much of a choice in your fate, but if she could forewarn you, she would.

you understood now why he’d been so touchy before—clearly he was jealous that somebody was trying to get their hands on his precious victor.

you lose all your words, mouth opening, nothing spilling out. it feels like it’s been filled up with dirt; you can hardly speak. drusilla goes to strike your arm, but is prevented from doing so as she’s whisked away by some blue-haired man harping on about her latest designs. once again, you feel the pangs of loneliness.

you had to reconcile yourself to the fact that the rest of your life—however long that may be—would be a lonely existence. you’d spent the better part of the month on the train, zigzagging back and forth between the districts, reading off prewritten speeches as you had to face the families of the fallen. all those children—their children—dead.

every night, you’d taken those pills prescribed by the doctors, the ones that stopped you from waking up with your hand around your throat as you screamed. you slept a dreamless sleep, but it became hard to not depend on them. what would you do without them tonight?

—

the party draws on long into the night, and you grow bored and overwhelmed. as per drusilla’s advice, and also not wanting to wake up with a throbbing headache tomorrow morning, you resorted to drinking the assorted non-alcoholic beverages.

your head is pounding by one am, but the party doesn’t seem to cease by any means. deciding you’ve had enough, and that nobody would really miss you—after all, nobody’s even talked to you for at least two hours—you stumble your way across the marble steps of the mansion. you hazily remember drusilla telling you what door you were meant to enter by, and you find it manned by a singular avox.

without a word, they let you inside, and you trail tipsily after them up a velvet staircase. your ankles roll as you climb the steps, head spinning, but it doesn’t take long to reach your room. your feet are aching, and when the avox leaves you to your own company, you practically tear the shoes off your feet.

you lay back against the white sheets, revelling in the feeling of the thousand-count cotton brushing against your skin. you’d never felt anything like it, and could feel your eyes shutting as you relax into the plush sheets.

you awaken what seems like hours later, but only twenty minutes have passed on the alarm clock by the bed. the sound of footsteps can be heard outside your door, and you’re surprised you can make it out as the party still booms outside the vast windows of the mansion.

you sit up, heart racing, and head throbbing slightly. you’re groggy from the champagne, and the bubbly tipsiness has given way to the absolute misery of sobering up.

the door opens, a small sliver of light giving way to the shadowy figure that progresses into the room. you squint, unable to make out a face, but pray it’s not one of the men you’ve heard were making bids for the victor.

you sigh a breath of relief when you see president snow, not a hair out of place as he stands beside your bed. your dress is up around your thighs, and you can see his blue eyes dancing across your frame.

‘president snow,’ you murmur into the darkness.

you wondered who had turned off the light in the first place—your memory is hazy at best but you don’t remember flicking the switch. an avox must have come past while you were sleeping.

‘i see my favourite victor has taken some respite,’ he muses, one cold hand reaching out to stroke your thigh.

you flinch back reflexively, not used to the icy feeling against your skin. nor are you used to the prying hands of men. the most you’d ever done was kiss a boy, and even then, that was years ago, you weren’t even sure it counted.

‘sorry,’ you spit out, lips trembling with apology. he only laughs, hand still tracing your smooth skin.

‘no need to apologise. i’d rather you doze here than fall asleep on a bench where any of those men could lay a hand on you,’ he makes a sound of disgust, shaking his head at the thought. ‘i couldn’t let them spoil my pretty victor.’

you feel your cheeks warm—did he really think you were pretty? but you remembered who he was; in fact he was the very reason there were even any games at all. he could put a stop to all this if he wanted, and yet he didn’t. you couldn’t let him fool you with his charm.

‘it’s very thoughtful of you, president snow,’ you offer, not wanting to raise suspicion in him.

in the moonlight, you can see a smile flicker across his lips. his hand moved further up to the apex of your thigh, and your breath hitches. what was he doing?

‘do you like that?’ he murmurs, leaning in against your ear, breath hot.

you can’t think of what to say. your thighs tingle a little with the touch, but you don’t want him there. it’s wrong. he’s the president though, and how can you tell him no when he could have you killed?

‘you’re a quiet one, aren’t you?’ he mutters, but wanting to rouse a sound out of you, he moves his hand to press flush against your panties, thumb stroking the area where your clit is.

you let out a breathy gasp; the pleasant warmth flooding your belly. his brows quirk up at your quick response—you’re so willing. he wonders how far he can push you; of course he wants to have you no matter what, after all, it’s his right as president—but he wants to know how much of a whore you are under those pretty clothes.

he knew what district girls were like. lucy gray—though that name made him shudder—bent easily under his guidance. he hoped you’d do the same; obey him. he had more power now, six years after his stint as a mentor and then peacekeeper. he kept that to himself; everybody else simply thought he’d been struck down with a bad bout of the flu, when really he’d been uncovering rebel plots by day and by night was burying his cock deep inside of whatever district slut would have him.

‘please, president snow,’ you beg, head spinning as he rubs at your sensitive nub.

‘please what?’ he inquires, an undercurrent of menace in his voice.

‘i mean—are you sure we should be doing this?’ you furrow your brows with anxiety. ‘aren’t there men who want to pay you good money for this?’

you squeeze your legs together in the hopes that he’ll stop, but this only angers him and he uses his muscular hands to pry your thighs apart. you can’t deny him this; he wants it, and he’ll have it.

‘oh, they’re not going to get you. no, you’re far too precious for the likes of them,’ he shook his head in disbelief. ‘when i realised you were going to be sold to some scumbag who’s been divorced three times, well, i couldn’t let that happen.’

your mouth stretches into a perplexed pout, and you let out another soft moan as he rubs diligently at your clit. his other fingers brush over your red lace panties, and he sucks in a breath as he feels how soaked you are. surely you cannot deny him when you’re practically begging for it?

‘but…’ your lips tremble and you are almost deterred from saying what you want to by the scornful look painted across his noble features.

‘surely you don’t want me,’ you scramble to find an excuse.

‘why wouldn’t i? it’s not like you’re a girl anymore, hm? you’re nineteen, and ever so pretty,’ his other hand thumbs your cheek. you didn’t feel it, but you’d been crying. his thumb presses against a droplet.

‘please,’ you plead. ‘you wouldn’t enjoy it—i’m a virgin.’

he laughs, shaking his head at your stupidity. he hasn’t suspected it, what with the way you were dressed; the gown revealing far too much of your body to him—he could see the top of your nipples sticking out of the neckline.

‘oh no,’ he clucked his tongue. ‘then i simply must have you. how could let you i waste your virginity on any of those men when i could have you?’

you shake your head, body trembling as you feel yourself give way to his fingers, which were slowly bringing you to your pleasure. you clutch at the plush sheets and feel yourself gush, your panties growing even more damp.

he can’t believe it, how quickly you came. he wonders if you’d ever even touched yourself before. sure, you’d killed a boy, but you really knew very little about the world, and even less of men. it enthralled him.

his cock strained in his suit pants, and he let out a low grunt. you responded with a shocked look, but sighed as he stood up, letting go of your thighs. the way he’d touched you—it was scandalous. surely he’d be in a lot of trouble if anyone found out?

but your heart fell when you remembered that he was president. it’s not as if you were anything more than a hired whore who had to do her duty by him.

‘you’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?’ he called out, combing a hand over his perfectly styled hair.

your mouth went dry, but you stood up, wanting to be defiant, clawing for anything to make you seem like you had some sense of autonomy. it was a lost cause, however. you forgot how he towered over you now that your heels were discarded. you couldn’t face up against him.

‘i said, you’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?’ his voice was wrought with ire this time, and you nodded.

‘yes sir,’ you respond with a clear tone. you’re surprised you even managed it.

he reaches out to stroke your face again, sighing as your warm cheeks meet the cold pads of his fingers. you tremble a little, knees buckling in fear. anything could happen.

‘now, are you going to be a good girl and show your president how patriotic you are?’ he asks.

‘yes, mr president,’ you reply blankly. the name sends the blood straight to his cock.

‘then get on your fucking knees,’ he commands.

your head is spinning, but you somehow find your way to the ground, knees aching as you press them into the wooden floorboards. you hear the sound of something unzipping, and when you glance up, you come face to face with his cock.

he’s hard, and huge—not that you’ve ever seen one before—and he lets out a heavy grunt as he sees how pliant you are. he wants nothing more than to fuck that pretty little face of yours and watch how you gag around his length. he hasn’t known he was so big until he’d gotten to district 12 and the stupid district sluts kept choking on his cock. when he’d dressed in academy rouge he’d only ever known his own hand. but now, he knew what power he could exert with all eight inches of himself.

‘good girl,’ he strokes your chin, and when you open your mouth, he slides his thumb over your bottom lip.

your saliva coats his thumb, and you gag a little as he slides it to the back of your mouth. a small grin flickers across his lips; if you’re choking on his thumb, just imagine how bleary-eyed you’ll be as you gag around his cock.

‘god, i don’t want to think about what i would be missing out on if you’d died in that arena,’ he tuts at the thought, and slides his thumb out of your mouth, smearing your own saliva at the corner of your lips.

your lipstick is smudged now, and he’s determined to ruin it even more; perhaps even have your mascara running down your cheeks as you take his cock in your mouth.

‘when i’d heard that the victor was to be the eighteen year old girl from district 7, well, i knew i’d be able to have you. especially once i got a look at you, in your victory dress. did they make it that short on purpose? to make my cock hard?’ he laughs, reminiscing how he’d taken a whore that night that looked just like you, pretending it was you that he was fucking from behind.

you shiver, terrified by him, his words. they’re disgusting. the way he viewed you as something to exploit—and it can’t even be considered taboo because you’re nineteen, after all. if the president wants you, he’ll get you.

‘answer me!’ he scowls, tugging at your intricate hairstyle, which hurts because the pins holding it together were already poking at your scalp.

‘no,’ you murmur, because it’s the truth. you wore what they told you to, you didn’t think it was supposed to be for him.

‘no?’ he laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘well then, tonight at least—they must’ve known i wanted to have you. wasn’t going to let you get away from me this time.’

you swallow thickly, mouth agape in terror, knees trembling against the cool floor. you can feel the bruises forming on them; the dull ache of kneeling is humiliating.

finally, he presses his cock against your open mouth, a little pleased that it was hanging agape in shock, making it easier for him to slide it right in. you freeze, blinking back tears of mortification, but you can't say no, not when he's your president, not when there's that nagging ache in your core that makes you yearn for his fingers back against you.

you open wider, and he slides himself in, cock hitting the back of your throat instantly. you gag, the tears now dribbling foolishly down your cheeks, and president snow just laughs, the sound mottled with undertones of a soft groan. you wrap your lips around him, and move to bob your head up and down, but he grabs your hair and tugs it towards him.

you cry out, scalp stinging and mouth stuffed full to the brim with his cock. his grip tightens as he begins to thrust into your mouth, grunting as feels your saliva coat his length. he can't even fit himself all in, it's pathetic, but he'll help you learn in time how to deepthroat, so he can watch as your mascara runs while you beg him to push himself further down your throat. you'll become his personal fuckdoll.

'teeth,' he winces as he feels your top teeth make contact with the skin of his cock, and embarrassed, you make sure to push your top lip around them.

his lips stretch around a groan, forcing your nose to meet his pubic bone—the sound of your gags are delightful, and when his eyes flutter shut, you know he's enjoying it. he tosses his head back, cock throbbing as he forces it back and forth in your mouth. when his eyes open again, it's to the sight of your mascara running, thick black streaks painting your cheeks as you choke around him.

'so pretty,' he strokes your cheek, smearing the mascara even more. he wonders if you'll still be crying as he stretches you out, filling your cunt with his big cock. probably; he's forgotten how much whining virgins do.

feeling himself close, his thrusts grow more haggard, and you feel his balls slap against your chin as you attempt to breathe—through your nose, of course. his movements are suffocating, you're grasping at his hips, praying for it to be over—and then it is.

hot sticky spurts of cum slide right down your throat as he gives a loud moan, crying your name in praise. part of you—the part you revile—reddens at his praises, you want nothing more than to please your president. the other part of you tries not to gag as the pearly ropes of his cum slither achingly slow down your throat.

'good girl, swallowing it all—you'd do anything for your president, wouldn't you?' he coos, pulling his cock out of your mouth.

your lips ache, and you're sure the back of your throat is blooming purple with a bruise; but you nod, eyes all fucked out because your cunt is dripping wet, all for him.

'well, i really only want one more thing from my victor...' his voice trails off, lips pursing. you can see the desire in his eyes, icy gaze dripping with lecherous intent.

and yet, you cannot deny the fact that he had already made you cum once, that your body is begging for him. you hate it. you want to scream—if only you weren't so tired and your mouth didn't ache so sorely.

'how about you lay back in the bed, hm?' his voice is soft, laced now with the sweet tone he uses to charm the wives of senators and the little girls that give him roses.

you oblige blindly, and rise, knees black and blue, legs trembling, but somehow you find yourself laid back against the plush sheets once again.

‘can’t believe nobody else has had you,’ he murmurs, removing his shoes carefully, and then undoing his suit. it’s brand new, and he doesn’t want to spoil it.

when he’s undressed to his boxers, you can’t help but admire his form. he’s well-toned, biceps muscular, the slight formation of abs on his stomach, and you can see his cock has once again hardened. you press your thighs together in want, and he watches as you gaze at him, half-terrified, eyes blown wide, and yet half-wanton, body beckoning him to take you and make you his.

‘god, you’re so pretty,’ he muses, crawling across the bed and placing his arms either side of you.

you shiver, suddenly feeling brushed with cold, perhaps it’s from him. how fitting, you think, that his name and touch are both reminiscent of the cold. you can feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh, a reminder of your helplessness in this situation. the way he’s going to do whatever he wants with you.

he slides his fingers under the straps of your dress, forcing it down your arms. you lie still as a stone, letting him slide the dress down your body, exposing your breasts, watching him sigh as your nipples respond to the frigid temperature radiating from his body.

he takes one breast in his mouth, laving at your nipple until it hardens under his tongue. your hands are urging you to clutch at his perfectly styled hair, but you cannot move; the tears are brimming in your eyes and you’re not sure if they’re out of shame that he’s touching you, or shame that your body is so pliant to his touch.

he pushes the dress down further, and gets on his knees until he’s completely stripped you of it. there you lay, among the pristinely white sheets, the party alive outside of your window; completely bare besides your panties. your skin is pocked with goosebumps as he runs his hands over your bare stomach, fingers latching at the waistband of your panties.

‘god, are you wet for me?’ he chuckled as he removes your soaked panties—still evidence that he’d managed to make you cum.

you are unresponsive until he gives your skin a pinch between his slender fingers, and a soft yelp escapes your lips.

‘talk to me,’ he commands, though there’s an undertone of begging. not that the president should ever have to beg. ‘i can’t have my pretty victor keeping silent, especially not while i fuck her. i want to hear the sweet sounds that are going to come from your lips.’

you give a nod, eyes flickering to glance at the ceiling, watching as the hazy lights from outside dance upon the ornate eaves. one of his hands touches your cheek, the chill bringing you back to meet his gaze.

‘gonna make you mine,’ he groans, reaching down to palm at his cock through his boxers.

you push away the tears at your eyes, and your hands go down to clutch at the sheets. you’re still a little floaty from the champagne, but it can’t seem to take you away from what is occurring right before your eyes.

'look at me!' he snaps, hard cock now pressing against the inside of your thighs.

'sorry,' you manage to get out, lips trembling as you brace yourself—he's big... too big.

'fuck, can't believe i get to have you all for myself...but i suppose it's the least i deserve as president,' a soft laugh plays upon his lips, the sound soon mottled by a low moan.

he eases the tip into your hole, sighing at your tightness. your eyes flutter shut, but strangely, your core only tingles as he slides himself into you. it's the ultimate betrayal—your body is yielding to him, growing wetter as he sheathes himself completely inside of you; at least, most of his eight inches.

'so fucking wet,' he grins devilishly, beginning to buck his hips gently.

you look so angelic, hair sprawled out on the pillow like a halo, the soft lights from the party glowing against your skin. coriolanus wants to take it slow, in spite of how much his cock is throbbing, because you are his prize—he must relish you. he can't let your virginity go to waste, after all. half the capitol has been vying for it, and now he is the one to take it. he imagines the disgruntled looks on the faces of the men who had bid for you when he informs them that you've been spoiled—and if any of them complained, well, he's the president. he could see to their... accidental deaths.

as he stretches out your tight walls, a pretty moan escapes your lips, by accident, but he takes this as a sign that you are surrendering yourself to him. coriolanus smiles a little to himself, and fastens the pace slightly, grunting as your body opens itself to his caresses.

‘you like that, hm?’ he inquires, one cold hand moving down to rub your clitoris.

you let out another gasp, this time of shock and pleasure, as his thumb presses against your sensitive nub. his eyes dance with delight as you come apart under him, your cunt growing slicker by the second. you’re so beautiful, and he glances down at the part where you two meet—his big cock stretching out your tight walls. a milky ring of your arousal coats his shaft, only driving him more lustful as he fucks you.

‘president snow…’ you cry out, trying to shove his hand away.

you can see the ire returning to his eyes, and when he presses down on your clit harder you stop and allow your body to relax. you realise it’s fruitless to try and fend him off anymore—he’s making you feel good, after all. but that’s the terrible part of it, the fact that you can feel waves of pleasure washing over you again. he’s smiling sickly, groaning as he ruts into you with grunts.

‘you're so fucking tight,’ he moans, watching you moan with pleasure as his fingers bring you to climax.

‘so good…’ you say, barely above a whisper, but the knowing look he cast you makes you admit it—after all, perhaps he’ll be kinder next time. let you decide when you want it.

‘yeah? you like the way my big cock is filling you out? how your president is reminding you who you belong to?’ he grunts, and you give a lazy nod.

the coil in your stomach comes unbound slowly as the combination of his cock stretching you out and his thumb rubbing diligent circles around your clit drives you over the edge. your toes curl sightly, arms moving up to grip at his back. you find the smooth, cold skin is surprisingly toned; hard muscles prominent under your touch.

you feel your pleasure peaking, body dancing with warmth and want. you try to stifle your moan by turning your head into the pillow, but his hand grasps your chin and pulls you back to meet his gaze.

‘don’t turn away from me!’ he scolds, brows knitting into a pained expression.

‘i’m sorry…’ you murmur, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

you feel a wave of pleasure wash over your body as his thumb coaxes another orgasm out of you—your second one for the evening. your cheeks fill with warmth as your arousal coats his cock, causing coriolanus to let out a breathy groan.

you pray that it ends soon, but your body continues to dance with pleasure and satisfaction, giving into him, allowing him to make his stake in you. his pretty little victor that he was deflowering—and she came around his cock and everything!

‘fuck,’ coriolanus grunts, hands travelling down to grab at the soft skin of your hips as he pounds into you. ‘all fucking mine. taking me so well…’

when you clench around him, he feels his balls tighten, and cock still for a moment as he reaches his own climax. you’re mewling so prettily—half-begging for him to stop by the way your head roles about in a dissociative reverie shows him that if your heart cannot be persuaded to take him, your body will.

‘shit,’ he spits as he slows his pace, dragging in and out of you at a painfully still speed.

he doesn’t want to finish so quickly, but you’re so fucking tight and your slick coating his cock has set his nerves on fire—his tip is throbbing with desire. coriolanus’ fingers are plunged into the supple skin of your hips, digging far enough that you feel a few bruises forming under the skin.

'so fucking tight,' he curses, sliding himself all the way out before filling you up to the hilt again. the sound of your wet cunt squelching around his big cock reverberates against the walls.

another moan escapes your plump lips, egging coriolanus on—clearly you're enjoying this to some extent; you've come twice tonight. next time he might not be so kind, after all, he's only being so sweet because you're a virgin—you're more like a prize to enjoy than anything else.

'gonna fill you up with my cum,' he sneers, eyes rolling shut as he pushes himself against your g-spot. you contract around him in response. 'you'd like that, wouldn't you? taking your president's cum? so patriotic, aren't you?'

the way he's still squeezing and pinching at your hips urges you to respond, so you cast a groggy nod—the champagne is still making your head swim.

'good girl,' he praises, and you respond with a genuine smile.

coriolanus grunts heavily, his balls tightening, and he feels hot spurts of cum spurt out from the tip of his cock. the relief that washes over him is blissful; watching you take every last drop of him makes him sigh deeply. you can't help but squirm at the sticky feeling as he thrusts his cum back up into you. you're trying not to lurch away in disgust—his hands, now clamping down on your shoulders, are keeping you there, close to him.

when he pulls out, he gazes at your weeping cunt in awe as his cum trickles down your thighs. you’ll always be his—he can see that by the tiny smudge of blood that also coats your inner thigh on one side. he doesn’t know if he can bear to sell you to those other men now; perhaps he’ll just have to lock you up here and keep you all to himself.

‘thank you, mr president,’ you murmur, half on the verge of sleep.

your body is humming with exhaustion, and you begin to curl up into a supine position, trying to force away the uncomfortable combination of his sticky cum and the dull ache between you thighs.

‘i’ll be back tomorrow,’ he presses a kiss to your forehead, smoothing a few tendrils of hair out of your half-closed eyes. ‘don’t think you can get away from me now, my pretty victor.’

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empressnailsindia · 2 years

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herespaaa · 9 months

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solbaby7 · 3 months

Text

Stuck Like Glue

rhysand x clingy!reader

warnings: light bullying, maybe some swearing

summary: You’re a little clingy and your High Lord never seems to mind but—maybe his friends do

clearing out my drafts, so don’t judge if it’s a lil short

—

It seemed harmless enough, hanging off of Rhysand’s shoulder or scuffling your way into his lap when the festivities had gotten entirely too much for you to endure on your own. His hand curls easily around your waist, fingers tapping at your thighs when you start pressing kisses down his neck in the middle of a conversation with one of the other High Lords.

Boredom quickly grew, excusing yourself with a kiss on Rhysand’s chest to go grab a drink. There’s more options to choose from than you can comprehend, drinks filled with hand tied tea bags or fresh fruit. You settle on something gentle, like tea with honey and you have full intentions to rush back to your High Lord, a smile in place and a few pastries in tow but the group he was speaking to before has huddled in closer, voices more hushed. “—just saying, Rhys. I don’t have a clue how you deal with her hanging off of you all the time.”

That was Cassian—cadence unmistakable even with all the overlapping voices in the crowd. Your smile falters, steps slowing as more of them pitch in, clapping sympathetic hands to Rhys’ shoulder and mumbling out different variations of how bad they felt for him. You say nothing, lemon tart shaking in your grasp and tears swell in your waterline as you wait for Rhysand to speak up—to tell them at they were stupid and wrong and had not the slightest fucking clue they were talking about.

But that never happens.

“She’s just a little attached—it’s cute.”

Attached.

You swallow the lump in your throat and enter again, a faux smile plastered in when you make a point to sit on the couch and not Rhysand’s lap. You refrain from reaching out to play with his fingers or trace the inky lines of his tattoos. There’s no spare kisses, no sweet words whispered for just the High Lord to hear, no fingers sneaking up to play in his hair or manicured nails scratching gentle patterns at the nape of his neck.

Just your hands in your lap, clutching that now half-cold cup of tea from before. “Baby, come sit over here.” Rhysand softly whispers, a hand already wrapping around your back to help move you but you stop him, head shaking in defiance as you slide just a little further away from him.

“That’s okay, there’s people around.”

“When has that ever stopped you before?”

He says it playfully but the smile you give back doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m okay, Rhys. Thank you.”

His brows furrow, confusion evident but he doesn’t fight you on it.

He does, however, notice the way you pull your hand away whenever he reached for yours and halfway through a conversation with some male Rhysand had apparently known since he was younger; he tries to kiss you. Just a quick peck but you only offer your cheek instead. His frown deepens, eyes barely tearing away from you to finish what they were talking about because your distance is unmistakable.

There’s no fingers toying with the crisp lines of his dress pants. No hair tickling at the side of his neck or legs wrapped around his waist and the absence makes his jaw clench.

Rhysand’s friends leave for only a second, making promises to return with more drinks and that they hoped the Lord of Darkness could still keep up and he chuckles back some half-assed comment before fully turning to face you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m having a great time.”

“You haven’t kissed me in hours.” It comes out like that’s the only fact he needed to make his point.

And to appease him now that no one was around, you lean forward and press a kiss to his mouth. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to be too much with your friends around.”

His brows raise again; that’s the second time now you’d said something along those lines. “Don’t worry about them—they’re just jealous anyway.”

You scoff like it’s an insult, quick to set the teacup down before you did something stupid like throw it. “Yeah, whatever.”

Rhysand forced you to meet his eye, a finger curled under your chin and you could feel the caress of his talons prodding at your mental barriers. “Show me what’s wrong.”

Your mouth opens to confess but out the corner of your eye you can see the guys returning, each holding their own bottle of whatever expensive liquor was left on display by the refreshment stands and your mouth shuts just as quickly. “There’s nothing wrong."

He doesn’t accept it, politely pulling you away from prying eyes. “Tell me, right now.”

A huffy sigh emits, shoulders slumping and tears well in your eyes. “I just want to have a good night without anyone thinking I’m too attached to you.”

His shoulders square out at the venom laced in the word and the previous conversation had between friends seemed to backfire. “Oh,” Guilty fingers trace warm cheeks, grazing over a wobbly chin and Rhys is crooning out apologies; promises that it wasn’t true—that he’d said whatever to get them off his back. “I didn’t mean it. I love when you’re all over me,” The truth in the words is undeniable and while you’d like to be mad, you really had missed the feel of him; his warmth and the grabby hands that always pulled you in closer.

“But, Cass said—“

“Cass is drunk and not getting any.” Rhys pulls you in closer, fingers raking through your hair while the other hand grips your hips just enough to push them flush with his own. The music thuds loudly, vibrating the floors and rattling the very blood in your body but everyone else seems to be having so much fun—laughing loudly and leaning into the other without the worry of being too much, too overbearing, too clingy or needy.

“But—“

“Don’t listen to him.” Pure affection sweetens his tone, love twinkling into amethyst irises when taking in every dip and curve of your features. “You’re perfect, just as you are.”

#rhys x reader #rhysand angst #rhysand x reader #rhysand fluff #rhys x reader smut #acotar fics #rhys acotar #acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #acotar x you #high lord rhysand #rhysand acotar #pro rhysand #rhysand #rhys fluff

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phyrestartr · 2 months

Text

If We Had Lived (Divine Favour) | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader

W/C: 3k #SFW, fluff, mentions of past abuse, heian sukuna, typical kitsune shapeshifting, jp mythology, morally grey reader, DRABBLE

tags: @kamote-kuneho @nyanwko @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9 @3zae-zae3 @chibiduck @kiiyoooo @lukaijah @memedealer-exe @f0th3rr @boretheral @cicithemess @paastaboi @someone0vx

“Sit still.”

“I'm sitting fucking still, fox.”

Sukuna did not sit still. He shifted and huffed, not unlike an annoyed, restless bull locked up in a pen–only, he was far from being in a pen and could leave whenever he so wished.

Yet, he stayed. He endured the torture you, his prized possession, put him through for the sake of making good impressions or whatever. But the harvest festival was hardly a big deal–the last time the king was bestowed a gift of any value was when he found himself the owner of a beautifully annoying fox that hid in his garden for a fucking eternity. A prize like that was unlikely to be given again. What else could possibly excite the man who had everything?

Your tails swished behind you dramatically as you shifted on your knees, tilting your head to look over the work you'd done with cleaning and manicuring his nails and hands. Thankfully, you left callouses in place. Not that he thought you'd be so cruel as to remove them, but you certainly had the ability to, considering how soft your own hands were.

“How much more?” Sukuna grumbled.

Your eyes flicked up to his for a moment before returning to your task. “I've hardly finished one hand.”

The king scowled as a child might as you continued gently pushing at his cuticles with the slim, soft stick of an orange tree, carved specially for this occasion. Sure, he was the one who demanded you to turn your self-preening onto him, but still--

Your soft, warm touch cupped under his jaw and lifted his pouty gaze to meet yours. “You asked this of me,” you reminded. “If you've changed your mind, I've other tasks to attend to.”

Sukuna’s lip twitched in an ugly, childish snarl. “You'll stay here and finish your job.”

“Very well.” You leaned up toward him and kissed the spot between his brows before sitting again. But Sukuna followed you, bowing his head to chase a proper kiss that you gave freely, the kind spirit you were. “Then you will have to sit still.”

“Tch.” But he obliged to the best of his abilities. “Already gonna have to sit still for hours while those damn peasants show up and dump scraps at my feet,” he sighed, pulling up a knee and resting an elbow on it.

“My, a kingly thing is complaining about fealty?” You wondered, sarcastic yet cripplingly honest. “While I understand your unwillingness to do anything but fight and kill, you must remind those beneath you of your status.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Yeah? Then why isn't my kyuubi doing just that?”

“I am no king,” you said. “I am simply the servant of one, no? Given to him as a mere offering, yet kept alive for his amusement.”

“Huh. Guess you know your place.” Sukuna shifted, and he noticed you pick up the pace, tending to him a bit quicker lest the restless beast lose his patience and leave with the job incomplete. He wouldn’t leave, not when he hungered for your attention and touch more than anything else the pathetic world could offer him–only something from the divine plane could satiate him.

“Mh.” You raised his hand and pressed his knuckles to your lips, then against the soft plushness of your cheek. “My place is by my king’s side. It will forever remain that way.”

–

You left his side. You left him, your pious saviour, your sworn king, your chosen mate, in favour of–what? Freedom? Adventure? Men? Women? What was it?

Thunder echoed in Sukuna’s chest as he paced. He’d swept through towns, destroyed any houses you might have been sequestered in, searched vacant shrines and the like, but never caught a glimpse of your ebony tails nor your decorated kimono. It drove him mad. How had he not noticed? Did the harvest festivities really engulf his mind? Sure, they were more eventful this year, what with clansmen attempting revenge in the name of their fallen brethren, but it’d only been a week of problems–nothing challenging, nothing that really, truly required his full attention. And still–

“Sukuna-sama,” Uraume called, interrupting his buzzing thoughts.

“What?” The king snapped, turning on his heel to face Uraume standing at his chamber door. “If this is about anything other than my fucking fox, then–”

“Please, come,” they said. “I believe I’ve found an explanation.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. Uraume sounded calm, not that they ever sounded particularly frantic, but they seemed…happy, maybe? Some weird kind of content, perhaps. It wasn’t something Sukuna was used to seeing on their placid face, though it’d become more common ever since you entered their lives and made yourself at home. The frost sorcerer had a soft spot for you. Sukuna couldn’t blame them.

“Pray tell what the fuck the explanation is,” Sukuna grumbled as he followed his subordinate, arms all crossed and tensed.

“I’m certain I’ve found the whereabouts of your beloved.” Uraume slid open the door leading to the gardens in the back and walked on. “In the absence of (Name), I decided to tend to the gardens myself. In doing so, I found something quite peculiar–a hidden grove of sorts.”

Sukuna’s fury morphed into prickling, fiery intrigue. “Bullshit. I’ve been all over this fucking garden with that fox. I know the ins and outs.”

“Then it would not surprise me if he indeed kept this a secret from you.”

Sukuna grumbled. “He knows better.”

“I don’t believe it’d be intentional,” Uraume said, “but I believe his instincts may have influenced him to secure a quiet, safe place for the future.”

The king relaxed. Electricity sparked weakly in his fingertips first,then throughout the rest of his body when everything started falling into place–you wanted all eyes to be on him, you didn’t want anyone to look at you during the festival. Your cheeks had grown fuller, your body more plush, your desire to snuggle and snooze went through the roof. Could you have been–?

Uraume stepped toward a thicket of trees in the far corner of the garden–one that Sukuna indeed had never bothered with, considering it looked full of trees and foliage and definitely not a spot to meander on your shared morning walks–before ducking under thick branches and pushing aside flimsy bushes.

Sukuna followed with a little more brute force, nearly ripping the pesky foliage out of the way and half-considering decimating the trees that dare whip him in the face with a cluster of leaves. But you’d probably get pissy if he did that. A pissy fox was fun, but also withheld sex, and that was a no-go for Sukuna these days, considering his concubines just weren’t doing it for him as of late.

Sure enough, Uraume’s words rang true. The grove was small and cozy, letting in warm dappling sunlight while shielding itself from the prying eyes of the outside world. In the very corner of the garden and the evident centrepiece of the grove, stood an immense weeping willow, one with a formidable trunk and thick, gnarled branches reaching up to drape long curtains of green like cascading waterfalls around itself. Truly, it felt like a separate little world would be hidden in there, behind swaying vines and rustling leaves.

“You gotta be shitting me,” Sukuna muttered, stepping past his right hand to push aside the foliage, revealing a black fox curled up in the hollowed trunk of that very tree.

You didn’t stir when he approached. Something uneasy curled in Sukuna’s gut, but once he sat himself in front of the mouth to your little den, he spied the steady breathing shifting your small form, and calmed–until he saw something else wiggling against you, chirping and squeaking with pathetic, fragile voices. At first, he thought it was some sort of parasite sucking you of your lifeforce, but he realized too quickly that what he beheld were two, tiny kits, both covered in fluffy brown-black fur, both keenly aware of the presence of a curious new man sitting before them.

Sukuna tensed when they approached him. Their chubby bellies knocked their weak, stubby legs off balance, but they persevered best they could, bumbling their way through trampled leaves and grass, and finally reaching the crossed legs of the king. Tiny paws papped at his pant legs before they hazarded climbing the formidable mountain before them And despite Sukuna’s hesitation, he hastily held their butts before they fell off of him like the stupid, dumb babies they were. They were his stupid, dumb babies, after all. Best to take care of them.

“It appears he went somewhere quiet to nest,” Uraume hummed, sounding far too pleased as they watched the king handle fox kits. “Perhaps the festival was too stressful.”

“Tch. Could’ve shot the runts out inside,” Sukuna mumbled, half-heartedly annoyed. “Coulda said somethin’.”

“He could have,” Uraume agreed, an air of ‘but what’s done is done’ clinging to their words.

Sukuna sighed. “What a pain in the ass.” His eyes flicked to you again. He expected you to wake up, to snap at him like the feral thing you were. He expected you to calm after recognizing him. Maybe he expected you to curl up in his lap, too. Or did he just want that?

But you stayed sleeping. Content and safe under the shelter of your lover and the stalwart embrace of a weeping willow. Perhaps it was thanking you for your kind care with the way it soothed your soul and kept you hidden away. Sukuna wouldn't doubt it for a second. The garden acted differently ever since you claimed it as your own.

“Shall we take them back?” Uraume asked.

The king thought for a long moment, sifting through selfish desires and rational decisions before coming to his conclusion: “Leave ‘em. He'll probably throw a damn fit if we interfere. You know how gods are–annoying and irrational as hell when they don't get their way.”

His subordinate smiled. “Very well.”

–

Winter’s first frost came, and you returned to his side.

You woke him with a classic move–standing on his chest and staring at him expectantly until he woke up and gave you attention. You didn’t do it as much anymore, not ever since you found yourself in the midst of a thousand responsibilities and daily quests, but every once in a while, like when your lover would return from long journeys, you’d pester him endlessly for pets, scritches and kisses.

But this time, once his heavy eyes opened, he not only saw you standing atop his chest, but a chubby pup caught in your maw, too.

Sukuna blinked away his grogginess just as you gingerly placed the babe on his collarbone, tucking him underneath the king's chin. One of his large hands flew up to ensure the kit (his kit) didn't slip off when you let go and trotted away with purpose.

“Fox,” Sukuna grumbled, displeased with your hasty retreat. Thankfully, you trotted back up to him a handful of moments later and placed a second ball of fluff on his chest before settling down beside him and watching.

“Tch. Took you long enough,” the king huffed as he tried his damndest to be careful and gentle with the little ones. “Was about to drag your sorry ass in here myself.”

I see. If you were so desperate for my company, you could have simply requested it, you countered.

Sukuna sucked his teeth and huffed. “Like it woulda been that easy.” Nothing was that easy with you–and Sukuna liked it. If you gave in, if you tended to his every fleeting want and need, you'd be too boring, frankly.

It is unlike you to not try. You shifted and wormed your way into his arms and half onto his chest, right beside the two snoozing kits you'd worked hard to bring up while Sukuna was off fighting, killing and maiming. But that was expected; servants and bedded beasts were to stay and make a home, weren't they?

“Tch. I let you have your way for once and this is how you act?” Your partner admired your foxen features and traced his fingertips along your snout, between your eyes, to the top of your little skull before scritching behind your ears. You leaned into the touch, eyes falling closed with the meagerest offering of affection.

Shall I praise you and bow at your feet once I am able? You teased.

“Bending over'll do the trick.” Sukuna smirked when you huffed. “How long you gotta stay as a shitty mutt anyway?”

Until they wean. I'm not certain as to how long that will take.

“Not even a guess?”

Perhaps another week or so. You turned your nose to the two small fluffs and groomed the tops of their heads. They're becoming more independent. More willing to explore. I take that as a good sign for their development.

“Huh. Good.” A strange coil relaxed in Sukuna's chest, and he braved petting them with a single finger again. “‘N how long ‘til these two learn to play human?”

Not for some time, but I will help them until they master it themselves. You nipped at Sukuna's hand as a third rose to come pester you. You should not pray for them to be human too soon. They will terrorize you. I have seen such chaos before.

Sukuna grinned. “Ho? You forget who their father is?” Your sigh echoed in his mind, and his smile split wider. “I can handle anything.”

–

Kazuya and Genji took too much after you and your mischievous heritage.

Too often Uraume would find them in baskets of produce, happily munching away like they were supposed to be in there. Other times, they'd be caught stealing shiny jewelry or knick knacks from the king's concubines and servants. They'd sometimes even take Sukuna's clothes and run amok with them, using them as toys or completely shredding them.

You, he who had birthed and raised them, were swift when it came to correcting them. You were, of course, the prime example of a kitsune, and therefore found their treasure stashes, foretold of their destructive crimes, and knew when they'd be off to steal food. You were like them, once, after all.

And maybe that's why you had a peculiar pep to your step. Once the boys found their devious personalities, you bothered lifting your tails from the floor. No longer did you let them drag and droop like limp noodles hanging from chopsticks. You seemed…prouder. Livelier. Perhaps being amongst your own gave you a sense of belonging, of hope.

Belonging, huh? Tch, what a load of shit. Sukuna mused as he rested his cheek against his fist, lounging while he watched you wrangle the twins from his spot under a shady tree. Spring was here, and that meant the runts were now terrorizing the great outdoors.

More accurately, they were following you around like two tiny shadows, too eager to waddle after you as you moved along the paths, sowing seeds and pruning withered leaves as you went. The tots picked up whatever your tending cast to the ground, and they held each thistle, leaf and twig close in tiny, pudgy hands like they were rabbit's feet. Strange little things.

He lost sight of you and the bumbling babies eventually, but your light chatter flitted through the brush and kept him company for a time. The sound of leaves crunching underfoot accompanied your walk as you came back around, closer and closer and–through the garden itself? Wait–

“RAH!” A little voice cried before a littler body launched onto Sukuna.

“Ha?” The king quirked a brow and looked at the little thing biting and kicking at his arm like a spastic cat. “What the hell is this?”

“He's trying to play with you,” you said as you wandered back into view, voice airy and light. “They wrestle.”

Sukuna held his arm up to get a better look at the runt nibbling on him. “This is supposed to be playing? Damn thing's acting feral.”

“Because he's young.” You settled down beside your lover, adjusting your robes and such to ensure they cascaded and pooled around you attractively. “One day, he'll ask you to teach him how to fight. How to use cursed techniques.”

Sukuna's expression almost softened. “Huh. That so?”

“Mh.” You smoothed Kazuya's hair back as he settled in your lap, choosing peace over violence, unlike Genji. “They are yours. I've no doubt they'll have the same hunger for strife and knowledge.”

They are yours. The words nearly made Sukuna sick; they weren't his per sè, they were a result of his relentless attempts to tie you down and make you stay with him no matter the cost. They only shared half of his genetics, they didn't rule his every thought nor own half of his heart. That all belonged to you.

But then why did he feel…trepidatious? The way he once felt too long ago when he knew nothing of the world and met too many cruel hands from the moment he opened his eyes. Maybe because these little ones were that age, able to run around and cause problems where they ought to not. Maybe because messing with the wrong person might not end with them slaughtering he who had the audacity to harm them, but with their young lives being lost.

Ah. That must have been it–the petulance of his own kind pissed Sukuna off to no end. The thought of extensions of himself being looked down on brought about creeping waves of disgust and distaste. Humans were the ones who thought themselves godly enough to kill Sukuna. Humans were the ones who thought themselves mighty enough to enslave and breed a divine beast. The little ones were destined to share humanity's ire, and it pissed him off. It really pissed him off.

“Yeah,” Sukuna decided, shaking his arm to test Genji's ability to cling onto him. “I'll show ‘em a thing or two. Can't have humans beating the shit outta some godlings just for fun.”

“Well, if one were to try, I'd kill them myself,” you cooed like it was the most romantic thing in the world. “Level their village, light the sky ablaze.”

“Now you're speakin’ my language,” Sukuna said, grinning.

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x male reader #sukuna x m!reader #sukuna x you #jjk x you #male reader insert #male reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen reader insert #jujutsu kaisen x male reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #cw: abuse

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sorceresssundries · 5 months

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Heatwave

Pairing: Gale x Fem Tav

Summary: It is the final social event of the summer season, and Tav has dressed poorly for a festival in the midst of a heatwave. One-shot.

Warnings: Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Sweat-licking, Smut.

Word Count: 3.9k

A/N: Another smutty Austen inspired work with a bit of fluff! This time in a universe outside of BG3. There definitely seems to be a weather theme in these one-shots. Maybe they'll fuck in the snow next, who knows?

The Festival of Shieldmeet had dominated conversations throughout the city all summer long. With the event occurring only once every four years, the anticipation had reached a fever pitch, rendering even the sweltering heatwave a minor inconvenience. The idea of postponing or, heaven forbid, cancelling such a revered social event due to something as minor as the weather was simply inconceivable.

The festival was being held in the sprawling grounds belonging to some Lord or Lady who had earned the privilege of hosting. In the heart of a large, manicured, bloom-laden garden stood a bandstand where bards were tuning their instruments, ready to serenade the guests with summer melodies. Alongside it stretched a long table adorned with dishes piled high with the richest Waterdhavian delicacies. Attendants in crisp uniforms weaved through the crowds, bearing trays laden with sparkling drinks in tall glasses, as well as refreshing juices and icy water. There also seemed to be tables scattered around with trays stacked with rolled up flannels sitting in ice, patiently waiting to be scooped up and dabbed at the forehead of the sweltering guests - These seemed to be a welcome addition, as there was scarcely any shade to be found anywhere.

Tav found herself in a state of utter misery. Seeking solace from the stifling crowds, she had retreated to the embrace of the shade beneath an oak tree bordering the garden, where she fervently fanned herself out of sight. She had naively and desperately assumed that the shade would cool her, but despite the protection from the sun’s direct attention the air was still just as cloying, and squeezed her with suffocating stillness. What she wouldn’t give for even the whisper of a breeze. The sad little paper fan she had acquired was doing very little work for her, just pushing the warmth forwards and heating her even further in her efforts to keep it moving.

For some inexplicable reason she couldn't recall, she had chosen to don her finest silk gown over a whalebone corset. It hugged her curves with an unforgiving grip, accentuating her form and lifting her breasts. With a smile as wide as her hips, she had admired herself in the mirror before departing. However, that smile faded the moment she stepped out of her cooled carriage and into the searing heat of the midday sun. She had immediately noticed the guests dressed in garments far more suited to the occasion than her own.

What a foolish notion this had been, she mused, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow. She had no idea what had driven this madness. Well.. she thought as she peeked out from behind the tree and across at the crowd gathered in the garden, maybe she had a slight idea.

Gale Dekarios was an exceptionally handsome man who exuded infuriating arrogance, boundless pride, and endless charm. From their first encounter at the spring ball, he had claimed her attention at every subsequent event. She had ‘accidentally’ stepped on his foot during one of their early dances, after he had explained to her his proficiency with magic and his gallant willingness to at least try and teach her some of his simpler spells. He had laughed at her annoyance, apologised profusely, and kissed her hand at the end of the evening. She had been aflame ever since.

Throughout the season, they had fallen into a familiar routine. Their ritual involved stealing glances at one another, offering subtle gestures of acknowledgment, and then both making a concerted effort not to meet eyes again. Yet, inevitably, one of them would find themselves drawn towards the other. It was a dance of restraint, leaving Tav exhilarated each time, despite the exhausting choreography. She was never really sure who was leading the dance, but at this moment, sweating and flustered and hiding behind a tree, Tav decided it probably wasn’t her.

As each evening would draw to a close, he would always bid her goodnight with a kiss upon her hand, each time lingering longer than the last, and tell her how much he was looking forward to their next meeting. Upon returning home, Tav would often find herself lost in fantasies, imagining his hand tangled in her hair, his lips tracing the curves of her body. More often than not, these night-time reveries ended with her own desperate touch and his name cried out from her lips.

In the privacy of sweet slumber, she would dream of their next encounter, eagerly anticipating another opportunity to engage in their dance and hoping to step on his feet once more.

Maybe she had more magic in her than she realised, as her very thoughts appeared to have summoned him to her hiding place.

“Ah, Miss Taventon. I thought I spotted you retreating all the way out here.” He greeted her with his customary charm. As always, he was a vision to behold, with his dark, mischievously glinting eyes and sweeping brown locks pulled back from his face. Clad in simple yet impeccably tailored attire—a snug waistcoat over a pristine white shirt, adorned with a luxurious silken cravat, and well-fitted breeches. Frustratingly, he looked completely unaffected by the blistering warmth, and Tav thought she must look like a sweating, breathless fool in comparison. She only had time to be embarrassed momentarily, before she realised the precarious nature of their situation. For the first time, they were properly alone together and Tav blushed at the thought of being found with him behind a tree so far away from the party. There would be a scandal.

“Mr. Dekarios, a pleasure.” She looked around to try and see if anyone would catch them in their compromising seclusion, but it appeared they were safe for now. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me a little affected by the heat. I was just after a moment of respite.” She began to fan herself more fervently.

“Understandable, I'm sure. For one not versed in magic.” His smugness had returned, and Tav always treated it as a welcome challenge.

“Well, not all of us are as exceptional as you” She batted her eyelashes at him sweetly and took in his cool, handsome appearance. “Let me guess, enchanted clothing?” He bowed his head in confirmation of her appraisal, still looking smug and annoyingly unflustered by the heat. “A shame it could not chill your ego, but alas, I suppose your talent has to end somewhere.”

His smile in return was genuine. He very much enjoyed her banter. Almost as much as he enjoyed seeing her sweating under the shade of the giant oak tree.

He raised a hand in mock defeat. “Peace, my lady. I came bearing a gift. In an effort to cool your skin, and perhaps even your temper.” She really was ravishing in this state, he thought, overheated and fiery. He wondered whether she was aware of his true intentions in seeking her out. It was the final event of the summer season, and as such, their elaborate game would have to come to an end.

As she reached out to accept the cool towel he offered, a surge of boldness seized him. With a swift motion, he closed the distance between them until he was almost pressed against her, and with a tender touch, he placed the cold flannel against the side of her neck. He had hoped it would elicit a reaction from her, at the very least a small gasp of surprise, but she remained silent. She just watched him as the droplets from the towel trailed slow down her neck, caressing her collarbone in the way his fingers ached to, and gathering to rest glistening on the shelf of her breasts which had been pushed up by her corset.

He had thoughts of ripping it off her. The silk of her dress would tear like tissue in his practised hands, and he would cast the tatters of it into the wind and spend an entire afternoon finding where the pools of her sweat gathered. He ached to know what undergarments she was wearing, what colour, how the material would taste if he pressed his tongue against. It. He hoped it was white cotton, something the scent and taste of her would cling to - so damp with sweat and desire that he would be able to see her dark curls through the material.

He could feel the cooling enchantment wrapped round him waning as his concentration and resolve were tested. Damn heat. Damn woman. She knew exactly what she was doing. Who wears a silk-wrapped corset in a heatwave? Each bead of sweat and whisper of her heated musk was a siren’s call, and he was determined to drown himself in the ocean of her.

“I am no expert in fashion, Miss Taventon, but I must question the decision to wear a silk gown in such conditions. Surely linen, or cotton would have been preferable? Or maybe one enjoys the sensations brought on by basking in such stifling heat?” His tone was more frustrated than he meant it to be.

“I thought it would be light and cooling, Saer. Not all of us are gifted with the ability to enchant our clothing.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and wondered if every item he was wearing was enchanted.. She quickly snapped out of her musings “An unfortunate error on my part, I hadn’t taken into account the lack of breeze, or the…”

“Stickiness?” He said, focusing intently on dabbing her neck and chest with the flannel and not meeting her eyes.

“The humidity. Yes.”

He took a break from his attentions and discarded the flannel, to take a leisurely sip of his drink. The droplets of condensation cascaded down the glass like tiny beads of sweat. Tav couldn't help but watch, a pang of envy stirring within her as she observed the icy water slip downwards and through his fingers. There was too much electric heat here, strung out in the very air, no amount of cool water would save her. She needed to be swathed by him, to smother the flames until they burnt out into ash. Even then, she was certain there would be embers enough to fan back to roaring flame at just one breathy word from him. She was doomed kindling.

The soft clink of ice against glass filled the air as he drank, his gaze never wavering from hers. With intent, he parted his lips slightly, allowing a single ice cube to slide into his mouth. She couldn't tear her eyes away as he savoured it, rolling it around his mouth with his tongue.

“Most refreshing.” He breathed, after a long, heavy swallow, “Could I tempt you with a sip?”

“I..Maybe.. This heat has caused quite a desperate thirst. Although I notice you have only brought one glass. How impolite of you” She dropped her fan to the ground in vexation, stupid thing was not doing anything to help. There was no saving her now.

He smirked and bowed his head slightly. “Not to worry, dear lady.” His eyes darkened and his voice became a heated command. “Open your mouth for me”

At first there was shock, but then without question she did as she was told, like a girl entranced. With a deft movement of his fingers, he plucked another ice cube from his glass and placed it delicately on her waiting tongue.

Tav saw a chance and took it.

Before he could withdraw his hand, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and the surprise in his eyes lit her like a firework. She burned for these moments, for any slip in his resolve, any evidence behind the refinery and politeness that there were things she could do that would shock him. If there was a crack in his armour, she would slip in like water and drown him in sin.

Locking eyes with him, she held his gaze steady as she took control. With a boldness she hadn't known she possessed, she leaned forward and enveloped his fingers in her mouth, sucking gently and letting the ice cube melt against her tongue in a sweet rush of cold. It was a calculated move, a daring play, and as she released his hand, a flicker of satisfaction fluttered in her eyes. The game was afoot, and she was changing the rules.

She let go of his fingers, and smiled innocently. “How right you are as always, Mr.Dekarios. Most refreshing.” She lilted, still sucking on the remnants of the ice in her mouth.

He had suddenly lost his footing. The blood that was keeping him focused and leading their little game had suddenly re-routed elsewhere, and he was struggling to compose thoughts. He had no words, so actions would have to do.

He drew closer to her, the space between them shrinking, and he reached out his hand to trace a delicate path from the warmth of her flushed cheek, along the elegant curve of her jaw, down to the hollow of her throat. There, just above the gentle rise and fall of her bosom, he noticed a glistening bead of sweat, which he captured with his fingertip. Bringing it to his lips, he savoured it, and made a noise of growling satisfaction. Her breath hitched beautifully in response.

"It appears you're still uncomfortably warm. I'd hardly be a gentleman if I allowed you to suffer like this." With a languid sip of his drink, he popped another ice cube into his mouth.

“You are no…”

He aimed to catch off guard before she could finish. He closed what little gap was left between them and all playfulness burned away in the heat, leaving nothing but desperation. Fuck games, fuck dancing around each other, and fuck that ridiculous silk dress she was wearing. She had won their game, and her prize would be for him to take her the way he had been wanting to for the entire summer.

His glass fell to the ground with no thought at all, and he grabbed at her waist. Pushing her back against the tree and pinning her there with a leg between her thighs. He finally earned a gasp of surprise from her, as he pushed his lips against her throat, and pressed the ice cube against her pulsing skin with his tongue.

The noise she made was tantalisingly balanced between relief and desire, and he kept the ice firmly against her as he moved it further down her neck, mimicking the trail of sweat his finger had traced earlier. He delighted in the way her skin prickled as the ice caressed her. She was divine. He wanted to tease her until she lost all of her brazen stares and cutting banter, and all that was left was a puddle of a woman. He wanted to undo her the way he would her clothes, and watch her fall apart under his hands, his tongue, the push of his hips…

"Someone... Will..." Her voice came out in gasping pleas as he continued caressing her with the ice. "Find us..." He needed to remove that damn corset soon; restricted breathing wasn't conducive to the way he wanted to hear her cry out for him— completely unbound. A fleeting desire crossed his mind to restrain her in other ways, at other times. But for now, he simply needed to see how the heat had flushed her body, with as little material between them as possible.

“You think I would allow anyone else to see you like this? I am not a man who shares his treasure.” His cocky little grin made a slight reappearance as he pulled his lips away from her damp skin to meet her eyes and offer some cooling sincerity. “A spell has been cast, no one will see nor hear us. You are safe with me, my dream. Always.”

He lost himself to a moment of softness, and caressed her face with total adoration.

“I have craved the taste of you all summer. The sun itself could not burn me in the way you have. I am a scorch mark, I am the cindered ashes of all restraint. You are my sun. And no one else will gaze upon you the way I will.”

There was no response adequate to match the sudden delicacy of his words, leaving Tav momentarily speechless. In that fleeting moment of enraptured, adoring silence, Gale misunderstood her reaction, his beautiful face falling with concern, fearing he had unwittingly caused her distress.

“Tell me you do not desire me, that this soft heat inflaming you is not at least partly caused by your feelings for me. Tell me I have imagined your eyes searching for me, your playful need for my hands on you as we dance, and I will leave it at this. I will have spent a summer loving you, and it will have been the brightest and warmest of all my seasons.”

He loved her. The air suddenly felt lighter. He was the breeze she had been craving.

Her bright smile cracked through the initial shock of his confession, and relief swept over him like a tide. “I know you have a vivid imagination, Mr. Dekarios. But put it away, it is not needed here. I have attended each event only in the hope of being in your presence. It seems we both have had a summer well spent.” She kissed him then; sweetly, lovingly and he laughed enough for the crinkles between his eyes to appear.

It did not take long for the damned dress to be torn from the skin of her sweat-slicked body. For the corset to be ripped from its bindings. For the softness of her breasts to find their place against his tongue, nipples peaking as though the heat didn’t exist, his hot breath and cool tongue creating a heady mix of magic which made her skin sing.

Tomorrow, there would be rough marks on her back from the bark of the tree - but for now the slight pain only added to the overwhelming sensations which crawled their way over her body, her sweat mingling with his as he tore off his shirt and pressed himself against her. Caging her against the trunk. His skin was cool against hers, and steam danced between them as though melted steel was being forged by cool water. He was hard, she could feel it.

His tongue flattened at her skin of her neck and her breasts, and licked away the lust-induced sweat his affection had caused. The fresh, salty taste may as way have been laced with liquor for the effect it was having on him. She tasted of sweet wine with the faint hint of salt. It was subtle, but he needed something richer. His attention moved downwards, and It was not long till he reached that most sacred place, where he had been aching to lose himself in scent and taste. He took his time and inhaled her. Using his nose to caress her sweet spot as he relished in the full-bodied flavour of her.

As soon as his mouth began lavishing her, she realised he had somehow extended the cooling enchantment to his tongue. Her head was thrown back against the tree in ecstasy, the press of his mouth against her quickly becoming too much for her to handle. There was a brief moment of self-consciousness, where she worried about how the heat of the day would affect her taste. But the worry was soon lost, the thought drowned out by the sound of his appreciation and the realisation that he was stroking himself as he devoured her.

He was dedicated in his endeavour, although no amount of skin-tingling magic would be able to balm the fire coursing through her veins. She thought she would never cool, that she would be a woman on fire for the rest of her love-fuelled days. The sensation was mesmeric, and she could not remember a sweeter sensation than this man on his knees in front of her, face buried between her legs and using his tongue to caress her with such enthusiasm she felt as though she would fall apart. And fall apart she did. It was euphoric, and her hands gripped his hair fiercely as she crashed over rocks in reckless pleasure.

When he came back up to meet her he was breathless and lust-drunk, giddy as a school-boy and stoked as a bonfire. “There has never been a sweeter taste than you, my love.” He kissed her then, languidly, passionately - intent on sharing the riches of his exploration. Tav could taste herself in his kiss. They may as well have been sharing wine between their lips.

“If you don’t fuck me soon, Gale, I swear I will combust.”

He laughed at this. At the desperation, at the slight annoyance in her voice, at the fact this was the first time she had ever said his given name and she had thrown it at him as a demand to push her against the tree and bury himself inside her. What a woman.

He needed no further invitation; shedding the confines of his breeches, he pressed himself slowly into her warmth, and she made the most delicious groaning sound he had ever heard. This woman could drive him to madness, and thankfully he was aware that his earlier attentions ensured he need not be overly gentle. Knowing that his endurance would be short-lived, thanks to the fervour he had stoked within himself while bringing her to climax against his tongue, he abandoned all pretense of restraint. Together they were primal, the tension that had been building between them releasing in pure, carnal desire.

Though a gentleman might have exercised more self-control, such decorum was a luxury he couldn't afford in the presence of such irresistible temptation. Stripped of his clothes, he found himself as vulnerable to the unrelenting heat of the day as Tav, and soon, his focused, determined passion ignited a sheen of sweat upon his skin.

Tav’s payback could not have been any sweeter, as soon as she noticed the sweat trickling down his neck she took her chance and licked it from his bronzed, silken skin. His response was a delicious, low moan and his rhythm faltered into something more urgent, unbound. His grip tightening, one of his hands found its way to rest gently against her throat so he could feel the deep moans rumbling against his palm as he fucked her.

“I love you” She breathed. And that’s all it takes. He is suddenly hurtling over a precipice and into sweet, tight oblivion.

They both collapse onto the ground, sweaty, burnt-out, euphoric. And they fall into uninhibited laughter as they realise they can hear the band playing a jaunty tune in the distance, and the chatter of the ever-growing crowd is closer than they initially thought.

“You are still hidden from prying eyes, my dream.” Gale offered reassurance as he kissed her head. “And I will conjure up some suitable clothing for you, don’t worry.”

“That is most generous of you Saer, but please - by the Gods, no corset and no silk.”

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 smut #gale dekarios #gale fanfic #gale x tav #gale of waterdeep

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 10 months

Text

title: my tears ricochet | part i

pairing: husband's best friend!joel miller x female reader

rating: chapter - t; full work - explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 7k

summary: after moving from new york to texas with your fiance, you expect to jump right into wedding planning with his help. when he claims to be too busy, he suggests asking his best friend, joel miller, to help you instead.

you weren't supposed to fall in love with him.

author's note: this story is a three part fic inspired by the song "my tears ricochet" by taylor swift. this first part is reader's POV, part two will be joel's POV, and the third part will be dual POV. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging or commenting!

chapter tags: modern au, infidelity, emotional abuse, the fiance is shitty, no use of y/n, single POV (reader), wedding dress shopping and other wedding planning activities, angst, arguing, alcohol consumption/mention, kissing, no smut. please let me know if i've missed any!

major work tags: modern au, infidelity, explicit sexual content, character death

You stare out at the manicured yard, watching as guests move about the grounds and waiters in black uniforms carry trays of food and drinks through the crowd. Your boyfriend -- wait, no, fiancé -- Alex laughs boisterously with your father, a hand on his back in easy familiarity. You know you should be down there with him given that this is your engagement party, but you were starting to feel overwhelmed by the constant smiling and greeting strangers and showing off your shiny new engagement ring that you needed a break.

The door opens and a man you don't recognize steps into the room, pale blue dress shirt stretched tight across his broad chest and a pair of wrinkled dress pants. He runs a hand through his messy dark curls.

"Sorry, I didn't think anyone would be in here," he says. As he looks you over, his brown eyes go wide with surprise. "Shit, you're the bride!"

You smile at him. "That's me," you reply. You hold a hand out towards him as you give him your name, his rough palm sliding against yours as he grips it firmly.

"I'm Joel Miller," he tells you. You know the name well, being that he's your fiancé's best friend. "Didn't mean to make our first time meetin' so awkward."

"No, no, it's not your fault. I've just been feeling a little overwhelmed with all the," you wave your hand towards the window, "festivities. It's great to finally meet you."

"I don't blame ya. They can get pretty stuffy down there. Congrats, by the way."

"Thank you." He lets go of your hand. "So, why are you hiding?"

He laughs, deep and full bellied. "Alex's mom doesn't like me much. I'm sure she was hopin' that we would stop bein' friends when he went to school on the other side of the country, but I’m like a stubborn tick."

"How could she not like you, Alex told me that the two of you have been best friends since kindergarten!"

"There may have been a few mishaps in high school," he says. "You ever tried eggin' your principal's house?"

"Can't say that I have," you reply.

"Well, it doesn't end well if you get caught." He looks out the window with a smile on his face. "We got arrested. Alex's dad had to bail us out. Probably had to throw some hush money around so that it wouldn't show up on his record when he applied to school."

"He's never told me that!" You say, laughing hard enough around the words that your stomach hurts.

The door opens and this time, Alex himself steps into the room. His serious expression morphs into a smile when he sees you and Joel.

"There you are," he says, crossing the room to kiss your cheek. He greets Joel with a hug, patting his back roughly. "What are you two doing in here?"

"I just needed a minute alone," you tell him.

"And I crashed her minute alone. Told her about the time we got arrested in high school," Joel adds. Alex's jaw tenses, his smile tight as his eyes flick to you, like he's worried about your reaction. "She laughed. It's all good."

"Right. Well, I came to find you because its time for the toast and dinner," Alex says. "Let's get back down to our guests."

A hand at the small of your back urges you towards the door before you can reply.

"Alex, are you listening to me?" You ask. Your fiancé looks up from his phone.

"I'm sorry, baby, I was finishing an e-mail," he says. He sets his phone down on the table, dark screen facing up, and gives you his full attention. "What were you saying?"

"I wanted to schedule the cake tasting. Do you have any free time this week?"

He grimaces. "I don't think I do, sweetheart. Your dad's got my schedule pretty packed."

"I can just ask him to--"

"No," he says sternly. "You know I have to make a good impression with the rest of the firm."

"But--"

"Babe, no. I can't do this week. Why don't you ask my mom? Or Joel?"

While your future mother-in-law is kind enough, you don't have much patience for the way she tries to take control of your wedding planning. Joel, however, might be a good idea. He knows Alex well enough to be a stand in for a decision like cake and icing flavors.

"Could you give me Joel's number?"

Alex smiles, seemingly pleased that he's off the hook as he takes his phone in hand and sends you his best friend's phone number.

You meet Joel at the bakery that week. To your surprise he's there before you, dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt and he smiles brightly at you as you approach.

"Hey," he says. "Ready to eat some cake?"

"I think this will be my favorite part of planning this whole wedding," you reply. He laughs as he pulls the door open for you to step inside, following in behind you.

"Welcome to Buttercup Bakery! Can I help y'all with anything?" A young woman with a name tag reading BEVERLY asks from behind the counter, pink and white apron tied around her waist.

"I have a cake tasting appointment," you reply, giving her your name for the reservation.

"Excellent! If you want to go ahead and take a seat anywhere you'd like, I'll bring out the tasting options and we'll get you squared away in no time!"

She disappears through swinging doors as you and Joel take a seat at a pink acrylic table with matching chairs. He looks around the shop with interest.

"What made you pick this place?" He asks.

"Had the best reviews," you say with a shrug. His brow furrows.

"Alex didn't suggest it? He helpin' you at all with this weddin'?"

He says it with a laugh, but the question makes you dig your fingernails into your palm. "He's just really busy with work. I've been doing a lot of the planning."

“What about your uh, what are they called? Bridesmaids?”

“They’re all back in New York. It’s just me.”

“I thought your parents were here, too? Isn’t Alex workin’ with your dad now?”

“It’s just my dad, he’s back in New York. His partner opened a firm in Austin and Alex is working with that office. He’s hoping to make partner soon, too.”

Joel nods, eyes scanning your face but you keep your expression as neutral as possible. The swinging doors open and Beverly returns with a marble tray, bites of cake artfully arranged on the surface. She sets it on the table between you and Joel.

“Okay! These are our six most popular flavor combinations for you to start with and if there’s something more custom you have in mind, we can totally make that happen,” she says. “Starting at the top, we have classic vanilla with vanilla buttercream, chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and chocolate buttercream, our signature champagne cake with strawberry buttercream, lemon cake with lavender buttercream, caramel cake with caramel mocha buttercream, and white chocolate cake with raspberry jam and white chocolate raspberry buttercream.”

Joel grins at you. “This might be the best thing anyone has ever asked me to help with.”

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Beverly says with a wink, walking back to the counter.

“I don’t know which to start with,” you say, eyes scanning the selections.

“That chocolate one is callin’ my name,” Joel replies, spearing one of the chocolate cake bites with a fork and taking a bite. He hums appreciatively. “Oh yeah, that one is a winner.”

You choose the vanilla to start, taking a bite of the moist cake with buttercream that tastes strongly of vanilla bean with a hint of cinnamon. The simplicity makes it good, but overall the flavor doesn't stand out to you. Joel continues to take bites seemingly at random while you opt to go around the tray in the order that Beverly introduced the flavors.

"Any of them stickin' out to you?" Joel asks when you've reached the half-way point.

"They're all delicious," you reply. "I think Alex would probably like the vanilla best, though."

"I didn't ask what Alex would like, I asked if there were any that you liked." He spears the remaining piece of white chocolate raspberry with his fork and holds it up to you. "Here, try this one next."

You eye the fork dubiously. "I don't think--"

Joel slips the bite of cake into your mouth despite your interrupted disagreement, smiling at you triumphantly. You chew the bite begrudgingly.

"I think that one and the chocolate one are my favorite," Joel says as you swallow.

Beverly returns at that moment, a notepad in hand as she pulls up a third chair to the tiny bistro table.

“So? What are your thoughts?”

“I think I’m going to get the vanilla,” you tell her. Joel’s jaw ticks, almost like he’s upset you’ve chosen the flavor that you said Alex would like. “But, could I get alternating tiers of the white chocolate raspberry, too?”

Joel’s lips quirk up in a small smile and you try to ignore the way it makes your stomach flip.

Joel: Have you picked flowers yet?

Not yet.

Joel: I know a place. You busy today?

You stare the at the message in surprise. You weren’t expecting to hear from Joel again, but his name on your screen has you fighting back a smile.

I’m not busy. When did you want to go?

Joel: They open at noon. Here’s the address.

“Baby, have you seen my blue tie?” Alex calls from upstairs. You drop your phone to the counter like you’ve been caught doing something wrong.

“Which one?” You reply, pressing a hand to your chest.

“The plaid one!”

“Should be in your tie drawer!”

“It’s not here!”

You pinch your nose, making your way to the stairs to join him in your shared bedroom. He’s standing in front of his tie drawer, hands on his hips as he stares at the contents. You peek over his shoulder and reach into the back, pulling out the neatly folded blue and green patterned tie.

He takes it from your hand. “That one should be towards the front. Can you remember that next time you put away dry cleaning?”

“Sure.” You bite your lip to hold back the sigh that threatens to spill. “You want me to tie it for you?”

“No, thanks, I need it to be perfect. Big meeting,” he says, his lips tilted in a smile that feels condescending. He leans into you, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” you murmur, watching his back as he enters the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

Joel is waiting outside of a dark green storefront when you arrive at the address he’d sent you. He smiles when he sees you, a true one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, and it gives you this strange feeling of emptiness because you can’t remember the last time Alex smiled at you like that.

When you’re close enough, he pulls you into a hug that envelops you in strong arms and the scent of woods at nightfall with a hint of citrus. Your eyes flutter shut as you hug him back and breathe him in.

He releases you and immediately you feel a chill in losing his warmth despite the oppressive Texas heat. You look at the shop as he steps back, taking in the gorgeous floral arrangements in the window and cursive script painted on the glass that says PETAL TO THE METAL.

Joel opens the door to the shop, a brass bell ringing to announce your entrance. A man at the counter in the center of the store looks up and grins at you both.

“Joel! Nice to see you,” the man says. You watch as they shake hands with familiarity, the man behind the counter smiling kindly. “You must be the bride. I’m Frank.”

You give Joel a look of surprise before introducing yourself and shaking Frank’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Do you two know each other?”

“Joel’s an old friend of ours.”

“Ours?”

A back door bangs open, someone emerging with their arms so full of potted plants you can’t see their face. A deep voice let’s out a series of curses.

“This is my partner, Bill,” Frank says. “He’s not much of a people person. Great with plants, though.”

“A little help would be nice,” Bill grunts. Frank rolls his eyes but leaves the counter to take a couple pots from Bill’s hands, revealing a man with long brown hair and a grizzled expression hidden amongst a thick beard. Frank leans in and kisses his cheek.

“You need only ask,” Frank says. Bill’s cheeks turn pink beneath his thick facial hair. Despite the annoyed expression on his face, his eyes are soft as he watches Frank. “Let me grab you the event portfolio and we can talk about your wedding. Have a look around.”

As Frank leaves and Bill busies himself arranging the new plants, you and Joel wander the shop and take in aisles and shelves of different flowers with little gold name cards in their pots or on their buckets.

“So,” Joel says, “How are you liking Austin?”

“It’s…hot,” you reply. “Really, really hot.”

“That’s the south for ya, sweetheart.”

Your face grows hot at the endearment and how it seemed to just roll off his tongue. “Have you lived in Austin your whole life?”

“Texas born n’ bred,” he says proudly, puffing his chest out.

“You never wanted to live anywhere else?”

“I’ve always thought Wyoming sounded nice. A farm that I built, some sheep, no neighbors for miles,” he says wistfully. “Maybe someday.”

“Building a farm, huh? You good with your hands, Joel?”

He blinks at you. “Y-yeah. I mean, I’m a contractor. I gotta be.”

“That’s impressive,” you tell him, biting your lip to hold back your laughter at his flustered response.

Frank approaches, lifting a heavy book in his hands. “You ready to pick some flowers?”

Joel holds the door open for you as the two of you leave the flower shop an hour later. He waves goodbye to Bill and Frank with a promise to visit them for dinner soon before following you down the sidewalk.

“You wanna get lunch?” Joel offers. “My treat.”

You pull your phone from your pocket to check your messages and finding none from Alex, you think to yourself, why not?

“Sure,” you agree.

That's how you find yourself sitting on a bench in the park with Joel Miller, your husband's best friend, talking to him about everything and nothing as you eat street tacos from a food truck nearby. He makes you laugh so hard you choke on birria, the sauce dripping down your chin. He reaches out, wiping the mess with a brown napkin while he smiles so bright it puts the sun to shame.

Later that night, while you're in bed, you can't help but think today was the best day you've had in a long time.

And you're not sure what that means.

You begin texting Joel regularly. You ask him for his opinion on things that Alex can’t be bothered with — the suit colors for the groomsmen (navy blue), the invitation stationary (the linen finish), and favors (miniature bottles of hot sauce - Joel assures you this will be a hit with the Texas crowd). In between those conversations, he sends you pictures from his construction sites or asks you how your day has been and whether you had gotten the chance to check out that show he recommended.

When you tell Alex about the wedding decisions you've made, leaving out the extent of Joel's help, he hums and nods at the appropriate intervals, feigning attentiveness while his thumb moves rapidly across his phone screen. It should bother you, you think, that your future husband is so uninvolved with planning his own wedding, but then your own phone lights up with Joel’s name and a goofy photo he sent from a construction site, his hard hat askew on his head and his eyes crossed, and your annoyance with Alex fades into background noise.

There’s one last item on your checklist that you’re more nervous to ask Joel for help with than the others — dress shopping. You could probably fly back to New York and be with your friends for the momentous occasion but you’re certain that Alex wouldn’t appreciate your absence for something he considers so frivolous.

Not that you say anything when he’s gone for his golfing trips.

You’re staring at Joel’s contact screen, working up the nerve to call him and ask him if he’d be willing to come dress shopping with you, when it lights up with an incoming call, his name at the top of the screen like just your thoughts summoned him. You answer on the third ring.

“Hey, I was just about to call you,” you tell him.

“So that’s why my ears were itchin’,” he laughs. “You need somethin’?”

You take a steadying breath. “I just have one more thing I need help with and then you won’t have to deal with me.”

“I don’t mind helpin’ you, sweetheart.” You stomach flutters at the nickname and he clears his throat to fill the loaded silence that follows his words. “Now, tell me what you need.”

“Could you come dress shopping with me?”

“That all? Just tell me where and when,” he says. You breathe a sigh of relief, giving him the details of the appointment you made at a local boutique. He promises to meet you there this weekend before hanging up.

The word sweetheart in Joel’s deep voice echoes through your mind for the rest of the day.

Joel looks hilariously out of place on the pristine white couch located in the middle of the dress boutique, a dainty glass of champagne held in his large hand. You sit beside him, your legs touching as you watch the sales associate flit around the store, pulling hangers of dresses from the racks.

“That’s a lot of dresses,” Joel comments, taking a sip of champagne.

“You not up for the challenge?” You tease. He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his wide smile.

“Trust me, I’m up for the challenge. We’re goin’ to find you the best damn weddin’ dress Texas has ever seen,” he promises.

“Alright, I’ve got some gorgeous choices here for you,” the associate announces, holding up a handful of ivory hangers draped in all types of fabric from satin to chiffon. “You wanna follow me and we’ll get started?”

You follow her to the fitting room and she sets the hangers on a rack, fanning out the dresses so that you can get a better look. There’s five of them in a variety of styles, including an impressive ball gown boasting layers of tulle that trails to the floor.

“I’ll try that one first,” you tell her, pointing to ball gown.

“What’s your fiancé’s name?” She asks as you undress, taking the gown from the hanger and arranging it on the floor for you to step into it.

“Alex,” you reply. She drags the bodice up and instructs you to hold it to your chest while she laces up the corset back.

“I think it’s sweet that you’ve brought him with you.”

“Oh, no. That’s Joel, he’s my husband’s best friend.”

“Really?” She asks, the strings tightening around your waist. “The way you two look at each other, I would have bet money he was the one marrying you." You're about to ask what she means when she finishes tying off the bodice and says, "Wow, this dress is stunning on you."

Her comment retreats to the back of your mind as you look at yourself in the mirror. The strapless white gown hugs your chest and waist, flaring out into a layered skirt with lace appliques. There's beading on the sweetheart neckline that trails down the bodice in intricate patterns that catch the light of the fitting room. The dress is stunning.

Marnie leads you back out to the showroom, helping you step up onto a raised platform in front of a trifold mirror that shows you your reflection from multiple angles. You twist and turn, taking in all the details of it before finally facing Joel.

"Damn," Joel says. "That sure is one hell of a dress."

"It's...a lot." You twist your hips from side to side, the heavy skirt swishing across the floor. "I feel like a cupcake and I don't know if I'll be able to dance in it."

"You wanna test it out?"

He's standing before you can respond, reaching a hand into yours to guide you down from the pedestal. When you're on the floor, he wraps an arm around your low back, pulling you close while swaying side to side.

The world around you goes a little blurry and the only thing in perfect clarity is Joel. The feel of his hand in yours, the weight of his arm at the small of your back, the clean smell of soap and citrus, everything is just....Joel.

"How's it feel?" He asks, voice low. You tilt your head back to look up at his face.

"Huh?"

"The dress...dancin'...how's it feel?"

The question drags you back to reality, where you're currently dancing around a bridal salon with a man who isn't your fiance. You pull away from him, returning to the pedestal as the bridal associate joins the two of you again.

"Uh...I don't think this is the dress for me. Can we try the next one?"

You try on two other dresses in quick succession, neither of them leaving a lasting impression. It's the fourth dress that really gives you pause as you look at yourself in the fitting room mirror.

"Honey," the associate says, adjusting the off-the-shoulder sleeves of the dress, "This dress was made for you."

The scooped neckline highlights the lines and curves of your neck and shoulders, the corset bodice hugging your curves in satin folds. The skirt fans out from the waist, similar to the silhouette of the ball gown without all the additional weight and fabric and a thigh high slit allows for some extra movement.

She leads you back out into the showroom and helps you once more onto the pedestal. You grin at your reflection as she fixes the skirt into place.

"Well?" You ask, catching Joel's eye in the mirror. His mouth is set in a serious line, brows pinched together and his arms crossed over his chest. You own smile falters. "You don't like it? What's with the look?"

He shakes his head, his serious expression morphing into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You look..." His voice trails off and he clears his throat. "Alex is a lucky son of a bitch."

You laugh, lifting the skirt so that you can step off the pedestal. Joel's eyes drop, his gaze fixing on the skirt as you walk towards him.

"You think so?" You ask quietly, stepping in close.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmurs. A single finger runs down your arm, goosebumps erupting over your skin in its wake. "I know so."

With the wedding plans finalized, your attention returns to your work as a web design consultant. Your client portfolio starts to build once more, keeping you busy in the months leading up to your big day. Alex remains focused on his work at the firm, working long days and longer nights that have him arriving home well after you've gone to bed, the two of you just ships passing in the dark. You would feel lonely, you think, if not for Joel.

The two of you still message each other frequently, though you don't see him again until a month before the wedding, when Alex invites him over for dinner one Saturday night.

The doorbell rings just as you put the chicken in the oven and you wipe your hands before going to answer it, your heart racing. Joel's sweet smile greets you when you open the door and seeing him across the threshold has the tension in your shoulders easing the slightest bit.

He steps across the threshold, strong arms wrapping around your waist in a tight hug. Footsteps on the stairs have him releasing you far sooner than you would have liked.

"Joel, my man! Glad you could make it," Alex says as he reaches the first floor. "Honey, is the table set?"

"No, not yet," you reply.

"You need any help?" Joel asks. You open your mouth to respond, but Alex jumps in to say, "No, she's got this. Let me give you the tour."

You watch as Alex leads Joel upstairs, commanding his friend's attention. You swallow down the anger that rises in your throat at your fiancé's dismissal and return to the kitchen, gathering the place settings and arranging the table to his liking.

"It's a nice place," Joel says as the two men enter the living room, which opens to the kitchen and dining areas.

"All that work finally paying off," Alex comments. You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to mention that you were the one who fronted the down payment for Alex's choice of home in Texas. The oven beeps and you pull out the chicken parmesan that had been baking.

"Smells good," Joel comments. You look up, catching his eye. A wordless understanding passes between you, a quiet appreciation that makes your blood run hot.

You plate the food while your fiancé uncorks a bottle of wine and pours it into the wine glasses at each place setting. Alex settles in at head of the table and Joel takes the seat to the left, leaving you with the seat to Alex's right, across from Joel.

The three of you make small talk between bites of dinner and sips of wine. Alex asks Joel about the contracting work he's been doing, Joel asks him about his work at the new office and how he's settling in, being back in his home state. It's halfway through dinner that Joel looks to you and asks, "Are you excited for the wedding next month?"

"Of course," you reply, fingers tangling in the cloth napkin resting across your lap. "Planning it was a labor of love."

"Right, thanks for helping her with the cake, man," Alex chimes in.

Joel chuckles. "Helped with a lot more than just the cake."

"What do you mean?" Alex asks, glancing between the two of you.

"Well, I helped get the flowers, the cake, pickin' out the stationary. Dress shoppin'," Joel clarifies. Your stomach drops as Alex's jaw grows tense, his brow pinched as he nods and pastes on a forced smile.

"Wow, I didn't realize you'd been so involved," Alex says. He removes the napkin from his lap, setting it on the table. "Would you excuse us for a second?"

Alex stands, looking down at you expectantly. You smile at him and Joel in turn, but the expression feels hollow and you taste bile in the back of your throat. As soon as you're on your feet, Alex has a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, urging you along behind him as he makes his way towards the stairs.

Once he's reached your shared bedroom, he turns to you, eyes filled with rage. “What the fuck is that about?”

“What do you mean?” You ask. He laughs, the sound devoid of any humor.

“He helped you pick out your dress?” Alex paces the length of the bedroom like a caged animal and for the first time in your relationship with him, a frisson of fear courses through your veins. “You can’t possibly be that fucking stupid?”

“Excuse me?” You snap. “You told me to ask him for his help!”

“With the cake!” Alex shouts. “Not the entire goddamn wedding! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

“You weren’t exactly offering much help, Alex!”

His eyes narrow. “I thought you would be perfectly capable of planning shit on your own, but I guess that was giving you too much credit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask. “Why are you being such a fucking asshole right now?”

“Because you’re my fiancé, not Joel’s!” He steps in close, towering above you as he hisses, “Did you fuck him?”

“No!” You shout.

His eyes search yours and whatever he finds seems to extinguish his anger, his coiled muscles loosening. He grips your shoulders, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Why don’t you head back downstairs and I’ll stay up here for a minute to cool off, okay?”

The sudden switch leaves your head spinning but you manage to nod. Alex kisses your forehead and you take that as your cue to leave, escaping the confines of your room. In the hall, you grip the banister of the loft that overlooks the living room and take the first real breath in what feels like ages, your eyes squeezed shut as you try to calm your racing heart.

You return to the kitchen and Joel’s head snaps up when you enter. He rises from his seat at the table, rushing to your side.

“Are you okay?” He asks, low voice filled with concern, his brows pinched with worry. “What the fuck was that?”

“Just a misunderstanding,” you murmur, pushing past him.

“That’s bullshit,” he hisses. “Is he always like that?”

“Like what?” You sigh.

“An asshole. Yellin’ and threatenin’ you.” His fists are clenched at his sides. “He ever hit you?”

“What? No, of course not.” You take a deep breath, beating back the wave of tears pressing at the corners of your eyes. “He’s just got a lot going on with the move and work and the wedding.”

Joel is quiet, watching you with keen brown eyes that you, for once, wish weren’t focused on you. He steps close, voice low as he says, “Be honest with me, sweetheart.”

“I’m fine, Joel,” you tell him. The lie claws at your throat and sends your stomach into a tailspin. “I promise.”

Footsteps echo on the stairs and you step away from Joel, busying yourself with loading the dishwasher, clearing the counters, anything to keep your hands occupied and stop their shaking. Alex enters the kitchen with a sharp smile.

“Hey, man, sorry about that,” he says, clapping Joel on the shoulder. “I think we’re ready to call it a night. Ain’t that right, honey?”

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Alex as you smile and say, “Yeah, baby.”

“Let me walk you out, Joel,” Alex says. “Honey, say bye.”

“Goodbye, Joel.”

Joel: Hey

Joel: You having a good week?

Joel: Been a while. You doing okay?

Joel: You’ve been quiet

Joel: I need to know you’re okay.

Joel: Just let me know

Joel: Please

“Just two more days until you’re my wife,” Alex says, pressing a kiss to your lips. He smiles at you and you mirror the expression as best you can.

“I can't wait,” you reply.

"I gotta get going," Alex says. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he passes where you're sitting at the bar. "Love you."

"Love you," you repeat, out of reflex more than affection.

The front door slams shut and quiet settles over the house. All you want to do is crawl back into bed and pull the covers over your head in the hopes that it protects you from the way time continues to creep forward despite your uncertainties. Maybe, if you lay there long enough, time will move on without your involvement.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a heavy knock at the door. You’re not sure who it could be — your dad is scheduled to fly into town in the late afternoon and your friends arrive early tomorrow morning and you’re fairly certain you don’t have any deliveries scheduled. Sliding from the bar stool, you leave the kitchen to answer the door.

Joel stands on the other side of the threshold, haloed by the morning sun. For a brief moment, you wonder if you’re dreaming.

“What are you doing here?” You finally ask.

“Can I come in?” He replies, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I need to talk to you.”

You step aside and allow him to enter the hallway, shutting the door behind him. You avoid his gaze as you return to the living room with him following behind you. The silence that settles between the two of you makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

"Why haven't you been talkin' to me?" Joel asks. He takes a step closer, brown eyes searching yours for an answer you try to keep hidden.

"I've been busy," you say.

"Cut the bullshit," he snaps, surprising you. "Is it because of what happened at dinner?"

"No," you reply. Joel must sense the brief hesitation, hear the weakness in your voice. His eyes go soft, full of pity, and you can't fucking stand it. "Don't look at me like that."

"Look, I've known Alex a long time, and all those years weren't exactly peachy," he says cryptically. "I love him like a brother but even family ain't without faults.” He steps in close, his hands cradling your face in a delicate grip. “Tell me this is what you want," he demands. "Tell me that you're happy with Alex. Tell me that there's nothin' here between us."

The words are there, right on the tip of your tongue, but nothing can bring them to life. Your heart beats a frantic rhythm against your ribcage, the rush of blood in your ears the only thing you can hear. He leans closer, eyes dropping to your lips and you know what's about to happen next but you can't bear the thought of stopping him as he closes the scant distance between your mouths.

For the briefest moment, you allow yourself the chance to just feel. No thoughts, no panic, no worry. Just Joel's warm lips moving against yours, the trace of his palm from you cheek to behind your head, pulling you closer even though you're already tightly pressed to him. It's slow and deep, like he's trying to convince you down to your marrow that this is where you're supposed to be.

But it's not.

You push him away and he doesn't fight you, but the look he gives you damn near shatters your resolve. His eyes are dark, jaw tense, hands flexing at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach out and pull you back, damn the consequences. Your eyes and throat burn with the effort of holding back the tears that threaten to spill.

"You need to leave," you whisper. "You can't do this, we can't do this. I'm getting married in two days, Joel!"

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling on the strands in frustration. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't lay awake at night thinkin' what a fuckin' asshole I am for fallin' in love with my best friend's fiancé?!" He shouts.

"This isn't love, Joel--"

"Don't," he snaps. "Don't you lie to me. I know it, you know it, hell, the fuckin' lady at the dress shop knew it!" He takes a deep breath. "I'm showin' you my whole hand here and you won't even lay down a goddamn card!"

"There is no card!" You shout.

"You kissed me back!" He counters.

You stare at each other for a long moment, like two scared, wounded animals. Eventually, one of you has to back down, retreat, lick their wounds until they've healed in a messy pattern of scar tissue that will serve as a painful reminder of what could have been.

Joel sighs, another pass of his hand through his hair as he says, "You know what? Fine." He turns to leave, the line of his shoulder lower, his head low.

A glutton for punishment, you call out, "Joel?"

"Yeah?" He asks, weary. Bone tired. You feel it, too.

"Will you still be there tomorrow?" You ask, unsure of which answer would be worse.

Another sigh. "Yeah. I'll be there."

The door slams shut behind him.

Your rehearsal dinner is torture.

This should be one of the happiest events of your life but all your energy is being directed at avoiding Joel like the plague. He moves through the crowd comfortably, having known many people in attendance for most of his life, and you feel like an unmoored boat, hoping a wave doesn't crash over you.

Alex sits beside you, drinking from a glass of whiskey as he talks to one of his uncles that has been praising him for landing the opportunity to work with such a prestigious law firm right after college. A dizzying rotation of people approach you through the night - friends who chatter excitedly about the big day tomorrow, aunts who ask when you think you'll have children, uncles who tell you that they're proud of you for landing such a successful, promising young man. It's those last comments that have you hiding a frown in your champagne glass.

It drags on forever, this constant stream of polite conversation and forced smiles. When you finally return to the hotel that you're staying at for the night, you start to feel like you can breathe again. You have a suite separate from Alex's for getting ready early in the morning and he walks you to your room, hand on your low back, a smile on his face.

"I'll see you in the morning," he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. "My almost wife."

The sentiment has bile rising in your throat and as he turns to leave you're blurting the words, "I can't do this."

"Sweetheart, you're just nervous," he says, voice surprisingly calm. He squeezes your shoulders. "You just need to sleep it off and everything will be fine in the morning."

"No," you tell him, shaking your head. "No, it won't be fine."

His smile drops, like a mask has just been removed. "Where is this coming from? Everything was fine at the rehearsal."

"Everything was not fine at the rehearsal!"

Alex takes the room key from your hands, unlocked the door and ushering you inside. He flicks on the light to the sitting area and takes a seat on the couch.

"What's going on with you?" He asks, exasperation dripping from his words. "What do you mean the rehearsal wasn't fine? Did you not like the food or something?"

You stare at him incredulously. "The problem wasn't the food, Alex! The problem is us!"

"There's no problem with us," he says. "Unless there's something you want to tell me?"

"What do you mean?" You ask.

He stands, coming close. "Is this about Joel?"

"No!" You snap, perhaps too quickly. "This isn't about Joel."

"Then what is it? Because as far as I know, we're a perfectly happy couple."

"Perfectly happy? Alex, you didn't even help me plan this wedding. Not a single minute of it."

"Not this again," he groans. "Sweetheart, let it go. I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you need to hear?"

Your jaw aches with how hard your teeth grind together as he dismisses you so easily. A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth steadies you enough to say, "I'm not marrying you."

"Baby, please," Alex says. For the first time, he sounds panicked. "Don't make any rash decisions, alright? Whatever this is, we can work through it. If I lose you, I lose everything."

Maybe he's right. Maybe the stress of the last few months has just caught up to you.

"Okay," you whisper. He breathes a sigh of relief and presses another kiss to your temple.

"I love you," he says. "Everything will be okay after tomorrow. You'll see."

You don't say anything back, and he doesn't wait around for a response. He leaves your suite, the click of the door shutting loud in the late night silence. You stand there for who knows how long, wondering if he's right. Would everything be alright after tomorrow? Could you sweep those lingering feelings for Joel to the side in favor of the life you'd been building for the last few years?

You know what the safe choice is, but is it the right choice?

It's the morning of your wedding day and you've been poked and prodded with makeup brushes and your hair has been perfectly styled for the occasion. Flashbulbs have been going off on the cameras that are documenting your special day, capturing moments like your bridesmaids helping you into your dress and your dad's first look, a handkerchief clutched in his hand as he smiled at you.

For the first time in hours, you're alone in your suite. The makeup artist and hair stylists have packed up and taken their leave and your friends are downstairs, waiting for the limousine. You told them you would be just a minute longer.

A soft knock at your door has you realizing that you may have taken too long and you shout an apology as you rush to answer it. But it's not one of your friends on the other side like you had expected.

It's Joel.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. His hair is styled, curls smoothed and slicked back into submission. His white shirt is a stark contrast to his navy blue tuxedo, matching bow tie tight around his neck. His boutonnière is slightly crooked where it sits pinned to his jacket lapel. He looks you up and down with a small smile.

"You look beautiful," he says. He reaches for your hand, fingers tangling with yours. Never quite folding together, but never quite letting go, either.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"Are you ready?" He asks. You wonder if he knows, if Alex told him or if he can just see it on your face.

"Yes."

It's a lie, one you've been repeating since your alarm went off this morning after a night of tossing and turning. His smile falters, but doesn't drop.

"Good, that's....good," he says. His hand leaves yours, and you feel like you've had an entire unspoken conversation that's left you both defeated. "Lets go get you married."

Joel Miller masterlist

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divider graphic by @saradika-graphics.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel tlou #no use of y/n #joel x reader #joel the last of us #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fic

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hongism · 10 months

Text

SWEET JUICE - s.mingi (18+)

➼ genre; fantasy, smut ➼ pairing; mingi x fem!reader ➼ au; strangers to lovers, magic au, witches/warlocks au ➼ warnings; explicit smut ➼ rating; m/18+ ➼ wc; 10.7k

the new apothecary in your small village is harboring a dark secret, you're certain of it, if only because he bears a starkly familiar crest on his shop sign - one that denotes the presence of magic.

part of the ...and it's snowing collab.

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➼ smut warnings; sex toys, unprotected sex, comeshots, begging, fingering, multiple orgasms, size kink, hand kink, mention of belly bulging, dacryphilia

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Normally, you aren’t one to be so deeply entrenched in the petty gossip going around town, especially when newcomers are not exactly scarce in these parts. This one in particular — the young man who moved here by himself and immediately set up an apothecary shop in the heart of the village — has been on the lips of almost everyone you’ve bumped into for the past week. Ever since the Summer’s End Festival, it seems all your neighbors can think to talk about is this mysterious lone wolf. Unfortunately for you, that means your interest has been piqued both out of nosiness and out of a potential opportunity.

“You said he’s nice?”

“Yeah! I mean, I didn’t meet him personally. I was busy running the stall while Yunho was doing all the socializing, but Gerda came over and she said he’s a rather nice and charming young man.”

You appraise the man across the counter with a far less enthused grin. It doesn’t deter Seonghwa from his egregious nods of encouragement, however. So, you continue to pack away the little bundles of herbs that you’ve been preparing all morning into the man’s satchel.

“She says that about everyone under the age of fifty. I think it’s her duty as an old woman to say that. What did Yunho say about him?”

“Hm, what did Yunho say about him…” Seonghwa brings a neatly manicured nail to his chin as he mulls over your question. You snap the buckle of his bag into its proper place now that you’ve given him all you need to and set your hands down on the counter. “He was fairly charmed too, I believe. I mean, in terms of the guy’s personality. You know his gaze goes in one single direction for all other aspects of things.” He flattens his palm against his cheek and doesn’t even bother to hide the smugness that creeps over his expression.

“Don’t get cocky now,” you cut in before Seonghwa can redirect the conversation towards himself.

“Is it being cocky if I’m just repeating what he says all the time though? Oh my Seonghwa, you’re so pretty, the only man I could ever look at, I never grow weary of seeing your darling face. It’s truly romance at its finest.”

“Back to the new guy, Hwa.”

“Hmph. You’re more interested in him than you were in me when I first moved here!”

“You didn’t run a shop when you first got here. Otherwise, I would’ve been just as eager, promise.” Seonghwa narrows his eyes at you, lips drawing into what must be an attempt at a frown but it’s so half-hearted and soft around the edges that you can’t be sure. “I’m trying to establish a financially beneficial supply line with this guy. Thus, I need to know what he’s like so that I know how much bargaining I ought to prepare for before going to speak with him.”

“He’s nice, not much of a talker from what I could tell watching him from a distance, and he mostly stuck near the bonfire. Though it was still damp from the rain earlier that day, and autumn was already sending in her cooler breezes. Anyone who hasn’t acclimated to our lovely finicky weather acts like that when they first arrive here. Spoke to everyone who approached him. Talks with his hands a lot. Very—” Seonghwa makes a few vague gestures consisting of him just waving his hands in the air a bit “—big. Not quite taller than Yunho, but broader and like… meatier, I suppose. I wonder if I should give Yunho bigger meal portions actually, he might need it. Really, how does he stay so skinny even doing all the heavy lifting around the house? Do you have any herbs good for muscle growth?”

“Alright, I’ve had enough of you, that’s it.” Seonghwa’s protest comes immediately. “No, because last time you did this, you started asking me about concoctions to make his semen taste better, and that is not a conversation we’re going to be repeating!” He grabs his satchel off the counter as you hop up from your stool, though he still tries to appear very upset over the matter while pulling it over his head.

“Well, tell me when you’re planning on going over there at least. I can give you a meal before you go home since it’s a bit of a trek to get back here.”

“I’ll go tomorrow. There’s still some inventory left over from the summer that I need to sort out. And I need to prepare some decor for the Autumn Festival sooner rather than later. Ugh, I got so behind on my work it’s infuriating.” You’ve been slacking a little more than you usually do this past week on account of being bedridden for five days straight. You thought you were going to avoid getting sick at the end of summer for once, but your body had other plans for you and decided to push it into the start of the fall season instead. That’s the only reason you need this information about the newcomer from Seonghwa so desperately: otherwise, you would have been at that very festival and been able to witness the man for yourself.

“Oh, speaking of, everyone missed you last week! And told me to send you well wishes, which are obviously not needed anymore, but the sentiment is the same nonetheless, no?”

You send Seonghwa off with a few extra herbs pressed into his hands and wishes for safe travels. It ought to only take him fifteen minutes to walk back to town, but he came by rather late and the sun is already setting so you don’t want him to get caught alone in the dark on his way. He is kind enough to allow your nagging, only pinching your cheek when you tell him once more to quit asking about recipes and herbs to use on Yunho’s dick.

Once you’re content seeing him reach the end of your garden path, you flick your wrist in the direction of your crops. The drizzle that suddenly starts falling from the sky is light enough to not be much of a hindrance to Seonghwa, though you’ll be certain to bring down some heavier rainfall after he disappears over the edge of the hill. Though your closest friend in the village, you still haven’t had the heart to tell him what exactly brought you to this remote place or what you were running from when you came. He only knows that you came here nearly eight years ago on your own and with nothing to your name, and by the time he and Yunho came along, you were already three years into building your business of selling herbs year-round.

In truth, your witchcraft is not illegal by the nature of it being magick. Rather, you yourself are the problem being a witch in name instead of the formally accepted term warlock. Should anyone with any sort of agenda against you discover that you are a defector using your magick when you are no longer a practicing warlock, then you would likely lose everything you have here in this place. It took you two years just to find a town secure and remote enough for you to feel comfortable living in, and eight more to reach this point of stability. You don’t consider Seonghwa to be someone driven by monetary promise or swayed by others’ opinions, but there is just enough doubt that’s crept into your heart over the years to keep you silent.

“How depressing,” you mutter, turning back to your cottage and heading inside. You make the rain fall just a little harder to go along with your sudden decline in mood.

…

Perhaps, you think, there is some goddess out there who is keen on causing you inordinate levels of distress. Because although today was supposed to be nothing more than a calm and friendly meeting in the hopes of establishing a business partnership, you cannot push yourself to even approach the door to the new apothecary. The name of the shop is insignificant on its own — Mortar and Cauldron — and you wouldn’t think twice about getting up from this cursed bench you now find yourself on if that was all there was to it. Yet for some godforsaken reason, this man has deigned to put a symbol behind the name, one that mimics one of the crests belonging to the House of Ballads (the very one you defected from a decade ago). Some deity must surely be playing a sick prank on you.

There are a few routes you could take in this situation. You could pretend you never came and forget the idea of creating a supply line, missing out on some revenue sure but it’s not like you wouldn’t be able to make up for it in other areas. You could go in and confront the newcomer, demanding to know who he is and what he’s doing here on the off chance that he’s truly some bumbling idiot who has no clue what symbols he’s drawn into his signs. He could very well be a defector himself, you suppose, although it would be suicide to use one of the House’s official crests as one. Or you could simply play the part of the fool yourself, act none the wiser, and pretend to be the normal citizen you are. Even if this man were truly from the House, he would not recognize your face because you were never formally entered into the place. You had been merely part of a small church sect on the outskirts of the capital, far from the House of Ballads and all its operations. The name you held while there has already been burned to ash and nothingness, likely stricken from all their records as well the moment you disappeared. If they wanted you dead — well, they would have had you killed long ago. So, you seem to have your best course of action.

“I know my decor isn’t the most appealing, but I don’t think it warrants such a foul expression.” The voice resonates so close to your ear that you truly feel the vibration in your teeth, but moreso, it startles you out of your skin, and you all but launch yourself off the bench with an embarrassing yelp. Just behind the bench where you were, there stands a man you don’t recognize. Tall, with sharp features and equally piercing dark eyes, and dressed in black from head to toe complete with a scarf draped over his head to mimic the hood of a cloak. It doesn’t fully shroud his borderline psychedelic hair — an unnatural yellow shade that blends into a fiery orange-red and makes his head look more like a torch than anything else. “Hello. Sorry for surprising you like that, it wasn’t my intention to make a first impression in such a way.”

Ah. If not for your racing heart, you would have put two and two together far sooner, because obviously, this would be the mystery owner of the apothecary, considering how you recognize everyone in town.

“Would you like to come in and look around? I was simply across the street to get some bread.” He tilts his head back in the direction of none other than Seonghwa’s shop. One glance at the storefront gives you enough of a clue as to whose fault it is that you’re having this unsavory first encounter because said man is pressed up against the window and staring through it directly at you. You have to fight the urge to scowl at him until after your newcomer steps out of your line of sight. Seonghwa tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and sends you a far-too-cheery thumbs-up. You turn away with a less subtle middle finger.

Despite the muggy weather and cooler temperatures, the inside of the apothecary is warm. It almost feels a bit humid thanks to the rain outside, but not unbearably so. And considering how long you were sitting out there getting rained on, you welcome the heat quite a bit.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the friend Seonghwa mentioned, would you?” He catches you with the question as you’re undoing the knot holding your cloak around your shoulders. “I don’t recall seeing you at last week’s festival, though I didn’t have the chance to introduce myself to everyone then.”

“Oh, yes, that would be me. I wasn’t there because I was recovering from a nasty cold. Y/n.” You jut a hand out in his direction, pushing a smile to your lips as you look him in the eye, though thanks to his height, you feel as though you have to crane your neck just to do so.

“Song Mingi. It’s a pleasure to meet you, y/n.” He doesn’t take your hand the way you expect; instead, he pinches the tips of your fingers and bends at the waist, lips grazing your knuckles so softly that you almost don’t feel the contact at all. What’s more startling is how hot his touch is, especially considering how he was just out in the cold. You catch a glimpse of his hand as he’s pulling away, but he’s simply wearing gloves. Knowing Seonghwa, he probably kept the man hostage with conversation for a long time before sending him out to speak with you, and your friend always keeps the house warm because of the ovens, so that’s likely where all the excess heat is coming from. Your staring lingers too long, and Mingi clears his throat quietly, bringing you out of your thoughts.

“Likewise,” you spit out, placing your cloak on the coat rack by the door.

“Were you looking for something in particular, or did you just want to see what sorts of things I have?” Mingi wraps around the back of the shop’s counter, and you take it as an invitation to approach. The glass cabinet serving as the surface is filled with a variety of things both familiar and not. Potions, vials, bundles of powders, and even some gemstones that carry a glow at their centers. The presence of magick here is undeniably strong, and it is not yours alone. There must be dozens of magickal objects here, though the ordinary person wouldn’t sense a thing. You don’t let your gaze linger on any of them for long before pulling focus back up to the man’s face.

“Well, I intended to come introduce myself first since we didn’t have a chance to meet at the festival. But beyond that, I wanted to let you know I grow all sorts of herbs and ingredients in my garden. I supply many of the local shops and stalls, especially during the winter seasons. The ground is particularly fruitful thanks to all the rain we get here.”

“Oh? Yes, I noticed rather quickly that there’s near-constant rainy weather here.” As though on cue, a bout of thunder rumbles in the distance.

“You truly chose a summer lover’s nightmare moving here,” you laugh. “Charybid is always in rainy season.”

Mingi hums and grins a little, looking to the window before saying, “I’m quite alright with it really. The heat of my homeland is far more unbearable in my opinion. You can tell how little I went outside there just based on how pale I am.” He flashes the back of his hand that’s still enveloped by a glove like he wants to prove his point, only to realize his little blunder and fall into a bout of awkward laughter instead. “But you said you’re a supplier? Do you have a local shop as well or…?”

“Local, though not here in the heart of town. If you follow the west road up over the hill, you’ll see a string of cottages. Mine is the one with the big front garden! Oh, and there’s a sign as well, of course.”

“That would be immensely helpful especially since I don’t have much space here to grow my own things. It’s a bit difficult to outsource supplies in this area too, isn’t it?” Mingi glances down at the open notebook sitting on his counter and skims the contents. “Would it be alright if I came by at the end of next week? That way I can finish unpacking and taking stock of everything I have.”

“Yes, that’d work just fine. You can come by any time you need, though I always advise against coming too close to nightfall because walking in the rain at night is an easy way to get sick.” You offer a smile, perhaps a little too pleased with how smoothly your business proposal went, but your enthusiasm seems to be received well given how brightly Mingi smiles in return. The air has begun to get more stifling, and you can feel sweat clinging to the back of your neck. It’s unpleasant now, a kind of warmth you’re not used to experiencing all the time because you don’t keep your home so toasty, but it reminds you of evenings shared with Seonghwa that always end with you wanting to escape out into the rain just for some respite. “I won’t take up more of your time, though. I promised to go see Seonghwa myself once I was finished here. I bid you well.”

“Thank you, and have safe travels home yourself. I look forward to doing business with you, Miss y/n.”

…

You leave your cottage in the wee hours of the morning, intending to water your crops before the sun rises, but those plans are dashed the moment you spot the man waiting outside your fence. You’ve seen him several times since your first meeting, though not here and solely in town. He hasn’t come this far yet despite his insistence that he would come over two weeks ago. Autumn is in full swing now, four weeks since the start of the season and five since the new apothecary came to town. You had not quite lost hope that he would be true to his word, but you must admit that you are caught off-guard seeing him at this hour and at your gate.

“When I said not to come at nightfall, I didn’t mean that you needed to come at the break of dawn!”

“I wanted to come before opening hours,” Mingi replies in a far clearer voice than your own. You’re still wiping the sleep from your eyes after all, and it seems he has been up for some time considering how he doesn’t appear tired in the slightest. The lantern at the end of your walkway is lit — strange because you thought you had remembered to blow it out the night before — and the glow combined with the first few rays of sunshine over the horizon is enough to illuminate the space between you and the man. “I was also out on a morning walk, so I figured it would be smart to find out how to get here before making a fool of myself. Beyond making plans to do so several times over and not once making good on those plans.”

You did gather much from your first impression of the man. Seonghwa’s word proved correct: Mingi is quite friendly, although a tad clueless but his kindness makes up for that, and you heard as much from your fellow townsfolk after you left his apothecary a month ago. After all, newcomers will be the talk of the town for weeks after their arrival, so you got to be privy to much talk about his character just from spending five minutes milling about the streets. He’s cordial each time you happen across each other in the village on top of that, full of never-ending apologies about his delay in coming to see you (to the point where you have to demand he stop apologizing three times before he takes the hint).

“Considering how I didn’t even make it to the front door, I’m assuming I did not wake you?” he continues when you reach the edge of the fence. You shake your head, undoing the latching and pulling the gate over for him to step through.

“No, you simply caught me coming out to check on the crops before the rain starts.” You didn’t sense any rain coming today, but a little trip down to the pond can easily be arranged once Mingi departs. “This is only the front garden. I can show you the back as well, if you’d like, I have far more plants there.”

“You take care of this all by yourself?” he inquires, voice edging on awestruck, and your chest swells with pride.

“Yep! It is my livelihood, after all. But I am very enamored with the work too, so that helps me as well. These plants need more sun, and thanks to the location of this cottage, they receive it at least eight hours a day. Same goes for the plots on the left side of the house, but the ones on the right are not as sensitive to the sunshine. I keep the least temperamental crops in the back, along with some gourds that shops have a hard time finding at this time of year. My more cold-sensitive plants are in planters indoors, I have that small little greenhouse attachment on the side of the house as well as fungi and the like in the basement.”

“It seems you truly have a bit of everything then?”

“I try to at least. Whenever traveling merchants come for market days, I make a point to collect whatever seeds I can. I also like picking up gardener’s pamphlets! There are always good tips for how to make certain plants thrive, and occasionally they’ll mention ones I’ve not heard of so I know to be on the lookout for those things. If there’s ever something you’re in need of that I don’t have, I’d be happy to collect some samples for you from some merchants and we can discuss planting them too.” When you glance up at Mingi again, his jaw is hanging slightly open, eyes still bearing into you with that same wonder and disbelief. “Oh, sorry, I’m being a terrible host. Did you want to come inside for some tea or coffee? It’s still quite early.”

“That’d be great. Do you happen to have a catalog of all your crops as well?”

“Of course, of course.” You motion for him to follow you up to the house just as a few drops of rain start hitting your skin. Maybe you won’t need to go down to the pond after all. “It seems you came at the perfect time. Do you have some sort of potion that lets you predict the weather?”

“If only,” he laughs, ducking his head a bit to avoid the doorframe. He shrugs his cloak off upon getting inside, and once again you’re regaled by the sight of him dressed in all black. Though, today he’s forgone gloves and simply stuck to a long-sleeved shirt that extends past his hands.

“You’re welcome to look around as I get the water on and all!”

“I’d be happy to do that for you.”

“Please, you’re a guest, that’d hardly be fair of me.”

“But I did accost you before dawn, so I’d like to think of it as a fair bargain.”

You purse your lips. “Okay, I’ll relent and allow you to do the water, but I’ll take care of everything else.” He drapes his cloak over the back of one of your chairs, very careful and meticulous about the way in which he lays it down, but you only watch him long enough to see him reach the sink. Turning your back to him, you busy yourself with finding mugs and prepping the coffee Seonghwa gave to you a few weeks back. You should’ve thought ahead and asked him for more since you were just over there, but it slipped your mind completely. Perhaps he needs some more lavender and rosemary, you could pack some and use that as an excuse to go back to see him.

When you turn around next, Mingi is already sitting at the table in the seat where he set his cloak down, and you make a small noise of surprise.

“Did you get the stove figured out already? I swear it takes me four or five tries to get it to come on right every time.”

“Hm? It came right on when I turned the knob. Is it not supposed to do that?”

You let out a huff of air while shrugging and set the mugs down on the table. “It never does that for me but that very well may be user error.” The sharp whistle of steam interrupts your thoughts. “Ah, and it’s heating up quickly too? Those remedies of yours are becoming more and more appealing by the second. You might be the town’s new miracle worker at this rate.”

In truth, it’s making your skin itch a little. There was some odd presence of magick back in Mingi’s shop, and even now you feel something sharp prodding at your own magickal energy in your own home. It’s not a threat, not one that you can concretely act on yet at least, but it’s enough to make you wary. To let a witch into your safe haven is a dangerous and risky game to play, especially if it’s where the source of your power is. Thankfully, you were not so foolish upon moving here to do something as juvenile as that — yours is safely kept away in that pond down the opposite side of the hill and tucked into a small grove in the surrounding forest.

“Oh, let me grab that catalog for you real quick!” You bolt up from your chair at the sudden realization, and Mingi seems to accept it as simply that. You grab the book from your shelf, also snatching up the charm you keep near it and slipping it around your wrist while you’re out of sight still. It won’t be enough to fully shroud your energy, but if Mingi is indeed poking and prodding at your aura in search of something, it ought to at least throw him off enough to sate his curiosities. You usually only use such an item when strangers come to town for those market days you mentioned to Mingi before, and it certainly is a first for you to have to use it in your home.

He’s not budged an inch by the time you return, which is nice to see because he could either have started snooping around in places he shouldn’t or bolted without a trace. You set the book down before him, still wearing a faint smile on your lips.

“I just updated it at the start of the week too, so you have the freshest copy.”

“Wonderful, I’m starting to understand the name on your gate post more and more.”

“Ah, that.” Wonderland was simply a silly little name you came up with on a whim because that’s what this place is to you, but it stuck and everyone in town loved it so much that you could not escape the urgings to keep it as a name even if you are not a shop owner in the way that people like Seonghwa and Mingi both are. “It’s nothing terribly special,” you opt to say instead. The kettle starts whistling more egregiously, saving you from having to explain the name any further. You stand and go to grab the handle of the pot, only to scald your palm so badly that you nearly fall over backward. Mingi scrambles to get up, chair clattering against the ground as he rushes in your direction.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, I—”

“You’re sorry?” you blurt through gritted teeth, clinging to your hand and trying to will the pain away to no avail. “What are you sorry for?”

“I-I should’ve — I should’ve gotten that, I mean, my hands are…” he trails off, and you glance down at the now exposed hands that he’s put between you. From the tips of his fingers down to the first knuckle on every single digit, Mingi’s skin and nails both are the color of charcoal, like they’ve been permanently stained that way. Were you anybody else, you would not know what it means.

“I’m fine,” you say. He’s a warlock after all, it seems. Of course he is. You have been teetering on the confirmation for weeks at this point, and it was silly of you to ignore the obvious so many times over. His uncomfortably warm touch and the stifling heat inside his shop were both dead giveaways. You did not forget to extinguish your lantern last night, nor did the stove simply come on by way of Mingi being deft at using the knobs. He lit the lantern himself, lit the stove himself as well though because he was unaware of how your finicky stove works, he made the flame too big and too hot, thus leading to the quick boil and unfortunate accident of you burning your hand. The symbol on his door sign should have been enough of a clue.

“Please, at least let me make you something to treat the burn. It’s what I’m good at after all, and it’s the barest of minimums I could do.”

If you kick him out now, then it will surely be obvious that you know something about his identity. Only daft idiots or people with something to hide would turn down the help of a healer such as himself. In the past decade, you have lost all semblance of good judgment because no amount of mental gymnastics can get you to refuse his help right now. You’re dooming yourself if he already knows what you are, but if he’s got even the slightest hint and you turn him away, then you would confirm it for him. You have to take the risk.

“Okay, I would really appreciate it,” you whisper, easing yourself down into your chair once more. Mingi’s shoulders visibly relax. “All these plants and I’m afraid I’ve barely got enough knowledge to make tea on a good day with them. Everything you need ought to be on the shelves behind the counter. Those are all freshly picked too.” When he turns his back to you, you let your meek expression drop and glare at the welt that’s already formed across your palm. Mingi’s magick does not appear to be volatile, meaning that he must have had some sort of formal training in his life. It’s common for fire warlocks to bear the same charcoal-looking scars that he has, mostly from overexertion of their kind of magick. You produce more sweat than is natural for a normal human being thanks to your affinities too.

Would the House truly send someone here for you after so long? And to go through the effort of having them set up a shop in the heart of town? If they wanted someone to watch you, then it would have been easier and smarter to have someone take one of the cottages closer to you. Besides, Mingi has not been taking every opportunity to come find you or learn about you. Nor does he wear any ring to indicate his affiliation with the House. A sanctioned mage would surely make use of such benefits. Could he be a defector like you? Or one that never made it into the House’s grasp?

He returns to the table with a mortar and pestle filled with some sort of salve that he’s already beaten down into a mush.

“Does it hurt badly?”

“Quite a bit,” you answer truthfully, only wincing a little when he turns your palm to the ceiling. It feels as though his fingers alone could sear your skin.

“I made extra for you to use over the next several days as well. All you need to do is store it somewhere cool and apply a little to the burn twice a day until the pain stops.” The mixture is so blissfully cold on your skin that you could cry, and even with Mingi’s warm touch massaging it into the burn, it feels like a heavenly relief. “If the pain doesn’t stop by the time you run out of salve, then please come visit me. I can make more and give you something to keep it from scarring.”

“Understood.”

“And y/n…” He squeezes your hand ever so slightly, and your breath catches in your throat. “You do not have to hide what you are around me.” His gaze finds yours. “You are a witch after all, are you not?” A witch. The word feels like a slap in the face.

“Are you associated with the House? Did they send you? What is it you want from me?”

“The House? Absolutely not. I left their good graces many years ago. I wouldn’t give them even an ounce of my time anyway.”

“So what? You’re a witch as well?”

“Yes, I suppose I am though I don’t make a habit of calling myself that. Simply an apothecary, much like how you are simply a farmer. Of sorts.” Mingi fidgets in his seat and looks closer at you. “I am genuinely not here to cause you harm or disrupt your life. I imagine we came here for the very same reasons in fact. I simply want to live by my own terms, not anyone else’s.”

“Get out,” you whisper. Perhaps there are hundreds of better ways to handle this, but you have never had to do such a thing in all your time here, and you cannot be faulted for acting out of panic and fear now. Your voice comes out louder now, “Get out of my home then! Get out and don’t come back d-don’t dare tell anyone.”

“The energy is permeating the entire house.” Mingi keeps his tone quiet as he continues to speak through your distress. “Your garden too, I felt it immediately. The rain — it’s in there as well. Sure, it’s always rainy season here but how much of it is because of you?”

“You know what the other name for my kind is, right?”

“You’re a water witch.”

You retract your hand from his with a scoff.

“The House tends to call us Scyllans. Sweet temptresses of the deep, killers of foolish men.”

Mingi somehow has it in him to smile.

“Then I ought to be safe, for I am neither foolish nor a mere man.” He stands without saying another word, collecting his cloak off the back of his chair and slinging it around his shoulders. You can’t help but to stare at him, wary and on edge with every movement he makes even when he reaches the door. “My words hold true, y/n. I hope you think them over at least. And your secret is truly safe with me.”

…

You avoid going into town for so long that Seonghwa seeks you out five days after you go into self-imposed seclusion. It’s easy to keep him off your back at least, and from what you can tell, Mingi has not sought him out to expose your dirty secrets as of yet. The logical part of you understands that you ought to avoid angering the man because he does hold quite a bit of power over you right now. Fear keeps you captive instead, however.

Two weeks and a day after that fateful encounter you had with Mingi, you dare to leave the comfort of your home. Not to go into the village — that is a step you are not prepared to face — but rather to visit your precious grove in the forest. You should have gone last week as it’s always been your habit to go once a month to rejuvenate your magick; however, you were so on edge that you couldn’t get beyond your back fence and promptly turned right back around. Tonight, you’re determined.

The skies are clear, not a single cloud marring her starry expanses, and the moon hangs high near the center of the sky. Even better yet, it’s a full moon. Ideal conditions for you to bathe in the pond and restore some much-needed energy. You set out forty minutes from midnight even though your trek will not take that long. You need only be there for the highest peak of the moon, so giving yourself this little bit of leeway should allow you all the time required to reach your destination. Despite yourself, you do glance over your shoulder several times on your way out of the house and garden. When you’re content with your loneliness, you set off down the hill.

It’s not as though you decided to dismiss Mingi’s words altogether once he left. You have put much thought and consideration into them, in fact, especially after Seonghwa came to see you and nothing had changed between the two of you. It’s no guarantee that Mingi didn’t tell anyone, but it’s something. The matter of him being a witch like you, well, that has been a contentious debate in your head. A true warlock calling themselves a witch is considered heresy to many, so you have to believe that Mingi is being truthful with you. You know enough about his magick to know for certain he is either one or the other. But at the end of the day, there is no way for him to prove as much. All he has is his word to back him up, and all you can do is either accept it as truth or deny it.

Long ago, you had settled on the knowledge that you would likely be a rather lonely creature for the rest of your days. Finding Charybid and its people was a welcome blessing, but not a permanent one, and the friends you’ve made (especially Seonghwa and Yunho) cannot understand what it is you are or relate to you on any matter concerning witchcraft. You’ve long since accepted that loneliness as a part of you even if there are pieces of your heart craving warmth and understanding from another like you.

If it were possible, could Mingi be that sort of person in your life? Does he crave the same thing? Is that why he confronted you to begin with?

You reach the grove with a heavier heart than anticipated. Moonlight creeps in through the canopy of branches overhead, glistening off the half-circle of rocks around milky green waters. The moon has already been charging the pond for hours, and you feel the pulse of magick resonating deep in you from the bottom of it.

Stripping down to nothing, you drop your clothes into a pile near the rocks with your satchel and toe at the water. It’s frigid as expected, thanks to the encroaching winter that is coming closer and closer still. You sink into it fully and submerge yourself in the charged waters. Several meters down at the bottom lies your precious black pearl, glowing a deep purple shade to show exactly how much magick she’s stored since you last came. You let the waters hold you for some time until the dull thrum you feel around you turns into a hum that makes your skin feel like it’s full of electricity.

It’s only then that you decide to emerge once more, breaking the surface of the water and letting air replace the magick in your lungs.

Yet, you find that you are not alone.

Bent so far over the pond that he looks one slip away from tumbling down into it, none other than Mingi sits crouched at the edge. It’s far too late to pretend as though you haven’t made note of each other. Depending on which direction Mingi came from, he may not have even seen your belongings behind the rocks. You sink lower in the water until it comes up to cover your lips.

“My apologies. I did not know you were here.” Just his gaze is enough to make your body warm. You tilt your chin up.

“Is that so?”

“I came because of the magickal energy, yes. Not because I knew you would be here.” He’s not far from you. The moon shines her pretty rays down around him, and you blame her for the insatiable tug in your gut that’s making you want to pull him into the waters with you. “I have been thinking about you though,” he admits under his breath. You imagine the words are not meant for your ears, but he doesn’t seem to realize he’s spoken them out loud. It takes little movement on your part to swim closer to him, and you only stop when he is perched directly above you.

“Do I look the part of a temptress now?” you inquire, hand breaking through the surface of the water to caress his cheek.

“Incredibly so,” he murmurs. “I see why foolish men fall. Perhaps I am no better.”

“You know nothing about me.” You trace your fingers down to his chin.

“I know enough.”

You shush him with a laugh and a finger placed directly over his lips. “The sun gives you her power during the day, but on nights like these, the moon offers me a fair exchange. Her power for my sexual energy. That is where a water witch’s magick comes from, and it’s what has earned us all those myths and urban legends about eating men. Now that you know that of me, should I trust you in return?”

“I am what I say I am. I am a fire witch. I defected from the House of Ballads five years ago. To answer your question, though, if…” His gaze has become lidded, focus drawing down to your lips with each word he tries to speak. You feel just as overwhelmed and foggy yourself, the excess magick seeping into you from all angles as the moon inches ever closer to her peak. “…you deem it wise.”

“I think some part of me might.”

“Did you consider what I said to you last time?”

“But of course. It wasn’t so long ago that I’ve forgotten already.” A sigh escapes you as you look up to where the moon can just barely be seen through the trees. “I’d like to give you a chance, if only because of morbid curiosity and the fact that I have made it a decade without finding another like myself.”

You inch up and graze Mingi’s lips with your own. His fingertips tickle the surface of the water, and the effect is nearly instant. Warmth surrounds you and draws a gasp out of you that has you curling away from Mingi’s face. He leans back.

“I cannot restrain myself well enough tonight. Not in the presence of such potent magick.” You are equal parts pleasantly surprised and grossly disappointed by his willpower. With a smile, you push away from the edge of the pond and head further into the water. Mingi almost makes the mistake of following you, teetering at the grassy bank.

“You are welcome to visit again. So long as I am not nude or compromised.”

“I-I—” His cheeks are stained a deep red by now.

“I do not intend to put on a show for you tonight, Mingi, but I am in desperate need of the moon’s energy. If that is all, then…?” Were the circumstances any different, you would consider your wording to be crude in that you are essentially asking him to leave so that you can fuck yourself with the crystal you brought along with you in your bag.

He clears his throat and sits completely back on his heels, gaze wandering across your face. Licking over his lips, his eyes linger on the water droplets running from your hairline to your jaw.

“I will come to you when the first snow falls,” he says. “So that you may have time to contemplate things further. My decision is already made, and I'm sure you're aware of it. Please… please let me know then what your choice is.” You want to retort that he doesn’t have the best track record thus far, but instead leave well enough and wave him away with a grin. A bout of laughter leaves your lips as soon as he passes through the clearing and out of sight.

“Are you testing me?” you whisper to the moon, receiving nothing but her monotonous glow in response. You wade over to the rocks where you left your belongings and quickly rifle through your pack in search of the rose quartz you brought along. It’s cold to the touch, unpleasant in comparison to the warm body that you just had with you and within your grasp. While the shape isn't perfect, it gets the job done in the absence of the real deal, and it serves its purpose just fine. Not like you have any other options as it is.

Part of you entertains the idea of having Mingi still here — from a practical standpoint, consummating the ritual with another magick user would be far more effective than using a crystal charged by the moon. But from a pleasure standpoint…

You dip your fingers between your legs, letting your body fall back to rest your head on the edge of the pond as you seek your core between your folds. The magick at your fingertips pulses through you and sends a jolt into your system just from the slightest brush. A soft mewl falls from your lips. You feel Mingi’s magick still permeating all throughout the water, clinging to your skin, and on your lips, you taste fire from that minute little kiss exchanged in a fit of passion.

No matter how hard you try, you cannot get your fingers deep enough inside your cunt. Instead, your thoughts are plagued by the visual of Mingi’s hands, his long fingers, the searing heat that emanates from them, and the all-consuming desire to know what it would feel like to have them inside you.

You cannot even bring yourself to waste time right now; slipping your fingers free, you plunge the toy in your other hand into yourself and sink it all the way in until the pressure in your gut is eased the slightest bit. It's blissfully cold against your walls; the coolness eases the burn that seems to be wedged beneath your skin and brings some clarity back to your mind. It does not, however, chase every thought of Mingi from your brain. In the haze of your vision, you can hallucinate him before you still, imagine him in the spot where he was not long ago watching you with those fiery intense eyes and urging you on. A louder cry of pleasure tumbles out of you as you're forced to twist and brace yourself on a rock to keep increasing the pace of the toy's thrusts inside you.

It ought to fill you with some degree of shame, you think, because who lusts so strongly after a stranger who poses something of a threat to your well-being and livelihood? But when your mind goes back to the idea of his large hands gripping your waist and hips as he splits you open on his cock, you can't be bothered in the slightest about the speed at which you're becoming invested in this man — all that matters is the speed at which you're thrusting the crystal dildo in and out of your pussy as an orgasm creeps up on you. You have to bury your face in the crook of your arm to have some semblance of sanity to cling to. And when you unravel soon after, it’s his name on your lips.

…

The first snow of the season is late.

You have been trying to avoid thinking about it solely on account of the superstition that mulling it over will only delay it further, but those attempts are futile. Because when you tell yourself to not think about it, you only end up thinking about it more, then you devolve into a sick cycle of reasoning with yourself and the moon and any deity out there who will give you the time of day.

While you could set your pride aside for the sake of what it is you’re waiting on exactly, that is simply not in your nature. Additionally, you want to see whether Mingi will uphold his end of the bargain. He promised to come at the first snow. So you will wait for that day.

Your gardens are thriving thanks to the lack of snow and the amplified support of your fully-charged magick, which is the only positive you can find in this situation while you essentially sit on your hands and wait. The downside is, however, that the temperatures are still steadily declining, and you always struggle in the winter to keep your home warm enough. Your specialty may be in water magick, but that does not mean you have any control or power over the temperature of said water, and everything around you tends to skew a bit cooler as it is. The thought of how cold you are and your house is and everything in between only pushes your thoughts more towards the lack of warmth and a potential source of it that will not come unless the fucking snow does first.

If you have to put up with seeing Mingi’s smiling face across the street while you’re pestering Seonghwa one more time then you may truly snap and lose all semblance of self-respect.

…

You’re knelt in a bed of rosemary when the first flakes of snow start to hit your skin. At first, you think it to be just rain but then a flurry touches one of the purple blossoms on the herb. The shout you let out is a terrifying mixture of joy and exasperation because at long last, your agonizing wait can finally come to a close. The way you scramble to pull yourself out of the dirt and rush indoors ought to be more embarrassing. It takes you all of five minutes to change out of your grimy gardening clothes and into something cozier and cleaner, though all you do is park yourself at the kitchen table with a mug of hot tea and stare out the window waiting for any sign of movement on the hill. The snow is coming down harder already, a billowing cloud of white that cloaks the dirt and grass on the ground. It doesn’t even occur to you to think that Mingi might not come at all, that he might have forgotten or worse — simply not chosen to come at all — because your patience has worn so thin over the past weeks that you feel relief just seeing the snow.

And luckily for you, Mingi is far more timely and true to his word than he was before. You neglected to keep track of the time, though you haven’t finished your tea yet by the time his lanky figure comes over the crest of the hill. You know it to be him instantly because his fiery hair is visible through the white all around him.

You’re at the door before you can think twice, flinging it open and making your way down the path to the gate as though you aren’t in the biggest rush of your life. Behind him, there’s a trail of footsteps where the snow has melted under his feet, and the closer he gets, the better you can see how not even a single snowflake sticks to him in any way. Every flake that touches even the outside of his cloak simply melts upon contact, leaving him pristine in the sea of white falling around you.

“Did you wait long?” he asks upon reaching your gate. Somehow he manages to maintain a lilting tone that makes your brain itch. You want to kiss him so silly that all that smugness dissipates like the snow on his skin. “Y/n.” The breathy exhale of your name is all it takes for you to grab him by the collar and yank him down to your level. The warmth is so blessedly welcome. “Have you made your decision?”

You slot your lips against his, licking at the seam of his lips without waiting for further invitation. He scrambles with the latch on the gate, though you’re of no help at all with how you’re trying to pull him over it, but once that pesky barrier is pushed open just a little bit, he slides through the gap and seals his body against yours. Even though the cold doesn’t seem to be affecting him much, his breathing still comes out in pants, like he sprinted the whole way here from town without rest. He clasps his hands around the back of your neck, thumbs caressing the underside of your jaw, and each kiss he plants on your lips is more searing than the last. It takes all you have to not trip over backward on your feet with him guiding you back towards the door of your home. The two of you don’t even make it through the door before he’s pushing you up against the doorframe and slotting a knee between your thighs.

“Please, y/n, let me hear it from these pretty lips,” he begs. Your whole body is alight with something — either magick or lust or something in between those things that you can’t distinguish at present. The heat radiating off his body makes your head spin, and it’s such an intoxicating sensation that you reach your hands beneath the fabric of his cloak to be closer to skin.

“I trust you, I need you, I want you to have me,” you murmur back. Mingi pushes his lower lip out with the tip of his tongue. His gaze carries the same heat you’ve grown used to seeing all the time when you look at his eyes. Now, the weight of it feels heavier. Your breath hitches in your throat as he wraps an arm around your back, and his fingers dig into your side briefly. You’re pulled away from the doorframe and into the house only for him to slam the door shut and lock the snow out. What you aren’t expecting is to be flattened to the surface face first mere seconds later.

“I want to have you right here and now,” Mingi growls behind you. Every brush of his hands over your body leaves goosebumps in their wake along with the heat of his magick seeping into your skin. He takes apart your bodice carefully, pulling each string with a startling amount of care compared to his desperate rush to have you. A sort of fever takes hold of you, and with each piece of clothing he removes from your being, the more the fire in your belly roars. Glancing down, you see your clothes fallen into a heap on the floor, along with his cloak, then his coat, his shirt — each piece of fabric goes to join the pile until you feel bare skin against yours. The bliss of the contact is so immense that you let out a pitiful moan.

“Mingi.”

“Raise your arms over your head for me, y/n.”

“Mingi,” you utter again, following the instruction without a breath of hesitation. He takes both of your wrists between just one of his hands and pins them to the flat surface of the door. Your chest trembles under your breaths.

“I will not be rough with you unless you allow it. How I take you is up to you… whether it be me taking you apart gently or fucking you hot and raw right here and now.” You can’t take the sensation of his breathing down your neck without squirming. No matter how hard you squeeze your thighs together, there’s no relief for the pulsing need for pressure there. The moment Mingi catches onto your attempts, he wedges his knee between your legs and leaves you to rock back on his muscled thigh for some sort of escape.

“Please.” It’s as though there’s cotton in your mouth keeping you from fully forming any kind of sentence because although your thoughts are running at a mile per minute, you cannot seem to get more than one word out at a time. Mingi nudges you forward into the door once again. He replaces the pressure of his thigh with his unoccupied hand, cupping your cunt and dragging his middle finger along the slit of your folds.

“You’re coming undone already, my little witch.” Mingi suddenly flicks his finger forward over your clit, and your knees buckle. Your reaction delights him so much that he repeats the action two more times, and your body truly becomes putty in his hands. He keeps you up between the hand holding your wrists to the door and the one cupped around your sex, but you aren’t sure your muscles could keep you up on their own without the help. Especially not when Mingi gets more daring and pulls a second finger into the mix to tease the ring of your entrance with small, methodical circles.

“Put them in me, put your fingers in!” you cry out only for Mingi to roll over your clit once again. His cock is twitching against your ass, firm and big, and part of you wants to forget everything else solely to have him in your mouth and down your throat.

“Is that how good girls ask for things?” He pinches your clit between his fingers until you’re whimpering out an apology and smearing drool across the door. “Ask again. Nicely this time, sweetheart.”

“Please f-fuck me with your fingers, please open me up for you, I w-want to feel you so badly.” Nonsensical babbling is enough for him, blessedly, because you’re not confident that anything more coherent than that could make its way out of you right now. He rolls the pads of his fingers up against your clit again before going any lower. His laugh is borderline sadistic when you curl your fingers into the wood, nails clawing for some sort of grip that will help you ground yourself. “Wanna come so—!”

“That’s it, come for me, lovely. Then I’ll fuck you nice and loose on my fingers while you’re coming.” Mingi retracts his fingers right when your gut clenches, and as your walls squeeze tight around nothing, he slips two digits into your cunt. Your lips part in a silent scream, moans caught in the back of your throat. Your vision goes white behind your eyelids though it lasts so much longer than what you’re used to getting from your own hand and toys. Perhaps it’s because Mingi doesn’t let up on you even in the throes of your orgasm, or thanks to your magickal energies intertwining in the most raw and intimate way imaginable. “Let me open you up some more first, then I’ll give you what you want.”

You blink your eyes open and look at Mingi out your peripherals, mouth wide open and cheek still pressed harshly into the door even though you’re the one keeping it there.

“Do you want it too?” you ask out of the blue. Your voice is tight and strained. His fingers curl inside you.

“So badly,” comes his quick reply, “that it’s taking everything in me not to put my dick in you right now. But I don’t want to hurt you.” As though to emphasize his feelings, Mingi rolls his hips forward, and his cock rubs hard against your ass. “Doesn’t even look like it’s gonna fit in you, fuck.”

“Mingi, I need you in me now, like right this instant now, not in five minutes now.” The first orgasm has your vision hazy and legs wobbly, but that’s far from a concern to you at the moment. Your urgency pushes the man behind you to have the same sort of franticness, hurriedly slipping his fingers free of your cunt and readjusting his hold so that he can grip the base of his dick. You hold perfectly still for him as he lines himself up with your waiting hole that’s already sopping with arousal. Your pussy takes him in like it’s greedy for it, each inch sliding in and spreading you wider to accommodate to his size. One thing’s for certain: Mingi has a stupidly big dick, so big that it makes you wonder if you’d be able to feel it through your stomach if you put a hand there.

Whatever shreds of patience he had left in him turn to ash the second he’s fully buried balls-deep in you. He doesn’t wait even a second before he pulls out about halfway, and the only stutter in his rhythm comes from him trying to find it. You’re suddenly rather glad that he’s keeping your hands up for you because the drive of his cock inside your pussy would bring you to your knees otherwise. The sounds of pleasure fill your ears — his low baritone moans tangled alongside your more throaty ones that crack here and there, the slap of his hips hitting your ass, and the thumping of the door as he fucks you so hard against it that it trembles.

“Y-You’re so deep, I feel you in my stomach,” you choke out between moans. It devolves into a sob as Mingi shifts his angle upwards a bit and hits a new spot deep inside you that has you seeing stars.

“Yeah? Your pussy is clinging to me nice and tight, lovely, I think you like it a little too much.” He has enough composure to still speak without crying, meanwhile, tears are starting to pool at the corners of your eyes as the overstimulation of your senses and nerves reaches unimaginable heights. “Bet your pretty little toy isn’t even half as big as me.”

Mingi thrusts so hard into you that his grip on your wrists falters, and one of your hands falls free. He doesn’t bother correcting it, nor do you try to keep it up any longer, instead rushing to get your fingers around your clit again. You’re so hyperfocused on chasing the high of another orgasm that you don’t warn him it’s about to hit you this time. He knows well enough when your body seizes for a moment before releasing every bit of tension in your muscles. Your walls flex around his cock, working him in time with the waves of your euphoria, until he can’t take it anymore and pulls free of your hole. He rests his length atop the cleft of your ass and thrusts a few more times there, then comes his release. Hot ropes of come shoot out from his cock, painting your naked back into a messy canvas of come and sweat.

Despite the sudden quiet filling the house, your hearing is hypervigilant and clings to every slight noise that comes from your partner, from his fight to get air into his lungs to the hand he now rubs over his spent cock.

“You…” Your throat is too dry and you end up coughing instead of getting a sentence out. Mingi’s fingers trace small, unknown patterns into your hip. “You’re welcome to stay through winter. That’s my answer.”

“Through winter?” Mingi hums. He slips his hand around your waist and flattens his large palm over your abdomen. “What about spring?”

“Then too.”

“And summer?” He’s teasing you again. Somehow he still has the energy to do that.

“And summer and autumn then winter again. But maybe by the spring after that, I’ll be sick of you!”

“You won’t be,” he says through a laugh, lips brushing against the side of your head. You’re going to need better retorts if he plans on sticking around that long.

────────────

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